And with a wave of his hand he would smilingly dismiss those people who had no business in the Copyists Office. The administrator possessed poise and education, and he enjoyed showing them off on occasion before such happenstance and maladroit visitors who came more out of curiosity than need.
Beside the Copyists Office flowed a quiet, green, deep and old canal, a former fortress moat and the connecting link between the lake and the flowing river which in this way was given lake water to take along with it on its journey to distant seas. In general this was the quietest part of town; there was something secluded and village-like about it. When the ones who were sent away now tramped back down the stairs, they liked to sit for a while upon the railing at the edge of this canal, which then looked as if a row of large, strange, foreign birds were perched there. There was something philosophical about this, and indeed, many a one gazed down into the green dead water world and pondered the unrelentingness of fate just as fruitlessly as a philosopher is wont to do sitting in his study. The canal had something about it that invited one to dream and reflect, and the unemployed had ample time for this.
At the same time, the Copyists Office was a job market for the mercantile trade. A gentleman or lady, for example, might walk into the Office, go into the administrator’s office and ask to have a man, that is, a temporary worker for his or her place of business. Then the administrator would appear in the doorframe, looking over his charges, and after considering for a while would call one man by name: The person in question had then found work for a short while, perhaps eight, one, two or fourteen days. It was always an envy-arousing event when someone was called by name, for everyone was eager to work on the outside, since the pay was then higher and the work more interesting. Besides which, such a man who found work with kindhearted employers would be given a nice snack mornings and evenings, which was by no means to be despised. And so there was always a certain competition for such positions and an ogling of the one selected. Many believed they were always unjustly overlooked, while others, on the other hand, thought it advantageous to court and flatter the administrator and his under-official to attain what they so yearned for. It was approximately like a pack of trained dogs leaping up to snatch at a sausage that was constantly being jerked out of reach on a string, each dog firmly convinced that the others had no business going after the sausage, though without, of course, being able to substantiate that belief. Here too one man would growl at another who’d succeeded in snatching the prize, much as in the greater spheres of trade, scholarship, art and diplomacy, where things aren’t done so very differently, just with more cunning, arrogance and culture.
Simon also worked a few times on the outside — as abbreviated in the copyists’ patois — but he didn’t have much luck at it. Once he was sent to the devil by his boss, a shifty, rather brutal real estate and property agent who nearly fancied himself God almighty, because he’d been reading the newspaper when he should have been writing; and another time he hurled his pen right in the face of his employer, a wholesale fruit and vegetable merchant, with the words: “Do it yourself!” The fruitseller’s wife had insisted on bossing Simon around; so he simply broke things off; for, as he saw it, this female was merely trying to hurt and humiliate him, which in the end he didn’t see any reason to put up with; at least that’s how he felt about it.
— 17–
Several weeks of marvelous summer passed in this way. Simon had never before experienced so marvelous a summer as this year, when he was spending so much of his life on the street looking for work. Nothing came of his efforts, but at least it was beautiful. When he walked in the evening through the modern, leaf-trembling, shadowy, light-flickering streets, he was always unceremoniously approaching people and saying something foolish, just to see how it would feel. But all the people just looked at him in bewilderment — they didn’t say anything. Why wouldn’t they speak to the one walking and standing there, why didn’t they ask him, their voices low, to come with them, go into a strange house and there engage in some activity only people of leisure indulge in, people who, like himself, have no other life purpose than watching the day pass by and evening arrive, in full expectation that evening will bring miracles and fantastical deeds? “I’d be prepared to undertake any deed, provided it was bold and required some derring-do,” he said to himself. For hours he sat upon a bench listening to the music that came murmuring from some regal hotel garden, as if the night had been transformed into soft notes. Nocturnal womenfolk passed by the solitary watcher, but they only needed to take a good look to know how things stood with the young man’s wallet. “If only I knew a single person whom I could touch for a bit of money,” he thought. “My brother Klaus? That wouldn’t be honorable; I’d get the money, but accompanied with a faint, sad reproach. There are people one can’t go begging to because their thoughts are too pure. If only I knew someone whose respect weren’t so important to me. No, I can’t think of anyone. I care about everybody’s respect. I’ll have to wait. You don’t actually need so much in summer, but winter’s on its way! I’m a bit scared of winter. I have no doubt that things will go badly with me this coming winter. Well, then I’ll go running about in the snow, even if I’m barefoot. What harm can come of it. I’ll keep going until my feet are on fire. In summer, it’s so lovely to rest, to lie upon a bench beneath the trees. All of summer is like a warm fragrant room. Winter is a thrusting open of windows, the winds and storms come howling and blustering in and that makes you have to move about. I’ll soon give up my laziness then. It’ll be fine with me, come what may! How long the summer seems to me. It’s only been a few weeks I’ve been living in summer, and it already seems so long. I think time must be sleeping and stretching out as it sleeps if you’re always having to think what to do next, just to get through the day on your few coins. Besides which, I believe that time spends the summer sleeping and dreaming. The leaves on the tall trees are growing ever larger, at night they whisper, and in the daytime they doze in the warm sunshine. I, for example, what do I do? When I have no work, I spend entire days lying in bed with the shutters closed, in my room, reading by candlelight. Candles have such a delightful smell, and when you blow them out, a fine, moist smoke floats through the dark room, and then a person feels so peaceful, so new, as if resurrected. How will I manage to pay my rent? Tomorrow it’s due. Nights are so long in the summer because you stroll and slumber all day long, and the moment night falls, you awaken from all sorts of confused buzzings and stirrings and begin to live. Now it would seem to me almost sinful to sleep through even a single summer night. Besides, it’s too humid to sleep. In summertime your hands are moist and pale as if they sense the preciousness of the fragrant world, and in winter they’re red and swollen as if angry about the cold. Yes, that’s how it is. Winter makes you go stamping around in a rage, whereas in summer you wouldn’t be able to find any cause for anger, except perhaps the circumstance that you’re incapable of paying your rent. But this has nothing to do with the beautiful summer. And I’m not angry anymore either, I think I’ve lost the talent for flying into a rage. It’s nighttime now, and anger is such a daylight phenomenon, as red and fiery as a thing can be. Tomorrow I’ll have a talk with my landlady—”