“Oh, I see, that’s reassuring.”
“Why reassuring, if I may ask?”
“That we are not taking the state for a ride,” Mr. Witzturn laughs into the audience. “Look, look, one gray wave after the other.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean all the old fogies in a festive mood,” whispers Mr. Witzturn, stroking his bald head.
“If you screw your eyes up slightly,” Levadski whispers derisively, “all these people look like the sea on a cloudy day.”
“And those people over there!” Mr. Witzturn tries to keep his forefinger in check, “that woman looks like a lampshade.”
“Perhaps because she is wearing a hat?” Levadski suggests.
“True. But my God, how tasteless. I mean, if you are that ugly you should at least try to put yourself in a good light by wearing unobtrusive jewelry and modest attire.”
“By having winning traits, a friendly smile, a warm heart,” Levadski goes on listing.
“Unfortunately I can’t see the lampshade.”
“Oh!” Mr. Witzturn exclaims, “one second!”
“Where are you going?”
“One second.”
“They are about to begin.”
“Yes, I will be back.”
“You will trip in the dark. Where are you going?”
“To wash my hands!” Mr. Witzturn mumbles, forcing his way past Levadski.
He really could have thought about that earlier, thinks Levadski and gazes at the surging sea in front of him. Here and there he registers a bright red dress, a light blue scarf, a made up black-haired beauty, jammed between two rotten mushrooms. His heart pounding, he registers the golden tone of the brass instruments on the stage, white nymphs, golden nymphs with shapely arms, the wood of the coffered ceiling. Where has the old boy gotten to? Levadski is beginning to feel uneasy. In the auditorium and in the balconies people are taking their seats, the lights of the large pear-shaped chandeliers are being dimmed. Slowly the chandeliers rotate as if they were being roasted on a spit, heated by people’s breath, and if everyone were suddenly to grow silent and freeze, Levadski swore, you would be able to hear a gentle tinkling from the casing of the chandeliers.
“Voilà!” Mr. Witzturn pants in Levadski’s ear, “a present for you,” proferring a little black velvet case that feels quite heavy in Levadski’s hand.
“What is it?” Levadski whispers.
“Open it.”
“What’s inside?”
“Open it and take a look yourself. I chose it from the selection in the glass cabinet of the hotel,” Mr. Witzturn lets slip, before Levadski opens the small black box.
“You have gone mad.”
“Open it, open it!”
“You are crazy.”
“Come on, open it.”
“Don’t tell me you just went back to the hotel.”
“No, I didn’t,” Mr. Witzturn giggles.
“Gentlemen, a little quieter if you please!” a male voice barks out of the dark.
“I bought it for you this afternoon,” Mr. Witzturn tries to whisper more softly, “and I forgot the package in my coat pocket. Come on, open it.”
“You are embarrassing me,” Levadski whispers and opens the black box without making a sound. “Opera glasses!”
“As I know your penchant for magnifying glasses …”
“Oh, and how beautiful they are! With a gold chain!”
“It says Luxury Collection.” Mr. Witzturn points to the gold lettering on the inside of the box. “I thought they would suit you.”
“Be quiet!” a female voice entreats, before succumbing to a severe prolonged coughing fit.
“We can only reciprocate the entreaty,” Levadski whispers to Mr. Witzturn, in the hope that the message reaches its true destination. He takes the binoculars from the box and puts the long chain around his neck. With an enchanted smile, Levadski looks through the opera glasses onto the stage and sees — nothing. He sees a lot further, into his own pleasure. Mr. Witzturn’s presence fills Levadski with a kind of intoxication, a growing feeling of triumph that conquers everything in its path. He could fell trees, he could perform a saber dance, yes, he would defeat a sabertoothed tiger in battle, all because he had been given a present with a single thought. “I don’t know how to thank you,” Levadski murmurs.
“You’re welcome.” Mr. Witzturn has raised his head, his gaze rides on the waves of gray and dyed hair, stumbles over a few bald heads and is lost in the froth of the music. He closes his eyes. Levadski tries to concentrate on the music, but he can’t. The elegant opera glasses around his neck have conjured up a new being from inside him and sat him on his lap. They suit me, he said, thinks Levadski and looks at Mr. Witzturn, who, with his eyes closed, has started swaying on his chair. Luxury Collection … Mr. Witzturn gives a soft grunt and touches his chest. And again he gives himself up to the music.
During the intermission a silver tray with two glasses of sparkling wine filled to the brim sit on a bistro table, a folding card with the name Levadski placed in front. “You are famous,” Mr. Witzturn jokes, grabbing a champagne glass that splashes as he holds it out to Levadski. He pulls the other towards him a little more carefully. “I love music, and I would like to thank you for the enjoyable entertainment this evening,” Mr. Witzturn says, taking a sip from his glass. “Your visual aid really suits you.” Levadski strokes the opera glasses resting on his belly.
“You have moved me to tears, Mr. Witzturn.”
“Wait a second. I will read something to you. Please hand me the box.” Mr. Witzturn unfolds the leaflet with the instructions. “Room with a view. That must be what the thing is called. Cast your eye down on the angels!” he recites in a distorted voice. “For more than 135 years they have been looking over the shoulders of the great maestros on the podium of the Vienna Philharmonic, well, one doesn’t live that long … With an eye for detail,” Mr. Witzturn continues with a raised finger, “focus on the essence. These elegant opera glasses open up undreamed of perspectives, oho-ho, and unknown pleasures, enjoy, Mr. Levadski. Enjoy the world of music. And thank you for the sparkling wine.” The tears in Levadski’s eyes cause his already distorted vision to become even more blurry.
“Oh, you have given me such a wonderful present. You know,” Levadski dries his tears under the false pretense of gazing at the ceiling submerged in thought, “I must confess something to you.” Mr. Witzturn nods. “I have always been a bit ashamed of my magnifying glass. And now that I am holding these beautiful opera glasses in my hand,” Levadski’s voice trembles, “ehehem, the good old magnifying glass is just embarrassing, so embarrassing, that I would like to bury it somewhere.” Mr. Witzturn tilts his head and chews on his lip. “What can I say … I know every scratch,” Levadski continues, “even the circumstances under which the magnifying glass received them … and now, alongside these beautiful opera glasses …”
“You don’t need to feel bad,” Mr. Witzturn interrupts, “life is unfair.”
“I do!” Levadski says heatedly. “But just how fair life is!”
“Please allow me to explain to you,” Mr. Witzturn says, putting his empty glass decisively on the table.
What a conceited oaf, thinks Levadski, and I thought he was congenial! I will hang his opera glasses on the wall and let them gather dust there.
“You see,” Mr. Witzturn says, “we are in the well-heat-ed Musikverein, drinking sparkling wine and being transported by music.” You were reveling in sleep, you snooze bucket! thinks Levadski.
“But that does not in the least,” Mr. Witzturn continues, “mean that luck is on our side. If the world we know, the visible and the invisible, is a kind of river, then we aren’t sitting in a concert at all.” Mr. Witzturn looks at Levadski expectantly.