Ive been summoned. Thursday, at ten sharp.
Lately Im being summoned more and more often: ten sharp
on Tuesday, ten sharp on Saturday, on Wednesday, Monday. As
if years were a week, Im amazed that winter comes so close on
the heels of late summer.
On my way to the tram stop, I again pass the shrubs withthe
white berries dangling through the fences. Like buttons made
of mother-of-pearl and sewn from underneath, or stitched right
down into the earth, or else like bread pellets. They remind me
of a flock of little white-tufted birds turning away their beaks,
but theyre really far too small for birds. Its enough to make
you giddy. Id rather think of snow sprinkled on the grass, but
that leaves you feeling lost, and the thought of chalk makes you
sleepy.
The tram doesnt run on a fixed schedule.
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It does seem to rustle, at least to my ear, unless those are
the stiff leaves of the poplars Im hearing. Here it is, already
pulling up to the stop: today it seems in a hurry to take me
away. Ive decided to let the old man in the straw hat get on
ahead of me. He was already waiting when I arrivedwho
knows how long hed been there. You couldnt exactly call him
frail, but hes hunchbacked and weary, and as skinny as his own
shadow. His backside is so slight it doesnt even fill the seat of
his pants, he has no hips, and the only bulges in his trousers are
the bags around his knees. But if hes going to go and spit,
right now, just as the door is folding open, Ill get on before
he does, regardless. The car is practically empty; he gives the
vacant seats a quick scan and decides to stand. Its amazing how
old people like him dont get tired, that they dont save their
standing for places where they cant sit. Now and then you hear
old people say: Therell be plenty of time for lying down once
Im in my coffin. But death is the last thing on their minds, and
theyre quite right. Death never has followed any particular
pattern. Young people die too. I always sit if I have a choice.
Riding in a seat is like walking while youre sitting down. The
old man is looking me over; I can sense it right away inside the
empty car. Im not in the mood to talk, though, or else Id ask
him what hes gaping at. He couldnt care less that his staring
annoys me. Meanwhile half the city is going by outside the
window, trees alternating with buildings. They say old people
like him can sense things better than young people. Old people
might even sense that today Im carrying a small towel, a toothbrush,
and some toothpaste in my handbag. And no handkerchief,
since Im determined not to cry. Paul didnt realize how
terrified I was that today Albu might take me down to the cell
below his office. I didnt bring it up. If that happens, hell find
out soon enough. The tram is moving slowly. The band on the
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old mans straw hat is stained, probably with sweat, or else the
rain. As always, Albu will slobber a kiss on my hand by way of
greeting.
Major Albu lifts my hand by the fingertips, squeezing my nails
so hard I could scream. He presses one wet lip to my fingers, so
he can keep the other free to speak. He always kisses my hand
the exact same way, but what he says is always different:
Well well, your eyes look awfully red today.
I think youve got a mustache coming. A little young for
that, arent you.
My, but your little hand is cold as ice todayhope theres
nothing wrong with your circulation.
Uh-oh, your gums are receding. Youre beginning to look
like your own grandmother.
My grandmother didnt live to grow old, I say. She never
had time to lose her teeth. Albu knows all about my grandmothers
teeth, which is why hes bringing them up.
As a woman, I know how I look on any given day. I also
know that a kiss on the hand shouldnt hurt, that it shouldnt
feel wet, that it should be delivered to the back of the hand.
The art of hand kissing is something men know even better
than womenand Albu is hardly an exception. His entire head
reeks of Avril, a French eau de toilette that my father-in-law,
the Perfumed Commissar, used to wear too. Nobody else I
know would buy it. A bottle on the black market costs more
than a suit in a store. Maybe its called Septembre, Im not sure,
but theres no mistaking that acrid, smoky smell of burning
leaves.
Once Im sitting at the small table, Albu notices me rubbing
my fingers on my skirt, not only to get the feeling back
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into them but also to wipe the saliva off. He fiddles with his
signet ring and smirks. Let him: its easy enough to wipe off
somebodys spit; it isnt poisonous, and it dries up all by itself.
Its something everybody has. Some people spit on the pavement,
then rub it in with their shoe since its not polite to spit,
not even on the pavement. Certainly Albu isnt one to spit on
the pavementnot in town, anyway, where no one knows who
he is and where he acts the refined gentleman. My nails hurt,
but hes never squeezed them so hard my fingers turned blue.
Eventually theyll thaw out, the way they do when its freezing
cold and you come into the warm. The worst thing is this feeling
that my brain is slipping down into my face. Its humiliating,
theres no other word for it, when your whole body feels
like its barefoot. But what if there arent any words at all, what
if even the best word isnt enough.
Ive been listening to the alarm clock since three in the morning
ticking ten sharp, ten sharp, ten sharp. Whenever Paul is
asleep, he kicks his leg from one side of the bed to the other and
then recoils so fast he startles himself, although he doesnt wake
up. Its become a habit with him. No more sleep for me. I lie
there awake, and I know I need to close my eyes if Im going
back to sleep, but I dont close them. Ive frequently forgotten
how to sleep, and have had to relearn each time. Its either
extremely easy or utterly impossible. In the early hours just
before dawn, every creature on earth is asleep: even dogs and
cats only use half the night for prowling around the dumpsters.
If youre sure you cant sleep anyway, its easier to think of
something bright inside the darkness than to simply shut your
eyes in vain. Snow, whitewashed tree trunks, white-walled
rooms, vast expanses of sandthats what Ive thought of to
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pass the time, more often than I would have liked, until it grew
light. This morning I could have thought about sunflowers,
and I did, but they werent enough to dislodge the summons.
And with the alarm clock ticking ten sharp, ten sharp, ten
sharp, my thoughts raced to Major Albu even before they
shifted to me and Paul. Today I was already awake when Paul
started thrashing in his sleep. By the time the window sta