Mouthful of Birds

by Samanta Schweblin

  The night gathers everyone together in the preparation of a warm family meal, as the lights of the house turn on one by one and the first aromas of what will be a great feast escape into the cold through the cracks under the doors. Gruner, his patience and pride attenuated by the passage of the day, gives up guiltlessly and accepts the invitation: a door that opens and the woman who, as on the previous night, invites him in. Inside, a familial murmur. Pe congratulates the office workers with brotherly slaps on the back. The workers, grateful for everything, set a table that reminds Gruner of the intimate Christmas celebrations of his childhood, and—why not?—of the capital’s happy civilization. A triumphant Cho—successful, satisfied hunter—serves up the rabbit. Pe and Fi sit at either end of the rectangular table. On one side are the office workers, and all alone across from them sits Gruner. At Gong’s and Gill’s constant requests he passes a saltshaker back and forth, though it is never actually used. Finally, Pe discovers eager smiles tinged with mischief on Gong’s and Gill’s childish faces, and with a call to attention he frees Gruner from the exhausting game so he can finally taste his first mouthful of the meal.

  Over the following days Gruner tries out various strategies. The first thing that occurs to him is to bribe Pe, or even Fi, for change. Then, with tears in his eyes, he offers to buy the ticket to the city in exchange for all his money: “No change,” he begs, “keep it all,” he begs over and over again. And he listens desperately to a reply that speaks of a certain railroad code of ethics and the impossibility of keeping someone else’s money. Those are the days Gruner proposes to buy something from them. The amount of the ticket plus anything they want to sell him will be the sum total of his money—the perfect bargain. But no. And he has to bear the office workers’ stifled laughter, and then another family dinner.

  The first of Gruner’s tasks to become routine are washing the dishes after dinner and, in the morning, preparing the dog’s food. Then he begs again. He offers to pay with his work. To pay for something, pay for lunch. Chip in little by little with the work of living in the country. Chat every now and then with the office workers. Discover incredible talents in Gong when it comes to theories of efficiency and group work. In Gill, a lawyer of great prestige. In Cho, a capable accountant. Cry once again in front of the ticket office, and at night offer to make lunch the next day. Hunt field rabbits with Cho, and suggest, in thanks for the family’s goodwill, compensating them at least for the delicious food. Learn how this is done, and how one should do that, and also try to pay for that all-important information, that the harvest is done in the morning when the sun won’t bother you, and the midday hours are spent on housework. And every once in a while, with the hope of getting change for a ticket—a hope that is reborn only on certain days—sit on the station bench and watch another train that, at Pe’s inevitable signals, passes without stopping.

  Then, bit by bit, begin to see the office workers’ happiness as false. Doubt it all: Cho’s innocent gratitude, Gong’s spirited hospitality, and Gill’s unflaggingly subservient attitude. Intuit in all their actions a secret plan that goes against the love that Pe and Fi profess for them. And then something happens. It’s a thing that he no longer expects, and it takes him by surprise. It starts with an invitation: Cho, Gong, and Gill will make Mother and Father’s bed. Gruner is invited. They go into the master bedroom and, as a team, spread out the sheets and smooth the creases. And that’s how it happens that something is revealed: Gong smiles and looks at Gill, and together, facing each other on either side of the bed, they each lift up a pillow, and before the surprised eyes of Gruner and Cho, spit onto the sheets before setting them down again.

  It’s the moment they’re rebelling and Gruner knows it—so much love couldn’t have been real. So he gathers his courage. Gruner asks:

  “Do any of you have change?”

  All three seem surprised. Maybe it’s still too soon for the question, but then so, too, for the answer:

  “Do you?”

  Gruner says:

  “Do you think I’d be here if I did?”

  And they:

  “Would we?”

  During a long silence, they all seem to draw conclusions that merge, and start to formulate a plan that, though still undefined, now unites them in a newfound but sincere kinship. As if the action could hide the words they’d uttered, Gill shyly straightens the sheets on a bed that is already smooth. And that night, when the euphoric familial love is reborn, Gruner understands that it has always been part of a farce that began many years before he arrived. And now nothing keeps him from enjoying Pe’s educational advice or the tender kisses Fi plants on her men’s foreheads when they say good night and go to bed. In the morning he submits gladly to the routine, everyday activity, and at night, when doubt invades him and he starts to think maybe his bold plan is born of his own self-delusion, he realizes that the noises bothering him are really the light little taps of someone knocking at his door. Taps that, like passwords to be deciphered, invite him to get up and open the door, to find an anxious Cho standing there. Under orders from Gong, he’s come to bring Gruner to their first meeting.

  The gathering is in the public bathrooms next to the ticket window. Gill, ever efficient, has covered the broken windows with cardboard so the cold doesn’t seep in, and he’s brought candles and snacks. Everything is set out on a tablecloth spread neatly over the floor in the middle of the bathroom. Sitting cross-legged, attentive like true office workers, the four of them settle around the tablecloth and pool their money in Gong’s hand. Four bills, large and crisp. It’s strange for Gruner to discover a new expression on his companions’ childlike faces, a mixture of anxiety and distrust. Maybe it’s been months, maybe years, they’ve been here; maybe they suspect that they’ve lost everything back in the capital. Wives, children, jobs, homes, everything they had before they got stranded here in this station. Gill’s eyes grow damp, and a tear falls onto the tablecloth. Cho pats Gill on the back a few times and lets him lean his head on his shoulder. Then Gong looks at Gruner; they know Gill and Cho are weak, that they’re worn-out and they no longer believe in the possibility of escape, only in the pitiful consolation of more days in the country. Gong and Gruner, who are strong, will have to fight for all four of them. An unsparing plan, thinks Gruner, and in Gong’s eyes he finds an ally who follows every one of his thoughts with attention. Gill goes on crying, and he wails:

  “With all this money we could buy part of the land, we could at least live independently . . .”

  “The train has to stop,” resolves Gong, with a seriousness he hasn’t shown before.

  “What do you want to do?” asks Gruner. “How do you stop a train? We have to be realistic here, objectivity is the foundation of any good plan.”

  “Tell us, Gruner—why do you think the train doesn’t stop?” asks Gong.

  And Cho replies anxiously:

  “It’s because of Pe, he signals that there are no passengers.”

  “We know the signal for ‘Don’t stop.’ What we don’t know is the signal for ‘Do stop,’” says Gong.

  “I see,” says Gruner. And then, illuminated: “And did you already try the negative?”

  “The negative?” asks Gong.

  “If ‘the signal’ means ‘Don’t stop,’” says Gruner, “‘the negative’ is . . .”

  “No signal!” cries Cho.

  “We’ll have to pray,” says Gruner.

  “We’ll have to pray,” repeats Gill, wiping his eyes with a paper napkin.

  * * *

  It all happens just as it should, as they’d set out in the plan. First of all, dawn breaks. Fi pokes her head through the kitchen door and calls the family to breakfast. The little office workers, each one in his own room, put socks on their feet, jackets over their pajamas, slippers on their stockinged feet. Pe is the first to use the bathroom, and the others follow in order of their arrival: Gong, Gill, Cho, and
finally Gruner, who, since he knows he’s last, uses the time to feed the dog, by that time already waiting by the door. Fi greets them all and hurries them along so breakfast doesn’t get cold. Then Cho distracts Fi, bringing her over to the window and pointing to something in the fields, maybe an animal that could be that day’s lunch or dinner. Meanwhile, Gong watches the bathroom door to be sure Pe doesn’t come out; after all, he is next in line and it’s not strange for him to wait outside. And that’s when Gruner and Gill dissolve the sleeping pills stolen from Fi’s nightstand into Pe’s big mug of coffee. They’re all sitting around the table and the breakfast ceremony can begin; at first the office workers do nothing but watch Pe’s mug. But Pe and Fi are focused on that first meal of the day, and neither of them notices their looks. But to judge from the delicacies they start heaping onto their plates, the office workers themselves seem to forget the matter. When they finish, Gill clears the table and Cho washes the dishes. Gong and Gruner declare they’re going to straighten up the rooms and make the beds, and under Fi’s permissive smile they withdraw.

  They’d agreed that all four would meet in Gruner’s room once they’d pulled off the first part of the plan. Once there, the office workers—or rather, Gill and Cho, not Gong and Gruner—find themselves feeling nostalgic. Gill believes that, after all, Fi has been like his mother, and Cho admits that he has learned a lot about country living under the tutelage of a man like Pe. The hours of teamwork and the family breakfasts won’t be easily forgotten. Gong and Gruner keep moving as these ruminations take place: they pack some bags with a few little souvenirs, some small stones and other things Gill and Cho have collected, plus some apples to eat on the train.

  Then Gong’s watch alarm goes off: it’s time. The train will be here soon, because this is the exact moment when, every day, Pe gets up from the sofa where he does his morning reading and walks to the field to stand beside the tracks and signal. Gruner gets to his feet, and so does Gong, and now everything is in their hands. Gill and Cho will wait on the station bench. In the living room they find Pe asleep on his sofa. They try strong, loud words: “Chomp!” “Attention!” “Scrutinize!” But Pe, sunk into the deep sleep the sedatives induced, doesn’t wake up. Gill kisses him on the forehead and Cho imitates him; there are farewell tears in his eyes. Gong makes sure that Fi is in the backyard watering her plants like every morning, and there she is. “Perfect,” they say to one another, and finally they all leave the house. Gill and Cho go toward the station, Gong and Gruner toward the field, walking along the tracks toward the train. They spot smoke on the horizon from a train they still can’t see, but that can already be heard.

  After several steps, Gong stops. Gruner is supposed to go on alone—it takes only one man for the non-signal. After Gong slaps him on the back a few times, Gruner keeps walking. It’s going to be hard to see the train approach and want it to stop, and count only on the non-signal. To stand by the tracks and do nothing, to just pray, as Gill said, because maybe that’s the signal for God to stop the train.

  The train comes closer, moving along one of the two tracks that cross the countryside from one horizon to the other. And soon it’s at the station. Gruner focuses. He stays as still as possible, and when the train passes him, it’s hard for him to tell if that’s the sound of a train speeding up or of one that’s going to stop. Then he moves his eyes down toward the wheels turning along the tracks, and he notices that the iron arms that push it along are starting to slow their movement. He doesn’t see Gong, doesn’t know where he is, but he hears his shouts of joy. The train moves past him and, finally, comes to a complete stop in the station. Gruner watches triumphantly as the station begins to fill up with passengers, but finally he realizes that, underneath the clamor of people, Gong’s cries are directed at him: he is very far from the station, and the train’s whistle is already announcing its departure. Gruner starts to run.

  At the station, in order to board the train, Gill and Cho have to push through dozens and dozens of passengers who are still disembarking. People and luggage are everywhere. The same words are repeated like an echo along the length of the whole train platform:

  “I thought we’d never get off.”

  “Years, years, I’ve been on this train, but today, at last . . .”

  “I don’t even remember the town anymore, and now, suddenly, we’re here . . .”

  People shout and cheer, there’s almost no more room in the station. Then there’s another whistle, and the sound of the train as it starts to move off. Gruner is almost there. He sees Gong waiting at the end of the platform to help him up, and he jumps the steps. A group of men who have unpacked their instruments play a happy tune to celebrate the occasion. Gong and Gruner move among children, men, and women, and before they can reach the first door, the train is already moving alongside them. That’s when Gruner sees, among jubilant ex-passengers, the thin gray figure of the dog.

  “Gruner!” yells Gong, who has now reached the first door.

  “I’m not going without the dog,” declares Gruner, and as if those words give him the strength he needs, he goes back to the animal and picks him up. The dog lets him do it, and his terrified face goes with Gruner as he dodges the euphoric bodies. They reach the train’s last car and pull even with it. Gruner senses that from one of the windows Gill and Cho are watching him in anguish, and he knows he can’t fail them. He grabs hold of the back stairs of the train and the thrust of the machine plucks him from the platform, as though from a memory in which their feet had recently been planted, but that now grows smaller and disappears in the countryside.

  The back door of the car opens and Gong helps Gruner up. Inside, Gill and Cho take the dog and congratulate Gruner. The four—now five—of them are there, and they’re saved. But, and there is always a but, in the door there is a window, and from that window they can still make out their station. A station full of happy people, overflowing with office supplies and probably also with change. It’s a stain that for them has been a place of bitterness and fear and that nevertheless now, they imagine, is something like the happy civilization of the capital. A final feeling, shared by all, is of fear: the sense that, when they reach their destination, there will be nothing left.

  OLINGIRIS

  There was space for six. One didn’t get in, and she was left pacing the waiting room. It took her a while to digest the fact she would have to live with the urge until the next day, or the next, or whenever they finally called her in again. It wasn’t the first time this had happened to her. The ones who did make it in went up the white steps to the second floor. None of them knew one another, not really. Maybe their paths had crossed, perhaps in that very place, but no more than that. They filed silently into the changing rooms. They hung up their purses, shed their coats. They took turns washing their hands and alternated in front of the mirrors, pulling back their hair in headbands or tying it into ponytails. All politely and in silence, thanking one another with gestures or smiles. They’ve been thinking about this all week. While they worked, while they cared for their children, while they ate, and now here they are. Almost inside the room, now almost about to start.

  One of the institute’s assistants opens the door to the room and ushers them in. Inside, everything is white. The walls, the shelves, the towels rolled up like tubes, stacked. The cot in the center. The six chairs around it. There is also a gently spinning ceiling fan, six silver tweezers lined up on a towel spread over a wooden stool, and a woman lying on the cot. The six women settle into the chairs, three on each side around the woman’s legs. They wait, looking at the body impatiently, unsure what to do with their hands, as if they were at a table where the food had finally been served but they weren’t allowed to start eating yet. The assistant circles them, helps them draw their chairs closer. Then she distributes the towels and hands out the six tweezers that were on the stool. The woman on the cot remains motionless, facedown. She is naked. A white towel covers her from the waist to
mid-thigh. Her head is hidden in her crossed arms, because it’s better if they don’t see her face. Her hair is blond, her body thin. The assistant turns on the fluorescent light over the cot, some two yards up, and it illuminates the room and the woman even more. When the tube flickers slightly before turning on completely, the woman on the cot moves her arms a bit, as though settling in, and two of the women watch her reproachfully.

  When the assistant gives the signal to begin, the women fold the hand towels into quarters and place the small squares of cloth in front of them, on the cot. Then they scoot their chairs even closer, or they rest their elbows on the cot, or smooth their hair back one last time. And they get to work. They hold the tweezers poised over the woman’s body, quickly choose a hair, and lower them, open, decisive. They close, pinch, yank. The dark bulb comes out clean and perfect. They study it a second before leaving it on the towel, then go for the next one. Six seagulls’ beaks pulling fish from the sea. The hair in the tweezers fills them with pleasure. Some of them do the work to perfection. The whole hair hangs from the tweezers, orphaned and useless. Others struggle a bit with the task and have to try more than once. But nothing deprives them of their pleasure.

  The assistant circles the table. She makes sure the women are all comfortable, that none of them lack for anything. Every once in a while, a pull, a pinch, provokes a slight tremor in the legs. Then the assistant stops short and turns her gaze to the woman on the cot. She rues the institute’s regulations that have the subjects lie facedown, because with the woman’s head hidden she can’t reprimand her with a look. But she has her notepad, which she takes from the pocket of her smock, and she efficiently records the infractions. The woman on the cot hears the squeak of the rubber sandals stopping short. She knows what that means. Sooner or later enough marks accumulate and her pay is docked. The legs are gradually covered with little pink dots. Now they almost don’t tremble, because the pulling puts the irritated skin to sleep; now there is only a gentle burn.