That stem sticks in its bottle just like your soul sticks in your body, that’s how the grass protects your soul.
Their belief goes together with the burning taste in your mouth and the roaring drunk inside your head. The drinkers open the bottle, the liquid glugs into their glasses, and the first swallow slides down their throats. The soul begins to feel protected; it quivers but never buckles and never slips out of the body. Paul keeps his soul protected too; there’s never a day where he feels like giving up and packing it all in. Maybe
things would be fine if it weren’t for me, but we like being together. The drink takes his day, and the night takes his drunkenness. When I worked the early morning shift at the clothing factory, I heard the workers say: With a sewing machine, you oil the cogs, with a human machine, you oil the throat.
Back then Paul and I used to take his motorcycle to work every morning at five on the dot. We’d see the drivers with their delivery trucks parked outside the stores, the porters carrying crates, the vendors, and the moon. Now all I hear is the noise; I don’t go to the window, and I don’t look at the moon. I remember that it looks like a goose egg, and that it leaves the city on one side of the sky while the sun comes up at the other. Nothing’s changed there; that’s how it was even before I knew Paul, when I used to walk to the tram stop on foot. On the way I thought: How bizarre that something so beautiful could be up in the sky, with no law down here on earth forbidding people to look at it. Evidently it was permissible to wangle something out of the day before it was ruined in the factory. I would start to freeze, not because I was underdressed, but simply because I couldn’t get enough of the moon. At that hour the moon is almost entirely eaten away; it doesn’t know where to go after reaching the city. The sky has to loosen its grip on the earth as day begins to break. The streets run steeply up and down, and the streetcars travel back and forth like rooms ablaze with light.
I know the trams from the inside too. The people getting on at this early hour wear short sleeves, carry worn leather bags, and have goose pimples on both arms. Each newcomer is measured and judged with a casual glance. This is a strictly working-class affair. Better people take their cars to work. But here, among your own, you make comparisons: that person’s better off than me, that one looks worse. No one’s ever in the
exact same boat as you—that would be impossible. There’s not much time, we’re almost at the factories, and now all the people who’ve been sized up leave the tram, one after the other. Shoes polished or dusty, heels new and straight or worn down to an angle, collars freshly ironed or crumpled, hair parted or not, fingernails, watchstraps, belt buckles: every single detail provokes envy or contempt. Nothing escapes this sleepy scrutiny, even in the pushing crowd. The working class ferrets out the differences: in the cold light of morning there is no equality. The sun is in the streetcar, along for the ride, and outside as well, pulling back the white and red clouds in anticipation of the scorching midday heat. No one is wearing a jacket: the freezing cold in the morning counts as fresh air, because with noon will come the clogging dust and infernal heat.
If I haven’t been summoned, we can sleep in for several hours. Daytime sleep is not deep black; it’s shallow and yellow. Our sleep is restless, the sunlight falls on our pillows. But it does make the day a little shorter. We’ll be under observation soon enough; the day’s not going to run away. They can always accuse us of something, even if we sleep till nearly noon. As it is, we’re always being accused of something we can no longer do anything about. You can sleep all you want, but the day’s still out there waiting, and a bed is not another country. They won’t let us rest till we’re lying next to Lilli.
Of course Paul also has to sleep off his drunk. It takes him until about noon to get his head square on his shoulders and relocate his mouth so he can actually speak and not just slur his words in a voice thick with drink. His breath still smells, though, and when he steps into the kitchen I feel as if I were passing the open door of the bar downstairs. Since spring, drinking hours have been regulated, and consumption of liquor is prohibited before eleven. But the bar still opens at
six—brandy is served in coffee cups before eleven; after that they bring out the glasses.
Paul drinks and is no longer himself, then he sleeps it off and is back to being himself. Around noon it looks as if everything could turn out all right, but once again it turns out ruined. Paul goes on protecting his soul until the buffalo grass is high and dry, while I brood over who he and I really are until I can no longer think straight. At lunchtime we’re sitting at the kitchen table, and any mention of his having been drunk yesterday is the wrong thing to say. Even so, I occasionally toss out a word or two:
Drink won’t change a thing.
Why are you making my life so difficult.
You could paint this entire kitchen with what you put away yesterday.
True, the flat is small, and I don’t want to avoid Paul; but when we stay at home, we spend too much of the day sitting in the kitchen. By mid-afternoon he’s already drunk, and in the evening it gets worse. I put off talking because it makes him grumpy. I keep waiting through the night, until he’s sober again and sitting in the kitchen with eyes like onions. But then whatever I say goes right past him. I’d like for Paul to admit I’m right, just for once. But drinkers never admit anything, not even silently to themselves—and they’re not about to let anyone else squeeze it out of them, especially somebody who’s waiting to hear the admission. The minute Paul wakes up, his thoughts turn to drinking, though he denies it. That’s why there’s never any truth. If he’s not sitting silently at the table, letting my words go right past him, he says something like this, meant to last the entire day:
Don’t fret, I’m not drinking out of desperation. I drink because I like it.
That may be the case, I say, since you seem to think with your tongue.
Paul looks out the kitchen window at the sky, or into his cup. He dabs at the drops of coffee on the table, as if to confirm that they’re wet and really will spread if he smears them with a finger. He takes my hand, I look out the kitchen window at the sky, into the cup, I too dab at the odd drop of coffee on the table. The red enamel tin stares at us and I stare back. But Paul does not, because that would mean doing something different today from what he did yesterday. Is he being strong or weak when he remains silent instead of saying for once: I’m not going to drink today. Yesterday Paul again said:
Don’t you fret, your man drinks because he likes it.
His legs carried him down the hall—at once too heavy and too light—as if they contained a mix of sand and air. I placed my hand upon his neck and stroked the stubble I love to touch in the mornings, the whiskers that grow in his sleep. He drew my hand up under his eye, it slid down his cheek to his chin. I didn’t take away my fingers, but I did think to myself:
I wouldn’t count on any of this cheek-to-cheek business after you’ve seen that picture of the two plums.
I like to hear Paul talk that way, so late in the morning, and yet I don’t like it either. Whenever I take a step away from him, he nudges his love up to me, so naked, so close that he doesn’t need to say anything else. He doesn’t have to wait, I’m ready with my approval, not a single reproach on the tip of my tongue. The one in my head quickly fades. It’s good I can’t see myself, since my face feels stupid and pale. Yesterday morning, Paul’s hangover once again yielded up an unexpected pussycat gentleness that came padding on soft paws.
Your man
—the only people who talk like that have shallow wits and too much pride tucked around the corners of their mouths. Although the
noontime tenderness paves the way for the evening’s drinking, I depend on it, and I don’t like the way I need it.
Major Albu says: I can see what you’re thinking, there’s no point in denying it, we’re just wasting time. Actually, it’s only my time being wasted; after all, he’s doing his job. He rolls up his sleeve and glances at the clock. The time is easy to see, but not what I’m thinking. If Paul can’t see what I’m thinking, then certainly this man can’t.
Paul sleeps next to the wall, while my place is toward the front edge of the bed, since I’m often unable to sleep. Still, whenever he wakes up he says:
You were taking up the whole bed and shoved me right up against the wall.
To which I reply:
No way, I was on this little strip here no wider than a clothesline, you were the one taking up the middle.
One of us could sleep in the bed and the other on the sofa. We’ve tried it. For two nights we took turns. Both nights I did nothing but toss around. My brain was grinding down thought after thought, and toward morning, when I was half asleep, I had a series of bad dreams. Two nights of bad dreams that kept reaching out and clutching at me all day long. The night I was on the sofa, my first husband put the suitcase on the bridge over the river, gripped me by the back of my neck, and roared with laughter. Then he looked at the water and whistled that song about love falling apart and the river water turning black as ink. The water in my dream was not like ink, I could see it, and in the water I saw his face, turned upside down and peering up from the depths, from where the pebbles had settled. Then a white horse ate apricots in a thicket of trees. With every apricot it raised its head and spat out the stone like a human
being. And the night I had the bed to myself, someone grabbed my shoulder from behind and said:
Don’t turn around, I’m not here.
Without moving my head, I just squinted out of the corners of my eyes. Lilli’s fingers were gripping me, her voice was that of a man, so it wasn’t her. I raised my hand to touch her and the voice said:
What you can’t see you can’t touch.
I saw the fingers, they were hers, but someone else was using them. Someone I couldn’t see. And in the next dream, my grandfather was pruning back a hydrangea that had been frost-burnt by the snow. He called me over: Come take a look, I’ve got a lamb here.
Snow was falling on his trousers, his shears were clipping off the heads of the frost-browned flowers. I said:
That’s not a lamb.
It’s not a person, either, he said.
His fingers were numb and he could only open and close the shears slowly, so that I wasn’t sure whether it was the shears that were squeaking or his hand. I tossed the shears into the snow. They sank in so that it was impossible to tell where they had fallen. He combed the entire yard looking for them, his nose practically touching the snow. When he reached the garden gate I stepped on his hands so he’d look up and not go wandering off through the gate, searching the whole white street. I said:
Stop it, the lamb’s frozen and the wool got burnt in the frost.
By the garden fence was another hydrangea, one that had been pruned bare. I gestured to it:
What’s wrong with that one.
That one’s the worst, he said. Come spring it’ll be having little ones. We can’t have that.
The morning after the second night, Paul said:
If we’re in each other’s way, at least it means we each have someone. The only place you sleep alone is in your coffin, and that’ll happen soon enough. We should stay together at night. Who knows the dreams he had and promptly forgot.
He was talking about sleeping, however, not dreaming. At half past four in the morning I saw Paul asleep in the gray light, a twisted face above a double chin. And at that early hour, down by the shops, people were cursing out loud and laughing. Lilli said:
Curses ward off evil spirits.
Idiot, get your foot out of the way. Move, or do you have shit in your shoes. Open those great flapping ears of yours and you’ll hear what I’m saying, but watch you don’t blow away in this wind. Never mind your hair, we haven’t finished unloading. A woman was clucking, short and hoarse like a hen. A van door slammed. Lend a hand, you moron. If you want a rest you should check into a sanatorium.
Paul’s clothes were strewn on the floor. The new day was already in the wardrobe mirror, the day on which I have been summoned, today. I got up, careful to place my right foot on the floor before my left, as I always do when I’ve been summoned. I can’t say for sure I really believe in it, but how could it hurt.
What I’d like to know is whether other people’s brains control their good fortune as well as their thoughts. My brain’s only good for a little fortune. It’s not up to shaping a whole life. At least not mine. I’ve already come to terms with what fortune I have, even though Paul wouldn’t consider it very good at all. Every other day or so I declare:
I’m doing just fine.
Paul’s face is right in front of me, quiet and still, gaping at what I’ve just said, as if our having each other didn’t count. He says:
You feel fine because you’ve forgotten what that means for other people.
Others might mean their life as a whole when they say: I’m doing just fine. All I’m talking about is my good fortune. Paul realizes that life is something I haven’t come to terms with—and I don’t simply mean I haven’t done so yet, that it’s only a matter of time.
Just look at us, says Paul, how can you go on about being fortunate.
Quick as a handful of flour hitting a windowpane, the bathroom light cast a face into the mirror, a face with froggy creases over its eyes which looked like me. I held my hands in the water, it felt warm; on my face it felt cold. Brushing my teeth, I look up and see toothpaste come frothing out of my eyes—it’s not the first time I’ve had this happen. I feel nauseous, I spit out what’s in my mouth and stop. Ever since my first summons, I’ve begun to distinguish between life and fortune. When I go in for questioning, I have no choice but to leave my good fortune at home. I leave it in Paul’s face, around his eyes, his mouth, amid his stubble. If it could be seen, you’d see it on his face like a transparent glaze. Every time I have to go, I want to stay behind in the flat, like the fear I always leave behind and which I can’t take away from Paul. Like the fortune I leave at home when I’m away. He doesn’t know how much my good fortune has come to rely upon his fear. He couldn’t bear to know that. What he does know is obvious to anyone with eyes: that whenever I’ve been summoned, I put on my green blouse and eat a walnut. The blouse is one I inherited from Lilli, but
its name comes from me: the blouse that grows. If I were to take my good fortune with me, it would weaken my nerves. Albu says: