Herta Müller - The Appointment

I was right, the mosquito preferred me, and I had yielded, since it was imperative for Paul and me not to bother each other. I should have told the mosquito not to bite my face. In the light of day the scabs on Paul’s forehead and chin looked like a clogged sieve, where you couldn’t tell what was supposed to stay in and what should pass through.

My cuts were burning last night, Paul said, my mouth was all dried out, I had to keep going to the window so as not to suffocate.

He rubbed his eyes. Traffic could be heard in the street with the shops, soon bottles had started clinking. I crossed to the window: a delivery truck had pulled up out back, and the red car was parked on the sidewalk in the same place as yesterday, only no one was inside. It was just sitting there in the sun, completely empty. To ask what it was doing there would have been as senseless as asking the same thing of the trees, the clouds, or the rooftops. I was just about ready to accept the idea that the unoccupied car should simply be where it was. Up here in the flat Paul’s steps were making the floor creak, while down below on the sidewalk a woman walked into her own shadow. The summer clouds were bright and high, or, rather, soft and close, while Paul and I seemed as if we’d been stored on the wrong shelf, too tired, placed too high off the ground. Neither of us really wanted to stave off defeat — I don’t even think Paul did. Our misfortune went on and on, weighing us down. Happiness had become a liability, and my ass-backward luck a kind of trap. If we tried to protect each other, it would come to nothing. Just as when Paul joined me at the window and I ran the tip of my finger across his chin to keep him from sticking his head out. He sensed the restraint in my affection and leaned outside: he saw the red car. Tenderness has its own meshes, whenever I attempt to spin threads like a spider I get stuck in my own web, in so many little lumpy balls. I yielded the window to Paul, he didn’t think the unoccupied red car was worth more than a passing curse. But then he went downstairs in his slippers, without saying a word, and hauled the Java up in the elevator. We dragged the motorcycle into the apartment. And two days later, on Sunday, Paul pushed it along Mulberry Street to the flea market.

I had decided to stay home. I couldn’t go to Mulberry Street without visiting Lilli’s grave and looking for the shoemaker’s. And that could have taken some time. I didn’t like visiting Lilli’s grave. If it had been just the two of us I could have handled it — but not those red flowers too, right there on her grave. My father-in-law had called them haemanthus. At the market they were called blood lilies. For me, they were the flowers of flesh. Red stems, leaves, blooms, each plant to its very tips was a handful of ragged flesh. Lilli was feeding them, and I would stand at the foot of the grave and put my finger in my mouth to keep my teeth from chattering. After Paul’s accident, nothing could induce me to visit any grave on earth. And what was more, I still wanted to keep the Java, even if it was no longer roadworthy.

Our love had come full circle. We had first met at the flea market, and the motorbike had been there. Paul hadn’t been to the flea market since; now he was going there to sell his Java. Paul said:

If we hold on to the bike, we’ll never get rid of this whole nasty business.

Whether or not that was true, I wanted to keep it in the apartment because it was the accident that was nasty, not the Java. And just as nasty as that was the image of Paul sitting there in the dust of the flea market, every bit as battered and bruised as his bike. I said:

You can’t go there with that scab on your face.

Paul made light of it:

Who knows, maybe your beach ball will turn up again.

What did turn up again was the old man with the marbled legs. Spic-and-span in his Sunday best, with a breezy straw hat and a silk tie. And Paul sold him the Java and decided that the old man couldn’t have been from the secret police, otherwise he wouldn’t have offered more than anybody else. I’m not so sure. Late that evening Paul came home from the flea market drunk. He got some sausage out of the fridge and bread from the cupboard. Every time he picked up a piece to eat, he asked:

What’s that.

Sausage, I said.

And that.

Tomato.

And what on earth is that.

Bread.

And what’s that.

Salt and a knife. The other thing is a fork.

As he chewed, Paul looked across at me, as if he had to find me.

Sausage, tomato, salt, and bread, he said. But you’re here too.

And where have you been, I asked.

He pointed to his chest with the knife handle:

In my shirt and right with you.

He dropped a crust of bread into his shirt pocket:

If I’m arrested anytime soon… or if you’re… His chewed-up food dragged the words down into his throat. After eating, he put the cutlery in the sink and the bread in the drawer and wiped the crumbs from the table:

We should clean up in case we have an unexpected visitor today.

A few minutes later he came into the bedroom and sat down next to me on the edge of the bed:

Aren’t we going to eat today.

But you just had something.

When.

Five minutes ago.

What did I eat.

I listed everything again.

He nodded.

So the man is full, he said.

At that I nodded.

It was good he didn’t say your man. If he wanted to drink all the money he got for the Java, that was entirely his own business. I didn’t even want to know how much he got. I’d never again be literally struck dumb with happiness when we were out for a ride, the sky would never again start flying, and never again would I hold on tight to Paul’s ribs — that was entirely my own business, as was the fact that we didn’t use the money to go to the restaurant by the game preserve, like we had after we first met at the flea market. Paul had the accident without me, his motorcycle was finished, perhaps he was trying to spare us both the feeling of a wake. For Paul it was a question of wiping away the accident, as he had wiped away the bread crumbs from the kitchen table. Just as I had wanted to wipe everything away after I separated from my first husband.

Back then I had gone to the flea market to rid myself of all the things that reminded me of him. Where the wedding ring was concerned, it was a matter of the money — I had debts. Paul was standing next to me, selling homemade television aerials designed to pick up stations from Belgrade and Budapest. The aerials were officially prohibited, but they were tolerated and could be seen on lots of roofs around the city. Here at the flea market, splayed out on Paul’s blue tarp that the wind kept tearing at, they looked like antlers. I took off my shoes and used them to anchor the newspaper on which I had laid out the items I was trying to sell. My feet got dirty, and that made me unhappy, just as it had when I played with the boy they put to sleep and his dust snakes swirling between the avenue and the bread factory. The people who shuffled by might just as well have sold the clothes off their back and wrapped themselves in any old rags they could pick up off the ground. Only soldiers and policemen would have stood out, because there were no uniforms lying on the ground. Not a single tree, not one blade of grass, just a mass of ragged people and a poor man’s summer in the whirling dust. And there I was, selling gold.

For my woolen scarf I could have gotten three times the price I was paid. The plastic bangles and brooches, my beach hat, and the beach ball would never have brought in more than a little change. In my short, narrow skirt, with my wedding ring dangling to the ground from my wrist on a length of string, I felt doubly sly — part black marketeer fallen on hard times who shows a little skin to make her goods more attractive, part rouge-cheeked whore who manages to clean out her client’s wallet during sex. A little depravity would have fit right in with the place, would have guaranteed a quick killing. I liked imagining myself depraved and desirable. I crooked my right leg a little, rested my right heel on my left foot, ran my fingers through my bangs, and gave provocative, seductive looks for all I was worth. But I was convinced that my short skirt spoiled things because of my bandy legs, that my neck wasn’t a true milky-white, and that my eyes didn’t have that petulant edge that drives men wild when a woman glances up from beneath her lashes. The most suggestive thing about me was the whirling dust. In fact, I didn’t even know what the ring weighed, nor the going price of gold. I belonged to the ring and not the other way around. Please have pity on this poor silly goose — I could have pulled that off more easily. But pity would have been out of place here.