40.
There were four of them altogether, three female adults aged between fifty and sixty, and a girl who looked about eighteen but was certainly no more than twelve years old, each of them arriving with a steel bucket full of cleaning apparatus and carrying a half-sized industrial mop in her left hand: four buckets, four mops and four sets of gray cleaners’ lab-coats, ensuring their clear identification and function and explaining why they were now ready and waiting for something, squinting upward at everyone else, fixed in this inferior position keeping their eyes peeled for a sign from their supervisor who stood in the doorway of a glass cubicle, and when the sign eventually came they were set to go about their business, carefully at first, with a number of uncertain preparatory gestures, then, as the last of the officials and employees disappeared through the door, and the shutters at the front clattered down, switching to full speed with the mops and buckets, the four of them in their uniforms, two in front, two remaining on the street side, wringing out the cloths wound around the mops then dipping them into water again, the mops dripping, two on one side, two on the other, the cleaners taking long extended strides, solemnly, without a word, so that the only sound audible was of the four improvised mops sliding quickly across the fake-marble slabs of the floor, and then, as they reached the center and passed each other, one or two slight smacking sounds, then that sliding noise across the floor again, to the end of the room, then a dipping and wringing and back again, as wordless as before, until the girl reached into the pocket of her coat to turn on a small transistor, turning up the volume, so from that moment they moved in a dense, echoing, monotonous aspic of sound, like machines, with mops in their hands, their empty whey-colored eyes fixed on their damp mops.
II • THAT INTOXICATING FEELING
1.
On November 1997, in the staff conference room of Terminal 2, Ferihegy Airport, having gone over all the standard procedures with the crew and acquainted them with the expected weather conditions, the passenger numbers, as well as the nature and status of the cargo, the captain summed up by telling them that he expected a smooth, trouble-free journey, and so Flight MA 090—a Boeing 767 equipped with two CF6-80C2 engines offering a maximum operating distance of 12,700 kilometers, fuel capacity of 91,368 liters, wingspan of 47.57 meters and capable of carrying a load of 175.5 tons, including 127 tourist-class and 12 luxury-class passengers—taxied down the runway and, having reached the average takeoff speed of 280 km/hour, rose above the ground at 11:56 precisely, attaining its full cruising height of 9,800 meters near the city of Graz by 12:24, at which point, the north-northwesterly headwind not exceeding the usual thresholds, it aligned itself along the Stuttgart-Brussels-Belfast axis that would lead it out over the Atlantic Ocean, where it adapted itself to the given coordinates, so that within 4 hours 20 minutes it arrived at the South Greenland checkpoint, and being four minutes short of an hour from its destination, began its descent, at first by 800 meters, then, having received its instructions from the Newfoundland center, dropping gradually and smoothly from a height of 4,200 meters, by now under the command of New York and district Air Control, according to the given timetable, arriving on the terra firma of the New World at Gate L36 of John F. Kennedy Airport at precisely 15:25 hours local time.
2.
Oh yes, yes, Korin nodded enthusiastically at the black immigration officer, then, the question being repeated time and again with ever greater irritation, when it had become quite pointless referring to his documents, and it was useless nodding and saying yes and yes over and over again, he spread his arms, shook his head and said in Hungarian: Nekem te hiábo beszélsz, én nem értek ebböl egy órva szót sem, in other words, Its no use you talking to me, I don’t understand a single word you’re saying, adding, usefully, in English, No understand.
3.
The room into which they led him down a long narrow corridor reminded him of nothing so much as the kind of closed boxcar in which they used to carry corn, the walls being lined with gray steel, not a window anywhere and the doors capable of being opened only from outside, which was why it was like suddenly being dumped in an empty boxcar, Korin explained later, because there were two things, he said, that suggested such a boxcar: an unmistakable smell and the way the floor was gently vibrating, which, once they closed the door on him and left him alone, really did make him feel as though he had found himself in a stinking freight car, an American one, but a freight car all the same, for as soon as he stepped in, he explained, he could smell the corn and feel the floor vibrating under him, the corn smell quite unmistakable since he had plenty of opportunity to experience it on his way to Budapest, and the vibration, likewise, he was convinced, was not a trick of the senses brought on by the flickering of the neon light, for there was nothing incidental or uncertain about it, it was a decided tingling he felt in the soles of his feet, and what’s more, when he accidentally touched the wall he could feel that it too was vibrating, and you may imagine, he added, how a man feels under such circumstances, as he indeed did feel, since he understood precisely nothing of what was going on or what they wanted of him, what it was they were asking of him, and what on earth this whole thing was about, and so he took out the notebook in which he had jotted the most important words while still on the aircraft, because he didn’t like the idea of using the phrase book, the one in his pocket, feeling it wouldn’t help him when he got into conversation with someone, being too formal, too inconvenient, too slow with all those pages you had to flick through, looking words up, and in any case he found with this particular phrase book that he tended to flick past the place he wanted, or that those specific pages of the selected letter were somehow stuck together so whole sections flicked by in one go, and when he deliberately tried to slow the movement of the pages for fear of going past them, his anxiety and solicitude made him so nervous that he flicked past the page anyway, which meant that he had to start all over again, fiddling impatiently, holding the phrase book in a different kind of grip, searching through page by individual page, the entire process, in other words, resulting in a dramatic slowing down, that being the reason he took to the notebook, writing out the likely most important words, finding a system that would facilitate their recovery, speeding up the leafing-through process, and had indeed discovered such a system and had prepared everything on the long journey, though of course had to take it out again, and most pressingly now, if he wanted to get out of these dire straits; he had to take it out to find an English sentence that would help him make up something, to find an excuse, so it shouldn’t spoil that intoxicating feeling, the delight he felt surging in him, for here he was, he had succeeded, succeeded in the face of what he might have described as impossible odds, and for this reason, if for no other, he had to find a comprehensible phrase which would make it clear to the authorities why he was there and what he wanted, moreover a phrase that referred exclusively to the future, for he had decided, and was determined, to speak of nothing but the future, as he had told himself, and later explained, having resolved to keep quiet about anything that might have dampened his spirits and soured this intoxicating feeling, though he would never, under any circumstances, he to himself about the fact that there was indeed something sad about it, something that hurt him when he got off the plane and attempted to look back in the direction of Hungary, hurt because Hungary was invisible from here, for apart from the sense of arriving in a place where no pursuer could reach him and the fact that he, this tiny dot in the universe, an insignificant archivist from the depths of a dusty office two hundred and twenty kilometers from Budapest, was actually standing here, in A-me-ri-ca! and that he could now look forward to putting his Great Plan into immediate operation—because all these things were genuine occasions for the delight he felt as he descended the steps of the aircraft along with all the other passengers—and yet, while the others were rushing onto the bus he gazed back across the concrete runway in the booming wind and sighed that never again would he cut his ties with such an overwhel
mingly glad sense of arrival, never again would there be a past, never again Hungary, in fact he said it out loud when the stewardess ushered him onto the bus with the rest and he looked back for a last time to where Hungary should have been, the Hungary that was now lost forever.
4.
There’s nothing wrong with the guy, the airport security official entrusted with the interrogation of Central European immigrants reported to his superior, it’s just that he arrived without any baggage, not even a scrap of hand-luggage, just a coat, in the lining of which he himself had very probably, as indeed he confirms through the interpreter, sewn a strange document and an envelope containing some money, and since he had nothing else, no backpack, not even a plastic bag, no nothing, it constituted a problem—go on, Andrew, his superior nodded—because it’s possible that he might have had baggage that had disappeared, but, if so, where was it, that’s why they decided to interrogate him, and the guys did interrogate him, absolutely, thoroughly, according to the rule book, with a Hungarian interpreter present, but they found nothing suspicious, the guy was, for all intents and purposes, clean, and it looked as though he was telling the truth about the baggage, that he really had traveled without any, so, as far as he was concerned, the security man said, he could be allowed through, and yes, he had cash, quite a lot of it in fact, but Eastern Europeans weren’t expected to carry credit cards, and his visa and passport were in order, besides which he was able to show them a business card with the name of a hotel in New York City, where he intended on staying, a fact they would check within twenty-four hours, at which point the matter would be closed because in his personal opinion—go on, Andrew, his superior encouraged him—that would be enough, the guy was just some innocent, perfectly ordinary, crackpot scientist who can sew what he likes where he likes, and if he wanted to stitch his asshole together—the security guard flashed his blindingly white teeth—that was up to him, they should leave him alone, in other words his recommendation would be to wish him a nice day and let him through—OK, that’s one problem less then, his boss assented—as a result of which, within half an hour, Korin was free again, though clearly not entirely conscious of the process that had led him thus far, his mind having been otherwise preoccupied, especially toward the end of the interview when he noticed how the interpreter had begun to pay close attention to what he was saying, a line of argument he was keen to pursue to its conclusion, the burden of which was that, perhaps, later, if he succeeded in doing what he set out to do, even the United States of America would have cause to be proud of him, because this country was precisely the place where his Great Plan became a reality, but no, the interpreter stopped him in his tracks, slowly running his hands through his snow-white hair which was parted in the middle and sticking to his scalp, to say, however nice a guy he was, Korin should understand that there wasn’t time to go into that now, to which Korin replied that, naturally, he completely understood, and he would not detain him any longer, and would only add, one, that it was a matter for him of something perfectly wonderful concerning his place in the scheme of things, in other words the reason he had flown here constituted less of a danger, if he might so express it, than did the flight of a butterfly above the city, that is to say, he explained, from the city’s point of view; and two, he said, he would like to be permitted to offer a word of thanks, if no more, to the kind interpreter on whose assistance he had been forced to rely in the moment of his predicament, and that he would hold him up no longer, and that all he wanted was to thank him, to thank him once more, or, as they say here, Korin consulted his notebook, thanks, many thanks, mister.
5.
I gave him my card, the interpreter recalled with irritation, later, in bed, furiously turning his back on his alarmed lover, only to be rid of him, because there was no other way, but the skunk kept blabbering on, blab-blab, and fine, I said, fine pal, we don’t have the time right now, here’s my number, give me a call sometime, OK? that’s all, no more, I mean what is that? so he gave him the card as a piece of courtesy, just a lousy business card, the kind you leave anywhere, in a sad kind of way, sowing your seed like some piece of fertilizer shit, though he wouldn’t do that anymore, said the interpreter shaking his head as if terminally embittered by the experience, because he’d had it, nothing worked out for him, there was no hope, he’d never come to anything in this place; after four whole years in America, nothing but shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, he cried beating his pillow: the Immigration Office job was shit, and yet he had to be grateful for them taking him on like that on a part-time contract basis, yes, grateful for that shit, and he was but what the hell did it all add up to, since one moment was all it took and they sacked him, without a word, with such greased-lightning speed that it wasn’t until he was outside that he took it in, that it was all on account of a stinking business card, but that’s how it was, that’s what it’s like with scum, that’s what it’s like interpreting in such a shit institution, interpreting for shitheads and dumb asses, you really deserve what’s coming to you for that, it takes just a split second and they’ve kicked you out on your ass, because these shitheads, and these shithead Hungarians really are shitheads, dumb asses, and the passport officers were the dumbest of the lot, them and the customs staff, the security guards and the rest, the whole filthy lot of them, asses, terminal idiots, the interpreter repeated, his head bobbing up and down with hysteria, shitheads, shitheads, shitheads, everyone, and thank you, Mr. Sárváry, they said, but, as you know, this is a serious breach of protocol here, initiating or accepting the offer of personal contact like that, it’s regulations, etc. etc., which is shit, the interpreter exclaimed, on the point of tears in his fury, that’s what this fucking animal says to me, pronouncing it Sárváry all the time, though he knows perfectly well it is pronounced Shárváry, the bastard, the fucking animal, and what can you do with fucking asses like that, there’s no end to it, ever, and so saying the interpreter buried his head in the pillow again, because he just can’t take the filthy routine any more, he is a poet, a poet, he suddenly screamed at his lover, a poet and a video artist, not an interpreter, is that clear? and he could wipe his ass with the lot of them, people like that, like that filthy nigger, his ass, that’s how little they’re worth compared to him, because, do you think, he bent over his lover’s face, do you think for a moment that they have the foggiest idea who or what he is, because if you really believe it, go up close to one of them and have a good look and you’ll see that they are all asses, asses or shitheads, he choked and turned away again, throwing himself on the bed-covers, then, turned back to face his lover and continued once more: and he had helped him, helped the idiot, that shithead idiot, because he himself was the biggest shithead of them all, on this whole filthy continent, because why should he help anyone, who had asked him to help, who would pay him a fucking dime more for helping, just because he tried to help that helpless shithead, precisely this particular fucking halfwit, who was probably still standing there, holding his lousy business card instead of sticking it up his ass and fucking off up some shit’s creek, yes, he was willing to bet that the guy was still standing there, as if rooted to the ground, with his simpleton’s face, like some cow, because he had no fucking idea what even “baggage” meant, though he had explained it to him, but he still just stood there; and it was as if he were standing in front of him now, he could see it so clearly, standing there like a guy who had shit himself once and for all without anyone nearby to wipe his ass for him, like all those of his kind, now please don’t be angry darling, the interpreter lowered his voice, addressed his lover, asking her not to be angry on account of him losing his self-control like that, but it wasn’t just his self-control he had lost but his job too, and why lose it, darling, all on account of some shithead, like all the rest, all of them, really, every last single one of them.
6.
Just head for the Exit signs, Korin said to himself aloud, it’s Exit you want, there where it says Exit, head for there and don’t be diverted
, because he was likely to get lost, and there it was, yes, Exit, here, this way, straight on, and he took care not to disturb anyone, though who the hell cared whether he spoke to himself or not, after all there were thousands of people here who were doing exactly the same, hurrying confusedly this way or that, keeping their eyes on boards and signs indicating directions, turning now left, stopping, waiting, turning back, then heading right, stopping, then back again, eventually going straight on, onward and onward to ever more and ever new confusion; just like Korin, in fact, who had to keep his eye on the word Exit and nothing else, everything being postulated on the position of the Exit sign which must not be lost sight of, a task that required all his concentration, for nothing must disturb that concentration, because a moment’s inattention in this crazy traffic and all would be lost, gone forever, and he would never find the right way again, nor should he allow any uncertainty in his procedure, he told himself, but to keep going, all the way down corridors and steps, not bothering his head with doors, corridors and steps on either side of him, not even glancing at them, and even if he did catch sight of them, to make as if he were blind as he passed those side doors opening out either side, and refuse to be distracted by facts like the word Exit appearing on one or other of them, albeit in different lettering, to move past them and ignore them, for he felt he was in a crazy warren, not any old warren, he later added, but one in which even the pace was crazy, everyone moving at a furious pace, so he always had to make spur-of-the-moment decisions, such decisions being the hardest of all for he had to choose one of two possible routes in a split second, and every so often, as he proceeded down the corridors and stairs, such snap decisions had to be made, and each time he made one he would happily have gone on but for some sign that planted a seed of doubt in him so he had to stop again, disconcerted by a confusing sign in a disorientating place, and had to decide again in the blinking of an eye, which of the damn corridors was the main one, this one or that one; in other words what was confusing was not so much the question of the most direct route, it was having to decide so quickly, under conditions of such tension, constantly to be seeking and moving and making headway without ever stopping, and, what is more, moving in the certain knowledge that the whole idea of stopping was impossible for stopping as a possibility was absolutely out of the question, a fact etched on each and every occasion for the Door Out of There was perpetually about to be closed and one had to hurry, to positively dash, each according to his capacity, but in any case without stopping, moving, seeking, making headway toward the Exit, which—and this was the second problem—was an utterly mysterious concept since it was impossible to know what was understood by the idea of an exit, which for him meant primarily a way of getting out of the building into open space, to a bus or taxi that would take him into town, providing the taxi was not too expensive, though he would have to wait and see about that, but whether his idea of the whole exit thing as a passage through to an open space was correct or not was impossible to say so he was forced to move forward with ever greater uncertainty, as he later explained, making uncertain progress along corridors and stairs, not knowing whether they were the right corridors and stairs, and feeling pretty frightened by then, he admitted, until, at a certain point, he suddenly felt his feet slipping from under him, when it occurred to him that he had probably been taking the wrong route for quite some time, and that was when he got really scared and in his state of fright he could no longer even think straight, in fact did not think at all, but did what his instincts were urging him to do, which was to trust to the crowd, to accept its judgment and go with the flow, adapting himself to its pace, drifting with it, like a dried leaf in autumn, if he might be allowed such an antique turn of phrase, like a leaf in a fierce gale, hardly seeing anything anymore because of the speed and fury, everything about him being too agitated, too heavy, too flickering, so the only thing clear to him in all this, in the pit of his stomach, was how utterly different it was from what he had been expecting, which meant that he was more scared than ever, he told them, for fear was what he felt, fear in the land of the free, terror even while celebrating a remarkable triumph, because everything hit him all at once, and he had to understand it, to grasp it, to see it clearly, and then had to try to find his way out of it, while all the time corridors and steps came at him, one after another without end, and he was driven along with the rest in a maelstrom of conversation, weeping, shouting, screaming and some kind of wild laughter, and, every so often, through waves of drumming, growling and the general din, noting the word Exit, yes, there, that way, straight ahead of him.
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