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Felix Austria
the flying out of something
unimaginably
weird—
for
something
entirely
unthinkable
to
happen,
something
completely
unfathomable. And they are
fully prepared for this, tensed
and
frightened,
utterly
excited.
But nothing happens. Five
minutes pass. Seven. Eight.
The stage is just as boring and
dark. The pagoda, familiar to
the tiniest details, sticks out
absurdly, senselessly.
And now the air that had
been taught like a string
begins to sag, yielding its
place to disappointment
and irritation. No tightrope
walker could take a stroll on
it now, waving dangerously
above the audience’s heads.
The chairs squeak more and
more vigorously, thewhispers
grow louder, blending into
a monotonous thicket of
sound broken by occasional,
ever more frequent shouts.
A wave of sighs rolls through
the theater, passing from one
person to the next, without
any desire or consent—what
intimacy, it is just like kissing.
Some gray-haired corpulent
gentleman (it is hard to see
in the dark, but it seems this
is the grumbly Mr. Bibring,
Master of Pharmaceutical
Sciences),
groaning
and
snuffling, tries to rise from
his seat, grabs the back of
the chair in front of him and
the outstretched hands of
his neighbors, but each time
heavily falls back, which
makes his monocle fall out,
dangling on a golden chain,
while Mr. Bibring (yes, that’s
him), puffing his cheeks and
nostrils, almost breaks out in
sparks from anger.
A few people have already
left, others hesitate, trying
to decide whether to wait