'How are things at work now?', W. asks me on the phone. 'Is it so mad that it's no longer bleak?' No, it's still bleak, I tell him.
I tell him about our endless management meetings. W. imagines me in them, a version of Shostakovich before the Politburo, of a political prisoner, moving between stupid defiance and complete compliance.
How abject I must be! How pitiful! How many fingers am I holding up?, my interrogator will ask me. – 'Fuck off!', I'll shout. And then, pitifully, 'How many do you want me to say there are?' Yes, he can see me in his mind's eye: a gorilla in a suit, pleading for his life.
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