Robert Menasse [Menasse - The Capital

Translated from the German by
Jamie Bulloch

First published in the German language as
Die Hauptstadt by Suhrkamp Verlag in 2017

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by MacLehose Press

An imprint of Quercus Publishing Ltd
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ

An Hachette UK company

Copyright Suhrkamp Verlag, 2017

English translation copyright 2019 by Jamie Bulloch

The translation of this work was supported by a grant from the Goethe-Institut and from the Austrian Federal Ministry of Education, Arts and Culture

The moral right of Robert Menasse to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

Jamie Bulloch asserts his moral right to be identified as the translator of the work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

EBOOK ISBN 978 0 85705 861 4

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places and events are either the product of the authors imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

www.maclehosepress.com

Wings of Stone (2000)

NON-FICTION

Enraged Citizens, European Peace and Democratic Deficits:
Or Why the Democracy Given to Us Must Become
One We Fight for (2016)

Rver, cest le bonheur;
attendre, cest la vie.

VICTOR HUGO

THERES A PIG on the loose! David de Vriend caught sight of it when he opened his sitting-room window for one last glance at the square before leaving this apartment for good. He wasnt a sentimental man. He had lived here for sixty years, looked out onto this square for sixty years and was now bringing it to an end. Thats all. It was his favourite phrase; whenever he had something to say, report, attest, he would utter two or three sentences, followed by, Thats all. For David de Vriend this phrase was the only legitimate rsum of each moment or chapter in his life. The removal firm had been to fetch the few personal effects he was taking to his new home. Effects a strange word, but it had no effect on him. Then the men came to clear out everything else, including those things that were screwed and nailed down, and the screws and nails too. They yanked it out, dismantled it and took it all away until the apartment was as clean as a whistle, as people say. De Vriend had made himself a coffee while his cooker and moka pot were still there, watching the men, taking care not to get in their way, and he had held on to his empty cup for a long moment before dropping it into a rubbish bag. Then the men were gone and the apartment was empty. As clean as a whistle. One last glance out of the window. There was nothing there he did not know, and now he had to move out because another time had come but there it was: down below was... a real pig! In Sainte-Catherine, the centre of Brussels. It must have come from rue de la Braie, it trotted along the construction hoarding in front of the building, de Vriend leaned out of the window and saw the pig turn right at the corner into rue du Vieux March aux Grains, avoiding a few passers-by and almost running under a taxi.

Kai-Uwe Frigge, thrown forwards by the emergency stop, fell back into the seat. He grimaced. Frigge was late, he was stressed. What was wrong now? He wasnt really late, but he liked to get to his appointments ten minutes early, especially when it was raining, so he could tidy himself up a bit in the loo his soaked hair, fogged-up glasses before the person he was meeting arrived

A pig! Did you see that, Monsieur? the taxi driver exclaimed. It almost leaped into my car! He was bent right over his steering wheel: There! There! Can you see it?

Now Kai-Uwe Frigge did see it. He wiped the window with the back of his hand and caught the pig trotting off sideways, its wet body glistening a dirty pink in the glow of the streetlamps.

Here we are, Monsieur! I cant drive any closer. Fancy that! Almost went slap bang into a pig. What a road hog! But I saved his bacon, didnt I, eh?

In Menelas, Fenia Xenopoulou sat at the first table by the large window with a view of the square. It annoyed her that she had got there so early. To be waiting in the restaurant when he arrived didnt convey self-confidence. She was nervous. She had worried that the rain might make the traffic worse and had left herself too much time. She was already on her second ouzo. The waiter buzzed around her like an irritating wasp. Fenia stared at the glass and told herself not to touch it. The waiter brought a carafe of fresh water. Then he came with a small dish of olives and said, A pig!

What? Looking up, she saw that the waiter was staring out at the square, mesmerised, and now she could see it too: the pig was making a dash for the restaurant, a ridiculous sight as its short legs flitted back and forth beneath its solid, round body. At first glance she thought it was a dog, one of those revolting creatures overfed by widows, but no it really was a pig! It could have been straight out of a picture book. She saw the snout and the ears as lines, contours, thats how you would draw a pig for a child, but this one seemed to have sprung from a childrens horror story. It wasnt a wild boar, it was a filthy, but unquestionably pink domestic pig, with something mad, something menacing about it. The rain continued to pour down the window and, in a blur, Fenia Xenopoulou saw the pig screech to a halt as it encountered some passers-by. The creatures legs were at full stretch, it skidded, threw itself to one side, jack-knifed, gained traction again and galloped back, now in the direction of Hotel Atlas. At that moment Ryszard Owiecki was leaving the hotel. He had already pulled the hood of his coat over his head on his way through the hotel lobby. Now he stepped out into the rain, briskly, but not in too much of a hurry; he didnt want to attract attention. The rain was a boon; in the circumstances both his hood and lively pace were perfectly normal and inconspicuous. Later, nobody would be able to say that they had seen a man running away about this old, roughly this tall, and yes, of course they remembered the colour of the coat... Turning smartly to his right, he heard animated cries, a scream and a bizarre panting mixed with squeals. He gasped and looked back. Now he spotted the pig. He couldnt believe his eyes. There, between two of the wrought-iron poles that lined the hotel forecourt, was a pig. It stood, head lowered, like a bull about to launch an attack. There was something both preposterous and menacing about this creature. It was a total mystery: where had the pig come from and why was it there? Ryszard Owiecki got the impression that all life in this square at least as far as he could see had stiffened, frozen, the animals tiny eyes reflected the neon light from the hotels faade. Owiecki started to run! He ran to the right, glanced back, the pig yanked up its head with a snort, took a few steps backwards, turned around, then ran right across the square to the row of trees outside the Flemish Cultural Centre, De Mark-ten. The passers-by witnessing the scene kept their eyes on the pig rather than the man in the hood, and now Martin Susman saw the creature too. He lived in a building next to Hotel Atlas and was just opening the window to let in some fresh air. Susman couldnt believe his eyes: that looked like a pig! He had just been contemplating his life, thinking about the coincidences that had led him, the son of Austrian farmers, to be living and working in Brussels. In his present mood everything seemed crazy and alien, but a pig on the loose in the square below, that was just