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himself to pause after every step and note down what he had
done, and although this interrupted the flow of his inspiration, it did at least
ensure that the procedure could be repeated. But was it really possible to
record everything he did? Th ousands of things
were left out: gesture, position, degree of manual force, the exact quantity of
acid, the line of every cut and fold in the constantly changing organic matter,
even the light and his state of mind, his haste or enthusiasm. Th e record was very crude, very schematic; there
was no way of knowing what might be important.
    After having impregnated the fish with the contents
of all his flasks, using every hole he could find and several others that he
made specially (since the success of the operation depended on an effect, it
seemed a pity not to try all the possible causes), and having twisted its body
into an S-like shape, which was meant to represent the posture of a pianist
seated at his instrument, some association of ideas prompted him to notice a
detail that rather seriously undermined his project: fish don’t have arms, so
they don’t have hands or fingers and can’t possibly play the piano, even as a
joke. He was baffled and stunned. He couldn’t believe that he had neglected
something so fundamental; he tried to reconstruct the scene that he had imagined
at the start, and all he could see was a vague, indefinite picture, which under
careful scrutiny revealed an essential disjunction between fish and piano,
definitively isolated from each other. Grafting on a pair of little arms, the
arms of a frog for example, would be horribly complicated. Just as well the
piano hadn’t worked out. He would have to improvise a solution, and the need to
find one urgently was unbearable. He had an idea: he could swap the piano for a
wind instrument . . . Th at was more appropriate
for a fish . . . Th ere was just one problem:
he’d given it an idiotic smile with that piece of subcutaneous wire . . . But
maybe it wasn’t too late . . . He began to massage the face, his fingers
trembling with irritation; and his exasperation and haste helped him to shape it
into an inverted cone, like a crazy bugle. As he took his hand away, the result
struck him momentarily as a telling emblem, and he even imagined a high note
sounding forth, the call to action. But rather than springing into action, he
was about to lapse into torpor; by this stage he was exhausted. He remembered
the bugle that he had heard earlier, in the square. It must have been working on
his unconscious all that time: it was the day’s autobiographical imperative.
    Once that moment had passed, a more objective gaze
revealed that the sticky object in his hand was formless and repulsive. He was
through for the day. He tossed the fish into the washbowl full of water, and,
for want of a rag, dried his hands on the sheet of notepaper, which he then
folded and put in his pocket, thinking it might come in useful. He had a
superstitious respect for any kind of paper. When his eyes returned to the
washbowl, he saw that the twisted, bloated, monstrous fish was swimming, on its
side, up and down, vertically, like a sea horse, visibly alive. Th at was the finishing touch. Th ey always went on living, no matter what he did
to them. Actually, this was the first time it had happened, but once was as good
as “always.”
    Even if he’d wanted to go on working he wouldn’t have been
able to, because just at that moment his concentration was broken by the sound
of a slamming door. It was as if he had woken up. As if, suddenly, he were no
longer alone in his secret laboratory, although it was still secret. In other
words, it was as if he had woken from one dream into another. At once frenzied
and indecisive, he shook his legs, and the movement spread right through his
spindly body, making his head wobble painfully. He lost his balance, staggered,
and bumped into the wall. He used the rebound to propel himself through the
door, and