Free Maybe This Time by Alois Hotschnig Page A

be. Without disguising himself, he went around disguised, if not from others then simply from himself.
    Through all the changes, his flat remained the same. At least the address stayed the same. His neighbours stayed the same, all the other people seemed to stay the same. Only his life seemed to redefine itself each day.
    More and more often, he enjoyed ringing the doorbell at a strange address to see who he would be at that moment for that particular stranger. It could go well or badly because there was no way of knowing if the door would be opened in a friendly way or slammed shut in his face. He didn’t know if he would be greeted as an acquaintance, as an unwelcome stranger or as an enemy whose presence would be considered rude or even offensive.
    When he awoke at night or in the morning and couldn’t tell whether or not the flat had changed yet, he would look in his address book for the name of someone with whom he had made plans the night before, and sometimes that person would have no idea what he was talking about.
    Once, in a sort of relapse, he was taken for the person he might have been before this all started. At least that was his impression, and he was surprised by the warmth with which people greeted him. They thought he had returned after a long absence. Still, when he went back to his flat immediately after that experience, hoping to find it restored to the way it had been, he stood there, feeling indifferent. The flat belonged to him, but at the same time it didn’t, and everything continued on its new course.
    It usually occurred at night, while he was asleep. At least it did for a long time, but then it began to happen more often during the day. And when he returned to his flat in the evening or even earlier, it was impossible to predict whether he would re-enter the flat as the salesman who had left it that morning or as the estate agent in whose guise he had just sold a piece of property, or even as the GP who had just chatted up a woman.
    A shard of memory remained each time, at least for a while, or perhaps just a sense of previous possibilities and limitations. He was at the mercy of his strengths and weaknesses because it always took him a while to recognize them as his own. They became more and more difficult to cope with. He worried that he would lose perspective and no longer be aware of what was happening to him. But he didn’t need to worry, at least not on account of others, because they knew whom they were dealing with. Or maybe they didn’t. In any case, he eventually took things as they came and no longer saw his condition as a disadvantage. He began to enjoy going out and, by meeting others, meeting in himself someone he didn’t know.
    Ever more frequently, from one moment to the next, constantly, continuously, seamlessly, no matter where he was or where he tried to hide, he was discovered, recognized and confronted, and things took their course. On one and the same day he married and stood, an old man, at his wife’s grave, only to find himself the next moment in a divorce court believing he had got off lightly. Hours later he found himself unable to cope with the loss. He became a happy father and could not bear the thought of having children. He was a student attending the school in which he taught. He performed surgery and woke from anaesthesia. He raised bees, fell in love, mourned, was afraid and frightened others, and was happy. He was finally alone and intolerably lonely. He couldn’t decide which car he wanted to buy. Then he pawned his television and wore his last frayed shirt. And so on, constantly, continuously, without interruption. It exhausted him, wore him out. He tried to cope by staying in his flat. But he went out because he had to conform to the needs, desires and aspirations of the person whose life he was living at that moment. He withdrew more frequently now, every day, every night, into his flat, his bed, burrowing himself in there and refusing to get up or to