Keeping Track of Time

 

 

I arrived in a city where the children all wanted to know what time it was. They seemed very serious as they made their way through the streets. Their hands in their pockets, self-absorbed, an air of busyness about them, they directed their eyes downward, at a reckoning of minutes and seconds that might have been lost.

The trees were barren and the sidewalks cold. One of the children came running toward me. The windowpanes were foggy. No sooner had he passed me than he turned around (a movement he might have thought to make all along but that caught me by surprise) and asked, ‘What time is it?’

I withdrew the big silver watch I always carry in my pocket. It’s heavy and in consulting it I have to go through the motions slowly, given the solemn task of verifying the passage of time. I lifted the cover (which is oval shaped and elegantly engraved on the sides), exposing its pearly face, just like when the velvet curtain at the theater is slowly drawn back and reveals the stage. (I have to use both hands to hold it, not only because of its considerable weight but also out of reverence.) ‘It’s five past six,’ I answered, as the well-mannered boy got ready to resume his race.

On the other side of the street, a boy with blond hair and glasses (the frames of which seemed too big for his short, freckled nose) came running up. He was in a big hurry and concentrating hard on the act of hurrying. When he reached me he stopped and exclaimed, ‘Excuse me. Can you tell me what time it is?’

Even though I already knew the answer, it seemed impolite not to take the big watch out of my pocket and verify the position of its hands: a hint of objectivity got mixed in with the apparently superfluous act of checking the time. I opened the cover (the boy was indifferent to the maneuver), and after looking sternly at the watch’s hands I told him, ‘Ten past six.’

He seemed neither satisfied nor dissatisfied, and quickly raced off.

My stroll had become strange, as if the yellow light of the somber dusk had me suspended from some unknown realm. It made me think of what argonauts lost at sea must feel, or space travelers in a never-ending orbit. A girl with cantaloupe-colored braids came to my side and didn’t ask me anything. This gave me a certain feeling of relief and allowed me to gaze more calmly at the linden trees along the sidewalk. The empty street seemed to levitate, but the wintry landscape was familiar. I walked past a closed cafe (the window, which had no curtains, revealed lonely stacked chairs, burnt-out candles, and empty unshimmering glasses on the counter), then a laundromat whose gray machines (resembling the eyes of giant Cyclopes) were washing rhythmically, and a restaurant specializing in Italian food. Finally, I reached the corner. Three children running together, without one ever overtaking either of the other two, passed me. When the third of them was in front of me he suddenly stopped (like automatons, the other two immediately stopped as well). In a clear, expressionless voice, he said:

‘Sir, can you tell me what time it is?’

It was six twenty. They immediately continued on their way, running in formation, one never overtaking another.

The sky had a purple hue (like on one of those winter afternoons), and they were hurrying off somewhere. I didn’t know where they were going but it seemed to me that wherever that was, the minutes and seconds were important. Why that would be I didn’t know, or else I had forgotten.