Yesterday

by Editions du Seuil

  “Your book will be false.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. Because you don’t know everything. You will never be able to write our story.”

  “Do we have a story?”

  “Yes, Line, we do.”

  “A love story?”

  “That depends on you, Line. Unless you have some other impossible love story.”

  She smiles and says:

  “No, I haven’t. But I could invent one.”

  “There’s nothing to invent. I love you, Line, and you love me too.”

  We stop. Violette is sleeping in her stroller. It is almost spring already. The snow is thawing, we walk in the mud.

  Line looks at her sleeping little girl:

  “Yes, I love you too, Sandor. But there’s my husband. And her.”

  “But for them, would you love me totally? Would you marry me?”

  “No, Tobias. I can’t become the wife of a factory worker, nor continue to work in a factory myself.”

  I ask:

  “And when I become a great and famous writer and I come back to find you, will you marry me?”

  She says:

  “No, Tobias. Firstly, I don’t believe in your dream of becoming a famous writer. Secondly, I could never marry Esther’s son. Your mother was left in the village by the Romanies, the gypsies. Thieves and beggars. I have honest, cultivated parents, I come from a good family.”

  “Yes, I know. And I have a whore for a mother, an unknown father and I am nothing but a worker. Even if I become a writer, I will always be a good-for-nothing, without culture, without education, a son of a whore.”

  “Yes, that’s how it is. I love you, but it’s only a dream. I’m ashamed, Sandor. I feel uneasy with my husband and I feel uneasy with you too. I feel like I am deceiving you both.”

  I think about telling her everything, to hurt her like she has hurt me, telling her at least that I have the same father as her, cultured and from a good family. I should tell her but I can’t, I can’t hurt her, I don’t want to lose her.

  Line’s husband has to go away for two days to a conference.

  I suggest to Line:

  “We could see each other in the evening.”

  She hesitates:

  “I don’t want you to come to the house. I can’t come to your place, it’s too far, I can’t leave the little one for too long. Wait for me on the bridge. I will come out once Violette is asleep. Around nine o’clock.”

  I get there at eight. I lean my bike against the parapet of the bridge. I sit down, I wait, like on so many other evenings. I could wait for hours, days, if necessary, I’ve got nothing else to do.

  With the aid of my binoculars, I watch Line. She comes into the back room, puts the child to bed, turns out the light. She opens the window, leans out, she smokes a cigarette. She can’t see me, but she knows I’m there. She waits until her child is asleep.

  The church clock strikes nine. It is raining.

  A short while later, Line is next to me. She has a scarf over her hair like the ones worn by the women in our country. Except for my mother, who never wore a scarf or a hat. She had magnificent hair, even in the rain.

  Line throws herself into my arms. I kiss her on her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes, her neck, her mouth. My kisses are wet with the rain and with tears. I recognize the tears on Line’s face because they are saltier than the raindrops.

  “Why are you crying?”

  “I have been wicked to you, Sandor. I told you I wouldn’t marry you because of your mother. But it’s not your fault! You can’t help it. You should have been angry and decided not to see me anymore.”

  “I thought about it, Line, but I didn’t have the strength. I depend on you entirely. If I had decided not to see you anymore, it would kill me. I can’t get angry with you, even if you hurt me. I know you despise me but I love you enough to put up with it. The only thing I couldn’t stand is you going back home with Koloman.”

  “Yet I will be doing precisely that in a few months.”

  “I won’t survive it, Line.”

  She strokes my hair:

  “Of course you will survive it, Sandor. Besides, you only have to come back as well and we can carry on seeing each other.”

  “In secret? Behind your husband’s back?”

  “There’s no other solution. If you love me, come back with us, stay with me. There’s nothing to stop you.”

  “Oh yes there is! Lots of things.”

  I hold her tight, I kiss her on the mouth for a long, long time, as the lightning flashes illuminate us, as the thunder rumbles, as a huge warmth spreads through me and as I ejaculate, tight against Line.

  The Rain

  Yesterday, I slept for a long time. I dreamed that I was dead. I saw my grave. It was abandoned, covered in weeds.

  An old woman was walking among the graves. I asked her why no one was taking care of mine.

  “It’s a very old grave,” she said. “Look at the date. There can’t be anyone who would know the person buried here.”

  I looked. It was the current year. I didn’t know how to reply.

  When I woke up it was already dark. From my bed I could see the sky and the stars. The air was clear and mild.

  I walked. There was nothing else but walking, the rain, the mud. My hair and my clothes were wet, I wasn’t wearing shoes, I was walking barefoot. My feet were white, their whiteness stood out against the mud. The clouds were gray. The sun hadn’t come up yet. It was cold. The mud too was cold.

  I walked. I encountered other pedestrians. They were all walking in the same direction. They were light, you would have thought they were weightless. Their rootless feet were never injured. It was the road of those who have left their home, who have left their country. This road led nowhere. It was a wide, straight road without end. It went through mountains and towns, gardens and towers, leaving no trace in its wake. When you turned around, it had disappeared. There was no road except straight ahead. On each side lay vast muddy fields.

  Time is ripped apart. Where are the wastelands of childhood? The elliptical suns frozen in black space? Where is the path left hanging in the void? The seasons have lost all meaning. Tomorrow, today, what do these words mean? There is only the present. One time, it snows. Another time, it rains. Then there is sunshine, wind. All that is now. It has not been and will not be. It is. Always. All at the same time. For things live in me and not in time. And, in me, everything is present.

  Yesterday, I went to a lake. The water is very dark now, very murky. Every evening, a few forgotten days are launched into the waves. They head for the horizon as if they were navigating at sea. But the sea is far away from here. Everything is far away.

  I believe I will soon be cured. Something will break inside me or somewhere in space. I will depart for unknown heights. There is nothing on earth but the harvest, the unbearable waiting and the inexpressible silence.

  I cycle home in the rain. I am happy. I know that Line loves me. She asked me to go back home at the same time as her and Koloman.

  But I don’t want to.

  Go back to my country, why?

  To become a factory worker again? There would be no Line in the factory, nor in the cafeteria.

  She will be a lecturer at the university.

  She won’t recognize me anymore.

  She must stay here. She has to stay. With her husband, her child, I don’t care. I don’t want her to leave. I know that she loves me. Therefore, she must stay.

  Line will stay here with me. Married or not, child or not, no matter. We will live together.

  We will work at the factory for a while, then I will publish some books, some poems, some novels, some stories, and we will be rich. We will no longer need to work, we will buy a house in the country. An older woman, someone kind and gentle, will cook and clean for us. We will write books, we will paint pictures.

  Thus the days will pass.

  We will have no need to run nor to wait for anyt
hing. We will wake up when we feel like it. We will go to bed when we like.

  Only, Line doesn’t agree.

  She is adamant about returning to our country. I don’t know why. There are so many other countries in the world!

  If I too were to return to our country, I wouldn’t be able to prevent myself looking for my mother among all the whores in all the towns.

  After our meeting yesterday evening, I was afraid of what Line would say. She is so unpredictable that I don’t know what to think.

  The following morning, she gets on the bus and sits beside me, as usual. She is holding her little girl in her left arm, she slides her right hand into mine. I don’t ask any questions. We stay like this until we reach the factory.

  The weather is fine. At midday, we eat, then we go for a walk in the park. We sit down on a bench. There is no one around, we don’t speak. In front of us, the monstrous factory building. Further away, a magnificent landscape like you only see on tourist brochures.

  I place my hand on Line’s. She doesn’t pull it away. In a low voice, I recite one of the poems I wrote for her, in our native language.

  “Who wrote it?”

  “I did.”

  “I think maybe you really do have some talent, Sandor.”

  We have to go back to work. Our hands part. And I think that I will nevermore be able to live without Line’s hand in mine.

  How can I keep her?

  One evening, in my mailbox, I find a note from Eve:

  “We have found another translator in the language of your country. You are therefore no longer indispensable to us. Nevertheless, I would still like to see you for a few minutes at my place, you know the address. Your green eyes bewitched me . . . and the rest as well. I will wait for you from eight o’clock onwards on Wednesday and Saturday evenings. Deepest best wishes. Eve.”

  I don’t reply. In any case, I couldn’t make love to her now. Nor to Yolande. I can’t anymore.

  “You don’t eat enough, Sandor. Don’t you like my cooking?”

  “Your cooking is perfect, Yolande.”

  “What’s wrong? You look like a starving cat. Your countrymen have made you completely ill.”

  “Don’t worry about that, Yolande.”

  I go to sleep on the sofa listening to music. Around midnight, Yolande shakes me:

  “I’ll take you home, Sandor. Or do you want to sleep here?”

  “Thanks, Yolande, I think I will sleep at my place. But don’t put yourself out, I’ll walk.”

  I go home. I find Jean lying on the kitchen floor. Thinking that he is drunk, I shake him. He opens his eyes:

  “I’m not dead?”

  “Why would you be dead?”

  “I turned the gas on.”

  “The gas has been cut off for a week. I’ve stopped paying for it. And the electricity. That will be cut off soon. I spent too much money on linen, the bike, the flashlight, the binoculars . . . How did you get in?”

  “It was open.”

  “I must have forgotten to lock it. It doesn’t matter. There’s nothing to steal. Why did you want to die?”

  “I received a letter. An anonymous letter. It said that I should never come back, because my wife has found another man and that I am only good for sending money. My wife is already pregnant by this other man. What will I do?”

  “Either you go home and get your wife back or you stay here and forget about it.”

  “But I love my wife! I love my children!”

  “Then carry on sending them money.”

  “Knowing that he will profit from it? What would you do in my place?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t even know what to do in my place.”

  “Yet you are someone who’s clever. Who could I get advice from?”

  “From a priest, perhaps?”

  “I’ve already tried. They don’t know about life. They tell us to resign ourselves. Pray and have faith. Have you got anything to eat?”

  “No, nothing. I dined at Yolande’s. Come on, let’s go out.”

  We go to our usual bar. There is hardly anyone there anymore. I offer to buy Jean a potato salad with the little money I have left.

  When he has finished eating, he asks:

  “Do I have to go back to the center?”

  “Of course. Where else would you want to sleep?”

  “At your place. In the small room, I’ll clear out the junk.”

  “There is no more junk. I turned the small room into a child’s room to receive Line.”

  “Line is going to come and live with you?”

  “Yes, soon.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, but that’s no concern of yours. You can sleep in the small room, on the floor. Just for tonight, no longer.”

  The bus arrives in the first village. As usual, the old woman takes the parcel of newspapers. Line gets on. She sits down next to me. She takes my hand in hers as she has done for weeks and, for the first time, she lays her head on my shoulder. We stay like this, without speaking, until we reach the factory. When we arrive, Line doesn’t move. I think she is asleep, I shake her gently. She falls from the seat. I take the child in my arms and I shout:

  “Call an ambulance!”

  We carry Line to the welfare worker at the factory and ring the hospital. A woman at the childcare center watches the little girl.

  I get into the ambulance with Line. They ask me:

  “Are you her husband?”

  “Yes.”

  I hold Line’s hands in mine, I try to warm them. On the way to the hospital, Line comes around.

  “What happened, Sandor?”

  “Nothing serious, Line. You fell.”

  “Violette?”

  “She’s being taken care of. Don’t worry.”

  She asks again:

  “But what have I got? I don’t hurt anywhere, I feel very well.”

  “Nothing serious, I’m sure. Just a bit of a turn.”

  We arrive at the hospital. They say to me:

  “Go home. We will phone you.”

  “I don’t have a telephone. I’ll wait here.”

  They show me a door:

  “Take a seat in this room.”

  It is a small waiting room. There is only a young man there. He looks very nervous:

  “I don’t want to see it. They are making me be there at the birth so that I can see how much my wife suffers. But if I see that, I will never be able to make love to her again.”

  “You’re right. Don’t go.”

  A little later, someone calls him:

  “Come, it’s started.”

  “No!”

  He runs away. Through the window I can see him running across the gardens.

  I wait for about another two hours, then a young doctor arrives, smiling:

  “You can go home and rest easy. Your wife isn’t ill, she is pregnant, that’s all. She will probably be able to come home tomorrow. Come and fetch her at two o’clock.”

  Yesterday, when I left the hospital, I didn’t go back to work. I walked around the streets of the town then, around eleven o’clock, I sat down in a park opposite the university.

  Around midday, Koloman left the building accompanied by a young blonde girl. They walked in the park, I followed them. They sat down outside a café. It was already warm, it was spring. They ordered some food, they laughed.

  Seeing Koloman with a young girl, I felt jealous. He had no right to deceive Line while she was at work. He had no right to take Line back home if he was capable of fooling around with other girls.

  I also thought about Line holding my hand in hers every morning. The previous evening she will have made love with her husband, otherwise she wouldn’t be pregnant.

  I get up, I go to Koloman’s table:

  “Do you have a moment?”

  He gets up, he looks flustered:

  “What do you want, Sandor?”

  “Line is in the hospital. She fainted this morning, on the bus.”

&
nbsp; “Fainted?”

  “Yes. I went with her to the hospital. They are expecting you there.”

  “And the child?”

  “A woman at the childcare center is looking after her until your wife comes back.”

  “Thank you, Sandor. I will drop by the hospital shortly. After my classes.”

  He is in no hurry. He finishes his meal in peace, then he returns to the university accompanied by the young girl.

  I go back to the hospital. I run to the foot of Line’s bed:

  “Your husband will come by soon, after his classes.”

  “You sound very distant, Sandor.”

  “I am cold, very cold. I am losing you. You are expecting a second child by Koloman.”

  The next day, I have to take the bus, go to work.

  In the evening, I pass by Line’s house to see if she has come back from the hospital. There is no light on in any of the rooms.

  Three days later, Line is still not back. I don’t dare go to the hospital, I don’t dare visit Line. I am not her husband, I am nothing but a stranger to her. I have no ties to her other than the fact that I love her. Other than the fact that I am her brother, but that is something only I know.

  On the fourth day, I phone the hospital. They tell me that Line is still there, that she won’t leave before the following Sunday.

  On Saturday afternoon, I buy a bunch of flowers. I think about leaving them for Line at the reception desk, then I think about her husband, Koloman, and I give the flowers to a woman I pass in the street.

  On Sunday, I spend the day outside the hospital, hiding behind the trees in the garden. Around four o’clock the welfare worker’s little car pulls up at the entrance. Shortly after, Line comes out of the hospital and gets in beside her.

  Koloman hasn’t come to collect his wife.

  In the evening, through the window, I see Koloman sitting as usual at the table in the front room. Line is taking care of the little girl in the other room.

  On Monday morning, Line gets on the bus. She is thinner and paler than ever. She sits down next to me, she cries. She hangs on to my hands, my arm:

  “Sandor, Sandor.”

  I ask:

  “Why did you stay so long at the hospital?”