Judith Hermann - Alice

Call me if she wakes up and won’t stop crying, Maja said. Otherwise I’ll be back around midnight, we’ll see.

Yes, Alice said. I’ll wait for you; I’ll wait up till you come.

Alice escorted Maja to the door. They didn’t turn on the light, tiptoed up the stairs. The door to the couple’s apartment was slightly ajar; through the gap came the noises of the TV — loud applause and the glib, cynical voice of a game-show host. The hallway was cold. It smelled of supper, washing powder, and unfamiliar habits. Alice touched the handle of the front door and for a moment felt sure it would be locked. But the door opened. The evening air as overwhelming as if they hadn’t been outside for months. The light in the hallway went on, the woman was standing behind Maja; she wore a tracksuit but no shoes.

Going out so late?

Yes, Maja said. I’m going to the hospital. I want to visit my husband. I haven’t been to see him all day.

The woman grimaced as if she’d been stung, as if something had suddenly caused her pain. She had completely forgotten Maja’s husband.

Oh, I’ll drive you there.

No, thank you, not necessary, Maja said, smiling politely.

Yes, yes, the woman said. Come on, I’ll drive you there; this is no place to be walking around in the dark.

She wouldn’t take no for an answer, disappeared into her apartment as though sucked in by the blue light of the TV, said something to her husband; he said something to her, all of it drowned out by the noise of the game show. Maja rolled her eyes. Alice didn’t know what to say. The woman came back; now she was wearing shoes and a heavy cardigan. She pulled the cardigan down over her broad hips and held up the car key.

Come on. Let’s go.

All right, Maja said, see you soon. She briefly touched Alice’s arm, then disappeared behind the woman into the front yard.

Alice closed the front door. She felt dizzy. From the couple’s apartment came the same blue-cave illumination, the TV spitting out hellish laughter. She went back downstairs, into the basement apartment, locking the door behind her. The door had a frosted glass pane set into a wooden frame. Alice went into the bathroom, opened the window above the tub, a window facing the street. She could hear the car engine start, the car driving out of the driveway, turning, setting off down the street, getting fainter; then it was quiet.

Twenty minutes to walk to the hospital, twenty minutes back again. By car, five minutes. Traffic lights. Traffic at the intersection. A few scraps of conversation. Possibly the woman would decide to go in, too, for whatever reason, she just might. Then five minutes to drive back. Fifteen minutes, all in all, one long, eternal quarter hour. Alice stood in the bathroom and listened. She counted the seconds, starting at one hundred, counting down, was almost sure and yet was still surprised when she heard him. The seventy-fifth second. He came out of the apartment upstairs, did something or other at the front door. Then came down the stairs, clop, clop, clop, his feet in slippers. He turned the corner in the hall, knowing his way, no need for the light. Alice quietly left the bathroom and saw him on the other side of the frosted glass, his lumpy, heavy body. He was listening, listening just as she was. Then he knocked on the wooden door frame.

Alice pulled her plaited hair tight with both hands. Tugged the sleeves of her sweater down over her wrists. Should she open the door or not? Should she open the door or talk to him through the locked door? Show her fear or hide it? Fear of what, exactly? She cut short the stream of crazy thoughts, turned the key, and opened the door.

Yes?

He stood there with that scarred skull and his grey sweater over his fat stomach and those incredibly dirty tracksuit bottoms. He gave off a distinct, sour smell. You don’t have to lock the door here, he said.

Oh, Alice said. Her heart was beating fast. She could hardly understand him. She said, What’s the matter?

He was smiling now, in a knowing, explicit way. Just wanted to see if you’ve got everything you need. That’s what he said, if Alice understood him right.

Do you have everything you need?

He looked at Alice, her body, from the toes up, still smiling, deliberately and calmly. Alice knew what he meant, and he knew that she knew. Maybe in a figurative sense both of them might not mean the same thing, but in a direct sense they did.

Actually, I don’t have any of the things I need, Alice thought. None of them. She said, Thanks, I have everything I need. We have everything, really. Thank you very much.

He thrust himself one heavy step forward and looked past her into his old apartment. Heard the familiar whispering of the dishwasher. Maybe it all seemed different to him now, what with all of Alice’s, Maja’s, and the child’s things in it. Alice’s jacket hanging on the coat rack. And the child’s soft, tiny shoe on the floor under the table and next to it the green plastic ball — all of it dipped in sadness; he could see how different it was.

Alice let him look. She looked too. She waited, knowing that it didn’t matter what her answer had been. He had ten minutes, fifteen at most — in that time anything was possible. But she didn’t come towards him, that made him hesitate, and the sadness repelled him, like an illness.

Alice said, Well, then, good night.

He still hesitated.

She said, Good night, again.

He retreated. Clop, clop, back up the stairs. Stopping before the last step — maybe she’d call him back. Alice wondered what Misha would have expected her to do. She didn’t have a clue. Holding her hand to her mouth, she listened as the man got to the top. Then at last the TV chatter stopped as his apartment door closed.

Maja came back around midnight. Alice had made another pot of fennel tea, with honey, drinking it all, along with three of the child’s biscuits. She had pulled open several kitchen drawers, had gazed at the contents and closed them again. In the cutlery drawer, countless little spoons rattling around, spoons from cough-medicine packages, tiny ice-cream spoons, plastic spoons. Messy, she said under her breath. Below the video recorder there were cassettes with handwritten labels, dubious content. On the recessed shelves, art paper, scissors, and used-up glue sticks. It was getting more and more depressing. She forced herself to stop looking.

She’d emptied the dishwasher, putting the plates and cups into the cupboard above the stove, an involuntary imitation of a different life. Had tried to resist watching TV, then capitulated. She had fallen asleep at the table, head on her arms, safe in the random order of the objects around her: teats, Maja’s barrette, tea bags, crayons, and a children’s cardboard book with soft corners. Suddenly she started up, her hands were numb. But the child was still sound asleep, her left hand tightly clamped around the rabbit’s ear, and no heavy shadow in the hall outside the door. Alice went into the room where she would be sleeping, had opened the couch and made up her bed. A blue sheet. Her nightgown next to the pillow. Shades down, patio door open. A gentle breeze outside, the brave constancy of things, their unambiguous names, the child would learn them all: tree, chair, garden, sky, moon, and hospital. Lit-up windows, dark windows. Small figures behind them, a Maja, a Misha, a nun.

11:45 PM.

Night watch.

Maja came back silently, without making a sound on the stairs or in the hallway; there was only her knock on the frosted glass pane. She was surprised to find that Alice had locked the door, Was everything all right? Yes, Alice said, everything’s all right, but it made me feel better this way.

Maja went to check on the child, briefly and conscientiously; she always seemed to have just enough strength for the things that had to be considered or done, no more and no less, precise and appropriate. Alice, sitting at the table, waited, her back erect, hands folded in her lap.