The Goalie's Anxiety at the Penalty Kick: A Novel by Peter Handke Page B

through a fence into an orchard. Chickens came running from all directions at once but turned back before they had pecked the paper ball open.
    In front of him Bloch saw three men walk diagonally across the street, two in uniform and the one in the middle in a black Sunday suit with a tie hanging over his shoulder, where it had been blown either by the wind or by fast running. He watched as the policemen led the gypsy into the police station. They walked next to each other as far as the door, and the gypsy, it seemed, moved easily and willingly between the two policemen and talked with them; when one of the policemen pushed open the door, the other did not grab the gypsy but just touched his elbow lightly from behind. The gypsy looked back over his shoulder at the policeman and gave a friendly smile; the collar under the knot of the gypsy’s tie was open. It seemed to Bloch as if the gypsy was so deeply trapped that all he could do when he was touched on the arm was look at the policemen with helpless friendliness.
    Bloch followed them into the building, which also housed the post office; for just a moment he believed that if anybody saw him eating a sandwich out in public, they could not possibly think that he was involved in anything. “Involved”? He could not even let himself think that he had to justify his presence here, while they were bringing in the gypsy, by any action such as, say, eating salami sandwiches. He could justify himself only when he was questioned
and accused of something; and because he had to avoid even thinking that he might be questioned, he also could not let himself think about how to prepare justifications in advance for this possibility—this possibility did not even exist. So if he was asked whether he had watched while the gypsy was being brought in, he would not have to deny it and pretend that he had been distracted because he was eating a sandwich but could admit that he had witnessed the event. “Witnessed”? Bloch interrupted himself while he waited in the post office for his phone connection; “admit”? What did these words have to do with this event, which fur him was of no significance. Didn’t they give it a significance he was making every effort to deny? “Deny”? Bloch interrupted himself again. He had to keep his guard up against words that transformed what he wanted to say into some kind of statement.
    His call had gone through. Absorbed in avoiding the impression that he was prepared to make a statement, he caught himself wrapping a handkerchief over the receiver. Slightly disconcerted, he put the handkerchief back in his pocket. How had he come from the thought of unguarded talk to the handkerchief? He was told that the friend he was calling had to stay quartered with his team in a training camp until the important match on Sunday and
could not be reached by phone. Bloch gave the postmistress another number. She asked him to pay for the first call first. Bloch paid and sat on a bench to wait for the second call. The phone rang and he stood up. But it was only a birthday telegram arriving. The postmistress wrote it down and confirmed it word by word. Bloch walked back and forth. One of the mailmen had returned from his route and was now loudly reporting to the girl. Bloch sat down. Outside on the street, now that it was early afternoon, there was no distraction. Bloch had become impatient but did not show it. He heard the mailman say that the gypsy had been hiding all this time near the border in one of those lean-to shelters the cups-toms guards used. “Anyone can say that,” said Bloch. The mailman turned toward him and stopped talking. What he claimed to be the latest news, Bloch went on, anybody could have read yesterday, the day before yesterday, even the day before the day before yesterday, in the papers. What he said didn’t mean anything, nothing at all, nothing whatsoever. The mailman had turned his back to Bloch even while Bloch was still talking and was