Momo (Mr. Fusi the Barber)

(The following is an excerpt from the German novel Momo by Michael Ende, p.62-70 of the Piper 2010 edition.)

            One day, Mr. Fusi stood in the doorway of his shop and waited for customers. His apprentice had the day off, and he was alone. He watched how the rain splashed on the street; it was a gray day, and the dreary weather was also in Mr. Fusi’s soul.
 

            My life goes on, he thought, with scissor-snipping, small talk, and soapsuds. What have I actually gotten out of my existence? And someday, when I’m dead, it’ll be as if I’d never been.

 

            Now, it was not the case that Mr. Fusi had something against small talk. In fact, he loved to ramble about his opinions to his customers and hear what they thought. He didn’t have anything against scissor-snipping or soapsuds, either. His work brought him great pleasure, and he knew he did it well. It was especially easy for him to shave under the chin against the grain like no one else. But, every now and then, there were moments in which all of that had no weight. That’s how it goes for everyone.

 

            My whole life’s fallen short, thought Mr. Fusi. Who am I, even? A little barber, that’s what has become of me now. If I could lead the right kind of life, then I’d be a completely different person!
 

            Mr. Fusi was not clear on how this right kind of life should be obtained. He only imagined something meaningful, something luxurious, something like what you see in magazines.
 

            But, he thought with a scowl, my work doesn’t leave me time for such a thing. You have to have time for the right kind of life. You have to be free. But I’ll remain a prisoner of scissor-snipping, small talk, and soapsuds my whole life.
 

            At that moment, an elegant, ash-gray car drove up and stopped right in front of Mr. Fusi’s barbershop. A gray gentleman stepped out and entered the shop. He set his lead-gray briefcase on the table in front of the mirror, hung his round, stiff hat on the coat hook, sat in the shaving chair, took his little notebook out of his pocket, and began to leaf through it as he puffed on his small, gray cigar.

            Mr. Fusi closed the shop door, for it felt as though it had suddenly become unusually cold in the small room.

            “How can I be of service?” he asked, baffled. “A shave or a haircut?”—and immediately cursed his tactlessness, for the gentleman had a gleaming bald head.

            “Neither of those,” said the gray gentleman without smiling, in a strange, monotonous—so to say, ash-gray—voice. “I come from the Time Savings Bank. I’m Agent No. XYQ/384/b. We’re aware that you wish to open a savings account with us.”

            “That’s news to me,” said Mr. Fusi, even more baffled. “Quite frankly, I never even knew there was such an institution until now.”

            “Well, now you know,” the agent answered curtly. He skimmed through his little notebook and continued: “You are, in fact, Mr. Fusi the barber?”

            Mr. Fusi was taken aback. “That’s right, that’s me.”

            “Then I’m in the right place,” the gray gentleman said and snapped the little notebook shut. “You’re a candidate for us.”

            “How so?” asked Mr. Fusi, still astonished.

            “You see, dear Mr. Fusi,” the agent said, “You waste your life away with scissor-snipping, small talk, and soapsuds. Someday, when you’re dead, it’ll be as if you’d never been. If you had time to lead the right kind of life, as you so desire, then you’d be a completely different person. All you lack is time. Am I correct?”

            “I was thinking about that just now,” Mr. Fusi murmured and shivered, for, despite the closed door, it kept growing colder.

            “There, you see!” the gray gentleman retorted and smoked his little cigar in satisfaction. “But where do you acquire time? You just have to save it! You, Mr. Fusi, waste your time in an entirely irresponsible manner. I shall prove it to you through a little calculation."

[Omitted: The gray gentleman proceeds to calculate how much time in seconds Mr. Fusi has spent on various aspects of his life.]

            “We’re almost finished,” said the gray gentleman. “But now we must discuss a special chapter of your life. You have a little secret, as you know.”

            By this point, Mr. Fusi was so cold that his teeth began to chatter.

            “You know that, too?” he murmured feebly. “I thought—except for me and Ms. Daria…”

            “In our modern world,” Agent No. XYQ/384/b interrupted, “secrets have no worth. Now, Mr. Fusi, consider the circumstances objectively and realistically. Answer me this: do you wish to marry Ms. Daria?”

            “No,” said Mr. Fusi, “that’s not going to happen…”

            “Quite right,” the gray gentleman continued, “as Ms. Daria will remain bound to a wheelchair her whole life, since her legs are crippled. Nevertheless, you visit her for half an hour every day to bring her a flower. Why?”

            “It makes her so happy,” answered Mr. Fusi, close to tears.

            “But, to keep it in perspective, Mr. Fusi,” the agent pressed, “she represents lost time for you. In fact, already a total of twenty-seven million, five hundred and forty-nine thousand seconds. And if we add the fact that you have the nightly habit of sitting by the window before going to bed and thinking about the past day for a quarter of an hour, then we reach a written sum of thirteen million, seven hundred and ninety-seven thousand. Now let’s see what’s actually left over for you, Mr. Fusi.”

            The following calculation now appeared on the mirror:

Sleep	441 504 000	Seconds
Work	441 504 000	“
Food	110 376 000	“
Mother	55 188 000	“
Bird	13 797 000	“
Shopping, etc.	55 188 000	“
Friends, Singing, etc.	165 564 000	“
Secret	27 594 000	“
Window	13 797 000	“
Total:	1 324 512 000	Seconds

            “This sum,” said the gray gentleman, rapping the pen against the mirror so hard that it sounded like gunshots, “this sum is the time you’ve already lost up to now. What do you say to that, Mr. Fusi?”

            Mr. Fusi said absolutely nothing. He sat on a chair in the corner and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief, for, despite the icy cold, sweat was pouring down his face.

            The gray gentleman nodded earnestly.

            “Yes, you understand,” he said, “it’s already more than half of your original total assets, Mr. Fusi. But now let’s see what’s actually left over for you from your forty-two years so far. One year, that’s thirty-one million, five hundred and thirty-six thousand seconds, as you know. And that multiplied by forty-two makes one billion, three hundred and twenty-four million, five hundred and twelve thousand.”

            He wrote the number under the sum of lost time:

1 324 512 000	Seconds
1 324 512 000	“
0 000 000 000	Seconds

            He pocketed his pen and paused for a long time, allowing the sight of the many zeroes to affect Mr. Fusi.

            And it had its effect.

            That there—Mr. Fusi thought, shattered—is the balance of my entire life until now.

            He was so impressed by the precise calculation that he accepted everything without protest. And the calculation itself was correct. This was one of the tricks gray gentlemen used all the time to swindle people.

            “Don’t you see,” Agent No. XYQ/384/b softly chimed in again, “that continuing to manage your assets in this way is a problem, Mr. Fusi? Wouldn’t you rather start setting some aside?”