After the meal, I read a book I have brought from home, or else I play chess. On my own. The other workers play cards, they don’t look at me.
After ten years I am still a stranger to them.
Yesterday, I found a note in my mailbox: I had to go and collect a registered letter from the post office. The note said: “Town Hall, Magistrates Court.”
I was afraid. I wanted to run away, far away, and even farther again, across the seas. Was it possible that they had tracked me down after so many years?
I go to collect the letter from the post office. I open it. I have been summoned as an interpreter in a trial where the accused is a refugee from my country. My expenses will be paid, my time off will be arranged with the factory.
I turn up at the court at the appointed time. The woman who meets me is very beautiful. So beautiful I want to call her Line. But she is too severe. She seems inaccessible.
She asks me:
“Do you still have enough of your native language to translate the proceedings of a trial?”
I say:
“I haven’t lost any of my native language.”
She says:
“You must take an oath and swear to translate what you hear word for word.”
“I swear.”
She gives me a piece of paper to sign.
I ask her:
“Do you want to go for a drink?”
She says:
“No, I am tired. Come to my place. I’m called Eve.”
We go in her car. She drives fast. She stops in front of a villa. We go into a modern kitchen. Everything in her place is modern. She pours me a drink and we sit on a large sofa in the living room.
She puts her glass down, kisses me on the mouth. She undresses slowly.
She is beautiful, more beautiful than all the women I have met in my life.
But she is not Line. She will never be Line. No one will ever be Line.
There is a whole band of fellow countrymen at Ivan’s trial. His wife is there too.
Ivan came here in November of last year. He found a small, two-room flat in which he, his wife and their three children all lived crowded together. His wife was taken on as a cleaner by the insurance company who owned the building. She cleaned the offices every evening.
After a few months, Ivan too found some work, but in another town, as a cook in a large restaurant. His work there was quite satisfactory.
Except that, once a week, he sent a parcel to his family. A parcel containing food stolen from the restaurant’s provisions. He is also accused of having dipped into the till, but he denies this and nothing is proved.
The trial is not only about these petty larcenies. Ivan’s case is much more serious. When he was locked up in the town prison awaiting trial, one evening he knocked out the guard, escaped and ran back home. His wife was at work, the children were asleep. Ivan waited for his wife so that he could run away with her but the police got there first.
“You are sentenced to eight years in prison for your attack on the guard.”
I translated. Ivan looked at me.
“Eight years? Are you sure you understood right? The guard didn’t die. I didn’t intend to kill him. He is here, in good health.”
“I’m only the translator.”
“And what about my family, what will happen to them in the next eight years? My children? What will happen to them?”
I say:
“They will grow up.”
The guards take him away. His wife faints.
After the trial I go with my fellow countrymen to the bar they have frequented since they came here. It is a noisy, popular bar in the town center, quite near where I live. We drink beer and talk about Ivan.
“He was a fool to try to get away!”
“He would have got off with a few months.”
“They might have deported him.”
“That would have been better than going to prison.”
Someone says:
“I live in the flat above Ivan’s. Since they’ve been there, I have heard his wife crying every evening when she got back from work. She sobs for hours. Back in her village she had family, neighbors, friends. I think she’ll go back now. She won’t wait eight years for Ivan here, alone with her children.”
Later I learned that Ivan’s wife had in fact returned to her country with her children. I sometimes think that I should go and see Ivan in prison, but I don’t do anything about it.
I go to the bar more and more often. I go there almost every evening. I get to know my countrymen. We sit at a long table. A girl from our country serves our drinks. She is called Vera and she works here from two o’clock until midnight. Her sister Kati and her brother-in-law Paul are regulars. Kati works in a hospital in town. They have childcare there where she can drop off her little girl who is only a few months old. Paul works in a garage, he is mad about bikes.
I also get to know Jean, a farm worker without any qualifications, who follows me everywhere. He hasn’t found any work yet and, in my opinion, never will. He is dirty, badly dressed, he still lives in the refugee center.
Paul becomes a friend. I often spend the evening at his place. His wife gets back from work, she still has to prepare the meals, do the washing, look after the baby.
Paul says:
“I’m falling asleep, but I have to wait until midnight to go and fetch Vera.”
His wife says:
“She can go home on her own. It’s a small town. She’s not in any danger.”
I say to them:
“Go to bed. I’ll take care of Vera.”
I go back to the bar. Vera is counting up all the money with the landlord. She sees me in the entrance, she smiles at me.
I say:
“Paul is tired. I’ll be walking you home this evening.”
She says:
“That’s nice of you. I could go home on my own, you know. But Paul says he is responsible for me.”
“How old are you?”
“Eighteen.”
“He’s right that you are still little more than a child.”
“You’re exaggerating.”
We go out into the street. It is past midnight. The town is deserted, completely silent. Vera takes my arm, she presses close to me. Outside the house she says:
“Kiss me.”
I kiss her on the forehead and leave her.
I go to fetch her another evening. She points out a young boy who is still sitting at the end of a table, the last customer.
“You don’t need to wait for me. Andre will walk me home.”
“Is he one of us?”
“No, he’s from here.”
“You can’t even have a conversation.”
“So what? There’s no need to talk. He’s a good kisser.”
I promise Paul not to leave Vera on her own. So I follow them to the house. Outside the door, they kiss for a long time.
I think that I should tell Paul about it, but I do nothing. I only say that I can’t go to fetch Vera anymore because I too have to go to bed early, because of my work.
So Paul goes to the bar every night and, with him around, Andre is out of the picture.
One Sunday afternoon at Paul’s, we talk about holidays. Paul is happy. He has saved up and bought himself a second-hand motorbike. Kati and he are going to make a tour of the country. They will leave the baby at the hospital nursery.
I ask:
“What about Vera? What will she do for two weeks?”
Vera says:
“I don’t have any holidays. I will work as usual. What about you, Sandor, what will you do?”
“I’m going away for a week with Yolande. We’re camping at the seaside. The second week, I can take care of you.”
“You’re too kind.”
Paul interrupts:
“Don’t worry, Sandor. I’ve asked Jean to walk Vera home at night. It’s not as if he has anything else to do. I’m giving him some money for his drinks.”
Ve
ra starts to cry:
“Thank you, Paul. You couldn’t find anyone better for me than that stinking peasant.”
She leaves the kitchen and we hear her sobbing in her bedroom. We don’t say anything. We avoid each other’s gaze.
When I get home, I think that I could marry Vera. The age difference isn’t that great, not even ten years. But first I have to get rid of Yolande. I must make the decision to leave her. During the holiday. This will allow me to cut short this dreadful trip, which will be as boring and unpleasant as last year: a whole week, day and night, with Yolande! Not to mention the heat, the mosquitoes, the crowded campsite.
As expected, the week drags by. Yolande spends all day lying on a towel in the sun, since the only thing that matters to her is to go home with a tan, and to wear light clothes to show it off. I spend the day reading in the tent, and in the evening I walk along the seashore, for as long as possible to make sure that Yolande is asleep when I return.
There’s no chance of breaking with her, since we hardly exchange a word.
In any case, I’ve given up on the idea of marrying Vera. Because of Line, who might turn up at any moment.
We get back from the holiday on a Sunday evening. Yolande goes back to work on the Monday. I help her to unload her little car, to put the tent and the mattress up in the attic. Yolande is happy, she has a fine tan, the holiday has been a success.
“Until Saturday.”
I go to the bar. I am in a hurry to see Vera. I sit down at a table, a waiter comes to serve me. I ask him:
“Isn’t Vera here?”
He shrugs his shoulders:
“She hasn’t come in the last five days.”
“Is she ill?”
“I’ve no idea.”
I leave the bar, I run over to Paul’s house. They live on the second floor. I run upstairs, I ring the bell. I knock on the door. A neighbor hears me, she opens her door and says:
“There’s no one there. They’re on holiday.”
“The young girl as well?”
“I’ve told you, there’s no one there.”
I go back to the bar. I see Jean, sitting on his own at a table. I shake him:
“Where is Vera?”
He recoils:
“What you getting so worked up about? Vera’s gone away. I walked her home the first two nights and she said I didn’t need to come anymore because she was going on holiday with some friends.”
I immediately think of Andre.
I also think: I hope Vera comes home before Paul gets back and I hope they let her have her job back!
In the days that follow I drop in at the bar several times and also call around at Paul’s several times. I only learned later what had happened.
Paul and Kati came home the following Saturday. Vera wasn’t there and her bedroom was locked. There was a strange smell in the flat. Kati opened the windows and went to fetch her baby from the nursery. Paul came to my place, we went to the bar where we found Jean. We had a discussion and I mentioned Andre. Paul was furious. He went home and, since the strange smell was still there, he forced open the door to Vera’s bedroom. Vera’s already decomposing body was lying on the bed.
The post mortem showed that Vera had taken an overdose of sleeping pills.
Our first death.
There were others not long after.
Robert opened his veins in his bath.
Albert hanged himself, leaving a note on the table written in our language: “Fuck you.”
Magda finished peeling her potatoes and carrots, then she sat on the floor, turned on the gas and put her head in the oven.
The fourth time we are having a collection in the bar, the waiter says to me:
“You foreigners are always collecting for wreaths, you’re always going to funerals.”
I reply:
“You’ve got to amuse yourself somehow.”
In the evenings, I write.
The Dead Bird
In my head, a stony path leads to the dead bird.
“Bury me,” it asks me and, in the angles of its broken limbs, its reproaches writhe like worms.
I need some earth.
Dark, heavy earth.
A spade.
I only have eyes.
Two veiled, sad eyes soaked with blue-green water.
I got them at the flea market for a few foreign coins of no value. No one offered me anything else.
I look after them, I rub them, I dry them in a handkerchief on my knees. Carefully, so as not to lose them.
Sometimes, I pull a feather from the bird’s plumage and I draw purple veins on these eyes which are all I possess. Sometimes I manage to blacken them completely. Then the sky clouds over and it starts to rain.
The dead bird doesn’t like the rain. It gets soaked, it rots, it gives off an unpleasant smell.
When this happens, bothered by the smell, I sit a little farther away.
Every now and again, I make promises:
“I’ll go and look for some earth.”
But I don’t believe this, really. The bird doesn’t believe it either. It knows me.
So why did it die here, where there is nothing but stones?
A good fire would do the job as well.
Or some large red ants.
Only, everything is so expensive.
For a box of matches you have to work for months and ants are prohibitively expensive in Chinese restaurants.
I have got hardly anything left of my inheritance.
I am gripped with anxiety when I consider how little money I have left.
At first I spent money without keeping count, like everyone, but now I have to pay attention.
I will only buy what is absolutely necessary.
So no earth, spade, ants, matches.
Besides, when I think about it, what has the funeral of an unknown bird to do with me?
I rarely go around to Paul’s. We are so sad that we can’t find anything to say to each other. All three of us feel guilty about having gone on holiday without Vera. Me even more than the other two. I watched Yolande getting a tan while Vera killed herself. Perhaps she was in love with me.
Kati doesn’t have the courage to write to tell her mother that her little sister is dead. Her mother continues to write letters addressed to Vera and the letters are returned marked “deceased.” Vera’s mother wonders what this word in a foreign language means.
I don’t go to the bar very often either. There are fewer and fewer of us there. Those that aren’t dead have gone back to our country. The young and single have gone farther away, they have crossed the Ocean. Others have adapted, have married partners from here and they stay at home in the evening.
At the bar I see mainly Jean, who is still living at the refugee center, where he gets to know other foreigners from all over the world.
Sometimes, Jean waits for me on the stairs of my house:
“I’m hungry.”
“Didn’t you eat at the center?”
“Yes. A sort of gruel at six o’clock. I’m hungry again.”
“Have you still not got a job?”
“No, nothing.”
“Come in. Sit down.”
I place two plates on the waxed tablecloth, I make some bacon and eggs. Jean asks me:
“Do you have any potatoes?”
“No, no potatoes.”
“It’s not very good without potatoes. Do you have some bread, at least?”
“No, no bread either. I haven’t got time to go shopping. I go to work, you see.”
Jean eats.
“If you like, I could do your shopping while you’re at work.”
“I’ve no need of that. I can get by on my own. I have done so for years.”
Jean insists:
“I could also repaint your flat. It’s not my trade, but I’ve done it lots of times.”
“It doesn’t need repainting, it’s fine as it is.”
“It’s disgusting. Look at that blackened kitchen, look
at your toilet, your bathroom. It’s not presentable.”
I look around:
“You’re right, it’s not presentable. But I don’t have any money.”
“I’ll do it for nothing. Just to eat. Just to work. So that I don’t feel useless. You’ll only need to pay for the paint and give me a bite to eat, just like now.”
“I don’t want to exploit you.”
“I’d only be walking around town or hanging around the center. And your place is very dirty.”
He is right, my place is dirty. I’d stopped thinking about it. For the last ten years, the flat has remained in the same state it was in when I moved in. Even then it wasn’t very clean.
So I tell Jean to start with the kitchen.
I think that, when Line comes, everything will be clean: the kitchen, the bathroom, the toilet.
The bedrooms are decent. There is the bedroom where I sleep, with its walls covered with books and a double bed for the two of us. There is also the small room where I keep my junk, which will serve as my study, with a table, a typewriter and sheets of paper.
I must remember to buy a typewriter and paper for the typewriter and ribbons for the typewriter.
At the moment, I write with a pencil in school notebooks.
Jean works quickly and does a good job. I don’t recognize the flat. Line could come now. I wouldn’t feel ashamed.
I buy some new linen for the bathroom and the kitchen. I put it in a drawer.
I pay Jean as much as I can afford. He is very pleased, more pleased than I am, with the work he has done. He would also like to repaint the two rooms, but that’s not absolutely essential.
Jean is happy:
“That’s the first time I’ve been able to send my wife some money. The money you gave me.”
“Poor Jean, it’s not very much.”
“Back home, it’s worth ten times what it’s worth here. My wife has been able to buy the children shoes and clothes for the autumn. They have to be properly dressed for school.”
I ask:
“What will you do now, without any work at all?”
“I don’t know, Sandor.”
“Go back home, that would be best.”
“I can’t. The whole village would laugh at me. I promised everyone I’d make a fortune. If you could help me, Sandor. Find clients for me. You know a few people. You’ve seen, I know how to paint, I can do other things as well. Gardening, for example. Vegetable gardens or flower gardens. I’d do it for next to nothing. For a bit of food. If I can carry on getting free lodging at the center, I can send all the money I earn to my wife.”
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