There’s nothing wrong with the guy, the airport security official entrusted with the interrogation of Central European immigrants reported to his superior, it’s just that he arrived without any baggage, not even a scrap of hand-luggage, just a coat, in the lining of which he himself had very probably, as indeed he confirms through the interpreter, sewn a strange document and an envelope containing some money, and since he had nothing else, no backpack, not even a plastic bag, no nothing, it constituted a problem — go on, Andrew, his superior nodded — because it’s possible that he might have had baggage that had disappeared, but, if so, where was it, that’s why they decided to interrogate him, and the guys did interrogate him, absolutely, thoroughly, according to the rule book, with a Hungarian interpreter present, but they found nothing suspicious, the guy was, for all intents and purposes, clean, and it looked as though he was telling the truth about the baggage, that he really had traveled without any, so, as far as he was concerned, the security man said, he could be allowed through, and yes, he had cash, quite a lot of it in fact, but Eastern Europeans weren’t expected to carry credit cards, and his visa and passport were in order, besides which he was able to show them a business card with the name of a hotel in New York City, where he intended on staying, a fact they would check within twenty-four hours, at which point the matter would be closed because in his personal opinion — go on, Andrew, his superior encouraged him — that would be enough, the guy was just some innocent, perfectly ordinary, crackpot scientist who can sew what he likes where he likes, and if he wanted to stitch his asshole together — the security guard flashed his blindingly white teeth — that was up to him, they should leave him alone, in other words his recommendation would be to wish him a nice day and let him through — OK, that’s one problem less then, his boss assented — as a result of which, within half an hour, Korin was free again, though clearly not entirely conscious of the process that had led him thus far, his mind having been otherwise preoccupied, especially toward the end of the interview when he noticed how the interpreter had begun to pay close attention to what he was saying, a line of argument he was keen to pursue to its conclusion, the burden of which was that, perhaps, later, if he succeeded in doing what he set out to do, even the United States of America would have cause to be proud of him, because this country was precisely the place where his Great Plan became a reality, but no, the interpreter stopped him in his tracks, slowly running his hands through his snow-white hair which was parted in the middle and sticking to his scalp, to say, however nice a guy he was, Korin should understand that there wasn’t time to go into that now, to which Korin replied that, naturally, he completely understood, and he would not detain him any longer, and would only add, one, that it was a matter for him of something perfectly wonderful concerning his place in the scheme of things, in other words the reason he had flown here constituted less of a danger, if he might so express it, than did the flight of a butterfly above the city, that is to say, he explained, from the city’s point of view; and two, he said, he would like to be permitted to offer a word of thanks, if no more, to the kind interpreter on whose assistance he had been forced to rely in the moment of his predicament, and that he would hold him up no longer, and that all he wanted was to thank him, to thank him once more, or, as they say here, Korin consulted his notebook, thanks, many thanks, mister.
I gave him my card, the interpreter recalled with irritation, later, in bed, furiously turning his back on his alarmed lover, only to be rid of him, because there was no other way, but the skunk kept blabbering on, blab-blab, and fine, I said, fine pal, we don’t have the time right now, here’s my number, give me a call sometime, OK? that’s all, no more, I mean what is that? so he gave him the card as a piece of courtesy, just a lousy business card, the kind you leave anywhere, in a sad kind of way, sowing your seed like some piece of fertilizer shit, though he wouldn’t do that anymore, said the interpreter shaking his head as if terminally embittered by the experience, because he’d had it, nothing worked out for him, there was no hope, he’d never come to anything in this place; after four whole years in America, nothing but shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, he cried beating his pillow: the Immigration Office job was shit, and yet he had to be grateful for them taking him on like that on a part-time contract basis, yes, grateful for that shit, and he was but what the hell did it all add up to, since one moment was all it took and they sacked him, without a word, with such greased-lightning speed that it wasn’t until he was outside that he took it in, that it was all on account of a stinking business card, but that’s how it was, that’s what it’s like with scum, that’s what it’s like interpreting in such a shit institution, interpreting for shitheads and dumb asses, you really deserve what’s coming to you for that, it takes just a split second and they’ve kicked you out on your ass, because these shitheads, and these shithead Hungarians really are shitheads, dumb asses, and the passport officers were the dumbest of the lot, them and the customs staff, the security guards and the rest, the whole filthy lot of them, asses, terminal idiots, the interpreter repeated, his head bobbing up and down with hysteria, shitheads, shitheads, shitheads, everyone, and thank you, Mr. Sárváry, they said, but, as you know, this is a serious breach of protocol here, initiating or accepting the offer of personal contact like that, it’s regulations, etc. etc., which is shit, the interpreter exclaimed, on the point of tears in his fury, that’s what this fucking animal says to me, pronouncing it Sárváry all the time, though he knows perfectly well it is pronounced Shárváry, the bastard, the fucking animal, and what can you do with fucking asses like that, there’s no end to it, ever, and so saying the interpreter buried his head in the pillow again, because he just can’t take the filthy routine any more, he is a poet, a poet, he suddenly screamed at his lover, a poet and a video artist, not an interpreter, is that clear? and he could wipe his ass with the lot of them, people like that, like that filthy nigger, his ass, that’s how little they’re worth compared to him, because, do you think, he bent over his lover’s face, do you think for a moment that they have the foggiest idea who or what he is, because if you really believe it, go up close to one of them and have a good look and you’ll see that they are all asses, asses or shitheads, he choked and turned away again, throwing himself on the bed-covers, then, turned back to face his lover and continued once more: and he had helped him, helped the idiot, that shithead idiot, because he himself was the biggest shithead of them all, on this whole filthy continent, because why should he help anyone, who had asked him to help, who would pay him a fucking dime more for helping, just because he tried to help that helpless shithead, precisely this particular fucking halfwit, who was probably still standing there, holding his lousy business card instead of sticking it up his ass and fucking off up some shit’s creek, yes, he was willing to bet that the guy was still standing there, as if rooted to the ground, with his simpleton’s face, like some cow, because he had no fucking idea what even “baggage” meant, though he had explained it to him, but he still just stood there; and it was as if he were standing in front of him now, he could see it so clearly, standing there like a guy who had shit himself once and for all without anyone nearby to wipe his ass for him, like all those of his kind, now please don’t be angry darling, the interpreter lowered his voice, addressed his lover, asking her not to be angry on account of him losing his self-control like that, but it wasn’t just his self-control he had lost but his job too, and why lose it, darling, all on account of some shithead, like all the rest, all of them, really, every last single one of them.