Moving Parts

The narrator feels tired at the mere thought of the next sentence, though the story hasn’t even begun. It could be thought that all this time it has been spinning its wheels, emitting a hum thoroughly reminiscent of street sounds muffled by panes of glass. Its emptiness and sterility are written in the dull-colored plaster and the indifferent sky. One feels like ordering a beer and watching the foam settle in the mug, nothing more. If the narrator could choose, he’d prefer to tell about things free of complications, about leather-bound furniture exuding the cool tranquility of affluence and fortunate never to feel the weight it is its lot to carry; about glistening tiles of synthetic stone; about spotless panes of glass; about white porcelain cups in sets of six dozen — if one or two are broken it won’t be the end of the world. If the narrator really could chose, he would prefer not to tell about anything at all. Then where did this next character come from? How could he suddenly have come into view? He has arrived in a taxicab that drove around a square on which a bronze horse covered in green patina rears on its hind legs bearing a rider encased in armor. A few sparrows have taken wing from the raised visor. The newcomer has paid for his ride and is climbing out of the cab. From his pocket there juts a folded newspaper; it could, for example, be the Financial Times. This vignette is an agreed-upon signal intended especially for the narrator — a sign that forces itself on his gaze.