along the corridor. evening. a kitchen smell. behind, above it the smell of medicine, cleansing agents, institution. on the ground floor, a party is being prepared in an undefined zone of corridor, lobby, anteroom, cloakroom, buffet. glasses, bottles, china, covered chafing dishes. sideboard. people to serve. two women who obviously do not belong to the hospital make final preparations. we go up by lift to the first or second floor. corridor again, the aggregate of all smells. of days and nights. nurses. doors with hospital handles, openable with your elbow as well. the moment of opening, entrance. four beds placed at right angles to the wall, little distance between them. stuffy. another aggregate of impressions. old men, half-covered. hospital warmth. bare legs, nightshirts. crumpled bed linen. groaning, clearing of throats, snoring. no viktor rogy. we go past the beds. then, surprisingly, on the left, a niche. sitting by the bed is a powerful man with a mop of curly hair. In the bed sits an emaciated, almost skeletal figure. steady, piercing eyes. head of a prophet. only when he greets us with a joyful expression do I recognized him: it is viktor rogy. he is quarrelling with his extremely friendly, kind visitor. this chap has sat there for a whole two hours talking, talking, talking. i can’t bear it any longer. he waffles on and on, even though no one is interested. and he’s drunk too. the powerful man with the mop of curly hair is embarrassed. ok, he’s had fifteen beers, but he wanted to do something nice for vikerl. he has even brought something as a present: what am i meant to do with the salami rolls and oranges. what I am meant to do with them, i can barely eat anything. i don’t need anything. and this constant advice: you have to eat something to regain your strength. your lymph gland will recover, the metastases in your liver will disappear. you have to eat, drink. viktor becomes rude: just go away. i can’t stand it any longer. he’s been sitting there for two hours, drunk, and going on and on at me. being short of breath is not as bad as being short of time. he’s taking up my time, there’s so much I’d like to say. go away. the kind man – he’s drunk, too – packs away his salami rolls, his oranges into his plastic bag. says goodbye awkwardly: vikerl, it’ll be alright. we sit down. in front of me hangs a half-filled urine bottle. i try to get used to his face. another person. quiet, gentle again. he starts talking straightaway. he has put his legs up on the bed again. skin and bones. a topos, but it is reality. viktor talks. with us as well. but mostly towards the wall. as if he were looking into another world. but his world is reflected. he speaks about dancing, about dancers who have influenced him, whom he admires. his manner of speech is simple. no longer the calligraphic gesticulation of the healthy viktor. no longer that game of hide-and-seek in linguistic turbulence. he starts to speak about the mystics. the german mystics. that has nothing to do with religion. he insists on that. I cannot tear my gaze from his beautiful face. the eyes: large, open, he looks at you but sees something else. perhaps the other world really is only a mirror. he rakes together his memories. not for us. only for himself. bella only speaks when he can’t think of a word, a name, a term. after an hour he starts talking about his body. not the illness. the problem of urinating into a bottle in the bed. with his right arm. with grasping. he would like to go home. but where to obtain a hospital bed. everything much too expensive. back to his plans. he still has so much future occupying his thoughts. plans for years. but now he is too tired. I take my leave. it is the last time, that is certain, although one doesn’t permit the idea at the moment. one says: viktor, it’s alright. it will soon be warmer, things will look up again. nonsense, lies told to cover the awkwardness of getting from the bed to the door. viktor turns his attention from me. bella has taken his hand, i can’t hear what they are saying anymore. it’s sure to be about when she will take him back home. i think both of them know that will never happen.
friedrich achleitner, 15 January 2004/24 January 2004