by Herta Müller
One time, the gatewoman told Clara, the director said that the same thing happens to the piece of paper as with the name of the dwarf—it disappears on its own.
* * *
Everybody in the factory knows the dwarf’s name, said the gatewoman, because the name doesn’t suit him at all. The director is the only one who can’t remember that. He’s always amazed that the dwarf’s name is CONSTANTIN, and every time he says, that name doesn’t suit the dwarf. It’s because of the director I know the name CONSTANTIN doesn’t suit him, she said. That never struck me before. But it strikes the director every time, she said. Which is why he ought to remember the name.
My son’s also named Constantin, the gatewoman said to Clara, but I’d never connect his name with the dwarf because my child isn’t a dwarf. And because the same name for a dwarf really isn’t the same name at all. I’ve told my son he’s not allowed to come looking for me in the factory, said the gatewoman. I’d never let him get caught up in all this wire. Because I know that if he ever started looking at the wire he’d never listen to me anymore. I’ll never let my child become a worker here, not even for a single day.
* * *
The director kneels on the rug in front of Mara’s knees that are no longer there. He sees the legs of the meeting table. He takes in more breath than his lungs can hold, he hyperventilates. His forehead feels salty and moist as though his face had two mouths, with the second feeling hot and in the wrong place, where his forehead reaches into his hair.
The striped cat sits under the meeting table and yawns. Her face is covered with fur. Sleep races through her dark stripes, her back, her stomach all the way into her paws. Her nose is black from the machine oil, blunt and old. But her teeth are sharp, white and young. Her face is furry, with thin stripes. Her eyes are alert, with the image of Mara’s thigh fixed inside. And of a bite on the inner side, as large as a man’s mouth.
The director stands up. The moth perches on the back of the chair. The director stands in front of the mirror. He doesn’t know why, but he combs his hair.
* * *
In the workroom a worker is sprawled out on the oily floor. His eyes are half shut, his pupils have slid into his forehead. A puddle of blood has collected next to the press. The blood does not congeal, it is absorbed by the oil. The striped cat sniffs at the puddle. She twitches her whiskers and does not lick. Inside the worker’s oily sleeve is a wrist without a hand. The hand is in the press. The foreman ties off the sleeve with a filthy rag.
The dwarf cradles the victim’s head, warm and unconscious, in his hands. He keeps his hands still, because the hair on the man’s head feels dead, and so does the skull under the hair and the brain under the skull. The upturned eyes peek out from under the lids, white like the rim of a cup. And under the eyes is a crease, which the dwarf stares at so long it seems to divide the unconscious face in two. And the cat’s face, as well as his own face. Because when he keeps his hands so still, what feels dead creeps all the way up to his neck. The cat sniffs at the dwarf’s hands and at his motionless chin. Her whiskers are tipped with red. But her eyes stay big and calm and do not squeeze out the image of Mara and the mouth-sized bite.
* * *
Someone calls out that the director is coming. Then Grigore and another man enter, a man no one knows. The man has clean hands and doesn’t work at the factory. He asks for the name of the victim. The foreman says CRIZU.
The stranger kicks the cat out of the way and Grigore yells at the dwarf to get out of the way. The dwarf sticks his empty hands in his pockets and stands where the worker lay sprawled, out of the way for the others but not himself, and watches as Grigore and the stranger carry the unconscious man to the dressing room at the end of the floor. The body is heavy and soft. The smock hangs half open and billows out underneath.
* * *
Then the director comes through the open door and heads straight across the slippery floor to the dressing room. As he walks he shouts, don’t just stand there, get back to work. A moth flies from his collar and gets lost by the windows where acacias hold back the light, because their trunks are already sprouting thin wooden shoots and random leaves. The director shuts the dressing room door behind him.
Then the stranger grasps the head of the worker while Grigore pries open his mouth and the director takes a hand flask out of his coat and pours brandy inside. After that the director washes his hands and turns the door handle and kicks open the dressing room door. The director and the stranger take the shortest slippery way out of the workroom into the yard, the spools of wire.
Grigore follows them out. And stops at the door and bumps against the dwarf. And shouts onto the shop floor, Crizu has been drunk since early this morning, Crizu was intoxicated at the workplace.
* * *
The dwarf leans out the workroom doorway and peers at the wire and eats a pear. His eyes are empty, his head is too big. Juice comes trickling out of his mouth as he utters the words, Crizu doesn’t drink. Then the sun pulls a see-through cloud across its belly and the dwarf bites deep into the pear and chews. He chews the skin, the flesh, the core. His fingers are sticky, his shoes spattered. His hand is empty. But he doesn’t swallow. His cheeks are full of chewed-up pear. Full up to the eyes.
Someone in the workroom says out loud, that doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all, then walks past the window and says, there’s nothing anyone can do.
* * *
Disaster dangles from the mouth of whoever says those words like the leaves dangle from the tree outside the window. Whether summer green or autumn yellow, disaster is a branch in his face. The color is there, but not the leaves. Because disaster is always unadorned and as bare as winter wood. Whoever speaks like that has to avert his eyes from naked life. Has to close his mouth to naked speech before a thought forms in his head. Has to keep quiet and does not complain. And the dwarf has to eat and does not swallow. And Crizu has to swallow and does not drink.
But when the doctor comes and smells the brandy he says, it was Crizu’s own fault that he fell down like that, drunk and unconscious.
* * *
A flock of sparrows shimmers through the yard. One bird separates and perches on a wire spool before settling on the ground. Then he hops until his wings have folded onto his back and his feathers are all smoothed out. After that the bird walks through the open door and heads straight across the slippery floor. The workers stand and watch. No one says a word.
Only the foreman stands at the press and bends over and peers into a different silence, he is searching for the mangled hand.
While the dwarf stands in the yard on his tall half-brick shoes and chews his pear off into space.
* * *
Anca places all the pencils in the empty cola can. She wipes the dust off the empty beer can. And Mara stores all the pens in the empty beer can. And Eva waters the white-mottled vine and arranges its leaves below the picture on the wall. The picture shows blooming poppies. And David takes a pencil from the cola can. And Anca says the plant is called MOTHER-IN-LAW’S TONGUE. And David opens the notebook with the crossword puzzles. And Clara sets down the tiny brush and blows on her just-polished fingernails. And David says, the feeling after eating in four letters. And Anca calls out SICK. And Eva shouts DONE. And Mara shouts FULL.
Then the door opens, and Grigore comes into the office. And now for the third time that day Mara sets her foot on the chair and pulls up her skirt, to show Grigore her thigh. And Grigore holds her knee and looks at Mara’s neck where a gold chain is dangling. What a crazy day, says Mara, the director bit me.
Eardrum infection
Face without face
Forehead of sand
Voice without voice
Nothing is left
Except for time
All Paul sees in the audience are eyes. The lights are out and all the eyes look alike, there are a hundred of them, and a few additional eyes belonging to the policemen.
Time without time
What
can you change
* * *
The heads swaying to the beat of the song are different from the heads keeping watch. The crowd waves its hands, the hands hold flashlights pointed at the band, lighting up their faces. The singing turns to screaming. From the front row Anna can make out the little circles cast by the flashlights on the wall.
My only thought is this
What could I trade with you
One I call a brother
For a single cigarette
* * *
The side door is opened from the inside, a beam of light cuts into the auditorium. Dogs bark.
I’ve gone completely crazy
I went and fell in love
With someone who loves me
But my beloved’s stupid
Since she does and since she doesn’t
Really love me yet
* * *
And a man is dragged out through the beam of light, his back is arched as he is led away and the door is closed behind him.
My only thought is this
What could I sell to you
My coat is old and rumpled
With just one button left
* * *
The lead singer turns around and looks at Paul. Paul looks at Sorin, who taps Abi’s arm with his drumstick.
Night comes and sews a sack
Sews a sack of darkness
* * *
The side door is opened from the outside, and heads wearing blue caps take their position in the beam of light. From where she sits in the middle of the auditorium Adina can see their bare ears sticking out from under their caps.
Stepmothergrass has bitter blades
The freight train whistles at the station
* * *
The bare ears listen to the sounds within, the dogs bark. Paul’s mouth joins the chorus while his skull whirrs and his toes twitch. The flashlights glow. Then all the doors burst open, boots thunder inside. The stage goes dark and the auditorium goes bright. The screaming faces are suddenly naked in the glare. The policemen with their dogs and a man in a suit are standing in the auditorium. Paul plucks the strings of his guitar but there is no sound. Sorin’s drumsticks too are mute. Because the man in the suit is standing on the stage right next to him shouting, the concert is over, calmly leave the hall.
Paul and Abi and Sorin join the lead singer but they no longer hear one another. Because the song has deflated with a gasp of fear. Fear as big as a mouth, as big as a pair of eyes. As big as the auditorium. And down in front of the stage, in the light, the policemen push, kick and club the singing crowd out through the open doors.
Little child where are your parents
Sitting on the asphalt is a barefoot shoe
* * *
The rubber truncheons seek out backs, heads, arms at random. Revolvers and machine pistols hang from leather straps. Adina leans against the wall. The rows of seats are empty. The policemen have had their fill of beating, the dogs their fill of barking. The only sound comes from the policemen’s boots leaving the auditorium. Anna sits down between two empty seats in the front row. The dogs run after the boots.
The man in the suit stands onstage. Tomorrow, eight o’clock, Room Number 2, he says. Paul looks and says, understood. Abi asks why. Sorin coils a cable. Adina stands next to Sorin and watches the cable crawl up his arm. Anna sits on the edge of the stage, holding herself with both arms and staring out at the empty auditorium. And the man in the suit says, we’re the ones who ask the questions. And Paul says, I’m on night duty. And the man in the suit jumps off the stage instead of using the steps and walks through the hall and shouts, then right after you get off work. He slams the door behind him. And Anna kisses Paul. And Paul says, go home, I’ll go to your place tomorrow.
She presses her lips together. Stares at the ground and grinds her shoe against the floor. Paul says, I’ll come after the interrogation, I’ll be there for sure.
Anna walks past Adina, she has no eyes, just a narrow face. And cheeks warped with jealousy, from knowing that Adina lived with Paul for three years. She doesn’t know what to do with her arms so she clasps her fingers together in order to keep going. Lifts each leg a little too high as she climbs down the stairs and into the auditorium. She walks past the empty seats. Slowly, so that her feet don’t show how hard she’s trying to save face by leaving before she gets edged out. Adina hears Anna’s steps and watches Paul’s eyes as they come back away from Anna’s departure. Without turning around, Anna exits the auditorium through one of the side doors.
* * *
The bottle of brandy passes from one hand to the next. The voices jumble together. A beautiful evening. In a beautiful country. We can all hang ourselves. It’s against the law to die together. Once we’re dead we’ll leave the hall calmly. I can write out our death certificates, says Paul. Sorin lifts the bottle to his lips and speaks into the bottle’s neck, into the brandy sloshing against his teeth, please make sure mine lists my favorite cause of death: EARDRUM INFECTION.
Paul climbs down the stairs, Adina hops down next to them straight off the stage. Paul wanders between the empty chairs, taking the same path as Anna. Adina follows.
* * *
His jacket is so thin she can feel his ribs. The street is so dark that the sky itself is rustling, since the trees can’t be seen. No cars, no people. The asphalt is cold and her soles are thin. Her throat is cold but the path is there, their shoes clatter. And the clattering creeps up to their cheeks. And just beyond Paul’s cheek the stadium rises, quiet and tall, like a mountain. A mountain where the only ball in the air is the moon.
* * *
The hospital blocks the path with its black length and height. A few windows are lit, but only for themselves, they do not cast their glow into the night.
Take a look at all those windows, says Paul. Once I counted all one hundred and fifty-four of them. Last summer four people jumped. That doesn’t matter, doesn’t matter at all. If they don’t jump out the windows they die in their beds. You’d think that would be more important than some song, too. For months we’ve been taking scraps from the stocking factory because we don’t have any bandages or gauze.
Paul kisses Adina, clinging to her mouth. His hands are warm, she closes her eyes, feels his erection pressing against her. She pulls her lips away from his and rests her forehead against his neck. Stands there with her shoes between his, in the middle of the crossing, where the streets cut through each other during the day. His collar crinkles in her ear. But her ears are not with her head, they’re back with the barking dogs. And her eyes are up there with the running moon, searching for holes in the clouds.
You better go now, says Adina.
Then she walks across the asphalt, taking small steps, but there’s nothing there. Just the clatter of her shoes and the heat in her forehead to guide her way. When she reaches the curb she turns around. Paul hasn’t moved, he lingers in the crossing like a shadow, his face a little lighter than the rest of him. He follows her with his eyes.
Then he makes his way toward the lit windows. The wind lifts his hair, the air smells like wet earth and freshly mown grass.
* * *
Behind the hospital is a forest. Except it isn’t. It’s a tree nursery that’s been allowed to go wild. The trees are older than the housing blocks that huddle together on the outskirts of town, older than the hospital. It’s still possible to make out the original rows by looking at the bases of the trees and focusing on the few straight trunks that remain. But at treetop level the needles and leaves are all stitched together, and the mix changes daily. What hasn’t changed in years is the thicket behind the hospital where no one tree matches another. And that the patients from the upper floors can see this better than anyone else and that they are disturbed. Paul knows they spend hours staring at the thicket through a pair of binoculars. And that as they do they become monosyllabic, like forest rangers.
It started with a sick forest ranger from the West Carpathians and it never
stopped. He was up on the tenth floor. Another ranger from the same forest came to visit and brought him a pair of binoculars. To pass the time, he said. So the sick ranger and the men on the tenth floor started spending their days watching the forest. Until the sick ranger died. When the ranger who had brought the binoculars came with the widow and a coffin, he took the man’s dentures, glasses, nail clipper and hat. But he left the binoculars for the others. And little by little, because they were so attached to the binoculars, they started turning into sick rangers, every one of them, all the way down to the third floor. Now each floor has a timetable that lists when and for how long a given patient may watch the forest.
* * *
Once Paul looked at the thicket through the binoculars. He wanted to know what the sick rangers saw. Paul knows the forest because he often walks there after work. Nevertheless he was startled by the giant ball of needles and leaves. And by the helter-skelter undergrowth. And by how the trunks and branches had adapted, as the wild growth chased away whatever was restrained by cultivation, cutting off the light from above and claiming the ground below. The grass, too, was closer in binoculars than it ever is under a pair of shoes.
The sick rangers also said they saw dogs and cats. And men and women coupling in the darker places or in the clearings in the fading twilight. And children stuffing grass in each other’s mouths in the mornings and playing hide-and-seek and forgetting all about the game when they realize no one is looking for them.