The case is clear for Irimias: Hell might exist, but God sure doesn't.
In that case, I'll miss the thing by waiting
epigraph
Or I might go and take a job as a night watchman in a chocolate factory . . . or perhaps as janitor in a girls’ boarding school . . . and I’ll try to forget everything, I’ll do nothing but soak my feet in a bowl of hot water each night, while this filthy life passes . . .
“It’ll be a surprise,” Irimiás replies over his shoulder. Petrina picks up the pace. “What makes you think they’ll be there at all?” he asks in his anxiety. “I figure they’ll have made tracks ages ago. They must have that much intelligence.” “Intelligence?” grins Irimiás. “Them? Servants is what they were and that’s what they’ll remain until they die. They’ll be sitting in the kitchen, shitting themselves in the corner, taking the odd look out of the window to see what the others are doing. I know these people like the back of my hand.” “I don’t know how you can be so sure of that, friend,” says Petrina. “My hunch is that there won’t be anyone there. Empty houses, the tiles fallen or stolen, at best one or two starved rats in the mill . . .” “No-o-o,” Irimiás confidently retorts. “They’ll be sitting in exactly the same place, on the same filthy stools, stuffing themselves with the same filthy spuds and paprika every night, having no idea what’s happened. They’ll be eyeing each other suspiciously, only breaking the silence to belch. They are waiting. They’re waiting patiently, like the long-suffering lot they are, in the firm conviction that someone has conned them. They are waiting, belly to the ground, like cats at pig-killing time, hoping for scraps. They are like servants that work at a castle where the master has shot himself: they hang around at an utter loss as to what to do . . .”
The boy hurries to keep pace with him. “I did what you asked me to do. I hope you’ll keep your part of . . .” “I generally keep my promises,” Irimiás answers coolly.
While this was clearly something of an exaggeration the feeling was not entirely unfounded since he dedicated the greatest part of what strength remained to him to preserving his powers of memory and letting all inessential matters take care of themselves.
He decided to watch everything very carefully and to record it constantly, all with the aim of not missing the smallest detail, because he realized with a shock that to ignore the apparently insignificant was to admit that one was condemned to sit defenseless on the parapet connecting the rising and falling members of the bridge between chaos and comprehensible order.
For a few minutes he was contemplating a vague plan, thinking it might be better to abandon his earlier experiments and thus make available the energy required “to liberate himself from desire,” to gradually wean himself off food, alcohol and cigarettes, to opt for silence rather than the constant struggle of naming things and so, after a few months, or perhaps just one or two weeks, he might reach a condition entirely without waste and instead of leaving a trail behind him to dissolve in the terminal silence that was in any case urgently calling to him . . .
He had enough respect for Kelemen to know that the man was probably saving the best for later when it would have much more effect. After all, he reasoned, no one tells you everything up front, which meant he never believed anyone, and certainly not the driver now, not a single word, though he did pay considerable heed to what he said.
Eventually everyone was resigned to the sense of helplessness, hoping for miracles, watching the clock with ever greater anxiety, counting the weeks and months until even time lost its importance and they sat around all day in the kitchen, getting a few pennies from here and there that they immediately drank away in the bar.
A clean confession is, as you know, as good as absolution. The soul is freed, the will is released, and we are once again capable of holding our heads high! Think of that, my friends! The landlord will quickly convey the coffin to town while we remain here with the weight of the tragedy dragging at our souls, but not enfeebled, not uncleansed, not cringing in cowardice, because, our hearts broken, we have confessed our sin and can stand unabashed in the searching beam of judgment . . .
Because, in the end, it is impossible to decide whether it was for us or because of us that she died. We cannot prove the case either way. But the question will remain in our hearts forever, as will the child’s memory, a child whose life might have been lost for this precise purpose . . . so that the star that governs our lives might rise at last . . . Who knows, my friends . . . But life is harsh, and it has dealt harshly with us in this matter.
“Can anyone explain it to me . . . He used to be a simple man at heart, just like we are. He spoke like us too: it was just that his brain was sharper. And now? He’s like a lord, like a real big shot! . . . Am I wrong?”
“What will happen to me without him?! . . . For the love of God . . . leave me if you must, but . . . but not now! Not yet! . . . Not just at this time! . . . An hour more! . . . A minute! . . . What do I care what he does to them, but . . . Me! Not to me! . . . If nothing else make him allow me to be his lover! His handmaid! . . . His servant! What do I care! Let him kick me, beat me like a dog, just . . . this one time, let him come back just this one time! . . .”