the owner of the voice. a man sitting at the bar nearby, turning on his stool to face them. a dissipated dandy of a man.
stonecutter, if you please.
no one should admit being an artist unless they're paid for it. if you go to the cabaret mention my name -- they'll find a table for you.
no -- it only makes me view people dispassionately as so many .  slabs.
quartz .  slate .  gravel .  granite .  flint .  marble.
i've read your stories. they're fantastic.
just what you've published.
i read the one about the penal colony.
the needles inscribing the judgement into the flesh of the man. very good.
if i could sculpt as well as that, i'd be quite proud of myself.
where are your friends?
-- in what sense?
these strange stories you write -- they come naturally, do they?
where do you get your ideas? only joking -- i'm just joking. let's go to a brothel then, kafka, come on.
why do you work in that hideous insurance office? -- dealing with people who fall off ladders. now take me -- i make my living as a stone mason. it's not my art -- but it's the tools of my art. you could be -- a journalist.
success or nothing?
a man must eat -- and drink.
are you sure you wouldn't prefer going through official channels?
-- i'm flattered, of course, to be considered a friend -- even without knowing all the details. -- to see such determination is reward enough for me.
there is one thing i'd like you to tell me.
what made you think i'd be able to get you into the castle?
in a manner of speaking.
i was restoring some stones here in the upper section one day -- and i found this.
a cenotaph -- a monument to someone whose remains ended up elsewhere. but look --
the castle gates were blockaded in the time of the great plague -- it's an escape route. don't get stuck.
yes.
another one?
what an extraordinary request!
then its authority is in doubt.
not necessarily. a wife would.