Sanatorium under the sign of the hourglass - Bruno Schulz [79]
And when the last laggard bedbugs have come and gone, with an enormous one bringing up the rear, complete silence comes at last. Deep sleep fills the empty passages and apartments, while the rooms slowly begin to absorb the grayness of the hours before dawn.
In all the beds people lie with their knees drawn up, with faces violently thrown to one side, in deep concentration, immersed in sleep and given to it wholly.
And the process of sleeping is, in fact, one great story, divided into chapters and sections, into parts distributed among sleepers. When one of them stops and grows silent, another takes up his cue so that the story can proceed in broad, epic zigzags while they all lie in the separate rooms of that house, motionless and inert like poppy seed within the partitions of a large, dried-up poppy.
THE OLD AGE PENSIONER
I AM AN OLD-AGE PENSIONER in the true and full meaning of the word, very far advanced in that estate, an old pensioner of high proof.
It may be that I have even exceeded the definite and allotted limits of my new status. I don't wish to hide it. There is nothing extraordinary about it. Why cast wondering looks and stare at me with hypocritical respect and solemn seriousness that conceal a lot of secret pleasure at one's neighbor's misfortune? How little elementary tact most people have! Facts of this kind should be accepted with a certain nonchalance. One must take these things as they come, just as I have accepted them lightly and without care. Perhaps this is why I am a little shaky on my feet and must put one before the other slowly and cautiously and watch where I go. It is so easy to stray under such circumstances. The reader will understand that I cannot be too explicit. My form of existence depends to a large degree on conjecture and requires a fair amount of goodwill. I will now have to appeal to this goodwill frequently by discreet winks, which don't come easily to me because of the stiffening of my facial muscles unused to mimic expressions. On the whole I don't force myself on anyone. I don't want to dissolve in gratitude for the sanctuary kindly provided for me by anyone's quick understanding. I acknowledge kindness without emotion, coolly and with complete indifference. I don't like to receive, along with the bonus of understanding, a heavy account for gratitude. The best thing is to treat me offhandedly, with a dose of healthy ruthlessness, with camaraderie and a sense of humor. In this respect, my good simpleminded colleagues from the office, all younger than myself, have found the proper tone.
I sometimes call at the office by force of habit, around the first of each month, and stand quietly at the counter waiting to be noticed. The following scene then takes place: At a given time, the head of the office, Mr. Filer, puts away his pen, winks at his subordinates, and says suddenly, looking past me into space, his hand cupping his ear:
"If my hearing doesn't deceive me, it must be you, Councilor, somewhere among us!"
His eyes, looking over my head into emptiness, begin to squint as he says this, and a humorous smile lights his face.
"I heard a voice somewhere and I at once thought it must be you, dear Councilor!" he exclaims loudly, articulating distinctly as if he were speaking to a deaf person. "Please do make a sign, disturb the air at least in the place where you are floating!"
"Don't pull my leg, Mr. Filer," I say softly, "I have come to collect my pension."
"Your pension?" Mr. Filer exclaims, again squinting into the air, "Did you say your pension? You can't be serious, dear Councilor.