Free Moving Parts by Magdelena Tulli Page B

even if he had to wait forever. On the floor above, the tower of cans tumbles down once again, but here the noise is muffled and hollow, like the distant echo of a storm. And in this way the narrator is detained in a dead zone of the story, amid dust-covered accessories.
    In the silence that falls at this moment, there might for example ring out a short wave of simplehearted, premature applause. But it would die down at once embarrassedly, as sometimes happens during a concert when the musicians fall still for a moment to gather strength before the next movement. The piece being played by the orchestra will not come to an end until, with implacable consistency, there sound within it all the events that can possibly be contained by the form imposed upon it, no one knows by whom. And so it is not hard to comprehend why the subjects must continue to be developed, though if the question were asked differently – what are they developing for, to what end, what circumstances other than the fee paid to the musicians call into being the movement of the bows, and what patent thing necessitates the vibration of moist air in the brass loops of the trumpets – no answer could be found. It might equally well be asked why ships ply the ocean waves, why the circus audience holds its breath or bursts out laughing, why and for what is the sickly sweetness of chocolate, the banal literalness of pineapple slices in syrup, and the coarse smell of carbonated drinks. It could also be asked why Feuchtmeierlives and why Irene lives – after all, they’re unable to be happy, though they need considerable amounts of water, electricity, and gasoline to satisfy all their wishes, and considerable amounts of coffee with cream, light cigarettes, and red wine. And it isn’t even possible to stop at such questions. It must be asked further: Why does the acrobat Mozhe or Mozhet live, recklessly balancing on the tightrope, or his partner Touseulement, who every evening throws herself into the void without hesitation as if life held no value in her calculations, though she assigns no little importance to the durability of the fillings her dentist gives her. It should be asked why the retired university professor clings to life when he is tormented by rheumatism and has one foot in the grave; or the hobo with the earring, used to going without dinner, without a roof over his head, without a bank account. Or others – let’s say it straight out – everyone, including the passers-by hurrying along. And so questions should be asked, and asked over and over. The characters fear these questions like death itself; they tremble before them, holding on if only to the handle of a china teacup, since it’s easy to foresee that things are unlikely to end with questions alone.
    T HOUGH IT WILL NOT BE A SIMPLE TASK , let us try to imagine the continuation of this tale – for the moment, let’s say, only the next paragraph, which begins with the buzzing of a fly. The buzzing ought scarcely to be audible at first; then it growslouder and louder. Only recently released from the trap that the Feuchtmeiers’ hallway proved to be for it, the fly finds its way to the ceiling of their cellar and taps in vain against the firmly closed vent. Yet even if it breaks out finally into open space, it will not find freedom there, but merely another prison. And so there, too, it will agitate its wings without respite until it enters some open window. The succession of places from which there is no way out, to which open spaces also belong, is brimming with a combination of regret and desire. The world, obviously, does not end with the Feuchtmeier’s cellar; beneath it there extend further floors. And if the narrator claims that he is stuck in the cellar, he is not entirely wrong, though in essence it is not there that he is stuck, but in something significantly larger that is also firmly and hopelessly enclosed. But even if he has been