The glow of evening heralds an approaching finale. It pulses beneath closed eyelids. The heavens will flame crimson until at some dark moment stars appear. It is only a certain quantity of silver nails, embedded in the fabric covering the vault and needed only to hold up the folds of satin, or rather of cheap, shiny sateen, the same material used in the linings of the overcoats. The nails have been hammered in firmly and permanently, yet all the same they can never be properly counted: they hide in the folds then wink mockingly from the edges first of one constellation, then another, proving that arbitrary boundaries mean nothing. The familiar names of groups of stars are nevertheless scrupulously listed on the invoices, without any reference to symbolic meanings: in the columns for amount and type of material, every metaphor is converted into small change. Does this mean that the stars are used only for successive, ever more artful abuses — that their very existence creates the groundwork for subterfuge? Are they otherwise unnecessary? Far from it. If the return of the silver nails were to be demanded in strict accordance with the invoice, there would be nothing to hold up the vast sheet of dark-colored fabric that is the lining of the sky. It would inevitably come fluttering down, revealing a structure of rough pinewood boards. But no one would even see it. The whole world would be thrashing about in the shiny folds, amid a fearful din of confused voices and scattered thoughts that would be lying everywhere like broken glass.
In the dingy warehouse the master craftsmen are calmly playing cards for a diamond necklace taken from the notary’s safe; it lies on the table in an open velvet-lined box. No one is going to claim it now. They have no worries about their own business. All the principle installations are in their hands and all will continue to turn a profit for them. Only their perpetually smoldering anger at being condemned to a life without women suddenly ignites within them as they fling down a king on top of the queen of hearts. The masters regard their clandestine exploitation of the back area as their one and only privilege, barely sufficient compensation for the incomprehensible restrictions placed upon them; they will not stop at anything to protect it. Anyone who sought to prevent them would have to be prepared for the worst — for a mad escalation of losses, and destruction that can scarcely be imagined before it happens. It makes no difference to them whether anything remains intact, and the only thing they will insist on is the principle of having their own way. Anyone who cares about more than profits and losses, in turn, has to bend beneath their steadfast indifference, since in indifference lies strength, while in attachment there is only weakness. If this is my story, I am forced to negotiate, to accede to humiliating compromises, to make concessions, without losing hope.
From a certain point of view there are no made-up stories. Towards the end, all appearances to the contrary, each one turns out to be true and inevitable. Each one is a matter of life and death. Anyone who spends time in its unseen back area has to accept all the shared and ownerless pain it contains, spilling this way and that — because the channels through which it flows are all connected. It may be that every character curses the place that has fallen to his lot, certain of having been cheated. Events are followed with suspicion, like the questionable numbers popping out of lottery machines. But the more profound one’s despair and doubt, the more powerful the belief that some almighty and impartial higher authority will render judgement, weighing wrongs and making amends for suffering. And if for some reason this is not possible? They would accept even bare-faced injustice and malicious disrespect more trustfully than helpless silence. If this is my story, they will forgive me all my transgressions. Helplessness alone will prove to be truly unforgivable, because it alone offends every one of the characters, upsetting their sense of purpose and wounding them by depriving them permanently of hope. As the ending approaches, there is no one left to take on the weight of all the failures and humiliations that were too much even for those most used to carrying them. If this tale belongs to me, at the present moment I merely squeeze my eyes shut so as not to see anything at all. Am I not the very last character of all here, the one who in the end must assume the entire pain alone?
As the conclusion of the tale draws near, the singing of guardsmen rises over the square. The singing calms anxiety and clouds thought. It brings a waking dream to the choir, and to the first floors and the balconies as well. While the guards keep singing, they dream of courage and of brotherhood unsullied by the filth of personal calculations. The songs have no power of their own but draw strength from the stillness. They are able to ring out so resonantly because the other sounds of the world have suddenly fallen silent. A sentry watching the door to the shelter pokes the snow sleepily with one of the walking sticks confiscated from the refugees. Let’s say he happens to have been issued the white cane. Yet this is of no significance — there will not be any further occasion for him to use it to impose compliance. At some point he is bound to be surprised by the oppressive quiet in the place where previously there had been a muffled hum of voices. He cautiously opens the sealed entrance and looks into the cellar that his commander ordered him to guard. It is empty, completely empty from one end to the other; no one is there, though the air is thick with the smell of mothballs and breathing. The sentry cannot believe his eyes. He calls his comrades and his superiors, he calls the policeman, he runs to the general himself. Those who were confined there have vanished without a trace, even the children from the orphanage, even the notary’s maid — yet the padlock on the door was untouched. Encircled by his staff, the general examines the padlock closely as an incomprehensible curiosity. Each person separately has the fleeting impression they are dreaming, for there is no other way to explain what they are seeing with their own eyes. But common sense is unable to rebel in the face of the evident.
Nothing can be reversed; what is done cannot be undone. A disturbing sense of unease sweeps over all those involved, as if they suddenly felt someone’s eyes on their backs just when they were sure that what they were about to do was no one else’s business. They are immediately struck by some unspecified fear, even though they had already gotten used to other people being afraid of them. After all, everyone knows that only the dead pass no judgment and acquiesce humbly to everything. So now it must be accepted that an action which would in no way have offended the dead might well be denounced by the survivors. They cannot be expected to forgive it all easily: the deliberately sealed vent, the spades, and the sacks of quicklime prepared ahead of time. Their outrage, it would seem, broke free at the same time they themselves did; it will take an unpredictable course, and each of the guardsmen wonders where else it will lead.
At the general’s request, the residents were questioned with regard to the disappearance of the refugees. But here too the inquiry ground to a halt. No one had seen a thing, though as the general kept repeating, and after him the policeman and the guards, it wasn’t possible that so very many witnesses should have failed to notice the departure of such a large crowd. Then someone was lying, the general was forced to conclude, and someone perhaps was guilty of treachery. What if the treachery were to go unpunished; what if the guilty party avoided being unmasked and, even worse, stood there saluting the general with a click of the heels as if nothing had happened? Yet the details of this affair, the question of the unaccountable disappearance of so many people at once, baffled the minds of all those who attempted to fathom it. If this is my story, I will allow them to drop the matter, exhausted as they are by their futile inquiries, as a mystery that for them cannot be solved.