Read Satantango for Free Online

jug-eared man looks up accusingly from under his brow. “There must be some misunderstanding, if I may . . . We were here precisely on time, don’t you remember?” “As I understand it . . .” “No chief, you don’t understand anything!” the little fellow cuts him off, suddenly full of life: “The thing is that we, that is to say the man next to me and I, sure, we can do anything. We can make you furniture, farm your chickens, castrate your pigs, deal with your real estate, and repair anything, even things thought to be beyond salvation. You want us to be market traders — that’s fine. We can do anything you want. But come off it!” he snarls. “Don’t make us laugh! You know very well our job is to supply information, if I may put it like that. We’re on your payroll, if you care to remember. Our position, if you know what I mean, is . . .” The chief leans back in exhaustion, slowly examines them, his brow clears, he springs to his feet, opens a little door in the back wall and calls back to them from the threshold: “Just wait here. But no monkey business . . . you know what I mean!” Within a couple of minutes a tall, blond, blue-eyed man, rank of captain, appears before them, sits down at the table, carelessly stretches out his legs, and gives them a benign smile. “Do you have any papers?” he inquires politely. The jug-eared one searches in his enormously large pockets. “Paper? Certainly!” he announces in delight: “Just a moment!” He produces a slightly rumpled but perfectly clean sheet of writing paper and puts it down in front of the captain. “Would you like a pen too?” the taller man inquires and reaches for his inside pocket. The captain’s face darkens for an instant then opens in a cheerful smile. “Very funny,” he grins. “You two certainly have a sense of humor.” Jug-ears modestly casts his eyes down. “True enough, you don’t get anywhere without it, chief . . .” “Yes, but let’s get to the point,” the captain grows serious: “Do you have papers of any other sort?” “Of course, chief. Give me a moment . . . !” He reaches into his pocket again and pulls out the summons. Flourishing it in the air with a gesture of triumph he puts it down on the table. The captain glances at it, then his face reddens and he bellows at them: “Can’t you read!? Fucking idiots! Which floor does it say?” The question is so unexpected that they take a step back. Jug-ears nods furiously. “Of course . . .” he answers for want of anything better to say. The officer tips his head to one side. “What does it say?” “The second . . .” the other replies and, by way of explanation, adds, “I beg to report.” “Then what are you doing here!? How did you get here!? Have you any idea what this office deals with?!” Both men shake their heads, feeling weak. “This is the RP section — Register of Prostitutes,” the captain bellows at them leaning forward in his chair. But there is no sign of surprise. The shorter man shakes his head as if to say he doesn’t believe the captain, and purses his lips in thought, while his companion stands beside him with his legs crossed apparently studying the landscape picture on the wall. The officer props an elbow on the table to support his head and starts massaging his brow. His back is as straight as the road to righteousness, his chest is deep and wide, his uniform crisply washed and ironed, his perfectly starched blindingly white collar in splendid harmony with his fresh, rosy-cheeked countenance. One lock of his otherwise immaculately wavy hair is hanging over his sky-blue eyes and lends an irresistible charm to his whole appearance, an appearance that radiates a childlike innocence. “Let’s start,” he says in a stern, southern sing-song voice, “with your IDs.” Jug-ears produces two ragged-edged packages from his back pocket and pushes aside one of those big towers of files so that he might smooth the package out before