Agota Kristof - The Book of Lies

The civilian says:

"You speak their language, madam?"

Grandmother replies:

"It's my mother tongue, sir."

Our cousin asks:

"Are they here? When did they arrive? We wanted to welcome them in the Town Square with bouquets of flowers."

The civilian asks:

"Who's 'we'?"

"My friends and I."

The civilian smiles:

"Well, it's too late. They arrived last night. And I came just after them. I'm looking for a girl."

He speaks a name; our cousin says:

"Yes, that's me. Where are my parents?"

The civilian says:

"I don't know. My job is just to find the children on my list. First we'll go to a reception center in the Big Town. Then we'll try to find your parents."

Our cousin says:

"I have a friend here. Is he on your list too?"

She says the name of her lover. The civilian consults his list:

"Yes. He's already at army headquarters. You'll travel together. Get your things ready."

Our cousin joyfully packs her dresses and gathers all her toiletries together in her bath towel.

The civilian turns to us: "And what about you? What are your names?"

Grandmother says:

"They're my grandsons. They'll stay with me."

We say:

"Yes, we'll stay with Grandmother."

The civilian says:

"I'd like to have your names all the same."

We tell him. He looks at his papers.

"You're not on my list. You can keep them, madam."

Grandmother says:

"What do you mean I can keep them? Of course I can keep them!"

Our cousin says:

"I'm ready. Let's go."

The civilian says:

"You're certainly in a hurry. You might at least thank this lady and say goodbye to these little boys."

Our cousin says:

"Little boys? Little bastards, you mean."

She gives us a big hug.

"I won't kiss you, I know you don't like that. Don't screw around too much. Take care."

She gives us an even bigger hug and starts crying. The civilian takes her by the arm and says to Grandmother:

"I thank you, madam, for everything you have done for this child."

We all go out together. In front of the garden gate is a jeep. The two soldiers sit in front, the civilian and our cousin in back. Grandmother shouts something. The soldiers laugh. The jeep moves off. Our cousin doesn't look back.

After our cousin has left, we go into town to see what's happening.

There is a tank at every street corner. On the Town Square, there are trucks, jeeps, motorcycles, sidecars, and everywhere lots of soldiers. In the Market Square, which is not paved, they are pitching tents and setting up open-air kitchens.

When we go by, they smile at us, they talk to us, but we can't understand what they're saying.

Apart from the soldiers, there is nobody in the streets. The doors of the houses are closed, the shutters drawn, the shop blinds lowered.

We go home and say to Grandmother:

"Everything is quiet in town."

She sniggers:

"They're resting for the moment, but this afternoon, you'll see!"

"What's going to happen, Grandmother?"

"They'll carry out searches. They'll go into everybody's house and ransack it. And they'll take whatever they like. I've lived through one war already, I know what happens. But we don't have anything to be afraid of: there's nothing to take here, and I know how to talk to them."

"But what are they looking for, Grandmother?"

"Spies, weapons, ammunition, watches, gold, women."

Sure enough, in the afternoon, the soldiers begin systematically searching the houses. If there is no answer, they fire a shot in the air, then batter down the door.

A lot of houses are empty. The residents have left for good or are hiding in the forest. These uninhabited houses are searched just like the others, along with all the stores and shops.

After the soldiers have gone, thieves invade the abandoned shops and houses. The thieves are mainly children and old men, and a few women too, those who are fearless or those who are poor.

We meet Harelip. Her arms are full of clothes and shoes. She says to us:

"Hurry up while there's still something left. This is the third time I've done my shopping."

We go into the Booksellers and Stationers, whose door is smashed in. There are only a few children inside, younger than us. They are taking pencils and colored chalk, erasers, pencil sharpeners, and schoolbags.

We take our time choosing what we need: a complete encyclopedia in several volumes, pencils, and paper.

In the street, an old man and an old woman are fighting over a smoked ham. They are surrounded by people laughing and urging them on. The woman scratches the old man's face, and in the end she goes off with the ham.

The thieves are guzzling stolen alcohol, picking fights with each another, smashing the windows of the houses and shops they've looted, breaking crockery, flinging to the floor whatever they don't need or can't carry off with them.

The soldiers are also drinking and returning to the houses, but this time to find women.

Everywhere we hear gunshots and the cries of women being raped.

On the Town Square, a soldier plays the accordion. Other soldiers dance and sing.

For several days now, we haven't seen our neighbor in her garden. Nor have we met Harelip. We go and investigate.

The door of the shack is open. We enter. The windows are small. It is dark in the room, even though the sun is shining outside.

When our eyes get used to the darkness, we can make out our neighbor lying on the kitchen table. Her legs are dangling, her arms are covering her face. She doesn't move.

Harelip is lying on the bed. She is naked. Between her spread legs there is a dried pool of blood and sperm. Her eyelashes are stuck together forever, her lips are curled up over her black teeth in an eternal smile; Harelip is dead.

Our neighbor says:

"Go away."

We approach her and ask:

"You aren't deaf?"

"No. And I'm not blind either. Go away."

We say:

"We want to help you."

She says:

"I don't need help. I don't need anything. Go away."

We ask:

"What happened here?"

"You can see for yourself. She's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes. It was the new foreigners?"

"Yes. She called them. She went out on the road and waved at them to come in. There were twelve or fifteen of them. And as they took her, she kept shouting: 'Oh, I'm so happy, I'm so happy! Come, all of you, come on, another one, again, another one!' She died happy, fucked to death. But I'm not dead! I've been lying here without eating or drinking for I don't know how long. And death hasn't come. It never does come when you call it. It enjoys torturing us. I've been calling it for years and it pays no attention."

We ask:

"Do you really want to die?"

"What else could I want? If you'd like to do something for me, set fire to the house. I don't want anyone to find us like this."

We say:

"But you'll suffer terribly."

"Don't worry about that. Just set the fire, if you're capable of it."

"Yes, madam, we are capable of it. You can depend on us."

We slit her throat with a stroke of the razor, then we go and siphon some gasoline from an army vehicle. We pour the gasoline over both bodies and on the walls of the shack. We set fire to it and go home.

In the morning, Grandmother says: "The neighbor's house burned down. They were both inside, her daughter and her. The girl must have left something on the fire, ninny that she is."

We go back to get the hens and the rabbits, but other neighbors have already taken them during the night.

For weeks now, we have seen them marching past Grandmother's house, the victorious army of the new foreigners, which we now call the army of the Liberators.