This could not have been foreseen. There wasn’t meant to be a gunshot wound in the story the narrator was telling, especially one that he himself would sustain. But he has in fact been wounded. He acknowledges this reluctantly, because the fact of the injury points unambiguously to a body; it proves that the narrator possesses one. He has a beating heart, sensitive kidneys and liver, soft skin, delicate muscles and dark red blood — everything that, not without a certain disquiet, can be studied on the pages of anatomical atlases. The suggestion that things are otherwise, present in the background from the very first paragraphs and fed by what was left unsaid, all at once loses its convenient, noncommittal quality and acquires the ordinariness of that which is spoken outright, the inertia of concrete statements, heavy as bricks. Suddenly filled with substance, the illusion loses balance and falls over. In this way the discreet insinuations of the narrator turn into brazen lies. This unexpected turn of events, shedding light on a troublesome issue, lends his earlier intimations the quality of playacting and exposes them to ridicule.
The narrator bears a body — like every one of the characters, like the hurrying passers-by carrying their burden along the sidewalks. He hid this fact doggedly, not shrinking from barefaced prevarication. Now he would like to say something in his own defense but cannot, somewhat dazed as he is, and lying spread-eagled on the steep roof. The body, barely grazed, is bleeding unrestrainedly. The body has its own weight and is afraid that if it grows weaker, it will follow the bottle and slip off the roof. It’s drenched in cold sweat; the pain does not give it a moment’s respite. It sees no escape, no future beyond bleeding, no hope of anything better than a slow demise. The body realizes in despair that it was permitted to relish the smell of coffee, to experience the softness of sofas and the caress of soap and warm water, only up to the point at which the world pulled the ground from under its feet and the air from its lungs. Vulnerable and cowardly, always with something to lose and always prepared to yield to pressure, sell itself, abase itself, to pay any price to be saved, it was unable to prevent a thing. While it still stood on its feet, it tried to negotiate favorable conditions for itself. Yet the time will come when this aching body will have nothing more to offer, and its concessions will prove worthless. And it will have to give everything back; it will be left only with whatever space in the world it manages to gather beneath itself as it lies insensate.
But when the moment passes and it becomes clear that it was not yet its last, the heart gradually calms down and the body already starts to look for something better. If the narrator were to drag himself downstairs, he could probably have his wound dressed by the doctor from the ambulance; but the dark blue police would not spare him their official questions and sensational hypotheses, not to mention their habit of checking documents. He squeezes through the opening of the trapdoor; with his good hand he pulls a monogrammed sheet from one of the clotheslines and, with the aid of his teeth, he fashions a makeshift bandage. The loose sleeve of his jacket dangles at his side; beneath its open tail his arm hangs inertly. Somewhere round the corner there must be a doctor’s office. The narrator decides to look for it, disregarding the fact that he has no wallet. In any case, the banknotes it contained would have been useless here. On the far side of the attic there is a wide-open door with its lock shot off, a memento of the recent presence of the three figures wearing German uniforms. He reaches the door, staggering and bumping into the beams of the sloping ceiling. Beyond the door another attic can be seen. From there one can access the staircase of the neighboring apartment building, which is decorated in marble, with an elevator lined with mirrors. The narrator touches the buttons of the elevator, doubting whether any of them are meant for him. Certainly there exist first-aid stations for the wounded, for those shot by the soldiers in the gray-green uniforms of the Wehrmacht. Frenetic surgeries where no one asks any questions. But the nearest such place is undoubtedly situated many floors beneath the foundations of the apartment building; for the heavier the burden of life, the lower it descends. The narrator, who has grown familiar with the way of things, can imagine the confusion, the stale air, and the uproar that reign there. He selects a button marked First Floor. The mirrors surround him on all sides; this time he has nowhere to retreat in protest at their idle inquisitiveness. Here he will no longer be able to evade the awkward question of his reflection. Everything can be seen in the mirrors: the parting on the top of his head; the white collar, no longer fresh; the knot of the necktie. The tie is crooked, and the narrator straightens it with his good hand. Above the tie, gold-rimmed glasses. The discolored fingers of a smoker rake through his hair. That’s right. There’s no sense denying it: The features, silhouette, and gestures are easily recognizable. In general, the narrator is embittered by the lack of privileges that he ought to enjoy; he is touched to the quick by the supercilious way in which his privacy has been invaded. He would prefer to remain silent, but since certain inconvenient details have come to light, he is forced to admit that the body does not belong to him alone. It was issued to him, like a hospital gown or an army greatcoat. He can only speculate as to where this appearance came from, and guess whose image was the basis for all the copies in circulation.
He cannot refrain from asking bitterly who is actually in charge in this space, who has placed the various figures in it, who set the events in motion. It may be that the principal matters are resolved in the mechanisms of grammar, in the inscrutable moving parts of the elevators. He who slept through the scene in the garden, the lavishly illuminated climax, is probably still under the illusion that nothing can happen here without his knowledge and without his will. Occupied with his own affairs, he only infrequently and sparingly gives his distracted attention to the story, and his overweening pride leads him to believe that this is sufficient, and that anything he touches, however casually, will immediately become transformed into precious metal. And yet he does not know everything that goes on behind his back, between the lines of the text, in the dark corners behind the paragraphs. Story lines that he ordered to be concluded and cut off are unfolding on the quiet — proof that his will does not determine everything. Where now is the black automobile loaded with luggage? Perhaps in a ditch, out of gas, pushed aside by the throng like all the other cars. Fojchtmajer and his family are among those wandering the roads on foot, sleeping in barns; the autumn is a warm one. Until winter comes they can manage like this. In any case, a simple accident will free Fojchtmajer from the arduous obligation of surviving the winter, and the frost will never touch him. Before it can strike, soldiers in gray-green uniforms will appear on motorcycles — two privates and a sergeant. The cause of the far-reaching disruption that arises suddenly from their presence may turn out to be some denunciation linking the person of Fojchtmajer with the Polish Word publishing house. For someone up above, this could serve as a convenient excuse to close this bothersome story line once and for all. At the decisive moment Fojchtmajer’s wife disowned him without hesitation, and so convincingly that she rescued the children from danger. He was present at the time, and appreciated the ease with which she lied; he felt relieved and grateful. And so his wife and children are in the crowd, while Fojchtmajer stands to one side now, his hands raised, under guard. Betrayed, three times betrayed. He will exchange a word with one of the privates; his wife waits anxiously for a sign, for after all she loves him as much as she is able. With a helpless smile Fojchtmajer shakes his head: Nothing can be done.