In a shoddy bar in a shoddy neighbourhood of the capital, a man steps abruptly away from the counter, strides towards the door, out on to the street and directly into the path of an on-coming bus. The bar’s clientele, what shoddy few there are, a couple of smokers from the terrace, pedestrians, passing drivers and the passengers of the bus, rush, stream and pool around the body of the man. Hands are lifted to faces, someone screams; others peel away, alone or in pairs, covering their eyes, covering their mouths, tugging at their hair. The barman, in his apron, stands with his fists on his hips, shaking his head at the back of the dwindling clot of spectators, a voice from somewhere in the midst of it yelling “CALL AN AMBULANCE!” He turns and goes back inside.
The place is empty but for Glantz. Glantz hasn’t moved. When the other customers rose, ran to the window, to the door, ran outside, the place echoing still with the sounds of it all, he didn’t as much as flinch, not at the screech of brakes, the impact’s thump, the crack or the attendant screaming. The barman opens his mouth to speak, shuts it, swats a dismissive gesture, and crosses to the phone behind the counter. Flashing blue lights from outside: the police are here. The barman hangs up the receiver. What crowd remains is being pushed back, late arrivals and rubberneckers moved along. A few have taken seats along the terrace, pale faced and waiting for their nerves to settle, for the strength to come back to their legs. One poor girl staggers down the length of the bus, bends double at its exhaust and, a gentle stranger holding back her hair, vomits on the tarmac. A police officer has entered the vehicle, its driver still sitting behind the wheel, his hands clamped tight around it, knuckles white; his eyes fixed on a truncated vanishing point, some spot in the middle of the road ahead where nobody is standing.
The barman helps himself to a double measure of whisky. Glantz still hasn’t moved. He has not looked up; he is looking at his hands.
For some time now, Glantz’s world has been closing in, closing ever more tightly on the centres of his palms. He stoops leaning, peering into the middle of his hands, searching, perhaps, from habit, maybe, orienting himself towards some barely scrutable unknown, in whose presence, nonetheless, he is invested, some form, perhaps, some expression, cupped there, his breath now also held there, a mutter, perhaps, a prayer, slipping and wished, drawn or poured, spilt there.
He turns his hand over, and picks at the cuticle of his thumb, that of the ring finger, that of the middle. He nibbles at the skin and at the nails which, wet from his tongue, he scores cleaning with his lower incisors. He sits back, placing his hands flat on the table; a bead of blood has appeared on his thumb. Glantz pushes into the bleed until it runs, then lifts his hand to his mouth and sucks. He lifts his eyes only then, and, unperturbed to find himself alone, turns slowly towards the counter from where the barman is watching him. Following the barman’s eyes, he turns further and finally looks around.
Outside, the blue lights are no longer flashing. The man is still lying in the road. Those that were gathered and crouched around him are standing up, turning and walking away.
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