Free Moving Parts by Magdelena Tulli Page A

tires bought cheap in an end-of-season sale, and another set that he used last winter and is still perfectly good. He keeps old, worn-out, forgotten hockey skates here, and shiny, never-used diving equipment. Is Feuchtmeier a diver? He thought once about taking it up, that’s all. In the cellar Irene keeps an exercise machine – a stationary bicycle with gleaming speedometer. Once it occurred to her that it would be good to ride for fifteen minutes a day far away from the traffic. Protected by a plastic cover, her fur hangs on a coat rack; it was also bought cheap atan end-of-season sale and has never been worn. Feuchtmeier’s winter jackets are hanging there too, also in plastic covers, and his overcoat, turned inside out and showing its gray-striped lining. The same one that on another occasion would go missing at the airport, along with the opalescent marble that lives in the pocket. On the shelves lie tools: an electric drill, a circular saw, hammers, chisels, files, pliers. He had need of them long ago, when he was decorating a little room with wallpaper in tiny pink rabbits. Nearby is her sewing machine and a large wicker basket full of skeins of light blue wool, supplies that she may never use up, bearing in mind that the last time she drew from them was when she was knitting baby socks. The narrator’s gaze suddenly chances on a large mirror in a gilt frame that has been consigned to the cellar. It’s easy to guess that it was too showy for the Feuchtmeiers’ taste. It’s a little dusty, but all the same everything can be seen in it, the whole interior filled with abandoned emblems of out-of-date notions and unrealized possibilities. Can anything else be seen? Has the mirror reflected the material body of the narrator? Of course, this sort of question is simply waiting its turn; several others have already been given a wide berth. The male figure captured in the oval of the mirror as if in a trap moves hurriedly aside before further questions follow about age, eye color, clothing. The narrator is hurt. He had expected his privileges to be respected, and believed that everything concerning his private life would remain confidential. Whatever he says now will sound suspicious: Could he possiblyhave something to hide? And so he feels deceived, exposed to prying looks. Best of all he’d like to back out of the whole undertaking posthaste. He doesn’t think much of it anyway; he allows himself to be critical of its conventionality, and its artificial character irritates him. He could break free of it very easily if he were to leave this house. At a smart pace, without looking back, across the terrace even. There he might bump into Feuchtmeier, who has just caught the lighter in midair after Irene has tossed it to him. What would come of such an encounter? The smashing of the three-sided frame on which the story is pinned would cut it short. There’d be nothing more to tell. Somewhere in the neighborhood there ought to be a stop of the suburban rail line running directly to a large central station where in each corner of the main hall there stand trash cans full of half-eaten rolls and paper cups containing the remains of coffee. Amid the snarling automobiles, clanging trams and crowds hurrying along the streets it would be possible at once to start a new life as a hobo, and in this simple way hop over into a different story and live or die in it with no responsibilities. But also without privileges – as any old character. For a moment he is even sure that this is what he wants and that the one who appointed him will agree willingly to release him from all obligations. Except that the door has slammed shut and the narrator is no longer able to get out. Now he regrets his haste; he regrets the fact that he turned out to lack the perseverance to sit down on the stairs three floors above and remainthere till he achieved his end and the elevator and its shaft returned to their place,