I couldn’t yet feel the effects of my participation in the incident at the underpass; I certainly had bruises on my body, but they weren’t giving me as much pain as now. All I really felt was fatigue, as if I’d had a heart attack. Indeed, I had been fortunate, for the circumstances of my tour might well have provoked such an attack.
But what had really happened?
I fumbled in my pocket for my handkerchief, to wipe away the sweat on my forehead. It was hot and I had lost my hat. I missed it very much. I felt for my handkerchief and at the very instant I found it, I asked myself what I was sitting on. With an effort I raised myself slightly and pulled from under me the piece of cloth which was spread out neatly on the step. It had been torn from a larger piece, bright red. Bright red and very cheap, judging by the quality. It belonged to their flag, the flag which he had been carrying.
That could only mean that I had come into direct contact with him. Most likely he had rushed me and I had to defend myself by hitting him with my stick. He had fallen in the sand without letting go of the flag. He had tried to get up, turning toward me while still on his knees. Two thin streams of blood were running down his left cheek, forming between them the swollen dark little island of the birthmark. And I had struck him again with my stick, this time not from behind on the back of the head, but in the face and on the crown of his head.
I kept on hitting and hitting and hitting.
When was that? How many years had passed since then?
On the hatstand in the hallway, amid the other sticks, is the one with the dog’s muzzle for a handle. I put it there when I returned from my walk, and I haven’t had it in my hands since. Probably I should interrupt my work, pick it up, and examine it — I would know what to look for. I haven’t been able to do it. Perhaps later. Yes, I shall certainly do it later. When I get to the end of my will, and there’s nothing left to do but pile the furniture against the door and wait.
From a distance, my window shone in the dark rear of the house, like a tiny sun in a universe of stone. Its light dimmed and brightened, as if summoning me back to the protection it had offered for so many years. I brought it so close with my binoculars that it seemed as if I could touch the gleaming glass. When I put the binoculars down, the illusion disappeared. That was how it had always been with those useless instruments. They had pretended to help me but in fact had just deceived me. They had cunningly convinced me that I knew and understood the objects which they had brought near to me, whereas in fact those objects had remained just as distant as before. Perhaps even more so.
There on the steps, I knew what I had to do. First of all, I had to pull myself together, tidy myself up. Then I would go home and get to work. Katarina wouldn’t have returned yet. She had gone off with Mlle. Foucault to buy a ticket for her trip to the spa the next morning, and to take care of other matters connected with her journey. Mlle. Foucault was to look after me during her absence. On any other occasion such an arrangement would have infuriated me, but now, as a result of this wretched affair at the underpass, it admirably suited my intentions. Katarina would leave without any idea of what was going on. Even if, as was probable, she eventually found out about the disturbances, she would be too far away to grasp their seriousness. And they wouldn’t spread as rapidly as that. They would meet resistance, delaying things at least long enough for Kosančićev Venac to hold out for several days.
I looked at my watch (now, too, I’m checking the time left me to finish what I’m writing) and verified that I should start for home if I didn’t want Katarina to learn of my absence. Before putting the watch back in my pocket, I listened to the beating of its heart; surrounded by rubies in its gold casing, it looked like a tiny model of the planetary system. The mechanism still worked perfectly, although it had belonged to my father. Inside its cover was an engraved dedication: To Canon Cyrill S. Negovan, Chaplain of the 1st Infantry Regiment, Drina Division, for the faith and fear of God which he instilled in us, and his exceptional skill as a marksman. Colonel Živojin T. Maksimović.
The heart of that watch was beating surely and regularly, but my own was suddenly beginning to hesitate and flutter. For the second time that same day it let me down. The discomfort beneath my rib cage advanced rapidly with antlike steps into my hands, which were shaking treacherously as, blinking to disperse the mist from my eyes and gasping for breath, I tore the cellophane wrapping from the pills. I swallowed them hurriedly, though in fact I hadn’t a single valid reason for doing so.
•
I must admit that this afternoon, the third since the events that have so dominated my confession, I’m in a particularly happy frame of mind. Until recently I was disturbed, troubled by anxiety, even dismayed, but today I’m composed. No, I’m by no means calm — I’m not completely prepared for what’s coming — but I’m composed, and its clear to me what I have to do. With regard to the fate which awaits me and my houses, there can be little ambiguity. It’s like a big business deal. As long as the affair he’s involved in swings back and forth, like a pendulum between victory and defeat, the businessman’s heart spans the amplitude of uncertainty. But as soon as the affair is decided one way or the other, and turns out a success or a failure, the businessman relaxes: nervousness gives place to the calm reckoning up of accounts, the calculation of profit or loss, and preparations for some new project to recuperate the loss or multiply the gain. But if, as in my case, the commitment has already taken the irreversible route toward catastrophe, and the pendulum of fate has adopted its final position, then nothing remains but to plan how to submit to it in the easiest possible way.
Only the presence of Mlle. Foucault still bothered me. I have mentioned that on that first day Katarina had packed her things to go to the spa; now I must add that on the following day she left without having found out anything about the time I had spent out of the house. I have the impression she was surprised at the tenderness with which I said good-by. It was not our custom to show openly any of the devotion we had for each other, but I considered that the unusual circumstances allowed me, even required me, to make an exception, for I hadn’t the slightest doubt that Katarina’s kiss, which I tenderly returned, marked the end of our fifty years of happy marriage, and in a modest way, of course, our golden wedding anniversary.
Before leaving, Katarina gave Mlle. Foucault the instructions necessary to satisfy the demands of my way of life, having no idea that in the meantime it had changed radically, that it had evolved new demands which no one could satisfy for me. Indeed, it would be unjust if I failed to acknowledge the diligence and loyalty, however superfluous now, with which Mlle. Foucault carried out her duties, particularly if one bears in mind the intolerance which had always colored our relationship. Naturally she had to treat me for the bruises I had received. In a moment of inspiration I explained them away as the result of falling on the parquet floor, whereupon she upbraided my “childish lack of caution,” mon imprudence, and as she swathed my aching welts with raw meat, muttered:
“I do not understand, Monsieur Negovan, I really do not understand how a grown man could fall down just like that! Je ne comprends pas cela — un homme de votre agilité!”