Marek Hlasko - All Backs Were Turned

“It didn’t take me long to cross it,” he said. He opened the front door and pointed toward his brother’s dark house. “See? It’s just a few steps.”

“Then you must have been thinking something earlier,” she said. “Close the door and tell me why you came.”

He stood in the doorway, motionless, continuing to look at the woman sitting on her bed three yards away from him, a book by her side.

“Did anybody tell you I was waiting for you?” she asked. “Or did I myself suggest it to you in any way?”

“I’m going,” he said. “It’s enough that I made a fool of myself.”

“You won’t stop being a fool just by closing the door,” she said. “You’ll go on being one as long as you believe it was you I was waiting for. It wasn’t. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth.”

“I’m sorry, too,” he said.

“I sat here and waited for Israel,” she said. “And I think I know what happened. Everybody thought it was you I was after, didn’t they?”

“I didn’t,” he said.

“But you changed your mind?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I came here only because that’s what everybody was telling me to do all evening. I don’t know.”

“But I do,” she said. “I’m very sorry, but it’s not you I wanted to come here; it was Israel.”

“He’ll come,” he said.

“But you’ll go on thinking I wanted you,” she said. “And so will he, because he considers himself a lesser and weaker man. And everybody else thinks that way too. You’ll feel very foolish now, going away and telling them you didn’t go to bed with me, won’t you?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe.”

“You have nothing to worry about,” she said. “Nobody will believe you if you say you didn’t sleep with me. They’ll think you are protecting Israel and you’ll only gain in their eyes. They’ll think even more highly of you and hold him in even greater contempt. Whatever you do it works in your favor. Just think of it: a man screws a woman his friend might be in love with, but he claims he didn’t do it so that his friend won’t look ridiculous. Isn’t that generous of him?”

“Yes,” he said. “Can I leave now?”

“You can,” she said. “But you won’t. You are afraid to leave too soon. Somebody might see you, and your reputation would be spoiled forever. Good night.”

“Leave Eilat,” he said. “Take the first plane tomorrow and leave. That’ll be best for all of us.”

“Not for all of us. Only for you. When I leave, people will say that that whore was ashamed of spending one night with Israel and the next with Dov, so she left. So this, too, would work out to your advantage.”

“Leave anyway,” he said.

“I will. If Israel leaves with me,” she said.

“Why should he leave with you?”

“And why should he stay?”

“His place is here,” Dov said. “What guarantee can you give him that nobody will insult him? Can you guarantee that when he goes to Europe with you nobody there will tell him he doesn’t belong?”

“No,” she said. “I can’t guarantee that. If somebody insults him, he’ll have to take care of that himself. It’ll be his responsibility and his risk. Over here he’ll always be under your protection. That’s why it’s better for him to leave. Good night.”

He didn’t move.

“I said good night.”

“Will you leave Eilat?”

“Good night. I’ve told you good night three times already. Why are you still here? Are you afraid to go out? You’ve been here for fifteen minutes. That’s long enough to screw a woman. You can go away now. I want to undress and go to sleep.”

“You really want him to leave with you?”

“Yes. And he will,” she said. “You can ask him yourself. I’m going to sleep now. You should too. I’m sorry I have to disrobe in your presence, but there’s no reason for me to sleep in my dress. So now I’ll take it off and then climb into bed, and nothing — I repeat, nothing — is going to happen between us.”

He watched her take off her dress and throw it on a chair, then walk naked across the room to the mirror and begin brushing her hair; he looked at her and at the wet footprints she left on the tiles. Then she lay down on the bed and covered herself with a sheet, but only up to her middle.

“You see?” she said. “Nothing’s happened. Do you still believe you’re better than he is?”

“No, I don’t,” he said. “The worst thing is that tomorrow we’ll have to face each other again and go on with our lives.”

“Remember one thing: everybody has to live his own life,” she said. “You can fight for two, even make love for two, but nobody’s strong enough to feel shame for two. Actually, nobody’s strong enough to really feel shame. Good night. Tomorrow you can tell them all I was a lousy lay. That’s what men always say about women they didn’t have.”

She turned off the light; he stood a moment longer looking at the stone tiles until her wet footprints faded slowly away in front of his eyes. Then he closed the door and left.

SHE WAS SITTING IN A CAFÉ WAITING FOR ISRAEL. SHE had drunk a cup of coffee and was trying to order a snack from the menu, but she had trouble communicating with the waiter; he was a Jew from one of the Arab countries and his Hebrew was even worse than hers.

“I’ve been here just three years,” he said.

“And you haven’t learned to read yet?” she asked.

“I’ve been here just three years,” he said with complete indifference, which — as she knew — was meant to mask his astonishment at her stupidity.

“Does anybody here speak German?” she asked loudly, turning toward the only other client: a man who was sitting by himself with a bottle of beer and reading a newspaper.

“Yes. Can I help you?” he asked.

“I’d like to order a sandwich,” she said. “That’s all. But he’s been here just three years.”

The man said something to the waiter, then took his bottle of beer and moved over to her table. He looked very tired, and it was impossible to tell his age.

“You’re from Hamburg, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Can you tell by my accent?”

“I can,” he said. “I was born in Berlin.”

“And how long have you been here?”

“Twenty-eight years,” he said. “That’s longer than you’re alive.”

“Berliners have always been the nicest Germans,” she said. “That’s what everybody says. You know, my father-in-law is from Berlin, too. And he’s the nicest man in the world.”

“Yes,” he said. “People from Berlin are the nicest.” He smacked the newspaper that was lying on his knees. “But now the Germans are putting up walls. And soon they’ll start shooting children again. Have you read about it?”

“My father-in-law is the nicest man in the world,” she said quickly. “You know, he’s been continuously drunk for forty years and my mother-in-law hasn’t noticed anything. That’s quite an achievement, don’t you think?”

“He’d stop drinking here,” the man said, turning his face to her. “Especially if he was an insurance agent like I am. Today I spent ten hours walking around in the heat and I haven’t earned enough to pay for a bottle of beer.”

“Don’t people want to buy insurance?”

“What should they insure themselves against?” he asked. “Against themselves? Many former criminals live here. I’ll give you an example: there are three new fishermen here who have motorboats. I told them to insure the boats and they said, Look, we’re the biggest thieves around here. If we don’t steal them, nobody will. They’re forgetting that nobody has to steal their boats. It’s enough to put some sand in their engines to ruin them forever. Anybody can do it. Especially at night; nobody guards those boats. My God.”