Once she took me to the summer garden of the officers’ mess and introduced me to her officer. He was wearing civilian clothes, a short-sleeved shirt with narrow stripes and lightweight gray trousers that reached high up under his arms. He had no ribs and no hips. In his deep, quiet voice he said: It’s a pleasure to meet you, miss.
He kissed my hand. A finely practiced kiss from the old royal age, dry and light and in the middle of my hand. Young men in uniform were sitting at the surrounding tables. Naturally Lilli attracted their attention, the uniformed men were mad about beautiful women, they threw match heads at Lilli. They figured out that she was the officer’s skirt, not me.
It had been a long time since the last war. Idleness threatened to erode military discipline, which had to be shored up with so-called precision work, namely, the conquest of beautiful women. Beauty was graded according to the face, the curve of the backside, the shapeliness of the calves seen together, and the breasts. The breasts were dubbed apples, pears, or windfall peaches, depending on the position of the nipples. The conquest of women has taken the place of maneuvers, the soldiers were told. Everything between her neck and thighs has to be just right. The legs and face aren’t so important: once you’ve got her legs apart and you’re going at it, you can always shut your eyes if you don’t want to look at her face. With breasts, though, it’s a different matter. Apples are good, pears are okay, but windfalls are always overripe and beneath consideration for soldiers. Each conquest, so they said, keeps your body’s joints oiled and helps maintain your inner balance. And that improves the harmony of your marriage. The old officer had thoroughly educated Lilli about the best tactics for combating idleness in peacetime. He too had been on constant maneuvers, Lilli said, until his wife died. She was fifty and he was six years older. After she died he no longer had to pretend that the satisfying work that produced his sweet weariness was done in the field rather than other women’s beds. He visited the cemetery every day; chasing after women now seemed stale.
All the women I knew suddenly sounded like cackling hens and tasted like sour fruit, he said, especially the very young ones. Life became a mincing parade of calves drawn taut by stiletto heels marching across the asphalt, from the barracks to the officers’ mess and back. Between the sheets the women were all barefoot, moist, and groaning. Any moment was as good as another for dying, he was afraid they might do it underneath him.
Taken each on his own, every uniformed man in that summer garden was a loser, even with the pears and the windfalls. And Lilli had small firm summer apples. After only a few words Lilli would have sent any one of them packing. They guessed as much, which was why they practiced the conquest of Lilli together, as a regimental exercise. In their view, Lilli’s officer no longer needed to oil his joints, he was past precision work, it was time he was relieved. They pressured him to give others a go at Lilli’s gorgeous flesh. As they tossed one match head after the other, the wedding rings they wore on their fingers glinted in the sun, while their eyes, fixed on their target, flashed like greased bullets. The old man set the ashtray next to his hand and said:
They’re sick. We should have gone somewhere else.
He gathered the match heads from the table and tossed them into the ashtray. His hands were as white and slender as a pharmacist’s. Neither he nor Lilli made a move to get up. They weren’t pretending to be calm; they were merely being patient. I couldn’t understand it, you only have that kind of patience if you know you won’t need it long. The officer’s temples were pulsing, but his face was still smooth, dappled beneath the sunshade like blotchy paper. The way Lilli looked at him, utterly without reserve, was new to me. Her gaze and his—like plums falling into still water. When he leaned in to take Lilli’s hand, his belly slid forward like a ball. Another two matches landed on the table. Now he’ll get angry, I thought. But he merely gathered these as well, using his free hand, while he was so sure of Lilli’s hand that he suddenly started to sing to her, softly:
A horse is coming into camp
with a window in its head.
Do you see the tower looming high and blue . . .
The fact that he’d sing at all, so deep, although without revealing anything of his inner self, was moving enough. But the idea that he knew the song in the first place cut me to the quick. My grandfather used to sing the same song; he had learned it in the camp. The officer was obviously counting on Lilli and me being too young to know it. My God, it would have tied his tongue if I had joined in. As it was, the song sounded awkward, here at the table, simply because I was sitting between them, listening. I looked up and saw where the umbrella fabric had worn through at the spokes. We ourselves were caught in the spokes of a great wheel, and I was violating a secret. For the officer, Lilli wasn’t just another pleasant pastime, he loved her. And when he stopped singing, I left Lilli sitting beside him in the officers’ mess and went walking through town in a daze. Already then they must have been thinking about getting out. He had two grown-up sons in Canada, that’s where he wanted to take her.
The sun was beating down, the leaves fluttered green and yellow in the linden trees, but only the yellow ones drifted to the ground. However I looked at it, green stood for Lilli and yellow for him.
This man’s too old for Lilli.
I bumped into other pedestrians, didn’t see them in time. That afternoon I was utterly alone, and remained so until the next morning in the factory when Lilli called me over to talk about the officer.
Since the business with the notes I was no longer allowed in the packing hall. Lilli was waiting in the corridor as I climbed the stairs. We went to a corner in the back, she squatted on her heels, I leaned my shoulder against the wall and said:
His face is young, but his stomach’s round as a ball, like the setting sun.
At this Lilli stiffened, anchored her fingertips on the floor, and opened her eyes wide. I had hurt her feelings. A vein swelled inside her throat, her mouth hardened as if she were going to shout. But Lilli took my hand and pulled me down to her, so that I too was crouching, holding on to her hip. A man with an armload of coat hangers came shuffling past, pretending not to see us. Lilli whispered:
When he lies down, the setting sun goes flat as a pillow.
I was looking at Lilli’s feet. When the second toe’s longer than the big toe, they call it a widow’s toe. Lilli’s was like that. She said:
He calls me Cherry.
The name didn’t fit her blue eyes. The man with the coat hangers was moving further and further away. After he closed the door of the packing hall behind him, Lilli said:
The wind plucks cherries off the branch. Isn’t it great: you’re the one with such dark eyes and I’m the one he calls Cherry.
Sunlight fell in the corridor, while fluorescent lights were burning overhead. We were two tired children, sitting there like that.
Was he in a camp, I asked.
Lilli didn’t know.
Will you ask him.
Lilli nodded.
Strange, not a single sound came from the factory yard, and in the corridor it was so still you could hear the crackle of the fluorescent lights.
Now I believe the old officer needed to search out Lilli because he’d already come to terms with her death—even before he met her. That when he first saw her he halted like a stopwatch and said: This is the one for me. Despite the fact that he was retired, he was still drawn to the officers’ mess, to the uniforms—though his own had been laid aside, it had melded with his skin. Deep down he wanted to remain a soldier. He wanted to take Lilli where people would see him in the uniform he had once worn, despite the short-sleeved shirt with narrow stripes he now had on. To show off his conquest in the soldiers’ garden, and, when he was alone with Lilli, to work his late craving for love to a fervor that outdid Lilli’s beauty. A man of his kind knew plenty about soldiers, dogs, and bullets at the border. But his fear that Death might desire Lilli as greatly as he did yielded to the conviction that Lilli could look Death in t
he eye and stare Death down, both for his sake as well as her own. He saw too much, and was blinded. He risked Lilli, who meant more to him than reason can bear.
Everyone getting on in years thinks of times gone by. The snot-nosed border guard who shot Lilli resembled the old officer in his own memories of youth. The guard was a young farmer, or a laborer. Maybe he began his studies a month or so afterward, and went on to become a teacher or doctor or priest or engineer. Who knows. When he fired, he was just a man on duty, a miserable sentry under a vast heaven where the wind whistled loneliness day and night. Lilli’s living flesh gave him shivers, and her death was heaven-sent, an unexpected gift of ten days’ leave. Perhaps he wrote unhappy letters like my first husband. Perhaps a woman like me was waiting, someone who, although she couldn’t measure up to the dead woman, could nonetheless laugh and caress her man in the grip of love until he felt like a human being. Perhaps at that moment it was the thought of his good fortune that pulled the trigger, and then the shot rang out. From far away there was barking, followed by shouting. Lilli’s officer was handcuffed, taken away to a tin hut, and guarded by the youth who had fired the shot, immersed in thoughts of his good fortune. Lilli lay where she had fallen. The hut was open at the front. On the floor was a water tank, a bench along the wall, in the corner a stretcher. The guard took a deep drink of water, washed his face, pulled his shirt out of his trousers, wiped himself dry, and sat down. The prisoner was not allowed to sit, although he was permitted to look over at the grass where Lilli lay. Five dogs came running, their legs flying over the grass, which was as high as their throats. Trailing far behind, a number of hard-driven soldiers ran after them. By the time they reached Lilli, it was not only her dress that was in tatters. The dogs had torn Lilli’s body to shreds. Under their muzzles Lilli lay red as a bed of poppies. The soldiers drove off the dogs and stood around in a circle. Then two of them went to the hut, took a drink of water, and carried back the stretcher.
Lilli’s stepfather told me this. Red as a bed of poppies, he said. And when he said it, I thought of cherries.
The boy has fallen asleep in the sun. The father tugs at the handkerchief, the fingers loosen, the boy goes on sleeping even while his father bends the little arm back so he can return the handkerchief to its jacket pocket. Even while the father stands up, spreads his legs, and turns the boy around so his back is facing forward and his open mouth is pressed against the father’s shoulder. We’re almost at the main post office. The father carries the child to the door of the car. The tram comes to a stop, the temporary silence makes the car seem even emptier. The driver reaches for the second crescent roll, then hesitates and takes a swig from his bottle. Why is he drinking before he eats. The giant blue mailbox is in front of the post office, how many letters can it take. If it were up to me to fill it, it would never have to be emptied. Since the notes meant for Italy, I haven’t written to a soul—just told someone something now and then: you have to talk, but you don’t have to write. The driver is munching away at his second roll, it must have dried out a little, judging by the crumbs. Outside, the father carries the sleeping boy across the middle of the street, where there isn’t a safe crossing. If a car comes now he won’t make it. How’s he supposed to run carrying a child, and a sleeping child at that. Maybe he checked to make sure there was nothing coming before he crossed. But he’d have to look over the boy’s head to see what might be coming from the right, and he could easily miss something. If there’s an accident, it’ll be his fault. This is the same man who, before the boy fell asleep, said: Our Mami doesn’t wear sunglasses. If she did, she wouldn’t see how blue your eyes are. He walks up to the post office, carrying the child like a parcel. If the boy doesn’t wake up, he’ll put him in the mail. An old woman sticks her head in the open door and asks: Does this tram go to the market. Why don’t you read what’s on the sign, the driver says. I’m not wearing my glasses, she says. Well, we just go and follow our nose and if that takes us to the market then we’ll get there. The old woman gets in, and the driver starts up. A young man takes a running jump on board. He’s panting so loud it takes my breath away.
I had spotted Lilli’s stepfather at a table outside a café. He pretended not to recognize me, but I said good morning before he could turn his head away. That morning it had looked like rain, and many of the sidewalk tables were unoccupied. I sat down at his. It’s all right to bother people sitting at sidewalk tables. He ordered a coffee and said nothing. I also ordered a coffee and said nothing. This time I had an umbrella crooked over my arm, and he was wearing a straw hat. He looked different than he had at Lilli’s funeral. As he tossed shriveled acacia leaves from the tablecloth into the ashtray he looked more like Lilli’s officer. But his hands were clumsy and ungainly. Once the waitress had set our coffees on the table, he put his thumb on the handle of his cup and turned it around and around on the saucer until it squeaked. Grains of sugar stuck to his thumb, he rubbed them off with his index finger, then lifted his cup and slurped.
This is so weak it’s thinner than pantyhose, he said.
Was that supposed to make me think about his love in the kitchen. I said: It could be stronger.
At that he gave a brief laugh and raised his eyes as if he were resigned to my presence.
I’m sure Lilli told you that I used to be an officer too, but that’s long ago now. I managed to visit Lilli’s officer in prison. I didn’t know him earlier, only his name, from years ago. Did you know him.
By sight, I said.
He had better luck than Lilli, he said, or maybe not, depending. Things look pretty bad for him.
He flattened a crumpled acacia leaf with his index finger, it tore down the middle, he threw it onto the ground, spluttered, coughed, cleared his throat, looked in the ashtray, and said:
It’s almost fall.
That’s something I can talk about with anyone, I thought, and said:
Pretty soon.
You asked at the funeral what Lilli looked like. Are you sure you want to know.
I gripped my cup so he couldn’t see how my hand was shaking. More and more drops were falling onto the tablecloth, nevertheless he pulled his straw hat down over his eyes and went on:
The officer paid a fortune. A man with a motorbike and sidecar was supposed to be waiting on the Hungarian side. And he did wait, the week before, but only long enough to get his money; after that he didn’t wait to go to the police and pick up another nice little bundle. Look over there, said Lilli’s stepfather, it’s clearing up again behind the park.
Lilli had loved a hotel porter, a doctor, a dealer in leather goods, a photographer. Old men, to my way of thinking, at least twenty years older than she was. She didn’t call any of them old. She’d say:
He isn’t exactly young.
But until the old officer, none of the men had ever come between Lilli and me, had ever caused me to feel one way or the other. He was the only one who made her neglect me. It was the first time I’d been left to my own devices—as happened that day in the officers’ mess—for an extended period. Here this man comes shuffling along, having already enjoyed the best years of his life, and snaps up Lilli. I was sad and jealous, but not in the obvious way. It wasn’t the old man I envied, but Lilli for having him. I didn’t find the old man the least bit attractive, but there was something about him that made you sorry for not liking him. Even sorry that he didn’t care for you. Between the old officer and myself I felt regret, but it was regret about something I neither would have wanted nor allowed. He was a man who aroused no desire and who left you no peace. That’s why I had to say his stomach was round as a ball, like the setting sun. The remark was directed at Lilli, not him. And that makes me, too, part of his coming to terms with her death.
Lilli liked old men, her stepfather was the first. She forced herself on him; she wanted to sleep with him and told him so. He kept her on tenterhooks, but she refused to give up. One day, when Lilli’s mother had gone to the hairdresser’s, Lilli asked him how much
longer he was going to go on avoiding her. He sent her out to buy bread. There was no line in the shop: she got her bread and was back in no time.
Where do you want me to go now so you can get a grip on yourself, she asked.
And he asked in return whether she was sure she could keep so huge a secret.
Even a child has secrets, Lilli said to me, and I wasn’t a child anymore. I put the loaf down on the kitchen table and pulled my dress over my head as if it were a handkerchief. That’s how it all started. It went on for over two years, nearly every day except Sundays, and always in a rush, always in the kitchen, we never touched the beds. He’d send my mother to the shop, sometimes there’d be a long line, sometimes a short one, she never caught us.
Apart from me, only three others from the factory dared attend Lilli’s funeral. Two girls from the packing department came of their own accord. The rest refused to have anything to do with an escape attempt and the way it had ended. The third person was Nelu, he came on orders. One of the two girls pointed out Lilli’s stepfather to me. He was carrying a black umbrella on his arm. That day it didn’t look like rain, the sky was soaring in a great blue arc, the flowers in the cemetery smelled of fresh breezes, not pungent and heavy the way they do before a rain. And the flies were flitting about the flowers, not buzzing around your head the way they do before a thunderstorm. I couldn’t decide whether carrying an umbrella in that weather made a man look dignified or affected. One thing was certain, it made him look different. A little like an aimless idler, but also like a practiced scoundrel with crooked ways, who visits the cemetery at the same time every day and not for the peace it affords. Someone who might keep tabs on who shows up at this grave or that.
Nelu was carrying a small bunch of sweet peas, little ruffled white flowers. In his hands, snow on a stem was as wrong as the stepfather’s black umbrella. I walked over to Lilli’s stepfather without introducing myself. He guessed who I was.