It seemed that all attempts to feed the infant this mush had failed. . and W. saw the tiny frail creature dangling motionless in Cindy’s helpless hands, he heard it utter cries in what could barely be called a voice, so faint and strangled that it was impossible to tell whether they weren’t merely the short quick breaths emerging from the withered bluish little face. In that first moment W. fled to the toilet, but he found it too brimful of mush, stuffed with nappies which in turn were drowned in mush. . when he came back Harry emerged — not half an hour had passed — from the adjoining room, holding a pair of elastic-less underwear over his flat stomach, tattooed like his nearly consumptive pink chest with its covering of white down; he pointed through the open door into the unlit chamber: Go on over if you want. . I’m done, and you can go on over if you want.
W. shook his head, casting about for an opportunity to disappear. — Is there a bar still open? he asked. — You might be able to get in the Fuse the back way, said Harry. But how come you don’t want to go on over first? You paid for the bottles of wine, after all. — But not with me! Cindy broke in. — No, said W., I’d better be going. .
He was already in the hall when Cindy gave the baby to Harry, who was sitting on the couch, and followed him. She grabbed W. by the shoulder and pushed him up against the banister until he was pinned by her slender sinewy body with the railing at his back. He breathed the smell of the matted, scabby bathrobe and leant his head back; she wrapped her arms around his neck and stared him in the face, her eyes flashing inches away: Why don’t you want to go on over, over on little Herta, maybe she’s waiting for you?
When W. gave no reply, Cindy said: Because you only want to do it with me, right? You only came because of me, you don’t want to do it with her, you only want me, am I right?
Could be, said W.
All right. . but it’s no good your trying it with me, it’s no good, because Harry’s here now.
How long have you had the baby? asked W., Did you have it in prison?
Sure, in the slammer, that gave me a few days peace and quiet. Why are you asking, you ought to know. .
And who is the father? Is Harry the father?
It’s possible, she said, you could be right about that. Anyway, he’s here now, and so it’s no good your trying tonight. Whether I like it or not. . you’ll have to wait, till later, because Harry’s going back to the slammer soon. It won’t be much longer. .
Does Harry know he’s the father, does he even want to know?
He’s going back to the slammer soon, she said. What does the baby need with a father like that?
Is he a self-reporter, does he have to report again. .? asked W., Isn’t there any way out of this mess?
Yes, he has to report. . and it can happen to me again too any time now. A way out. . no, it’s not like we can hide here. .
Several weeks later W. received a letter from the Town Council, Department of Child and Youth Welfare; it was a summons to a hearing and requested a statement from his place of employment confirming the amount of his most recent annual income. It noted that the unexcused failure to comply with this request could have legal consequences. Unsuspecting, he went there at the appointed time, though without the requested wage statement. An official of indeterminate, eternal middle age — eerily absent, processing, as she was, one case among many, which always ran along the exact same lines and required only a fixed number of phrases, making her adopt a tone of impersonal admonition even when asking for W.’s personal data — advised him that he had been named as the father of a child, male, born on. . (a date followed, this too in a half-indignant, half-resigned tone, carried on out of routine into the mumbling repetition of the syllables typed on the typewriter) by the mother of the child. . now a name followed. W. hadn’t caught the name of the child’s mother. He was herewith called upon to fulfil his obligation to pay the mother a monthly allowance for the child until it came of age, contingent upon his present average annual income. — Now, said the woman, we must determine the legally stipulated sum, which you may voluntarily raise at your discretion for the good of your child.—W. denied everything he had heard, utterly at random, immediately realizing the futility of every word he could possibly say. . I’ve been had, was his only thought, and it was probably written all over him. — You can contest it, said the woman. But if you have any luck, it’ll be a first in my career. — She pulled the sheet of paper out of the typewriter and laid it in front of W. — he didn’t recognize the name under the heading Mother of the Child, but he guessed at once that it was Cindy’s real name he’d stumbled across. — That has to be a mistake! said W., but evidently his own voice was inaudible to him. He was warned that he’d have to face the consequences, that is, bear the costs of the forensic examination, if it should turn out that he was denying his paternity in order to evade his legal obligation to support. . Unfortunately you’re no exception, quite the contrary, said the woman. And you should save yourself the trouble.
Possibly this last remark had come during the second hearing to which he was summoned a short time later. . after the shock of the first one he hadn’t reacted at all, waiting for the mistake to clear itself up. After a brief exchange with the official he was asked into a different office. The room was surprisingly inviting; unlike the previous one, at least, there was no grille with a chest-level writing ledge immediately inside the door, barricading it against petitioners and the subpoenaed. W. was urged to take an armchair diagonally opposite a desk that was bare but for an enormous potted plant and a used coffee cup. Behind it sat a man in a grey suit (W. asked himself whether suits even came in other colours in this country), again between forty and fifty, his temples streaked with grey; he didn’t look like someone who worked for the low-level department in which child-support claims were processed. Breezy, thought W., that’s a good word for this gentleman. .