Metamorfahrrad
words and art David Eccles
I
can't lie here in bed all day, said Gregor to himself. It was already nearly
half past six. O God, he thought, I have missed the first train. Through the
window of the tiny room he could see the sky and it was grey and overcast. Gregor
tried to turn his head, but it felt stiff and he could move it only a little.
His field of vision took in only part of the coverlet which was in danger of
slipping off, and the part of the undersheet which was tucked under the mattress.
Now, how the devil can I have done that?, he thought; for the sheet, always
so smooth and white, was badly torn, and worse, was imprinted with black greasy
stains. Now, however, the imporant thing was to get out of bed, to dress, take
his breakfast -- though there was probably no time for that -- and to rush like
a madman to work
Why in heaven's name did his neck feel so stiff? Every time he moved his head
from side to side his shoulders and forearms followed as though rigidly connected
to one another. The rest of his body he could hardly move at all. His legs seemed
to be beyond his control, as if fixed in an orbit of their own. Perhaps if he
were to rock himself to and fro he might be able to wriggle to the edge of the
mattress and so topple out. As he hitched himself back and forth there came
a soft tapping at the bedroom door. "Gregor," said a gentle voice, "are you
awake? Isn't it time you were up?" It was his sister, but when Gregor answered
here he was surprised at the strange sound of his own voice. It was certainly
his, but behind his words he could hear a horrible persistant tinkling sound
which made his voice sound metallic and thin. What was happening to him? In
his desire to get up, he swung himself more fiercely. The springs of the bed
creaked more loudly than usual, almost to the point of clanking.
Through the door of his room he heard muffled voices. His family were talking
quietly among themselves, no doubt discussing which of them should enter to
rouse him. With a great effort he finally tumbled out of the bed and fell heavily
to the floor. He immediately realised that he had hurt himself badly. His shoulders
felt grotesquely wrenched and he found his head twisted unnaturally to one side.
His fall had been a loud one, and not at all like the dull thump which might
have been expected. It was a hard crash, mingled with a curious twanging sound,
like the breaking of a piano-string. He must have cried out, too, for above
the crash he heard the tinkling echo of his own new-sounding voice. Anxious
voices called from outside. "Gregor! What is the matter? Has something fallen?
May we come in?"
He tried vainly to lift himself up, and to reassure them; but his position was
now worse for he could not budge at all, except that his legs seemed to move
gently of their own volition. His family's enquiries were followed by silence,
as Gregor strove to form words to calm them and, at all costs, to prevent them
from entering the bedroom. He was aware of a loud and fast clicking sound. It
was certainly not the alarm-clock on the chest, although similar. Gregor listened
to it half in a swoon and noted that his legs seemed to be tiring of their involuntary
exercise and the clicking was running down. Can it be that I am dying, or dreaming?,
he thought to himself.
"What is this nonsense?" It was his father, and the pounding of his knuckles
on the door shook Gregor from his reverie. "Get up at once!" The door was thrown
violently open. Mr. Samsa stood on the threshold, and stared at the disordered
bed. Then he uttered a loud "Oh!" -- it sounded like the gasp of air from a
suddenly punctured tyre. His senses were confounded by what he saw lying on
the floor, wedged between the bed and the chest, with one pedal tangled in the
sheet and the rear wheel still spinning slightly. For, during the night, his
soon Gregor had been transformed, into a large, black,
safety bicycle....
© David Eccles
Bike Culture 1, 1993