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And so the narrator possesses a wallet. Anticipating inquisitive questions about where he got his money, who gave it to him and what for, he ought to mention that he is incurring considerable personal expenses — the hotel, for example, is not cheap. And the one who is paying him does not expect services for free. The tips that the former hands out left and right for the tiniest thing in any case come back to him eventually. The narrator could now point to the row of ticket vending machines on the platform, from which the cash drawers are certainly removed from time to time. They end up in the same hands as the check for the commission collected by the real estate agency that took on the sale of the house with the garden; the same hands as the income of the shipping company, and the rich flow of profits from the hotel. Is it not the case that the lion’s share of circulating cash ends up in the pockets of the master of all circumstances, who lies around all day in his crumpled bed-ding, his back turned on the world, and would he not prefer that nothing be said here about what he spends it on? And if someone simply had to know what currency these sums are calculated in, the narrator would explain calmly that it’s the same currency in which he paid a hundred to the insolent wise guy. The banknote came from the envelope left for him at the front desk of the hotel. These were old Polish zlotys, withdrawn in the nineties. And let’s agree right away that only old Polish zlotys are in circulation, absolutely everywhere — in the German towns where the Feuchtmeiers live, in the Balkans, even in the ports of the Far East. Various denominations, always in muted pink, pale blue, and green. The homeless denizens of the station platform do not have direct access to Polish banknotes, and so they have no need whatsoever of wallets. They may not even have any documents at all. If they bear last names, it is to their credit that they keep them to themselves so as not to worsen the confusion in the story. It’s not out of the question that they, too, consider themselves narrators. The all-knowing hobo with the earring — he definitely does, and perhaps also the decrepit old professor in the dressing gown. Who would not want to be a narrator? Who wouldn’t wish to have a guaranteed income, calculated in zlotys? The leather-clad wise guy, earning a little on the side with his switchblade, would not scorn it either.

At this point the narrator could give an assurance that he wouldn’t have stolen a bottle from the house with the garden if he had not unwittingly gotten stuck in the ruts of other tales. It may be that all three men on the platform — each in his own way — would be glad to carry out a task that exhausts the narrator and fills him with aversion; furthermore, they do not receive one zloty for their pains. They do not have personal expenses; they don’t pay for hotels or dinners; their stories are cheap. Despite this the sight of money must have nettled the two of them who got nothing. They toss scathing gibes aimed at the third, who is just disappearing with his retinue at the end of the platform: Rumor has it that somewhere or other he made a thorough mess of a job and now he’s penniless and is given no more work. They recall the two unnecessary corpses from when a hotel door was destroyed; and they imagine the fury of his employer, who gave him his marching orders on the spot. In the meantime, a train is approaching the platform with a rumble; it’s covered with bright zigzags of graffiti — assuredly the work of Braun and Schmidt, the elusive vandals, transparent as air. The hobo and the senile old professor enter a car along with the narrator, holding him by the elbows in case he should suddenly decide to abandon the trip. The train sets off; the response to the question of why it isn’t moving in the opposite direction should be that this direction and the opposite one are of equal worth, and so it’s all the same. Here then is the interior of the car; on the floor is a sticky patch gathering dirt, and there are only two people sitting on the ripped-up seats. One of them is a young woman wearing provocative makeup. From her handbag she has taken a small mirror that reflects the highlights in her dyed red hair. Pursing her lips, she studies the outline of her flashy lipstick. Nearby sits a sullen youth with a shaved head, in a black T-shirt and camouflage pants with dangling suspenders. His grandfather stomped the rhythm of a military march in heavy boots, as an exemplary German soldier in dark green uniform. His father, for instance a locksmith, slaved his whole life from dawn till dusk. Three beers will always console: Such was his adage. He had a heavy hand. The boot and the hand will lend both men the appropriate weight. The grandfather and the father appear here as ballast; they have been brought in primarily so that the character with the dangling suspenders remains on solid ground. But aren’t the face and silhouette taken directly from Feuchtmeier? The theft of a bottle of liquor is nothing compared to such an abuse. The youth does not know this. He did not pick this body for himself; it was assigned to him. He is younger than Feuchtmeier and younger than his redheaded traveling companion; he is probably called Schmidt or Braun, whatever. His wrists and forearms all the way up to the elbow are covered in deep scars; it could be wagered that many times he has grown sick of life. But not completely, since in the end he lacked sufficient desperation. It’s not clear whether this couple got on the train together and if they have anything in common. It’s possible that they only just met, and that they’re already working out how to part on any pretext. He’s toying with a dark metal object of familiar shape; the magazine keeps popping out with a snap. So there’s a gun, whether the narrator likes it or not; this fact may have its consequences. The owner of the gun slowly raises his eyes. For a moment he stares at the red dressing gown, perhaps asking himself the inexorable question of why such people live and why they are tolerated. He’s already stood up from his seat at the end of the car; he’s approaching at an unhurried pace, swaying as the train rocks on the rails. Time to get off, bum — such words would not shock anyone now; they could be guessed at if only from the movement of his lips, when nothing can be heard over the clatter of the wheels. It’s well known that red provokes. The oxidized barrel, jabbing the old man’s ear, shows him which way to go. The latter would get off right away if it weren’t for the fact that the train is hurtling along and the doors are locked, and so he just blinks repeatedly and tries to say something; it can be seen that he is missing several front teeth. He completely agrees with the owner of the gun; lisping slightly, he acknowledges that everywhere you go there’s too much trash like himself, an old fogy in a red dressing gown. Reaching the end of the sentence, he swallows hard. The owner of the gun looks about with the glazed eyes of a madman. He moves slowly, and equally slowly considers what to do with the old man before the train arrives at the next stop. Now the hobo will interject his own comment. Ain’t that a thing, he snickers, the mad have gone mad. They’ve joined those who’d finish off the mad right at the outset. Finish off all the maniacs, the psychopaths, the transvestites and, it goes without saying, idiots like Schmidt and Braun, too. They’d crush them beneath the soles of their hobnailed boots. The mad’d bear the brunt of it since Jews are harder to come by. And homeless winos’d be let off the hook in the end. Winos can never be eradicated. The barrel turns unhurriedly toward the hobo; the owner of the gun must want to make sure his ears are not deceiving him, especially since the clatter of the wheels muffles speech. The hobo himself didn’t properly hear what he said a moment ago, so he’s unable to repeat it. If that’s the case, he’ll have to crawl under the seat and bark when he’s told to: woof woof! But the reedy falsetto he produces from his dry throat is not enough; the owner of the gun won’t let up until he hears a prolonged yelping of the kind he knows well. It goes without saying that he’ll get everything he demands. The ease with which a person can insist on his own way in the railroad car can only inspire disgust, and so at this moment Schmidt or Braun has had enough; he’d like to put an end to this pathetic spectacle as soon as possible. But he knows no other way than to take aim and pull the trigger. There is a deafening bang; all the witnesses of the scene close their eyes, and for a moment all they can hear is a buzzing in their ears. Then, when the moment passes and the clatter of the wheels returns, everyone realizes that the gun is just a starting pistol. Now they laugh, they laugh fit to burst, including the pretty woman in the provocative makeup, and the scruffy old man who could have died from fright and at this moment is still clutching his heart. The hobo emerges from under the seat, his clothes gray with dust, and rakes cigarette butts out of his hair. His mouth, set in a foolish grin, does not utter a single word of complaint.