Translated by Clarice Cloutier

 
Chapter 177

At the beginning of the story, which I eventually played a part in as well, Oto’s death had not actually happened, but his shooting into the dark nine months ago had taken place. The words that my father uttered on the verge of this event were among the worst that I have ever heard, even though I did not hear them from his lips directly. Mama told me about them. In a moment of weakness, shortly after the funeral meal held in my father’s honor, she revealed to me what he had once whispered in her ear. He would probably have been glad to know whether that parachuter experienced double the pleasure as he was doing his Siamese twins. I did not have the strength to respond and Mama never talked about it again. That moment was absolutely horrible. It did not matter whether or not it was the truth, it was more the incomprehensibility of why she even told me at all. Maybe she just did not want me to be too sad after father’s death. Or maybe she was just paying him back for what he had revealed to me about her and about her relationship with the parachuter’s widow before his death. She did not know if it was fact or not, but who knows what her sub-consciousness was linked to then, not to mention her un-consciousness. As if they were actually part of some kind of collective memory which psychologists the whole world over had been dreaming about for decades on end, maybe it was really all that. Including everything that was completely ruled out.
I know that you have already heard this many times. But I’ll tell you again – maybe it was really all that. It would be enough if it were just a bit probable. And what is probable is not just what could happen, but also what could occur to us that might happen. Think about what you want. But careful! For some things, it’s enough to be silent about them. The wise sages of all possible religious denominations could tell you about that. Each of them would interpret the situation differently, but in the end, they would all agree: Thoughts have wings. They do not need words to fly. They find their destination and get there, moving along invisible paths. They peep out at the most unexpected moment, so that everything that you have thought of can come dumping down on your head in your moment of weakness. They will shit your own truth at you in the face, full of poison and pride, they will whittle your eyes down and screw up your smile until it looks like some sort of wild animal had been gnawing away at you.
Bear takes the floor:
‘First we must learn to talk, so that we can learn how to be silent,’ giving his spectacularly formulated speech. ‘As opposed to words, silence offers a certain meaning, even if it is not intended. I am not sure to what extent it requires an explanation, if at all. But if you really want one, we can make an attempt.’
‘Gladly’, the newly-elected chair of the senate answers for everyone. Ever since she was elected, she has been showing off her sovereignty. Who knows if she would be smiling so solidly if she knew what would happen to her son not even a week later.
‘There is nothing mystical about it,’ hums the defense. ‘Dr. Kretter has simply decided not to testify.’
A murmur is heard in the room, then intermittent talking.
‘Quiet, please!’ the judge cries out.
Bear takes his lead. ‘That’s right, he has decided to be silent. That is his right, and not even an angry prosecutor or the screaming media can take it from him.’
‘I insist!’ responds the prosecutor.
‘Quiet!’
Bear, ‘If you please, I’ve had my say.’
 
How it is possible that ugly faces give the impression that they are laughing? Their eyes are burning like the white-hot coals of a snowman, and like wax from a candle, snot drips from the carrot nose, so much so that it hisses and crackles, making star-like formations, and not stopping until it has all melted and penetrated into the ground. Finally it has all disappeared into the subterranean waters, probably so that it cannot evaporate and return to the game once again, to the cycle of happiness and dying, so that it cannot even be named, let alone understood. This is exactly what truth is like – we’ll never know even a drop of it. What we pour into our glasses in order to get drunk is nothing but an elixir of incomprehension, a sherbet that squeezes the last bubbles of healthy reasoning out of our brain, a liquid like formaldehyde in which we keep our own errors so that we can gradually take them out for dissection, yet even so, we never discover why something happened as it did. Actually we are only drinking away it all to assumptions, i.e. an even bigger error than before, until finally we will not even know if something actually happened or if we invented it all.