The old boy was standing in front of the filing cabinet. He was thinking. It was midmorning (relatively — getting on for ten). Around this time the old boy was in the habit of having a think.
He had plenty of troubles and woes, so there were things to think about.
The truth is — not to put too fine a point on it — he should long ago have settled down to writing a book.
Any old book, just so long as it was a book (the old boy had long been aware that it made no difference at all what kind of book he wrote, good or bad — that had no bearing on the essence of the matter).
So with a gesture of irritation (as though he now truly did not have too much time to squander) he snatched the folder furnished with the title “Ideas, sketches, fragments” from the upper drawer of the filing cabinet and then tugged out from roughly the centre of the pile of paper scraps and slips and scribbled sheets, practically at random (as though it did not matter to him whether he drew the ace of spades or the two of clubs) (or perhaps more accurately, as though he were well aware that he would not be able to draw either the ace of spades or the two of clubs, since he had shuffled the pack himself) (which already predetermines the strength of the cards that can end up in our hand) (with allowance for the far from consubstantial chances of the just slightly better or slightly worse) (and thereby leaving at least some scope, after all, for the action of the instantaneous planetary constellation) a sheet of note-paper that had already somewhat yellowed at the edges.
On the sheet of note-paper (already somewhat yellowed at the edges), written with a green felt-tip pen (a type he had not used for some time), he read the following note (idea, outline, or possibly fragment):
Köves had twice submitted a passport application and three times they had it turned down. Although it was obvious there must have been an administrative error, Köves nevertheless discerned a symbolic significance in the occurrence, so that he finally made up his mind: now he had to leave whatever might happen.
“So there it is,” the old boy muttered to himself.
“Just my luck.
“I remember.
“I didn’t have any job recommendations.
“That was a long time back,” he wandered away from the subject (mentally).
“But what in hell’s name can I make out of this?” he returned again to the subject (mentally).
“Although,” he thought a bit, “it’s not such a bad idea at that.
“There are some interesting elements in it.
“I could make a start with this.
“One can make a start with anything.
“What matters is what you aim for.
“So then what is Köves aiming for?”
The old boy sat down in front of the filing cabinet and pondered (evidently on the question he had posed himself, which) (as we have cited above) (was what Köves was aiming for).
“What could Köves have been aiming for, anyway?” was the next question the old boy posed to himself (and from the expression that gradually lit up his face it seemed he was beginning to guess the answer as well).
The upshot of which was that he got out the typewriter (from the upper drawer of the filing cabinet) (thereby leaving in the drawer only a few files, two cardboard boxes, and behind them a grey box file, on which there was, as a paperweight so to say, a likewise grey — albeit a darker grey — lump of stone), and at the head of the sheet of paper that he fed in, set in the middle, in uppercase type (as a person customarily does) (by general convention) (when writing down the title of something) (his book, let us say), he tapped out the following:
and beneath that, after some further pondering, he tapped:
“For fuck’s sake!” The old boy abruptly broke off his typing at this point, while raising himself halfway from his seat as he reached toward the filing cabinet.
“Let the old goat shove all seven turns of that rigid corkscrewed poker …” the old boy intoned, unhurriedly and syllable by syllable, while carefully shaping the softened wad of fusible wax between his fingers as he crammed it into his ear, thereby placing himself beyond reach of Oglütz, the Slough of Deceit — in effect, the entire world.
1 Plutarch: “It is indispensable to sail, it is not indispensable to live.”
CHAPTER ONE
Arrival
Köves came to with a buzzing in his ears; he had probably fallen asleep, almost missing that extraordinary moment when they descended from starlit altitude into earthly night. Scattered flickers of light showed on the borders of a horizon which tilted constantly with the turns of the aircraft. For all he knew, he could be watching a bobbing convoy of ships on the dark ocean. Yet below them was dry land; could the city really present such a pitiable sight? Köves’ home came to mind, the other city — Budapest — that he had left. Even though he had already been flying for sixteen hours, it now caught up with him for the first time, like a slight tipsiness, the certainty of the distance which separated him from the familiar bend of the Danube, the lamp-garlanded bridges, the Buda hills, and the illuminated wreath of the inner city. Here, too, he had glimpsed a faintly glistening band down there, more than likely a river, and above it the odd sparsely lighted arch — those were presumably bridges; and during the descent he had also been able to make out that on one side of the river the city sprawled out over a plain, while on the other side it was set on hillocky terrain.
Köves had no chance to make any further observations. The plane touched down, and there was the usual flurry of activity: the unfastening of safety belts, a few quick tugs at crumpled clothing, but Köves was a little unsettled by the aptly brief parting word to the English travelling companion in the next seat — the Englishman flitted all over the globe as a representative for some multinational company, and during the flight Köves had seen the great value of that travel experience — it was, after all, the first time he himself had crossed continents, and moreover he was the only one disembarking at this place. Besides which it seemed as if the strains of the journey were hitting him now, all at once; he could hardly wait to be relieved of his luggage — even though it consisted of just a single suitcase that he might still have need of, he would come back later to reclaim it, with the help of his renowned and affluent friend — and to relinquish himself to the attentions of the staff.
He waited in vain, however; no one ran up to meet him, the airport terminal was dark and looked completely deserted. What was going on here? Were they on strike? Had war broken out and the airfield been blacked out? Or was it simply apathy, foreigners being left to puzzle out where to go? Köves took a few hesitant paces in the direction where he fancied he could see more solid contours in the distance, just possibly the terminal building, but before long he lost his footing — evidently he must have strayed off the runway in the dark — and at the same time he felt as if he had suddenly been smacked in the face: it was the hard beam of a searchlight, directed implacably straight at his face. Köves screwed up his eyes in irritation. At this, almost as if it were acknowledging his indignation, the spotlight slid lower and, giving him a full-body frisk-over so to say, ran before his feet, darting a few yards ahead on the ground before again returning to Köves’s feet and starting all over again. Was this their way of showing him which way to go? A strange procedure at any rate; he could consider equally a courtesy as an order, and while he was pondering that, Köves caught himself already setting off — suitcase in hand — after the light beam dancing before him.