Why not? Why can’t a person do exactly what he or she wants? Because a person is supposed to act “normal”? But no one’s normal, you think. It’s just that everybody has a deep-seated fear of the things that should be said aloud, but that never are, you think. So go ahead, call her. Eat something first, though; no, grab a smoke, that’s far more important, and you start searching through pants pockets, jacket pockets, suit pockets, briefcases, and so on (all while thinking that if she were still living here, she could’ve told you exactly how many cigarettes you had and where they were), until finally you find a crumpled pack containing one smashed and two unsmashed cigarettes in the pocket of the robe you’re wearing, but then the search begins again, this time for matches or a lighter, and again you search through pants pockets, jacket pockets, suit pockets, briefcases and so forth, as well as through the three pockets of your robe, though this time you come up empty-handed, so you broaden the search to include tables, cabinets, various nooks and crannies (so to speak), but still you come up empty-handed.
You turn one burner (the smallest one) to high. You hear a phone ringing (and you can’t picture how the ringing telephone looks, since you have no memory of it, since you’ve never been there, on the other end, it’s like calling out to someone in the dark), it rings a second time, no answer, a third time, no answer, a fourth time, no answer, a fifth time, no answer; the sixth ring is abruptly cut off by someone picking up. An irritated and sleep-drunk female voice demands What? and you can’t be sure it’s her, but the voice reminds you of her, and so you say your name, and she exclaims, Oh God, not you! I though I was done with you for good; and you mumble something like I was sitting here thinking of you, thinking of the time you just appeared out of the nothingness of the falling snow, and how your voice on the intercom. and she interrupts you with Do you realize I got home at five o’clock this morning the flight was hell fucking weather we had to make an emergency landing and wait six hours before continuing on the passengers whined like little babies and some famous fuck got drunk and threw a fit and wanted to get into the cockpit and force us to land someplace or other and he insisted he had a conference to get to and to top it all off you at nine fifteen in the morning what the hell do you want? and you say I just wanted to tell you I was sitting here thinking of how beautiful you were when you came in from the snow, you had rosy cheeks and drops of melted snow in your hair, and the others (you hesitate) they were nothing, absolutely nothing, I’m completely and truly yours, and she says Pain and solace, that’s all it is with you, pain and solace, but I’m definitely not interested in your pain and there’s no way I’m going to be your solace you’re a sentimental fuck like every other brutal, sentimental fuck you get real emotional when you’re doing something shameful. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if at nine o’clock in the morning and twenty-five years of age you were already drunk, are you drunk? don’t you have some job to go to? you’re off today? why in the world would you be off today? never mind, it’s not my business, right now my business is sleeping do you hear that SLEEPING without being interrupted by your idiotic whining and your pseudo-nostalgic crocodile tears no it doesn’t help to say you’re sorry at least when you’re sober you can still remember that I don’t give a damn about you all I want is to be left alone shut the hell up, and suddenly, rage shoots through you like an electric current and you say You fucking cow you prima donna you two-faced bitch it was you who. with two. oh so sweet and charming when your ego’s telling you you’ve got the upper hand. cynical as fuck when you have nothing to gain you’re just a cash register with. though your last word, a vulgar epithet for female genitalia, doesn’t travel any farther than the microphone in the receiver, because when the conversation degenerated from dialogue to monologue, a click on the words “cash regist. ” told you she’d hung up.
You really need a smoke. Unfortunately, you remember that you have neither matches nor lighter, and you know it won’t do any good, but you go into the kitchen to have a look around. To your surprise, you see that one of the burners on the stove has changed from a rusty gray to a bright yellow-red. Hmm. Without turning it off, you spread your fingers and reach toward the glowing circle until your hand is hovering only a few millimeters above the surface, and you feel the heat scorch your palm and the underside of your fingers, until the pain grows stronger than your will. You shake your hand and blow on it a couple of times, before fishing a cigarette (one of the unsmashed ones) out of the crumpled pack, placing it between your lips and bending over until the end of the cigarette touches the burner (and you feel the heat again, this time against your face), at the same time taking a few quick puffs until both tobacco and paper are burning, and you can feel the bitter smoke enter your lungs, first in short, stingy pulls and then in longer drags, you hold the cigarette up and examine its glowing tip, good enough, you turn off the burner but you remain standing there, spellbound by the glowing metal disc, which looks as though it should be flowing (like the images you’ve seen of molten metal flowing like orange juice in a smelter), but at the same time it seems thick and syrupy, a wheel of molten metal, a flat, red sun, metallically glinting through passing clouds, now covered, now visible, with an unreadable inscription, like a worn copper coin from a long-dead empire. Sunset, but still daytime, you’d gone to the last stop on the line to meet someone (you’ve forgotten who), and that person wasn’t there, and then the trolley had arrived, making a last loop and coming to a shuddering halt, as the tin cans tied to its bumper had stopped their rattling. And then everything was still.
The trolley was black, and it looked like it had been through a fire or an explosion or maybe both, a wreck with no real route, but with a red cross on the door, and then the doors had opened (the red cross had folded back and disappeared) and out had stepped a short, stocky, bareheaded (and bald) little man dressed in a shabby overcoat; his fingers sparkled with large rings showcasing various small gems. You thought he looked threatening, and you tensed yourself for a fight, but upon closer inspection, you decided that his face was actually warm, gentle, and a little sad. Rings sparkling, he’d approached you and asked in an encouraging tone, Are you looking for someone? and, suddenly uncertain, you answered, Yes, but she’s not here, there must’ve been some misunderstanding, I don’t think either the clock or her heart works at night (it was suddenly night) and he said, Don’t worry about that, that’s not the reason you’re here, that was just an excuse; no, what you’ve got to understand is that meaning can be found in meaninglessness, and that these meaningless words hold all you need to know. Then he turned and vomited all over the platform. After that, he climbed back into the disfigured trolley, the doors closed (you noticed that the red cross was now a skull), and the trolley had descended toward the city and disappeared.