‘Think about it. We’re going to have the whole house just for ourselves. Otherwise we’ll have nothing but a woodshed to die in. And not even that.’
He didn’t want to answer at once. He was racking his brain, wanting to find reasons, to identify the perfect excuse to extricate him from the words he had just heard. He knew that, had he confessed his concerns regarding her, Emi would have lashed out in an instant, accusing him of hypocrisy: ‘You are a fake and a bragger! Here we are, locked in a shed, close to being suffocated or, if we don’t suffocate, we’re sure to die of starvation, and all you can think about is what’s right and what’s wrong. And you’re so ready to judge me only because I dared to give a solution. What’s more, I gave you a choice, Sal. You don’t absolutely need to kill him. We can spare him. We can run and find ourselves another bigger and brighter shed.’ She had not uttered them yet, but these were bound to be her words.
He avoided looking at her for a while, yet he unhappily found that he was still thinking about what she had said, that he was working her dreadful proposal over and over in his mind, because he had to admit it was the only solution at hand. Finally, he sized it up in the cold light of day. If they had left, where in Bucharest would they have found another empty house, with a garden full of fruit and vegetables on hand and a fence built up against the prying world, which could just as well have been at the end of the world? He could deny neither her skilfulness nor her pragmatism, but he still found it difficult to take that leap into the darkness from where her suggestion had risen. He’d rather have spelt it out himself; that way he wouldn’t have to make a terrible decision while being, at the same time, burdened down by this horrible doubt about her humane side. He was still unsure about the proportions in which she could be trusted and in which she was still hazy and unpredictable – just as unpredictable as the prowling snow leopard or the splutter of a dormant volcano whose entrails were boiling.
The day had worn out, and as dusk had fallen, the scorching heat in the shed had turned into hot moisture. It would still be several hours, long after the night had truly fallen, before a faint breeze might stir the air. Emi was perched on the woodpile again and had withdrawn into the darkest corner; he could barely make her out.
‘Let’s say we do as you said.’
His voice sounded gloomily in the laden air. He heard no stir on the other side, not even the delighted rustling of someone gloating over their enemy’s yielding words. As he got no answer, he felt bound to go on. And then the whole plan was pouring from his lips as if this twisted, crazy idea had been his own, as if not sheer words but the dreadful deeds themselves were leading them on a path of no return, fraught with regret and bitterness.
‘Let’s say we do it. Let’s say that, at some point, the old guy is going to need something from the shed. He’ll open the door and we’ll be ready with the shovel. We’ll take him by surprise and he won’t even have time to fight back; then we smash his head in a second, with a shovel or an axe. Actually, an axe would be better, if we could find one around.’
The logs creaked under her weight, and finally he heard the faint rustling he had been waiting for. Emi crawled down and he barely felt her when her breath touched his face. She had a will of iron. She would have probably stood the whole night out – and, who knows, maybe a few more – until she had heard him agree. That her ambition surpassed anything that might have bound them together till then made him sad. But he had to pretend he took no notice of her so that they would still be able to speak their minds. He was wondering, for instance, if it weren’t better to spare the old man after all. Wouldn’t it have been more reasonable to simply stun him with a blow to his skull, then tie him up, stuff a gag into his mouth, lock him up in the shed and come by once or twice a day with some food instead of letting him die of starvation? Wouldn’t their consciences have been clearer and their sleep more peaceful? He shared these thoughts with Emi, but upon hearing him, she sprung to her feet; through the dark, he saw her put her hands on her hips.
‘What are you saying? That we should stay with him forever?’
‘No! We’ll stay in the house and he’ll be here, in the shed.’
‘So this is your idea of a good night’s sleep – to quiver with each squeak of wood, each crack, each step we might fancy taking in the yard? To be filled with dread every time we take a full plate to the back of the yard, wondering if he’s still there – tied up, as you say – or if he’s waiting for us behind the door, like we did, ready to smack us in the head? Should this happen, make no mistake, we wouldn’t get out alive. We’d die, and that would be it. Why don’t we end it now, if that’s the plan anyway? Why suffer that much? Why stay here locked up, scorched and starved, if we’re going to end up here anyway? What do you have to say to that?’
It was a question he couldn’t answer. He knew, once again, that she was right, but the more indignant and persuasive she became, the clearer Sal could see her ruthlessness. Her cruel righteousness, devoid of any trace of humanity, would eventually bog them both down in an ancient and dusty dilemma. But having found solace in the idea that a solution would nonetheless come out soon, despite the blind alley they were in, he indulged himself in conversation.
‘So we have no choice, do we?’
‘I kind of think so. Of course, we could try to run, but I say that after he sees us, the old guy will surely alert everybody, including our parents, who’ll find out at this point about your marvellous plan. It’s going to be impossible for us to hide out any longer. We’ll have our faces printed and plastered on every lamppost. People will point at us on the street –’
‘Okay, I get it. No need to spell it out. It’s the only way.’
‘You’re saying it as if I enjoyed doing such a thing.’ Her voice was trembling, and shortly afterward, he could hear her crying nearby.
‘That’s not what I said!’
‘No, but that’s what you implied!’
‘Emi, you’re driving me nuts! What do you want now? Should I be thrilled that we’ve just decided to kill someone? When we left home, I had other plans. And it all changed because of sheer stupidity. I wasn’t careful enough. I’m sorry, Emi. Now, will you please tell me what you’re crying for?’
She stopped and snuggled into his arms. She nestled her face, streaming with tears and sweat, in the scoop between his neck and his shoulder and clung to him. It was her sign of surrender. She was letting him know, voicelessly, that there was no reason to go on fighting, because they were in a terrible mess anyway. He stroked her damp, boyish shoulder blades, held her by her armpits and then slid his hands down until they rested above her breasts, which were in truth nothing but tiny protuberances. Then he kissed her on her sternum and buried his head in her tummy, framed by the two iliac bones. He stood like that for a few minutes, resting his forehead on her panties, which still held the scent of fresh washing powder mixed with another, heavier odour given off by the sweat gathered inside the creases of her crotch. Emi blew against the back of his neck, her hands trying to separate his wet strands of hair in an attempt to cool him down; then she ruffled his hair fondly, running her thin fingers over the skin of his head.
‘Don’t you feel sorry at all for the old guy?’
‘No.’
She had answered straightaway, with disarming honesty. He was no longer surprised. He somehow appreciated the honesty she displayed; it was like they were death row convicts sharing the same cell, counting down the seconds before the execution. But if it only had been so – if only the cruel, brave girl kneading his brain with her hands, blowing cold air against his nape, had been indeed the one who was talking and not her projection, the character she supposed she should pull out of her bag under such circumstances. A suspicion had insensibly started to sprout in his mind: that she didn’t believe in this miraculous way out either, that she was scared to death and that, just like so many times before, she’d rather cloak herself in lies than tell the truth. And the truth was that they were trapped insid
e the woodshed and that the entire turmoil of the morning had been in vain; that they had no other choice but to wait for their parents to come and pick them up and that, perhaps, as a consequence of this reckless adventure, they would end up in reformatory school, just like Uwe, the son of the gypsies living round the corner.
‘So we kill him?’
‘We kill him! Straight off. Well, sure, we need to get ourselves prepared first, because even if there’s two of us, he’s bigger. Even though he looks so skinny and frail… you’d think you could break him in two with a single blow. If we’re lucky, maybe that’s all it takes.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well… maybe we won’t do him in with the first shot. Maybe he’s going to need a few more whacks. And it’s unpleasant, because then we’ll really have to see where we’re hitting. And instead of the enemy, we’ll just see a tiny old man cringing under our blows, covered in blood, his head cracked open…’
‘All right, I get it, stop it! We’ll be careful to take him down at once.’
‘Great.’
She lay back in the black dust that was glimmering in the darkness, growing lighter and lighter as their eyes became accustomed to it. Sal leaned his head against the bony pubis that was prodding his ear, his hand tightly grasping her thighs. The weariness had finally seeped into his bones. He pulled himself higher, shut his eyes and thought he’d doze off for just a second or two, enough to help him get back on his feet again. He wanted to open his mouth and tell her that, should he fall asleep, she should wake him up. But his lips wouldn’t obey him. His tongue slugged within, among the gritted teeth, like a scaly snake. He let himself loose for a few seconds with his body hovering, and this time his body yielded, abiding by every commandment of his mind; he had given up the struggle of every winter night when, lying naked on the sheets, windows wide open, he was trying in vain to stifle his chattering teeth, to tame the sensation of coldness that was ultimately sweeping over him.
Two years in a row he had trained himself to become an astronaut. He knew Rodion’s lines in Les Pionniers de l’Esperance by heart and had read everything on Neil Armstrong. He had even heard that neither his white outfit with the American flag stamped on its sleeve, nor their stellar spiderlike spacecraft module, nor even the moon – none of these had been for real; it all was probably just mere stage sets, concocted in Hollywood’s ‘dream factory,’ as one almanac had put it. But the more he dreamt of himself flying, the quicker he would fall ill, the sooner his body would fail him; it was the flu and the colds that had hindered him in the end from carrying on with his training. Yet now it was different. That he succeeded in staying wide awake even after his eyelids had shut was a marvel. He decided to count his minutes of rest and urged himself not to overrun a quarter of an hour. Emi had softened as well; her belly, on which he had laid his head, had slackened, and now his skull was sinking further down into her bowels as they strummed steadily, giving rise to a friendly background music.
He couldn’t have told when he had lost the thread of his counting, but the thing was that all the time he had been gazing at the woodshed door while watching her sleeping and listening to the movements from within her. Even though it was already morning when he woke up and the heat had sifted through the window slats along with the sunlight, he could have sworn that only a second had elapsed. He sprang to his feet. Emi had stayed in the same posture, her mouth half open, and a trickle of saliva streaked her cheek, drying and turning into an off-white powder. He dashed to the door and tried the handle. It was still locked and no one seemed to have moved it. He pressed his ear against it and tried to hear beyond. It was difficult to pick something out from the daytime bustle: there was the garden rustle, the animal sounds, then another sound in the background of cars and people humming. Even the rattling of a train could be heard from a distance, though it was difficult for him to understand how such a thing was possible.
‘Emi,’ he called in a whisper. ‘Emi, wake up!’
He hurled himself upon her and shook her. The girl mumbled sulkily and wanted to roll over, but he didn’t give up and grabbed her arms, firmly lifting her up. ‘You can’t sleep any longer! Wake up!’
She opened her dozy eyes and looked at him lazily and indifferently. Then she smiled and stretched herself, moaning quietly the whole time, before sitting bolt upright.
‘What’s up?’
‘Nothing. We didn’t have time to plan something out, and the old guy could come any minute now.’
‘Okay, so what?’
‘What do you mean, what? Shouldn’t we… you know what?’
‘What?’ she asked him, yawning without covering her mouth.
A brackish stench reached his nose and he thought that, had they been at home, it would have been time they brushed their teeth. They had their toothbrushes and the toothpaste in their backpacks. Now he thought how silly it was to have taken them; it showed how unprepared he was for such a flight. Was it possible that everything they had talked about yesterday might have been just a joke? Or maybe she pretended she didn’t remember a thing so that he should be the one to shoulder the whole responsibility. He would have done it; it was the least he could do after having led her to a dead end, picked her up from her home, crossed the city with her, unwillingly thrown her in a cage, locked her away with no water, no food and no light – led her astray on their way to freedom when in fact they were dwelling in a living prison.
‘I’m thirsty,’ Emi whined, raking into his thoughts.
‘Me too, but we have to wait.’
‘I can’t stop thinking about that water pump we passed by yesterday a few steps away, and I didn’t even think of drinking heartily.’
‘Emi…’
She didn’t trouble to answer. She wiped her sweat off her forehead and did the same with her tummy. She had dark circles under her eyes, and her paleness was deepened by the light that was slanting into their tiny den. They were both wretched as the minutes dragged along. After an endless while, they finally heard the rustle of grass trampled underfoot.
They startled and clung together, quaking from head to heel. Sal, the first to come to his senses, dashed to the tools stacked up in the corner. He groped for a bigger one through the pile, tearing them down; the loud noises they made terrified him all the more. All he could find was a hammer. He lifted it up above his head and waited. Emi had backed herself into the opposite corner.
Sal stood still for over ten minutes. Then he grew weary; his arms started to shake in pain, and he was overcome by all the thirst and exhaustion he had felt in the past two hours. He put the hammer down, wiped his sweat off, and drew in a breath of hot, dusty air that staled his lungs and brain even more and tried to figure out when the moment would come for the emaciated, scrawny old man to slide through the door like a ghost. He wanted to take one last look at her, so as to be sure he was doing the right thing, but the place where Emi had withdrawn was dim and had cloaked her in a blurred outline. On the other side, the noise grew louder until they eventually heard the clanking of some metal sheets next to them, as if someone was right inside. The shadows danced before their eyes and the latch lifted slowly, letting the light spread through the whole woodshed and dazzling them. He stopped with the hammer hanging above his head, his eyelids idly blinking against the rays of light, sweeping away the specks of dust that drifted in the air. The door stood open, and when his eyes got used to the new light, he saw Emi cringing upon the stack of wood, clasping her knees, her head buried between her legs. Emi the brave hadn’t had the guts to witness the murder that she had so cunningly devised. He had been waiting to thrust the iron straight into the bones and brain, but it wasn’t like that.
Finally losing patience, he glided past the door and stuck his head outside. Two tin plates with some sort of scrambled eggs, half a loaf of white bread and a cloudy plastic bottle full of cold water had been laid on the threshold. He looked about, but there wasn’t a soul in sight. The tin was still warm from the scrambled
eggs, freshly poured from the pan; the bread was soft and fluffy. Emi dashed for the bottle of water first, took it to her mouth and didn’t stop before emptying more than half of it. His fear was still there; he couldn’t understand how she could go out in broad daylight without making sure there was no danger, completely oblivious of their ghastly plan. She gave him the bottle of water after wiping her mouth with the palm of her hand like a labourer.
‘Have some!’
It was only then that Sal put down the hammer and bolted the water down. Then they hurled themselves upon the tin plates, tore off a hunk of bread and sunk their fingers in. When they finished licking the last bit of egg, they sat out on the grass and looked at each other: their faces were varnished as if they had been savages, both in their underwear, their scraggy chests all sweaty and blackened, their hair stuck to their heads.
‘What do we do now?’
He brooded, but not for long. ‘We’re going to sleep here, outside. We lie on the grass and sleep, and when we get up we’ll see about it.’
‘You look terrible!’ she laughed, her eyes shiny embers.
‘You do, too.’
‘Ouch! I want to wash myself! I want to wash myself!’
‘We will, but let’s wait a bit till afternoon. When we see that the yard’s empty and the old guy’s gone to bed, we’ll go and wash ourselves at the water pump. You’ll wash me and I’ll wash you.’
They sprawled down; their tummies swollen and simmering.
‘It feels so good!’
‘It was terrible!’
They shut their eyes and a starry sky sparkled above. Their restless overnight sleep, the ghost of the old man they hadn’t even had the chance to kill already, began to haunt them, creeping about and hissing like a snake through the overgrown grass. The remorse, the longing for things that could have turned out differently and that they would never know now, the image of their parents seized with pain and the effigies of Toma, Max, Johnny and Harry, along with those of their neighbours, flushed with anger and fury – all of these were dragged out. It was as if it had all happened for real and their lying in the grass, cooled off, full, with their souls at ease, soaring in the ether, seemed to be more like a dream. They fell asleep in an instant, not far from each other, under an autumnal sour cherry tree.
Sun Alley Page 26