The Unhappiness of Being a Single Man Read online

  The researcher had to suppress a smile: so it would be that easy to complete the task he’d thought would be so difficult. He said evasively, “You’re overestimating my influence; the commandant has read my letter of recommendation, he knows that I’m not an expert in legal procedures. If I expressed an opinion, it would just be the opinion of a private individual, with no more weight behind it than anyone else’s, and anything I said would certainly count for much less than the commandant’s opinion, since, as far as I understand it, he has very far-reaching powers here in this penal colony. And if his mind is made up in the way you think, then I’m afraid the end has come for this process, regardless of any opinion from me.”

  Had the officer understood yet? No, he hadn’t. He vehemently shook his head, glanced at the condemned man and the soldier—who both jumped and stopped eating the porridge—went up very close to the researcher, not looking him in the eye but staring at some point on his jacket, and said more quietly than before: “You don’t know the commandant; your view of him and all of us here is bound to be—forgive me for saying so—a little naïve. Believe me, your influence here can’t be overstated. I was happy when I heard that only you were going to watch the execution. That order of the commandant’s was supposed to hurt me, but now I’m turning it to my own advantage. You haven’t been distracted by any lying whispers or critical expressions—which would be unavoidable if there was a bigger audience for this execution—you’ve listened to my explanation, you’ve seen the machine and you’re about to watch the execution itself. You’ve probably already formed your opinion, but if you have any niggling doubts, I’m sure that watching the execution will put them to rest. So I ask you: help me with the commandant.”

  The researcher didn’t let him go on any further. “How can I?” he exclaimed. “That’s impossible. I can’t help you any more than I could do you harm.”

  “You can,” said the officer. The researcher noticed to his alarm that the officer had clenched his fists. “You can,” said the officer again, even more insistently. “I have a plan that is sure to work. You believe that you don’t have enough influence. I know that you do. And even if you were right, shouldn’t we try anything we can to preserve this procedure, even if it turns out not to be enough? So listen to my plan. For it to work, it’s important above all that for the rest of the day you give away as little as possible about what you think of the machine. If no one asks you directly, don’t offer any opinion; anything you do say has to be terse and ambiguous; you want them to get the impression that it’s hard for you to talk about it, that it has left you feeling bitter, that if you said something, you would have to lash out with all kinds of criticisms. I’m not asking you to lie; not at all; you should just give short replies like, ‘Yes, I saw the execution,’ or ‘Yes, I heard all the explanations.’ That’s it, nothing more. And after all, there’s more than enough reason for you to feel bitter, even if not in the way the commandant will assume. He’ll misunderstand completely and think that you agree with him. That’s where my plan comes in. Tomorrow, there’s a big meeting of all the senior officials, chaired by the commandant. As you’d expect, he has managed to turn those meetings into a piece of theatre. He’s had a gallery built for spectators, which is always full. I’ve got no choice about taking part in the discussions, even though they make me shudder with disgust. Now, there’s no doubt you’ll be invited to the meeting; if you stick to my plan for the rest of the day, instead of just inviting you they’ll be pleading and insisting. If, for some unforeseeable reason, you’re not invited, you’ll have to ask for an invitation; there’s no question that you’ll get one. So tomorrow you’ll be sitting in the commandant’s box, next to his ladies. He’ll keep glancing up to reassure himself that you’re there. After a few meaningless and absurd points of debate staged for the spectators—usually about developing the port, it’s always about port development!—they’ll start talking about the judicial process. If the commandant doesn’t move things in that direction, or doesn’t do it soon enough, I’ll make sure that it happens. I’ll stand up and make my report about today’s execution. Very short, just to say that it has taken place. My report isn’t usually like that, but it will be this time. The commandant will thank me, as always, with a friendly smile and then, he won’t be able to help himself, he’ll grasp the opportunity. ‘We’ve just heard,’ that’s what he’ll say, or something like it, ‘We’ve just heard an account of yesterday’s execution. I would just like to add that this execution was watched by the great researcher and judicial expert who, as you all know, is currently doing us the honour of a visit. This meeting today also has an extra significance because he has decided to join us. Shouldn’t we ask this great expert for his impressions of our traditional mode of execution and the legal procedure leading up to it?’ Of course there’ll be applause from all sides, a general consensus; I’ll be the loudest. The commandant will bow to you and say, ‘Then, on behalf of everyone here, please do tell us what you think.’ At that point, you step up to the railing. Make sure you place your hands where everyone can see them, otherwise the ladies will start playing with your fingers. — And now, finally, it’ll be your moment to speak. I don’t know how I’m going to get through the hours before it’s time. In your speech, you shouldn’t hold back in any way, be noisy with the truth, lean forward over the railing, shout, yes, shout your opinion, your unshakeable opinion, at the commandant. But perhaps you won’t want to do that, it’s not in your character, perhaps in your country people behave differently in these situations, that’s fine too, that’ll do perfectly, whisper your opinion so that only the officials right beneath you can hear it, you won’t even have to mention the lack of spectators at the execution, the screeching wheel, the broken strap, the disgusting block of felt, no, I’ll take care of all that, and believe me, if what I say doesn’t send him running out of the hall, it’ll force him to his knees till he has to pay homage: old commandant, I bow down before you. — That’s my plan; will you help me carry it out? But of course you will; more than that, you have to.” The officer grabbed the researcher by both arms and, breathing heavily, stared him in the face. He’d yelled the last few phrases so loudly that even the soldier and the condemned man had begun to pay attention; they couldn’t understand anything but they left off the food and, still chewing, looked over at the researcher.

  His answer to the officer was never in doubt; he’d seen too much over his lifetime to have wobbled on this question; he was fundamentally honest and not afraid. Nevertheless, he hesitated for a moment under the gaze of the officer and the condemned man. But finally he said, as he had to: “No.” The officer blinked several times, but didn’t look away. “Would you like an explanation?” asked the researcher. The officer nodded silently. “I am opposed to this process,” said the researcher. “Even before you took me into your confidence—I won’t break that confidence in any way—I’d already considered whether I would be justified in intervening to try and stop this and whether an intervention would have even the smallest chance of success. It was clear to me who I should turn to: the commandant, of course. You’ve made that clearer still, but don’t think that you’ve confirmed what I intended to do, on the contrary, I’m deeply touched by your sincere conviction, even if I won’t be diverted by it.”

  The officer stayed mute, turned to the machine, took hold of one of the brass poles and then looked up at the engraver, leaning back a little, as if he wanted to check that everything was in order. The soldier and the condemned man seemed to have struck up some kind of friendship; even though it was difficult because he was so tightly bound, the condemned man made hand signals to the soldier, who bent down to him; the condemned man whispered something; the soldier nodded.

  The researcher followed the officer and said, “You don’t know what I’m going to do. Yes, I will tell the commandant what I think of this process, but not at the meeting, I’ll tell him privately; I also won’t stay here long enough to get pulled into a public debate; I’ll
set off early tomorrow morning, or at least be on a ship by then.”

  The officer didn’t seem to be listening. “So you didn’t find the judicial process convincing,” he said to himself and gave a smile like an old man hearing nonsense from a child and keeping his real thoughts concealed behind it.

  “That means it’s time,” he said finally, and suddenly looked up at the researcher, bright-eyed, as if trying to communicate some request, some demand that he take part.

  “What’s it time for?” the researcher asked uneasily, but didn’t get a reply.

  “You’re free to go,” the officer said to the condemned man in his own language. The man didn’t believe him to begin with. “Yes, you’re free to go,” said the officer. For the first time, the condemned man’s face really became animated. Was it true? Was it just some passing whim of the officer’s? Had the foreign researcher secured his release? What was going on? These questions played across his face. But not for long. Whatever the reasons, if he was allowed to be free, he wanted to be free for real, and he began to pull at his restraints as much as the harrow would permit.

  “You’ll tear the strap!” shouted the officer. “Keep still! We’re letting you out.” He signalled to the soldier and together they started undoing the straps. The condemned man laughed wordlessly to himself, now turning left to face the officer, now right towards the soldier, and not leaving out the researcher either.

  “Pull him out,” the officer told the soldier. It needed to be done quite carefully because of the harrow. The condemned man already had some cuts on his back because of his impatience.

  From that point on, the officer barely paid any attention to him. He went over to the researcher, pulled out his leather portfolio again, eventually found the page he was looking for, and showed it to the researcher. “Read it,” he said.

  “I can’t,” said the researcher. “I already told you that I can’t read these pages.”

  “Look closer,” the officer said, and stood next to the researcher to read with him. When that didn’t help either, he pointed with his pinkie finger, from high above the page, as if it must never be touched, and moved it across the page to help the researcher read the script. The researcher did make an effort, hoping that he’d be able to do at least one thing to please the officer, but he found it impossible. So the officer began to draw the letters and then finally he read them all out together: “‘Be just!’ is what it says,” he told the researcher, “Now you must be able to see it.” The researcher bent so far forward over the page that the officer moved it further away for fear he would touch it; although the researcher didn’t say anything else, it was obvious that he still hadn’t been able to read it. “‘Be just!’ is what it says,” the officer repeated.

  “That’s fine,” said the researcher. “I don’t doubt that that’s right.”

  “All right, then,” the officer said, at least partially satisfied, and climbed up the ladder holding the page in one hand; he very carefully placed the sheet in the engraver and then seemed to be completely reconfiguring the gear train; it was difficult work, the gears must be very small; sometimes the officer had to examine them so closely that his head disappeared entirely into the engraver.

  The researcher followed this work from below; his neck grew stiff and his eyes began to hurt with the brightness of the sky. The soldier and the condemned man were busy with each other. The soldier used his bayonet to pull the man’s shirt and trousers out of the ditch. The shirt was horribly filthy and the condemned man washed it in the water bucket. When he put the things on, he and the soldier both roared with laughter, because the clothes were still cut through at the back. The condemned man seemed to feel obliged to entertain the soldier and he twirled around in his shredded clothes in front of him, while the soldier laughed so hard he sat on the ground and slapped his thighs. Nevertheless, they did try to restrain themselves a little because of the two gentlemen.

  Once the officer had finally finished at the top of the machine, he took another look over the whole thing, smiled, flipped the engraver’s lid shut, climbed down, glanced into the pit, then at the condemned man, was satisfied to see that he’d fished out his clothes, went over to the water bucket to wash his hands, noticed the disgusting filth too late, was sad that he now couldn’t wash his hands, and—it wasn’t much of a substitute but better than nothing—plunged them into the sand, before standing up and starting to unbutton his uniform. The two ladies’ handkerchiefs that he’d stuffed into his collar fell into his hand. “Here you have your handkerchiefs,” he said and threw them to the condemned man. To the researcher he said in explanation: “A present from the ladies.”

  Despite the evident hurry with which he took off his tunic and then undressed fully, he still handled every item of clothing with great care, even running his fingers across the silver braid on his jacket and shaking a tassel into place. What didn’t really fit with this carefulness, however, was that as soon as he’d finished folding a piece of clothing, he reluctantly tossed it into the ditch. The last thing he had left was his short sword and the belt it hung from. He pulled the sword out of the scabbard, snapped it, gathered everything together—the pieces of sword, the scabbard and the belt—and threw it all down so it jangled at the bottom of the ditch.

  Now he stood there naked. The researcher bit his lip and said nothing. He knew what was going to happen, but he had no right to prevent the officer from doing anything he’d decided to. If the judicial process the officer was so devoted to really was about to be halted—possibly as a result of intervention by the researcher, something he still felt he had to do—then the officer’s behaviour was entirely correct; in his place the researcher would have acted no differently.

  The soldier and the condemned man didn’t understand right away; they weren’t even watching to begin with. The condemned man was delighted to have the handkerchiefs back, but he didn’t get to enjoy them for long, because the soldier quickly snatched them out of his hand. The man tried to pull them back out of the soldier’s belt, where he’d tucked them in, but the soldier was on his guard. So they squabbled, half joking. Only when the officer was completely naked did they start to pay attention. The condemned man in particular seemed struck by a sense that a great reversal of fortunes was taking place. What had happened to him was now happening to the officer. Perhaps the process would be carried through to its conclusion. The foreign researcher had probably given the order. This was his revenge. Although he himself hadn’t been made to suffer to the end, he was going to be avenged in full. An expression of broad, silent laughter appeared on his face, and didn’t fade.

  The officer, for his part, had turned to the machine. Although it had been obvious enough beforehand how well he knew its workings, now it was almost upsetting to see how lovingly he handled it and how eagerly it obeyed. He just put his hand near the harrow and it adjusted itself until it found the right height to receive him; he barely touched the side of the bed and it immediately began to tremble; the block of felt approached his mouth, it was clear the officer didn’t really want it, but his hesitation only lasted a moment, then he acquiesced and opened his mouth. Everything was ready except that the straps were still hanging loose down the machine’s sides, but it seemed they weren’t needed, the officer didn’t need to be restrained. Then the condemned man noticed the loose straps; in his view the execution wasn’t being performed properly if the straps weren’t done up; he waved at the soldier and together they went to strap the officer in. The officer had been stretching out his foot to kick the lever that set the engraver in motion; when he saw these two coming, he pulled back his foot and let himself be tied down. But now he couldn’t reach the lever any more; neither the soldier not the condemned man would be able to find it; and the researcher had decided not to move a muscle. It turned out not to be necessary; as soon as the straps had been tightened, the machine went into operation; the bed shook, the needles danced on his skin; the harrow swooped down and up. The researcher had been staring for
a while when he remembered that one of the gears in the engraver should have been screeching; but everything was quiet, there wasn’t even a hum from the machine.