Herta Müller: The Fox Was Ever the Hunter

Merry tomorrow, merry today

Things move forward day by day

The pots rattle in the kitchen cupboard, Paul leaves the awakening Romanians right in the middle of his song, dances around Liviu and joins in:

Forward, forward, fuck fuck fuck

Forward, forward, fuck fuck fuck

Always forward never stuck

* * *

The lamb leans on the stove, so that the neighbor’s pillows and down covers are draped behind her shoulder. In the sunlight they seem to be sleeping on the chairs.

Where is the helicopter going to land, asks the lamb, and Paul says, in heaven, in the mud with the little Romanians.

When I was little there used to be a swing carousel next to the market, says the lamb. They’d take it down at the first sign of snow, because Mihai the ticket taker had a stiff leg and couldn’t sit out in the cold. If you wanted to ride on the carousel you had to buy tickets at the People’s Council office. One ride cost three tickets for children and five for adults. The money was supposed to pay for paving our road with asphalt. Mihai took the tickets and tore a corner off each one and tossed the corners into a hat. In the summer he let the older girls ride for free because before the ride he could stand behind a big packing crate and reach into their pants. A few complained to the mayor, but the mayor said it didn’t matter, since it didn’t really hurt. Mihai would start up the motor and turn it off to end the ride. All rides lasted the same amount of time, because he kept his eye on the church clock. At noon he took a break, ate lunch and poured a can of diesel oil into the motor. He only repaired the motor at night so as not to lose any business during the day. He knew the motor well since he’d built it himself out of old tractor parts. Occasionally I’d ride too, but only if there were just girls nearby, says the lamb, because when the boys were there they’d grab the seats when the girls were in midair and twist the chains until the girls threw up. They learned that from Mihai.

One winter evening two black cars arrived in the village. They were coming from an inspection at the border. People said there were three high party functionaries, a border officer and three bodyguards. They were all completely plastered. One of them knocked on the mailman’s window and asked who had the key to the swing ride. The mailman pointed to the other end of the village, where Mihai lived.

Mihai was already asleep when they knocked on the window. He didn’t want to get up, but they insisted. Yes, said Mihai, I have the key, only there isn’t any oil in the motor, and I don’t have any here, it’s over at the People’s Council office. But he ended up getting the key anyway and went off with the bodyguard. After looking into the motor he said there was enough oil for one ride. And what happens then, asked the bodyguard. Then the motor will stop, said Mihai.

The bodyguard waved to the others, and they all climbed out of the cars and took their places in the seats, the bodyguards between the functionaries, the border officer last. Mihai waited beside the motor until they’d buckled themselves in. Start it up, said the bodyguard, once it gets going you can go home.

The motor ran, the seats flew, the chains angled out into the air. Mihai went home, the moon shone and it was very cold. But the motor hummed, and the seats flew all night long.

The next morning the carousel was still there, says the lamb, and the seats were hanging in the air, and the seven men were hanging strapped in the seats, frozen to death.

The lamb wipes two tears from her eyes, her mouth opens and closes. The next day a commission came to the village. The carousel was no longer allowed, it was torn down and taken away. The road was never paved. Mihai and the mailman were arrested as class enemies. At the trial Mihai said it was night and the diesel oil was black. He must have made a mistake, the motor was probably full. And the mailman testified that he’d heard the motor running all night long, it didn’t get quiet until it was almost morning. Once he’d even looked out the window and seen the comrades flying through the air. Yes, he’d heard their howling, he said, but he hadn’t given it a second thought, they looked like they were having a good time.

The black and white sky stayed empty, the forbidden song spread throughout the country in trains, in buses, on horse-drawn carts. In tattered coat pockets and shoes worn down to the point of listing. Also in the car, between Adina and Paul as they drive back to the city.

The sky in the roadside village is blue, the forbidden song has howled it empty. The village policeman put his pants back on but left his cap on the tree. He didn’t clear out his desk, just grabbed the pictures of his wife and two children and stashed them in his jacket. Then he cut across the field at the end of the village, looking to get as far away as possible.

The old lady next door carries her pillows and down covers into the house, because evening is lurking behind the village as it does every day, only louder.

* * *

At the border, at the other end of the country, where the plain juts into Hungary like the tip of a nose, there is a little crossing. The barrier is dark. A car is waiting by the barrier, the driver is wearing a thick sweater. He hands his passport through the window. The border officer reads:

KARÁCSONYI ALBERT

Mother MAGDA née FURÁK

Father KARÁCSONYI ALBERT

As the man returns his passport to the glove compartment a birthmark the size of a fingertip pops out of his shirt collar. The barrier swings up.

* * *

Adina and Paul look up at the window, the curtains have been drawn. The apartment is unlocked, the key has been left in the door from the inside. Abi is not at home and there is no note. The wardrobe is open, a matchbox is lying on the carpet. A chair has been knocked over on the kitchen floor. On the kitchen table is a half-empty bottle of brandy and a full glass. The soup in the pot on the stove has a layer of mold.

No one leaves home like that, says Paul, unless they’re forced to.

* * *

At the café behind the quiet streets of power the glass panes have been shattered by bullets. The red curtains have been torn down. Soldiers sit at the tables. The poplars rise pointed and tall and peer into the water. Where fishermen stood during the striped summer, soldiers now stand day and night. They don’t care what time it is, the bell tolls in the cathedral tower and doesn’t even hear itself.

The dark green yews between the opera and the cathedral have been torn apart, the display windows splintered and empty. The bullet holes on the walls are as dense as skipping black rocks.

The cathedral steps are crammed with thin yellow candles. They flicker at a slant, like the wind. The long red carnations and short white cyclamens have been trampled but are not yet wilted. The steps are guarded by tanks and soldiers. The dwarf is wearing a black armband and sitting on the curb next to a wooden cross. He stretches out his legs so that his brick shoes face the sidewalk. He is selling yellow candles. Attached to the cross is a photograph of a dead man, a young face with a pimple. The mouth smiles and smiles. Adina closes her eyes and an angel with a bullet wound smiles from out of the picture. Paul moves his face close to the photograph. At his feet a woman is sitting behind a cloth spread with candles. She is all muffled up and eating a soft-boiled egg. She bores her fingertip into the yolk and licks it. Her finger and the corner of her mouth and the yolk are yellow just like the candles. The woman wipes her finger on her coat and holds two candles out to Adina and Paul.

Praying is something I just can’t do, says Adina, Paul lights one of the candles.