Satantango by László Krasznahorkai Read Free Book Online

you have noticed I’ve not given precise details. The nature of the project has nothing to do with you. I myself am inclined to forget the whole matter, but whether I do or not, depends on you. I hope we understand each other.” He lets his words hang there for a moment, timelessly significant. They are like fossils cushioned by damp moss. “I suggest we put the past aside,” he continues. “That is providing you accept my terms regarding the future.” Petrina is picking his nose; Irimiás trying to free his coat from under his companion’s rear. “You have no choice. If you say no I shall make sure you’re put away so long your hair will be gray by the time you get out.” “I beg your pardon, chief, but what are you talking about?” Irimiás interrupts. The officer continues as though he hasn’t heard him: “You have three days. Did it never occur to you that you should have been working? I know exactly what you’ve been up to. I give you three days. I think you should appreciate what is at stake here. I’m not making any wild promises beyond that, but three days you’ll get.” Irimiás considers protesting but thinks better of it. Petrina is genuinely terrified. “I’m fucked if I understand any of this, if you’ll pardon the expression . . .” The captain lets it go, pretends not to have heard, and carries on as if he were delivering himself of a verdict, a verdict that expects to be met with complaint but is willing to ignore it. “Listen carefully because I won’t say this again: no more delays, no more fooling around, no more trouble. All that is over. From now on you do what I say. Is that clear?” Jug-ears turns to Irimiás. “What’s he talking about?” “I haven’t the faintest idea,” Irimiás rumbles back. The captain shifts his gaze from the ceiling and his eyes darken. “Will you please shut up,” he drawls in his old fashioned, singsong voice. Petrina sits, almost lies, on the chair, blinking in panic, his hands clasped across his chest, the back of his neck against the chair back, his heavy winter coat spread about him like petals. Irimiás is sitting upright, his mind working feverishly. His pointed shoes are a blinding bright yellow. “We have our rights,” he sniffs, the skin on his nose forming delicate wrinkles. The captain is annoyed and blows out smoke, a brief sign of exhaustion flickering across his face. “Rights!” he exclaims: “You talk of rights! The law for your type is simply something to be exploited! Something to cover your back when you get into trouble! But that’s all over . . . I’m not arguing with you because this isn’t a debating club, you hear? I suggest you quickly get used to the idea that you do as I say. You will act legally from now on. You work within the law.” Irimiás massages his knees with sweaty palms: “What law?” The captain frowns. “The law of relative power,” he says, his face pale, his fingers turning white on the arms of the chair. “The law of the land. The people’s law. Do these concepts mean nothing to you?” he asks, employing, the less intimate form of “you” for the first time. Petrina is roused to speak (“What’s going on here? Are we te or maga now? Are we fellow workers or not? Which is it? If you ask me I prefer . . .”) but Irimiás restrains him, saying, “Captain, you know what law we’re talking about as well as we do. That’s why we’re here. Whatever you may think of us, we are law-abiding citizens. We are aware of our duties. I would like to remind you that we have frequently demonstrated that to be the case. We are on the side of the law as much as you are. So why all these threats? . . .” The captain smiles mockingly, fixes his big, sincere eyes on Irimiás’s inscrutable features and though the words sound friendly enough they can see there’s real fury at the back of them. “I know everything about you . . . but the truth is . . .” he gives a great sigh, “I have to admit I