The father had nodded off and was holding the child so loosely I could see him falling any moment. Then the boy kicked him in the stomach with his shoes. The father gave a start and pulled the boy back onto his lap. The boy’s little sandals are dangling like little toys, as if his parents had dressed him that morning in some of his playthings. Their new soles had yet to step on the street. The father has handed the boy a handkerchief to play with. It’s knotted, and must have a hard object wrapped into the knot, which the child is now using to hit the windowpane. Coins maybe, keys, nails, or else screws the father doesn’t want to lose. The driver hears the banging; he turns around and says: Go on, keep it up, those windows cost money, you know. Don’t worry, says the father, we’re not going to break it. He taps on the pane and points outside and says to the boy: See that, there’s a baby inside there who’s even smaller than you. The boy drops the handkerchief and says: Mami. He sees a woman with a stroller. And the father says: Our Mami doesn’t wear sunglasses. If she did, she wouldn’t be able to see how blue your eyes are.
Whenever Paul asks me about my first husband, I say:
I’ve forgotten all that, I don’t remember a thing.
I think I have more secrets from Paul than he does from me. Lilli once said that secrets don’t go away when you tell them, what you can tell are the shells, not the kernel. That may have been true for her, but for me, if I don’t keep something concealed, then I’ve already exposed the kernel.
You call it shells, I said, when something goes as far as it did on the bridge.
But you tell the story the way it suits you, Lilli said.
How is it supposed to suit me, it doesn’t suit me at all.
Of course it makes you look bad, and him as well, Lilli said, but it suits you because you can talk about it however you like.
Not however I like. I tell it the way it was. You just don’t believe I’m telling you anything you wouldn’t tell me. That’s why you’re going on about shells.
The point is that no matter how often I tell these stories, they stay the same, like the secret about my stepfather.
The last thing I need is to drive myself crazy wondering about the alcoholic by the trash cans. And who knows what he’s thinking; after all, he’s been seeing me next to the window for days on end as well. Finally, since we’ve never managed to agree about the alcoholic, Paul and I have given up puzzling about the people down below. Whether they move in a square or in circles or straight ahead, it’s impossible to know them. Even if you go down to the street and walk right next to them, what can you tell. The fact that their gait looks alien, as if their toes were in back, has nothing to do with their feet, only with me. Of course we’re still constantly looking out our window. And even though there’s nothing puzzling about a car parked, to no apparent purpose, behind the shops, or else perched halfway on the sidewalk in front of our apartment house, where no normal person is allowed to park—this is more than enough to keep us busy.
I prefer looking out the kitchen window. There the swallows fly through a vast stretch of sky in circles of their own invention. This morning they were flying low, and I chewed my walnut and could tell by looking at them that it was a whole new day. Since I’ve been summoned, it will have to stay a window day, even if I can see half a tree to one side of the Major’s table. The tree must have grown the length of an arm since my first interrogation. In winter it’s the bare wood that marks the time, in summer it’s the foliage. The leaves nod or shake their head, depending on the wind, but I can’t rely on that. When the question is short, it means Albu wants the answer right away. Short questions aren’t necessarily the easiest.
I’ll have to think about it.
You mean you’ll have to think up some lie, he says. Of course you could have one all ready and waiting, but that takes brains. Which you don’t have, sad to say.
All right, so I’m dumb, but not so dumb as to say something that might hurt me. Nor am I dumb enough to let myself feel pressured when Albu’s trying to gauge if I’m lying or telling the truth. Sometimes his eyes are cool, sometimes they burn into me so that . . .
Sometimes Lilli is inside me and gazes too long into Albu’s eyes.
I shuffle my shoes under the table, then it’s not so quiet.
O the tree has its leaves,
the tea has its water,
money has its paper,
and my heart has snow that’s fallen astray.
A winter and summer song, but for outside. In here you can quickly fall into a trap with foliage and snow. I don’t know the tree’s name, otherwise I’d sing ash, acacia, poplar in my head, and not just tree. I twist at the button on the blouse that grows. I never get as close to the branches as the Major, not from my small table. We both look at the tree at the same time. I would like to ask:
What sort of tree is that.
It would be a distraction. He wouldn’t answer me, that’s for sure, just scrape his chair forward and, with his trouser cuffs loose about his ankles, he might fiddle with his signet ring or play with the stub of his pencil and turn the question around:
Why do you need to know that.
What could I say then. He doesn’t know why I always wear the same blouse, just as he always wears his signet ring. He also doesn’t know why I twist the large button. And I don’t know why he always keeps that chewed pencil stub, no longer than a match, lying on his table. Men wear signet rings, women wear earrings. Wedding rings make you superstitious, you never take them off until you die. If the man dies, the widow takes his ring and wears it next to hers, day and night, on her ring finger. Like all married people, Albu wears his narrow wedding ring at work. But jewelry at a job like that, tormenting people. It’s not an ugly ring by any means, and if it weren’t his it would be beautiful. The same is true of his eyes, cheeks, earlobes. I’m sure Lilli would gladly have stretched out her hands to stroke him; maybe even have introduced him to me one day as her lover.
He’s good-looking, I’d have had to say.
Lilli’s beauty was a given, what your eyes saw wasn’t to blame for dazzling them so. Her nose, the curve of her neck, her ear, her knee, in your amazement you wanted to protect them, cover them with your hand, you were afraid for them, and your thoughts turned to death. But it never occurred to me that such skin might someday wrinkle. Between her being young and being dead, it never crossed my mind that Lilli might age. With Albu’s skin, age is simply there, as if his flesh had nothing to do with it. His age is a rank to which he has been promoted in recognition of his sterling work. From this point on, nothing more will change, he will maintain his superiority, with nothing else to come but death. I wish it would come soon. Albu’s good looks are flawless, tailor-made for interrogations, his personal appearance is never at risk, not even when he’s slobbering on my hand. Perhaps it is his very distinction that forbids him to mention Lilli. The chewed pencil on his table doesn’t suit him, or anyone else his age. Surely Albu doesn’t need to save on pencils. Perhaps he’s proud that his grandson is teething. A photo of his grandson might serve instead of the pencil stub, except that here, as in all offices, it’s probably forbidden to put family pictures on display. Perhaps a stub like that works well for his upright script. Or maybe a longer pencil would rub at his signet ring. Or maybe the stub is supposed to let me know exactly how much is being written about people like me. We know everything, Albu says. Maybe so—and here I agree with Lilli—about the shells of the dead. But nothing about their secrets, nothing about the kernels, about Lilli, whom Albu never mentions. Nothing about good fortune or common sense, which together may cause something tomorrow that I cannot foresee today. And nothing about what chance may bring the day after tomorrow; after all, I am alive . . .
There’s nothing special about the fact that Albu and I are looking at the tree together. Our eyes fall on other things at the same time as well: my table or his, a section of wall, the door, or the floor. Or he looks at his pencil and I look at my finger. Or he looks at his ring and I l
ook at my large button. Or he looks at my face and I look at the wall. Or I look at his face and he looks at the door. Constantly looking each other in the face is tiring, particularly for me. The only things I trust here are the ones that don’t change. But the tree is growing: it gave the blouse its name. I may leave my happiness at home, but the blouse that grows is here.
If I haven’t been summoned, I go into town on foot, taking side streets as far as the Korso. Beneath the acacias it’s raining either white flowers or yellow leaves. Or if nothing is falling, then the wind is rushing down. When I was still going to the factory, I rarely made it into town during the middle of the day—not more than twice a year. I had no idea so many people weren’t at work at that hour. Unlike me, they are all paid to run around, having made up stories of burst pipes, illness, or funerals to tell the boss, and even bask in the sympathy of their colleagues and superiors before setting off on their outing. Just once I had my grandfather die because I wanted to buy a pair of gray platform shoes when the shops opened at nine on the dot. I’d seen them in the window late the previous afternoon. I lied, went into town, bought the shoes, and then the lie came true. Four days later at dinner my grandfather fell from his chair, dead. When the telegram arrived early the next morning, I took my three-day-old gray platforms and held them under the tap to make them swell. I put them on, went to the office and said I’d need the next two days off since my kitchen was flooded. Whenever I tell a bad lie, it comes true. I took the train to attend the funeral. My shoes dried on my feet from one station to the next; I got out at the eleventh. The whole world was upside down, I carried the funeral from my lie all the way to that little town and then found myself standing in the cemetery facing the flood in the kitchen. The thump of the clods falling on the coffin lid sounded like my gray shoes on the path as I followed the procession.
In those days I was a good liar. Nobody ever found me out. But the trouble was that the lies themselves began to take me at my word. Since then I’ve preferred to be caught in a lie rather than be caught by trouble. The exception is Albu—there I’m good at lying.
These days I walk aimlessly into town. Riding to the factory never seemed to make any sense. It’s hard to believe, but the senselessness kept itself better concealed in those days. If I sit down at a sidewalk café and order an ice cream, as I did yesterday, I immediately decide I want a piece of cake. In reality all I want is to sit: not even that, just stop walking for a while. Making myself comfortable, I push the chair closer to the table. Once the chair is right, I want to jump up and leave, but I’m still not ready to go on walking. From far away the streetside tables are a destination, inviting me to linger, the tablecloth corners fluttering. Only when I’m sitting comfortably does my impatience flare up. Just when my exasperation at the wait reaches the breaking point, the ice cream arrives. The table is round, so is the ice cream dish, so are the scoops of ice cream. Next come the wasps. They’re very pushy and determined to eat their fill, their heads are also round. Although I had to think twice before spending any money, I can’t bear to eat what I’ve just paid for.
Senselessness was easier for me to handle than aimlessness. Nowadays I invent goals to pursue around town instead of lies in the factory. I follow women my age. I spend hours in the clothing stores and try on the things they like. Only yesterday I put on a striped dress, deliberately backward. I plucked and pulled at it, placed my hands around the neckline as a collar, and let my fingers dangle as if they were a bow. I was beginning to like the dress. What I hadn’t reckoned with was this feeling of leaving myself behind. The dress looked as if I’d have to say goodbye quickly. My mouth was bitter, I couldn’t think of anything to say to myself in the short time I had left. I didn’t want to sit back and just let myself disappear, and I said:
Why now of all times, you won’t get far without my feet.
I said it out loud, my face turning red. I don’t want to be one of those people who look like lunatics because they’re talking to themselves out loud. Some people sing. I don’t want someone near me to shake his head because I can’t tell thinking from speaking. Having total strangers hear what you’re saying makes an even greater fool of you than if they don’t see you at all and barge right into you. Although she must have heard me, one woman for whom I obviously didn’t exist opened the curtain to my changing room, rudely set her bag on the chair, and asked:
Is this one taken.
Can’t you see it is, after all you’re speaking to me, not to an empty dressing room.
In the commotion I lost sight of the woman I had been following. I continued trying on clothes in the hope of becoming so beautiful I would begin to exist. Actually I’m not going to find anything, least of all myself, in the clothes other women want to buy. The clothes punish me; if another woman and I happen to try on the same outfit, I wind up all the more ugly by comparison. In the factory I tried on the most gorgeous dresses and strutted like a peacock, crossing the packing hall all the way to the door and back. When clothes were sewn for the West, I’d go upstairs with Lilli before the consignment was shipped. I’d try on two or three styles, one after the other.
That’s enough, Lilli would say.
Because it was strictly forbidden. Not as strictly with skirts, trousers, and jackets as with blouses and dresses. We were allowed to buy dresses from the factory just before International Labor Day on the first of May and again in August before the Day of Liberation from the Yoke of Fascism. The office people bought the most. The dresses made for the West are more elegant and no more expensive than those in the shops. Unfortunately they’re also full of weaving flaws and oil stains from the sewing machines, otherwise they’d be too good for the likes of us. Many people bought them by the sack: better weaving flaws and oil stains that never come out than the low-grade, mousy clothes in the state-owned stores. But I couldn’t stand the weaving flaws and stains, and on top of everything else, I knew how attractive the dresses were that we weren’t allowed to buy. The ones that wind up looking so nice on Italian, Canadian, Swedish, and French women, different ones for every season of their easygoing lives. Cutting, stitching, finishing, ironing, packing, and knowing all the time that you’re not worthy of the final product. No doubt a lot of women thought:
Better a few coarse weaving flaws and black oil stains than nothing.
Because of the flaws and stains, and because I didn’t want to have the factory at home in my wardrobe after spending the entire day there, I refused to buy the dresses. Sundays walking through the park wearing the factory rejects, eating ice cream in the café. The envious looks those dresses get you. You stand out. Everyone knows where you work, where you got them.
When Lilli and I went to the Korso after work and I went into the shops instead of continuing our walk, she would wait outside. I didn’t have to hurry, Lilli disapproved if I came back too quickly. She’d stand with her back to the shop window and look at the sky, trees, asphalt, at the old men too, no doubt. I’d have to tug at her arm as if I’d been the one waiting for her, not the other way around. I’d say:
Come on, let’s go.
What’s the rush, she’d ask, aren’t we going for a walk.
We can walk slowly, but let’s just get away from here.
Didn’t you like the clothes.
What is it you like so much about standing here.
She clicked her tongue.
Soft steps and a slightly stooped back, that’s what I like.
And so.
So what.
How many have you seen, I’d ask.
Her lack of interest in shops had nothing to do with the factory. Even before, Lilli never had any time for clothes. Still, men would turn around to look at Lilli. I’d have noticed her too, if I had been a man. The worse she dressed, the more striking her beauty. It was all right for her, but I’d been vain since I was a child. When I was five I cried because my new coat was too big for me. My grandfather said:
You’ll grow into it, wear some heavy clothes underneath,
then it’ll fit. In the old days, two or maybe three coats would have to last your entire life, if you were lucky, and that was if you were rich.
I’d put it on because I had to. But as soon as I’d turned the corner by the bread factory, I’d take it off. For two winters I carried it more than I wore it, I preferred being cold to looking ugly. And two snows later, when the coat finally fitted me, I refused to wear it because it was now too old as well as ugly.
If I were going to my hairdresser’s, I’d have to get off right here, next to the student dormitories. I’d much prefer having my hair permed today, or even styled in a bun the way the old secretaries wear it. In fact, I’d rather be having my head shorn beyond recognition at ten sharp than be knocking on Albu’s door. Than lose my wits while he kisses my hand. A beam of sunlight is beating down on the driver’s cheek, the window next to him is open, but there’s no wind coming through. He brushes the grains of salt off the console but doesn’t touch his second crescent roll. Why buy three if all he needs is one. Leaving the tram to sit there, dashing off to the shops, then coming back and putting on this hunger act for all the people he’s kept waiting. The child has fallen asleep, clutching the handkerchief. The father is resting his head against the window, and although his hair is matted and dull from days without washing, the sun has set it aglow. Can’t he feel that the tram’s windowpane is even hotter than the sun outside. For the moment I’m safe in the shade, until we reach the bend in the tracks, and even then there’s a chance the sun will keep to the other side of the car. I don’t want to show up at Albu’s dripping with sweat. I’m not sure I’d go so far as to switch seats, with so few passengers I’d get stared at. You need a reason. The father could move to the shady side anytime he wants, a small child counts as a reason. The father could change seats if the boy started to cry, in case it was because of the sun. On the other hand, if the tram were full he couldn’t possibly do that, he’d be lucky to find a seat at all. No matter how much the child cried, the passengers wouldn’t think about the sun, they’d just ask that fool of a father if he didn’t have a pacifier for his miserable bawling brat.