John Berger - Lilac and Flag

At this point Hector probably made some sign with his hand. Perhaps a cutting-the-neck sign.

It makes no difference.

How long did you work down there?

As long as I could.

You were sacked?

I hit the foreman.

You should never hit them!

That’s what Naisi said, his very words.

You admired Naisi, it seems?

Admired? Naisi tried to get by, he helped others get by. Now he’s dead.

There have been very few people in my life I’ve admired, said the Superintendent.

You shot down Naisi.

I told you my men fired in self-defence.

It makes no difference.

I’ll tell you something, young man. When I was very young, say about twelve — I hadn’t left the village yet — at that age I’d already guessed everything about life. Everything! But I didn’t realise it. I thought there was a lot more to come. Of course there were things I hadn’t done, things I hadn’t seen, but these were details. The essentials I knew — without realising I knew them. I thought fully grown men and women — particularly women — had secrets I didn’t yet know. These secrets gave them special powers, powers they could use when they were in trouble, or when they were looking for happiness. I was obsessed by these secrets. I wanted to learn them. Then I came to Troy. And after many years — for to begin with I wouldn’t admit it — after many years I had to face the fact that there are no secrets. Life is like you know it when you’re a kid. I don’t know more than you do, but I can help you and you can help me.

There followed another silence. The two men could look at the cranes out of the window. They could look round the almost empty white-tiled room, which might have been mistaken for a dairy, except that there was no milk and there were handcuffs hanging on a wall near a gunrack. They could look at one another: Hector in his dark blue trousers and tunic, with brass crowns on his epaulettes, and his swollen hands; or Sucus, haggard, his eyes wild with loss, his jeans torn, his shirt dirtied. Whatever they looked at had nothing to do with their words. Their words were already far away, disputing the next direction they should take, insisting upon their own destination. Both men were waiting and neither knew what for.

Let’s go back a few weeks to the night of October the twelfth, you were at Budapest Station.

There’s never any, any, any, going back, policeman. The secret you didn’t know when you were twelve was that things can be destroyed and can never be mended. Never.

You were on platform 17 in Budapest Station.

Not even God can change the past.

And you were not alone, you were with a young woman. Do you want me to tell you who she was?

Yes, say her name.

She was known as Zsuzsa.

Zsuzsa!

On the evening of October the twelfth, with this young woman known as Zsuzsa, you stole a number of passports from the Schlafwagen of the Trans Europe Night.

I was alone. There was nobody else.

How did you get into the attendant’s compartment?

The door was open.

Where was he?

He was talking to a lady passenger.

A lady passenger known as Zsuzsa?

I didn’t know the names of the passengers, except those whose passports I grabbed.

What mountains did your father come from?

The Aravis.

How many passports did you grab from the TEN?

Fourteen.

You handed them over to Naisi?

You can’t ask him!

And the name of your father’s village?

The TEN passes the Aravis mountains, did you know that, policeman?

Did he want to go back, your father wanted to go back?

Yes.

Tell me the name of his village.

Its name meant lucky-horse-with-a-broken-leg.

You’re lying!

He’s dead. Dead, policeman, from the old German tot-tot-tot! Tot! Tot!

There was no reply, and it seemed that neither of the men made any effort to break the silence. For a moment I asked myself whether they had both gone, taking the inside lift like Sergeant Pasqua. Then I heard the Superintendent whisper: Can you help me? There was the noise of a chair being pulled back, followed by shuffling footsteps.

Open the window.

It doesn’t open.

You have to unlock it. The key should be hanging over there by the gunrack. Can you find it?… That’s better … it’s good to take in some air. Your father and I, Sucus, came from the same village.

I’ve never seen windows with a key like this.

Prisoners try to jump.

To jump, policeman, or to kill themselves?

Tell me your papa’s name.

Clement.

Clement what?

Clement Gex.

Gex!

It makes no difference now.

Your father and I were in the same class. We rode on the same luge. And, my God, he’s dead. What did he die of?

TV.

I didn’t quite catch …

I said, I’m glad he’s dead.

It’s not always easy between fathers and sons.

I loved him. From the early Latin Iubere , to give something, to give pleasure.

I knew his mother, your grandmother. Angeline had the only peach tree in the village and she was very, very proud of it. The tree grew against the south wall of the house where your father lived as a boy, between the window of the kitchen and the pêle. Angeline planted it when she was young, despite your grandfather, who was against it. He said it was madness to plant peaches there. Nobody had a peach tree in the village, it would make the wall damp, and in the summer it would attract wasps. And your grandmother persisted, so that, after a number of years, it produced small juicy white peaches, about the size of billiard balls. Juicy and sharp and sweet. I can taste them on my tongue now. When there were too many wasps Angeline kept the windows shut. You’re Clement’s only child?

I was.

We all want to go back … just for a moment to look around. No, to look for something, really. Something lost. We think if we find it, we’ll die happy. In my experience nobody dies happy. Perhaps somebody who’s killed instantly, like Gilbert d’Ormesson on the platform. Perhaps d’Ormesson was happy when he died.

You don’t look too good to me, policeman.

I think I must lie down.

Next I heard a noise that surprised and puzzled me for a moment. It was repeated like the call of the cuckoo in the spring, but its note was less liquid. A dry, squeaky sound. Suddenly it occurred to me that it was a wheel turning, and then I guessed. A trolley with rubber wheels was being pushed over the floor.

Can you lift my legs? I heard Hector say.

Both of them grunted for different reasons, Sucus with effort and Hector with relief. Then there was a silence, a long silence from which emerged the sound of footsteps pacing up and down. Seven strides, turn, seven strides … The walk was repeated many times, and the steps brushed the floor softly as if they were being made in stocking feet, or by a bear in a cage.

I’m not going to make it back, declared the Superintendent in a low voice.

The steps stopped.

I’ve committed a murder.

What!

Last night.

Where were you?

Not on Rat Hill.

Who did you murder?

Zsuzsa.

You killed Naisi’s sister!

She was my wife.

Your wife?

Naisi’s sister was my wife.

So you were married, Clement’s son, you were married.

Do you want to know how I killed her?

Without words there can be no repentance. With words everything can happen again, like the story I’m telling you, yet they never change what has happened.

I’m married myself, whispered the Superintendent, her name is Susanna.

But you haven’t killed her. She’ll be waiting for you, policeman, when you get home tonight.

Yes, she’ll be waiting.

I loved her.

You killed her, you say.