15

As soon as the dust around the prison-break had settled, the clothing-supply room man got back to his duties, and Kosef J resumed his daily visits. This was, by the way, the wish of the short, stocky and cheerful man, who didn’t miss a single chance to ask Kosef J not to avoid his little workshop.

‘So we can have a word,’ he added each time.

Apart from that, the short, stocky and cheerful man had some actual business to conduct with Kosef J almost every day. The new clothes had proved to be very difficult to make. The short, stocky and cheerful man wouldn’t stop taking measurements. He was always dissatisfied with something or other, and kept asking Kosef J to stand straight and still in front of the mirror one more time, so he could take his measurements yet again. The man had a sadistic glee in his eyes every time he came up to Kosef J, armed with a tiny piece of soap and a tape measure that he unrolled from a round metal box.

He measured the width of Kosef J’s shoulders, shook his head, closed his eyes, thought for a little while, seemed to mumble something judging by his impossible-to-read lip movements, and put a bizarre mark on a piece of fabric. He then opened his eyes with the joyful look of a diver who had finally come up for air.

‘It will do,’ he said, and moved on to measure the sleeves.

The game continued like this day after day. The short, stocky and cheerful man kept concentrating on taking measurements, mumbled something, closed his eyes, seemed tormented by some mysterious calculations and mathematical transformations he carried out in his mind, and then wrote everything down.

‘There, this is the way to do it,’ he added, perhas to put Kosef J at ease.

So he carried on taking measurements. The waistline. The length of the legs, thighbone and spine. He measured the circumference of the neck, waistline and thorax. He took complicated measurements in the area of Kosef J’s armpits, forcing him to lift his arms up for several minutes, while he kept giggling as if he had actually tickled himself rather than take someone else’s measurements.

‘It’s OK,’ he reassured Kosef J.

Kosef J tried a few times to remind the short, stocky and cheerful man that last time, prior to the prison-break that is, there was only talk of choosing the right buttons. This was what the short man himself had said, namely that he only had to sew the buttons on. Why did they have to start from scratch then, day after day? What was the explanation for this?

The short man either didn’t respond to such questions, or chose to be vague on this matter. Could he really not hear or just pretended to be deaf? Whenever Kosef J tried to address the question of time, in order to draw his attention to this aspect, the short man adapted an impassioned tone and started to complain of the array of jobs he had on his plate.

‘Just look at all this,’ he said. ‘Please take a look! Utter chaos!’ he added. ‘Chaos, nothing else!’

The child was there most of the time, too, rummaging in the button box. On such occasions, he’d usually lift his head, as if the word chaos had been of great interest to him.

‘I have to do something about these,’ the short man said. ‘I simply must.’

Kosef J finally figured out what the short man meant by these. Every day further piles of clothes would appear on the tables, just brought up from the damp basements into the workshop.

‘This is the only way to save them,’ the short man said with a cheerful spark in his eye. ‘The only way.’

‘What do you mean?’ Kosef J asked one day, intrigued.

‘I transform them,’ said the short man, panting.

Indeed, the short, stocky and cheerful man would undo and then recompose tens of outfits. He’d turn coats into jackets, jackets into waistcoats, he’d change the lining, cut off the cuff hems on trousers and add cuff hems to other pairs that didn’t initially have this feature. He’d replace shirt collars, jacket pockets and coat buttons. He’d make an overcoat from two to three jackets, and a pair of trousers from an overcoat. He’d move everything that could be moved from one place to another, simplified whatever could be made simpler and, conversely, complicated whatever could be made more complex.

‘I force them to live on,’ he explained. ‘This is the way I coerce them.’

The clothes he’d just transformed were then returned to the warehouse, only to be taken out again and subjected to further transformations two or three weeks later. No piece of fabric or lining would be wasted in this upheaval. Each and every patch awaited its turn in a new operation, and each and every button became indispensable at just the right time.

‘This is the only way,’ the short, stocky and cheerful man concluded, after having generously permitted to Kosef J to understand the significance of his labours.

‘OK, but how much longer?’ Kosef J asked after about two weeks of daily visits at the workshop.

‘Until the end of my days!’ the short, stocky and cheerful man replied proudly. He then grabbed Kosef J by his lapel and forced him to look him in the eye: ‘This is my battle,’ he stressed, ‘my battle and only mine, understood?’

‘Yes, of course,’ Kosef J hastened to reply.

What Kosef J had actually understood was that at this pace the short, stocky and cheerful man wouldn’t be able to finish the job he started on his clothes. Yet Kosef J didn’t get upset. He liked coming to the workshop, were he felt sheltered. He’d be always met with a pleasant warmth, and the short, stocky and cheerful man would always be up for a chat. He’d almost always find something to flatter Kosef J with, and the latter would be secretly pleased to hear these.

‘What a great posture!’ the short man exclaimed every time he took Kosef J’s measurements.

Or, whenever he got Kosef J to try on a sleeveless jacket or a pair of yet-unlined trousers, the short man couldn’t get enough of moving around Kosef J and marvelling at him.

‘How classy!’ he’d cry out.

He’d also often declare that Kosef J was simply made to wear ordinary civilian clothing, since he had that rare thing only few people had, namely, allure.

‘Without allure,’ he elaborated, ‘it’s pointless to even wear clothes. Allure is everything. Allure and nothing but allure.’

‘What a chatterbox,’ Kosef J said to himself, although he enjoyed letting the short man handle him.

He gradually became aware that the short, stocky and cheerful man effectively rejoiced whenever he, Kosef J, agreed to try on some of these transformed clothes. Another discovery astonished him even more: all these transformed clothes fitted him perfectly; in other words, they were made to measure. Thus he realized that in about a fortnight he had become the virtual owner of an impressive collection of coats, overcoats, jackets, trousers, waitcoats, shirts and other bits and pieces. All these items, however, made their way to the warehouse as soon as they were completed as if cut out for Kosef J.

The little man worked feverishly, from morning till late at night. Arguably, Kosef J’s presence was an inspiration for him. One day, Kosef J didn’t go round the workshop, and this led to a minor tragedy. The man waited and waited, but then went off to look for Kosef J himself. He found him in the kitchen where Kosef J was trying to calm Rozette and fix one of the dishwashers. All the spare parts were lined up on the floor and Kosef J was just wondering whether he’d ever manage to assemble them again.

The little man barely dared to walk up to Kosef J in the lightest of fooststeps, and tap him on his shoulder.

‘You’ve forgotten me,’ he whispered, tiny tears in his eyes.