Moment of True Feeling by Peter Handke

was drinking from the little puddles that remained. Suddenly Keuschnig remembered a bird which had been flying back and forth in a Métro entrance earlier that day. He raised his eyes and saw the searchlights from the far-off Arc de Triomphe playing through the now dark sky. Then with downcast eyes he walked past the house fronts which concierges had scrubbed almost white but which more dogs would piss on, day in day out.
    Keuschnig stopped at the door to his house, feeling sick to his stomach because he didn’t know how to act or in what order he should do things. It was beyond him how he had found his way home every day, why he hadn’t ever vanished on the way. Why today, while still in the Métro, had he held his door key in anticipation? Before going in, he thought, I must mentally rehearse the things I’ll have to do. First, in any event, deposit his attaché case in the hallway. Then it was to be hoped (rather than feared as in the fairy tale) that the child would be first to cross his path and that he’d be able to stay with her awhile as a pretext. If the child didn’t appear (because she had already gone to bed) he would quickly put on an appropriate face and, avoiding superfluous motion—like the flower girl—go in to the people.—He had no feeling of anticipation, he wasn’t looking forward to seeing any of them. The closer he came, the less he felt in common with them. While turning the key, at first purposely in the wrong direction, and clearing his throat, he felt as if he were approaching a stone wall incised with ancient and now illegible hieroglyphics. In a moment he would hear the question: “How are you?” and wouldn’t even be entitled to punch the asker. He moved his chin from side to side,
relaxed his muscles, and put on an anticipatory smile, in order to seem, if only deceptively, like himself.
    The distances in the apartment were so great that before he got to the salon he fell out of his role. His face went blank, and he had to work up a smile again. When he tried to shake hands with the writer’s girl friend, he missed his aim and caught only her little finger, which he shook. He missed again when his wife proffered first one cheek, then the other, as she had seen Frenchwomen do. Why was she wearing that blouse with a necktie of the same material again? Why was she wearing that skirt with the slit on the side? Simultaneously with these thoughts, he asked: “Where’s Agnes?” “She wanted to wait for you,” said Stefanie. “But she got so tired waiting …” “I know,” said Keuschnig, who couldn’t bear to hear her finish a sentence when he knew the end in advance. Involuntarily, he turned the loaf of bread in his hand, revealing the place where he had bitten into it. The writer took out a notebook, wrote something, and smirked. Why was Stefanie sitting in her hostess attitude, hand to cheek, and elbow resting on the palm of her other hand? “I’ll go and see if she’s still awake,” said Keuschnig, eager to turn his telltale face away from the writer. “But don’t wake her if she …” He interrupted Stefanie by bending down over her blouse as if he had seen a thread on it. Why was she always talking needlessly?
    The child was still singing in her room. Keuschnig managed to go in without her noticing. What am I doing here? he thought absently. By going to the child’s room he was asserting something that had ceased to be true. I’ve got to think about her, so as to feel something about her again.
—Agnes’s singing grew louder, she was beginning to shout. Then she stopped singing and only experimented with lip noises. So much peace spread through the dark room from the bed that Keuschnig was able to crouch down. Once or twice the child kicked. Then at last she fell asleep, but it was only after a long sigh that her deep sleep began. Keuschnig stood up,