Excerpt-1

Shortly after breakfast I leave my apartment, carrying two canvas bags. Each bag contains three pairs of shoes that I have personally tested; the bag in my left hand also holds six evaluation reports, each between two and two-and-a-half pages long. The summer morning is warm and almost excessively bright. The swallows fly straight up the walls of the apartment houses and then either turn sideways over the roofs or soar on into the blue. Id like to stay right there and at least watch them, if I cant imitate them. But I have an appointment. Im supposed to meet Habedank at ten. At Ebert Platz I take the number 7 train to Hollenstein, where the Weisshuhn Shoe Factory is located, not far from the station. Ill meet Habedank in the managers office and give him the shoes along with the reports. Well chat for about three quarters of an hour—first twenty minutes about the test shoes, and the rest of the time about electric trains. Then Habedank will hand me three or four pairs of new shoes, and Ill go home. Ive known this routine for years, but I still get a little nervous every time. It goes back to my particular conceit, which I sense a little more acutely during these expeditions than usual, when Im just at home. I inherited this conceit from my mother. We both believe that its not worth looking at the world for an entire lifetime. I used to struggle against the effects of this conceit, but not anymore. Naturally I have to make a special effort when Im with Habedank. He shouldnt notice my conceit at all. He thinks that Im an electric train hobbyist just like he is, that to this day I read the same technical magazines that he does, primarily about early Trix and Fleischmann products. He doesnt realize that Im just drawing on the same store of knowledge frozen from my childhood days, and all just for him, time after time. Its also possible that Habedank will tell me one of his tedious stories, which I listen to with perfunctory sympathy. Three weeks ago he took nearly ten minutes to tell me about the end of his vacation. On the whole trip from Italy to Germany he thought he was about to run out of gas. But then he made it back home without incident. That was/is his entire story. I sat still in front of his desk for ten minutes and laughed with delight when he reached the end and exclaimed: It turned out there was enough gas! Imagine! There was enough gas! My conceit entails a nearly continuous collision of humility and disgust. The two forces are of nearly equal strength. On one hand, I sense my humility admonishing: Its precisely the most idiotic stories of your fellow man that you should listen to! At the same time, however, my disgust taunts me: If you dont escape right away, youll drown in the vapors of your fellow man. Whats infuriating is that this constant colliding never allows either side to win. So the two forces just go on running the same collision course over and over. And those are my feelings as I find myself approaching Habedanks office. I tell myself that Im prepared for anything and right away I have to laugh at myself. Habedank and Oppau, one of the firms buyers, succeeded in making the office a no-smoking zone. Thats why Frau Fischedick, another buyer who still smokes, paces up and down outside the office, smoking and grinning. She holds up her arms and waves at me. I observe that Frau Fischedick wants to be in the office when I speak with Habedank. She puts out her cigarette and goes in shortly after I do.

Habedank is sitting at his long black desk; when he sees me he stands up.

Ah there he is! Our master tester! he calls out.

My conceit triggers a hint of a smile. I walk across a soft gray carpet. The walls are lined with a series of indirect lighting fixtures. The window blinds are closed; the room is cast in gently dimmed light. Herr Oppaus desk is on the left; Frau Fischedicks is on the right, in front of Habedanks. When he opens his jacket I catch sight of a hand-sized bloodstain on the chest of his shirt. I stare at Habedank; Habedank stares at me.

Unfortunately someone took a shot at me, says Habedank.

Who? I ask.

A fired tester.

Oh, I say.

Herr Habedank, Herr Habedank, says Frau Fischedick.

How do you like the bloodbath? asks Habedank and sinks back into his swivel armchair.

Dont believe a word he says! says Frau Fischedick.

Herr Habedank is one of the many people who have earned a natural death, says Herr Oppau.

Savoring that last remark, I sit down in the visitors chair and place my evaluations on Habedanks table.

A felt-tip pen happened to leak in my shirt pocket, says Habedank.

I dont know what to say to that. Habedank leafs through the evaluations. I reach into my bags and take out a pair of hand-stitched wingtip brogues as well as the cordovans, and explain at length why I consider them to be the best of the latest batch. Habedank, Oppau and Frau Fischedick listen to my report. I let myself believe that its a pleasure hearing me talk about shoes. Presumably its no accident that I talk about shoes as if they were extensions of my own body. He who is forced to live as I do, without having consented to this life, frequently escapes by wandering around and about and therefore places the highest value on shoes. I could say that my shoes are the best thing about me, but all I do is think that thought. My commentary on the remaining shoes, which strike me as poorly cut, is short. Its always the same thing: the shoes are too narrow, the seams are too stiff, the stitching is in the wrong places, what they gain in elegance they lose in comfort. Habedank runs his fingers over the shoes as I describe them. For a moment I have the impression that my efforts are meaningful and important. I dont know any other work where one individuals sensations (a surrogate for those of others) play such a decisive role. After I finish my commentary, Habedank opens his drawer and pulls out a checkbook. For every evaluation, the Weisshuhn Shoe Company pays me two hundred marks. That means that Habedank shoves a check for twelve hundred marks across his desk. Afterwards he reaches behind him and places four pairs of new shoes on the desktop. I can tell by their form which cutters they come from. I stow the shoes in my canvas bags. Now it can only be a matter of seconds before Habedank asks me to join him for a cup of coffee. Then well talk about electric trains from the 1950s.

Unfortunately the firm has to economize, he says instead.

I dont know what to say to that, and wait for his next sentence.

What I mean is, says Habedank, that in the future Ill only be able to pay you fifty marks per walking unit, in other words for every pair of shoes.

That seems rather drastic, I say.

The situation has changed.

So suddenly?

Yes, says Habedank, we now have some pretty powerful competition. The luxury market is doing very well, and others have caught on.

Aha, I say.

To make up for that, youll be allowed to keep the shoes you test, says Habedank.

Now the office is quiet. Suddenly it dawns on me why Frau Fischedick and Herr Oppau never left the room. They wanted to hear how Habedank would say this—no, they wanted to see how I would take the demotion. But theres nothing to see. I only wonder if Habedank is really trying to tell me I might as well give up the job. But then why did he hand me four new pairs of shoes? Evidently the firm still values my future work, though only at a quarter of the old price, if I ignore the in-kind gift. But what am I supposed to do with all those new shoes? Ill have to either hoard them or give them away.

Im sorry, says Habedank, the pay reduction wasnt my decision, Im just supposed to tell you.

I nod. The truth is, Im not really surprised. This is the kind of situation that has given rise to my sense of living without inner authorization. Ive experienced them frequently. I dont even have any desire to repeat the words Ive often thought following similar experiences, and which I could think again now. Misfortune is boring. I wait to see if Habedank will ask me to join him for a cup of coffee in the cafeteria. But today there is no invitation—evidently because Habedank has some degree of sympathy for my situation. He scrunches a piece of cellophane and drops it on his desktop. The crumpled ball slowly crackles back open. Just when Id enjoy listening to the crackling, I stand up and say to Habedank: Youll have the new evaluations in about three weeks.

A minute later Im waiting for the train that will take me home. A disabled man is buying a can of beer at a french fry stand. The man has no arms, only hands attached to his shoulders. Four steps away, two crows are trying to peck open a plastic bag full of garbage. Using his right shoulder-hand (or should I say hand-shoulder?), the disabled man presses the can against his neck and opens it with his teeth. The crows manage to open the plastic bag, immediately sending orange peels, yogurt cartons and pizza boxes flying around the train platform. The public display of misery is disgusting, but it gives expression to my own horror as well. Is there a general decline or isnt there? I can see several valid arguments on both sides. I stare at the trash and decide: there is a general decline. I await the day when all living things will confess their embarrassment. A mother with a stroller appears at the foot of the stairs leading up to the train platform. The child is gnawing on a balloon with his sharp little teeth. The teeth slide off the rubber and make a kind of gnashing creak—a sound I couldnt stand just a few years ago. Then the train comes humming along. The mother with the stroller waits for me to open the doors to the car for her. I dont know how it happened that Im no longer bothered by the sound of teeth rubbing against rubber. I see it as a sign of hope. Evidently some forms of opposition occasionally dissolve of their own accord. That could mean that Im getting closer to the day when I will live with inner authorization. I retract my finding and come to a new conclusion: there is no general decline. I dont dare alert the mother to the potential fright that threatens her child should the balloon pop. An observation like that would have to be delivered both jokingly and admonishingly. But I cant find the right words to elegantly combine jest and warning and at the same time conceal my own anxiety. Just last night in bed, shortly before falling asleep, I knew I had two train tickets left in my wallet; I now remove the second one and insert it into the ticket validator. How carefully we prepare the ground for major misfortune! Presumably Ill have to give up the job with Weisshuhn. The humiliation of working for only a quarter of the old honorarium is too much even for a tolerant man like me. Presumably I wont be meeting Habedank anymore. Ill put the four pairs of shoes he gave me through the usual paces and send them back in the mail, together with the evaluations. At Ebert Platz I get off the train with the intention of quickly vanishing into Gutleut Strasse, when suddenly I see Regine heading my way. She holds out her hand and kisses my cheek. Regine is only a little younger than I am. Im amazed at her youthfulness. She asks what Im doing these days and I give an evasive answer, which she notices right away.

You dont have to pretend with me, she says.

Fine, I say.

You still dont want to tell me what youre up to?

I just lost a job, I say.

Oh, says Regine.