C4 antho - Chamber Four

American Subsidiary ~291~
our robots, Herr Doktor Hühne seemed to be saying, everything
that the factory produces is “handmade.” Hühne was
the kind of urbane man you might find in a pale linen suit
smoking thin, stinking cigars, so his bluster did not throw
him forward on to the points of his elbows, anxious and combative,
but took him deeper into the chair, his fingers tepeed
and restless and occasionally pressed against his lips. “Customized
production, gentlemen,” he said in English.
“Ah, customized production,” Herr Halsa joked. He
didn’t switch to English unless he had to. “Kundenspezifische
Fertigung. I thought you wanted Reinhold to use handsaws
and toilet plungers.”
Herr Halsa leaned back, trying to work himself as low in
his chair as Herr Doktor Hühne, but of course it was impossible.
Herr Halsa spent too many of his evenings in steakhouses.
“Let’s leave American work to the Americans,” the highest-grossing
salesman said.
Herr Hühne laughed. “Yes, Handwerk in the manner of
watchmakers, not plumbers.”
Joseph pulled at his upper lip and immediately read his
own gesture. It was hardly-to-be-restrained pride. These
men could tell their jokes about “American work,” their
rather offensive jokes in which “American” replaced what
must have been “Turk” back home, and altogether forget that
Joseph was, in some ways―well, in every way―an American.
He liked to maneuver towards near-paradoxes, to insinuate
himself into scenes that most could never hope to be part
of.
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