Yesterday

by Editions du Seuil

  I find a few odd jobs for Jean, but I can’t get rid of him. He comes around to my place almost every evening, he stops me writing, he stops me sleeping. He reads me letters from his wife, his children. He talks to me about how homesick he is, how he hates not being able to live with his own.

  He cries almost all the time. I’ve got nothing to console him with except bacon and potatoes. Once he’s filled his stomach, he goes off to sleep at the refugee center, in a dormitory full of bunk beds, which he is now used to, where he is chief through having been there the longest.

  When he finally leaves, I start to write.

  They

  It is raining. A fine, cold drizzle which falls on the houses, the trees, the graves. When THEY come to see me, the rain streams down their fluid, distorted faces. THEY look at me and the cold becomes more intense, my white walls offer no protection. They have never protected me. Their solidity is nothing but an illusion and their whiteness is stained.

  Yesterday, I had an unexpected, inexplicable moment of happiness. It came to me through the rain and mist, it smiled, floated above the trees, danced in front of me, surrounded me.

  I recognized it.

  It was the happiness of a time long ago when the child and I were one. I was he, I was only six and I dreamed in the garden at night as I looked at the moon.

  Now I am tired. It is those that come at night who tire me this way? How many are there this evening? One? A group?

  If only THEY had a face. But THEY are all vague and blurred. THEY come in. THEY stand there looking at me and THEY say:

  “Why are you crying? Remember.”

  “Remember what?”

  They start laughing.

  Later, I say:

  “I’m ready.”

  I open my shirt over my chest and THEY raise their pale, sad hands.

  “Remember.”

  “I can’t anymore.”

  The pale, sad hands rise and fall. There is someone crying behind the white walls:

  “Remember.”

  A light, gray mist floated above the houses, above life. A child sat in the yard and looked at the moon.

  He was six years old, I loved him.

  “I love you,” I said to him.

  And the child stared at me with a severe expression.

  “Little boy, I have come from far away. Tell me, why do you look at the moon?”

  “It isn’t the moon,” the child replied tetchily, “it isn’t the moon, it’s the future I’m looking at.”

  “I come from there,” I said softly, “and there is nothing but dead, muddy fields.”

  “You’re lying, you’re lying,” the child cried. “There is money, light, love. There are gardens full of flowers.”

  “I come from there,” I repeated softly, “and there is nothing but dead, muddy fields.”

  The child recognized me and started to cry.

  They were his last warm tears. It started to rain on him too. The moon disappeared. The moon and the night have come to me to say:

  “What have you done with him?”

  I am tired. Yesterday evening, I wrote some more as I drank some beer. Phrases were spinning around in my head. I think that writing will destroy me.

  As usual, I take the bus. I close my eyes. We arrive at the first village.

  The old woman who distributes the newspapers comes to collect the packet. She has to deliver these papers to all the inhabitants of the village before seven o’clock in the morning.

  A young woman with a child in her arms gets on the bus.

  Since I have been working at the factory, no one has ever got on at this stop.

  Today, a woman got on the bus, and this woman is called Line.

  Not the Line of my dreams, not the Line I was waiting for, but the real Line, the little nuisance Line who has already poisoned my childhood. The one who noticed that I wore her elder brother’s clothes and shoes and made sure everyone knew about it. The one who also gave me bread and biscuits to eat that I would rather have refused. But I was too hungry at playtime.

  Line would say that she had to help the poor, her parents told her so. And I was the poor person Line chose.

  I move forward to the middle of the bus to get a better look at Line. I haven’t seen her for fifteen years. She hasn’t changed much. She is still pale and thin. Her hair is a little darker than before, it is tied back in a hairband. Line’s face isn’t made up, her clothes aren’t very elegant or fashionable. No, Line is no beauty.

  She stares into space through the window, then her gaze passes over me for an instant, then turns away immediately.

  She must surely know that I killed her father, my father, our father, my mother too, perhaps.

  Line mustn’t recognize me. She could turn me in as a murderer. Fifteen years have passed, no doubt there is prescription. On the other hand, what does she know? Does she just know that we have the same father? Had the same father? Is he dead?

  The knife was long, but it had hit with something hard inside the man’s body. I had pressed down with all my strength, but I was only twelve and I was undernourished, puny, I was as light as a feather. I didn’t know anything about anatomy and it is quite possible I didn’t touch any vital organs.

  We get off at the factory.

  The welfare woman is waiting for Line, she accompanies her to the childcare center.

  I go into the workshop, I start up my machine, it works like it has never worked before, it sings, it scans: “Line has come, Line has come!”

  Outside, the trees dance, the wind blows, the clouds race, the sun shines, it is as fine as a spring morning.

  So it was her I was waiting for! I didn’t know. I thought I was waiting for a woman who was unknown, beautiful, unreal. And it is the real Line that has come after fifteen years of separation. We find each other far from our native village, in another village, in another country.

  The morning goes by very quickly. At midday, I go and eat in the factory cafeteria. There is a line, it is moving slowly. Line is in front of me. She has coffee and a bread roll. Just like me when I first arrived and didn’t understand these foreign dishes. Everything seemed tasteless and insipid.

  Line chooses a table to one side. I sit down at another table, facing her. I eat without raising my eyes. I’m afraid to look at her. When I have finished my meal, I get up, take my tray back, and go to get a coffee. As I walk past Line’s table, I glance at the book she is reading. It is written neither in our native language nor the language of here. I think it is Latin.

  I pretend to read too but I can’t concentrate, I can only look at Line. When she raises her eyes, I quickly lower mine. Sometimes, Line gazes out of the window and I realize that there is something about her that has changed significantly: her look. The Line of my childhood had happy, laughing eyes, the Line of now has a sad and somber look, like all the refugees I know.

  At one o’clock, we return to the factory. Line works in the workshop on the floor above mine.

  In the evening, when we leave the factory, there is a bus waiting for us. I see Line run to the childcare center and return with her daughter. Line sits near to the driver, I a little farther back, but not too far.

  Line gets off in the village where she got on that morning. I also get off and follow her. She goes into the little village grocer’s, so do I. She points to the things she wants to buy with her finger: milk, pasta, jam. So she can’t speak the language of this country. Unless she has become dumb, the chatty little girl of my childhood.

  I buy a packet of cigarettes and I continue to follow Line in the street. This time she has surely noticed me. But she says nothing. She goes into a two-story house near the church. I look through the ground-floor window. There is a light on. There is a man sitting at a table bent over his books. The rest of the flat is in darkness.

  I discover an alley that leads to the forest. I walk across the little wooden bridge and follow the path until I get around to the back of the houses. I sit on the grass and try t
o identify Line’s house. I think I have worked it out, but I am not sure. The stream and the gardens lie between me and the houses. I can see shadows moving in the rooms at the rear, but that’s all, I can’t recognize anyone.

  I think that I must buy some binoculars if I want to see anything.

  I return to the front of the house. The man is still at his table. Line is there also, sitting in a chair, bottle-feeding her baby. I don’t know whether it is a boy or a girl, but I now know that Line has a husband.

  I decide to catch the bus home. I wait for a long time. The buses don’t run very often in the evening. It is nearly ten o’clock when I get home.

  Jean is waiting for me outside the door. He has fallen asleep on the stairs.

  He asks me:

  “Where were you?”

  I say:

  “What? Do I have to account for myself to you? What are you doing here? Why don’t you all leave me alone?”

  Jean gets up and says in a low voice:

  “I waited for you. They need a translator.”

  I open the door, I go into the kitchen, I say:

  “Go. It’s late. I want to sleep.”

  He says:

  “I’m hungry.”

  I say:

  “I don’t care.”

  I push him out on to the staircase, he adds:

  “Eve wants to see you about the next trial. She looks after the foreigners, the refugees, all the things that concern us. She is always asking about you.”

  I say:

  “Tell her I’m dead.”

  “But that’s not true, Sandor. You aren’t dead.”

  “She’ll understand.”

  Jean asks:

  “Why have you turned so nasty, Sandor?”

  “I’m not nasty, I’m tired. Leave me in peace.”

  I buy some binoculars. I also buy a bicycle. That way, I won’t have to wait for the bus. I will be able to go to Line’s village whenever I like, day or night. It is only six kilometers from town.

  I don’t follow Line anymore. After work, I take the bus back to town. She gets off at her village and doesn’t see me again.

  Except in the cafeteria.

  It is only later, in the evening, that I go to see Line with my binoculars. There isn’t much to see.

  Line puts her child to bed in its cot, then she and her husband go to bed and turn out the light.

  Sometimes, Line leans out of the window and smokes a cigarette as she looks at me, only she doesn’t see me, she only sees the forest.

  I would like to tell her I am here, that I watch her, that I pay attention to her in this strange world. I would like to tell her that she doesn’t need to be afraid, because I am there, I, her brother, and that I will protect her against any danger.

  I’ve heard or read somewhere that the Pharaohs regarded the marriage of brother and sister as the ideal marriage. I think so too, even though Line is only my half-sister. I don’t have any others.

  Saturday comes. On Saturday, we don’t work at the factory. So I take my bicycle and go to Line’s village. I observe the couple either from the front of the house or from the forest. I watch Line get dressed, take her little bag. She goes to the bus stop. She is going into town.

  I pedal behind the bus. I can keep up with it on the downhill stretch. We arrive in the main square at the same time. Line gets off. She goes into a hairdresser’s. I install myself in a bar, next to the window that looks out on to the square, and I wait.

  Two hours later, Line returns, laden with all sorts of shopping. She has a new hairstyle. Her hair is short and curled, like Yolande’s, or almost. I think that I should tell her that this hairstyle doesn’t suit her.

  As expected, she catches the bus. I follow on my bicycle. I accompany her to her village, but it’s uphill and I arrive a long time after her.

  That Saturday, I forget to go to Yolande’s. Even though there is nothing interesting to see, I stay with Line until eight o’clock in the evening. When I get home, I realize there is nothing in my fridge. I could still call around at Yolande’s, but I prefer to eat at the bar of my countrymen.

  Naturally, I find Jean there. He is drinking a beer, surrounded by other refugees whose language I don’t understand.

  Jean says to them:

  “This is my best friend. Sit down, Sandor. These are my friends.”

  I shake hands with all his friends, then I ask Jean:

  “How do you communicate with each other?”

  Jean laughs:

  “It’s easy. We use gestures.”

  He signals to the barman by raising eight fingers:

  “Beers!”

  He leans over to me:

  “Will you pay for them, the eight beers?”

  “Sure. And eight sausages with potatoes.”

  The waiter brings the plates of sausages. My guests applaud when I place my wallet on the table. They eat noisily and order beer after beer.

  It is at that moment that Yolande appears in front of me. I see her in a sort of haze. I have drunk too much and the room is thick with cigarette smoke.

  I say to Yolande:

  “Take a seat.”

  “No. Come. I’ve made you something to eat.”

  “I’ve already eaten. Sit down and have a sausage. We are among friends.”

  She says:

  “You are drunk. Do you want me to take you home?”

  “No, Yolande. I want to stay here. And drink some more.”

  She says:

  “Since your countrymen arrived you haven’t been the same.”

  “No, Yolande, I am not the same. And I don’t know if I will ever be the same again. To find out, perhaps we need to stop seeing each other for a bit.”

  “For how long?”

  “I don’t know. A few weeks, a month maybe.”

  “All right. I’ll be waiting for you.”

  The main question is: how do I get to know Line?

  Curiously, neither her boss nor the welfare assistant have asked my help in translating when a problem has turned up. Admittedly, the work in the factory is so simple you could explain it to a deaf mute.

  That is the second time I have said that Line could be dumb. She speaks so little. In fact, she never talks to anyone.

  My only option is to approach her in the cafeteria.

  Usually I have no problem approaching women. But with Line I am afraid. I am extremely afraid of being refused.

  One day, I make my mind up. As I am passing in front of her table with a coffee, I stop. I ask her in our native language:

  “Would you like another coffee?”

  She smiles:

  “No, thank you. But sit down. I didn’t know you were from my country. Is that why you have been following me?”

  “Yes, that’s why. I’m interested in anyone who comes from my country. I want to help them.”

  “I don’t think I need your help. Who are you?”

  “A refugee from some time back. I have lived here for fifteen years. My name is Sandor Lester.”

  “I like the name Sandor. My father was called Sandor.”

  “How old is your father?”

  “What does that matter? He will soon be sixty. Why do you want to know that?”

  I reply:

  “My parents died during the war. I was just wondering whether your parents were dead.”

  “No, they are both still alive. I’m sorry for you, sorry about your parents, Sandor. I’m called Caroline, but I don’t like the name. My husband calls me Carole.”

  “I’ll call you Line.”

  She laughs:

  “I was called Line when I was a child!”

  Then she asks me:

  “How can you put up with living in this country?”

  “You get used to it.”

  “I’ll never be able to get used to it. Never.”

  “You will have to. You are a refugee. You came here of your own volition. And you can’t go back.”

  “No, I’m not a refuge
e. My husband was given a grant to work in this country. He is a physicist. We will spend a year here, then we will go back home. Then I will finish my studies and I will teach Greek and Latin. In the meantime, I will work at the factory for a year. My husband’s grant doesn’t cover all our needs. I could have stayed back home, but my husband didn’t want to be separated from the child. Nor from me.”

  I walk Line back to her machine:

  “Don’t be afraid. A year goes by quickly. I have been working here for ten years.”

  “That’s terrible. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “No one can bear it, but no one dies of it. A few go mad, but it’s rare.”

  That evening, I wait for Line in the bus. She arrives with her baby. I ask her whether it is a boy or a girl.

  “She’s my little girl. She is five months old. She is called Violette. Please, don’t follow me anymore.”

  The next day, in the cafeteria, I take my tray to Line’s table. I sit down opposite her:

  “I’m not following you in the street anymore. But perhaps we can have lunch together.”

  “Every day?”

  “Why not? We are from the same country. No one will think it strange.”

  “My husband is a jealous man.”

  “He won’t know. Tell me about him.”

  “He is called Koloman. He is doing research. He goes into town every morning, he comes home late in the evening. He also works a lot at home.”

  “And you? Don’t you get bored here? You don’t go out, you don’t have any friends.”

  “How do you know?”

  I laugh:

  “I’ve followed you. I’ve been watching you for weeks.”

  “Even in the evening? When I get home?”

  “Yes, through the window. With binoculars. Forgive me.”

  Line blushes, then she says very quickly:

  “I’ve got no time to get bored, what with the housework, the child, the shopping, the job at the factory.”