The Bridge (4 page)

Owing to the poor lighting I couldn’t tell where we were when we finally got there. The brick wall we’d followed for the last fifty meters had no distinguishing marks. It could have been a large warehouse or a tall fence. I heard a metallic sound when I knocked on it. I had to stare hard to make out the dark outline of a door in the wall.

A lighted rectangle appeared head-high. I put on the tragedy mask. Darkness reigned once again when the rectangle disappeared, but not for long. The door opened inward with creaking hinges and I was bathed in light. I entered quickly and the door closed noisily behind me. I was alone in the darkness.

I might have been uncertain as to what to do, but the unease I felt decided matters for me. I didn’t feel like staying there. I went up to the door and knocked. The metal was rough and cold. A small window opened and a large male head, totally bald, appeared. He glared at me without a word.

As I brought the comedy mask to my face, I wondered whether it might be wiser to stay outside. But there was no time to change my mind. The door opened with another creak and a giant appeared.

He was naked to the waist, wearing only broad cotton pants and slippers. His skin was shining, as though rubbed with oil. He waved me inside. I couldn’t refuse that invitation. After all, I couldn’t turn my back on myself.

Closing the door behind me, the giant turned and indicated the long hallway extending before me. The floor was covered with a thick black carpet. Framed pictures lined both walls, lighted from the ceiling by the slanting beams of spotlights.

I gave a brief nod to the Goliath and then headed down the hallway. As I followed my distant figure, I glanced at the paintings I passed. They were not ordinary portraits. The faces of the men and women of varying ages were anything but cheerful. They expressed anxiety, worry, fear, even despair. It was as if they had just come face to face with something dreadful. I scurried after myself.

I caught up with me at the place where the hallway widened into an enormous room. It was illuminated by four chandeliers resembling huge Christmas trees. The floor and walls were lined with marble, so white that it sparkled in the bright light. On the right-hand side were six tall windows with black drapes pulled over them.

I headed towards the left-hand side and the massive roulette table in the center of the wall. The croupier at its head was a girl with short red hair and a round face sprinkled with freckles. She was wearing a white blouse and green vest, with a matching green bow tie.

An easel had been set up behind her and a painter was sitting on a tall round chair, holding a palette. He was young as well and sported a thick beard. He was wearing a formal evening suit, and his tie was so colorful that it looked as though he used it to wipe his brush.

On the opposite side was a rather stout middle-aged violinist in a gray evening gown. Her hair was the color of coal and it reached almost to her waist. She was looking at the floor, head bowed.

On the wall above the roulette table hung two large paintings in heavy engraved black frames. The left one depicted a gold mask with its crescent-shaped mouth turned upwards, while the right one had the crescent turned downwards.

When I sat on the only chair at the table, placing the mask in my lap, the painter stood up and set to work. He mixed the paint on the palette a little with his brush, then started to lay it on the canvas with short, brisk movements. At the same time, the violinist raised her instrument and bow and started to play, her head still bowed.

When I too went up to the table, no one paid any attention to me. I stood behind myself, holding the mask behind my back. Although there were no bets on the table, the croupier spun the roulette wheel, then threw the ivory ball in the opposite direction. When it stopped, the long rake used to clear the bets was pointing at number three.

I reached into the pocket of my raincoat and took out the three vials. Without a moment’s hesitation I put all three on the space for black numbers. The ball once again went on its circular path. As though uninterested in the outcome of the throw, I looked at the central area with numbers in front of me, arms resting on the edge of the table. I, however, bent over slightly so I could see better.

This time the croupier pointed at number twelve, then reached out with the rake to clear the vials. She drew them in with a skilled movement, without knocking any of them over. They disappeared into a round opening next to the roulette wheel. The rake went up again, waiting for a new bet.

My hand plunged once more into my coat pocket. Again there was no hesitation. I put the three jewels on the space for even numbers. My eyes focused on the table top once more, but I drew closer to the head of the table.

I didn’t understand how I could be so indifferent. These weren’t pills of no consequence but authentic gems. Where did I acquire the audacity to take such a risk? I had never gambled before. What if an odd number came up?

I stared dully at the tiny ball that came to land in pocket number fifteen. There was a lump in my throat as I watched the shovel at the top of the rake pick up the three precious stones and carry them inexorably towards the opening in the table next to the croupier. They disappeared as though swallowed up by a dark, round maw.

The monster was clearly insatiable because the rake went up once again, inviting new bets. But what was left to bet? The answer appeared straightaway: the mask in my lap went into the space for the first eighteen numbers.

The croupier bowed. The painter placed his palette and brush on the chair and clapped. The violinist raised her head for the first time, and the flicker of a smile crossed her lips. When the ball was rolled for the fourth time, I went right up to the head of the table. My eyes began spinning too, unintentionally following its circular movement.

My eyes kept moving even after the ball stopped, as though wanting to move it from number twenty-six where it had callously landed. Not wanting to watch the rake pull in the new booty, I turned towards myself. I was sitting stock-still, staring blankly, as though this had nothing to do with me.

The croupier cleared her throat. I didn’t see what she did with the mask. The opening was too small for it to go inside. The rake pointed to the ceiling again. The painter picked up his palette and brush, but did not go back to painting. The violinist was holding her instrument at the ready, but did not put the bow to the strings.

I got up from the chair. The game was over. I had nothing else to lose. What a dupe I’d made of myself! A man really doesn’t know himself, at least not when he’s patently losing his self-control.

In utmost disbelief, I watched as I took off the raincoat, rolled it up and put it on the number zero. Although the space was considerably larger than the other numbers, the coat covered it completely, even going a little outside the rectangle.

The painter started laying paint on the canvas in feverish, almost frenzied strokes, as though suddenly overcome by a burst of inspiration. The tempo of the violin, striking up the same moment, lagged not a bit. The croupier threw the ball again, more forcefully than the other times. It spun so fast I thought it would fly out of the wheel.

When it started to slow down a feeling of sadness came over me. I couldn’t take this lunacy any longer. I couldn’t watch the final circuits of the ball or my own self as I stared at the tabletop. I raised my eyes from the roulette table to the two paintings hanging above it.

And that’s when it happened.

The ball hadn’t landed yet. Although I noticed the change, at first it seemed a matter of course, like something I see every day. It was not until the large wheel turned silent that I finally figured out that paintings don’t change places just like that. The comedy mask should have been on the left-hand side and the tragedy mask on the right. And not the other way around, as they were now.

I stared fixedly at the two large frames, although there was a stir around me. It took a loud noise to snap me out of my fascination. The croupier stood up and broke the rake. The painter angrily jabbed the sharp end of the brush into the canvas, making holes and tears. The violin was on the floor and the violinist was stamping on it in wrath.

The wheel was moving very slowly now, carrying the ball where it rested in the only green pocket—the zero. On top of the raincoat covering this number’s space lay the mask with the mouth turned down.

I first took the mask, then the coat, paying no attention to the demonstrations of anger around me. I threw the raincoat over my arm and headed towards the hallway. I didn’t linger a moment. I headed after myself.

We weren’t walking one behind the other anymore, but side by side. The hallway seemed shorter, as though we were getting to the giant faster than we’d reached the room. He was looming in front of the door, arms crossed on his naked chest. I handed him the tragedy mask I’d just received as my winnings. He took it, but didn’t move. I quickly gave him my comedy mask.

The darkness we entered wasn’t the least bit forbidding anymore. We weren’t in it very long, though. Still walking side by side, we continued down the street, which started to curve to the right. At the end of the bend we reached a new boulevard with a river running along the opposite side. I hadn’t been in this part of town, but I knew approximately where we were located.

The boulevard was bathed in neon light and had more cars than pedestrians. We took the first pedestrian crossing to the other side and turned left, going along the river under a row of bushy chestnut trees. We didn’t talk. A man only rarely has something to say to himself.

A stone bridge soon appeared before us. It had a low, wide parapet and ornate lighting. We stopped in the middle and stared at the water, where the lights were shimmering in reflection as though in a dark, trembling mirror. A brightly-lit boat full of cheerful music started to emerge festively from under the bridge.

When it had gone downriver, I looked around me. There weren’t any vehicles or people on the bridge just then. I laid the raincoat across the parapet, then climbed onto it. For a moment it seemed that I would turn and say something. But I didn’t.

I took a step over the edge and disappeared at once, as though sucked in by the darkness below. I didn’t watch myself go. I knew I wouldn’t see a thing. Just as I didn’t hear any splashing sound that might have disturbed the calm evening waters. Leaving the raincoat on the parapet, I headed back to the riverbank. Tomorrow I will buy a new raincoat with lapels of equal width.

Madam Olga realized she’d made a mistake as soon as she left the shop with a large “Sale” sign spread across its window. The scarf hadn’t been expensive, but she didn’t need one. She never wore scarves. And even if she did, she definitely wouldn’t wear one this color. Yellow didn’t suit her, particularly not a shade as bright as this. Moreover, the scarf she’d bought had a defect. One end had two round spots of a distinctly darker shade, resembling the large eyes of a sleeping snake. Owing to their regular shape and symmetrical position they might have appeared a result of design, but a closer look revealed that they were due to a slip-up in dyeing.

Madam Olga, in actual fact, did not like sales. The crowds in the shops and the customers’ behaviour got on her nerves. There seemed to be something of the scavenger in their desire to buy things they most often didn’t need solely because of the low price. Nonetheless, she was rarely able to resist the call of the showy signs on the windows, although most of the time, once inside, she kept the impulse to buy for the sake of buying at bay. She would usually leave a sale empty-handed and angry at herself for not being of stronger character.

Now she was angrier than ever because she’d not only purchased a defective scarf but had put it on immediately. She was unable to explain this to herself. The frenetic atmosphere in the shop must have been to blame. No one acted normally there. Where had she got the idea she could walk through town wearing such a scarf? Who else dressed so gaudily at her mature stage of life?

The answer to her unspoken question appeared before she had time to remove the yellow snake. In front of the window stood an older woman; she would not have given her a second thought if it weren’t for the fact that she was wearing the same scarf. Madam Olga stared at it, trying to see whether it had a defect too, but all at once that ceased to be important. A fleeting glance was all she needed to realize that she knew the woman. Or rather, she used to know her. When she was still among the living.

Madam Vera, Madam Olga’s fourth-floor neighbor, had died three and a half months ago. She’d had a weak heart for a long time, and it had finally failed her. They had not been very intimate. They would stop and chat whenever they happened to meet, but did not visit each other. Madam Olga didn’t know much about her. Madam Vera was the widow of a retired bank clerk, without children. She’d been devoted to her two cats, taken in by a distant relative after the funeral.

Madam Olga might easily have failed to recognize Madam Vera. She’d cut her hair and changed the color. Before she’d hidden the gray with a black rinse, which suited her quite well, but now she’d chosen red. This might have been flattering too if it weren’t for its youthful, flamboyant shade, which did not suit her age. And neither did the scarf, for that matter. But the woman was certainly Madam Vera. The mole on her right cheek removed all doubt.

Madam Vera turned away from Madam Olga and headed down the street. She walked with the short, slow steps of those with a heart condition. She was wearing the dark-gray coat that she usually wore when she went out, even when it was warm. On her it seemed long because she was short.

After watching her walk away for a few moments, Madam Olga started after her, intending to catch up and exchange a few words. Then she thought better of it. She didn’t know what to say. She could ask her questions, of course, but was unable to formulate them properly in her head. She might have had an easier time if they’d been closer friends; as it was, everything that crossed her mind seemed like prying. How do you talk to someone who is dead, anyway?

In that case, she would just follow her. She couldn’t very well continue on her way as though she hadn’t run into Madam Vera. But Madam Olga had no experience of shadowing. How was it done? The street was full of people at this time of the afternoon and she might lose her in the crowd if she lingered too far behind. If she got too close and Madam Vera turned around, she couldn’t help but notice her. Then what? And anyway, it was most certainly unseemly to shadow people.

She would try to stay at a moderate distance. Luckily, Madam Vera didn’t walk fast, so she would not have to overexert herself. An elderly woman was only really up to shadowing another elderly woman. It didn’t even have to be conspicuous. How could the sight of two elderly women walking along at a short distance from each other be suspicious?

Madam Olga stopped dead in her tracks when it dawned on her what made them conspicuous. She took off the scarf, rolled it up and put it in her coat pocket. In fact, she should have done that in the shop, once she’d been unable to stop herself from buying it. It would have been best if Madam Vera had removed hers too, but how could she get this across to her?

Madam Olga stopped once again and pretended to look in a shoe store window when Madam Vera paused in front of a grocery store. There were baskets full of fruit on the sidewalk in front of it. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as Madam Vera pointed at the bananas. The storekeeper took a large bag, filled it and put it on the scale.

Why does she need so many bananas? she wondered when Madam Vera continued on her way. She remembered the time Madam Vera had told her she didn’t like fruit. In addition, considering her heart condition, carrying something that heavy wasn’t a good idea. The bag must have weighed at least two kilos, making her lean heavily to her right. If circumstances had been otherwise, Madam Olga would have offered to help, but this was clearly impossible now.

At the next stoplight Madam Vera joined the others who were waiting to cross the street. Madam Olga stood next to a kiosk not far away, all set to cross as soon as Madam Vera put some distance between them.

Just as she was about to cross, a girl handing out leaflets to passersby, dressed like a majorette in a tall hat and high boots, came up and smilingly offered her a colorful piece of paper. Disconcerted by the rush to make the green light, Madam Olga took it, although she was not in the habit of accepting such offers. She had an aversion to aggressive advertising. She would throw it in the first trashcan she saw.

Not far from the intersection, Madam Vera entered a shop. When Madam Olga reached the edge of the display window, she saw that it was full of tableware. Everything on display looked expensive. The dinner plates, soup plates, dessert plates, cups, saucers and serving bowls were of fine porcelain, decorated with pastoral scenes in pastel colors. Crystal glasses and carafes sparkled in the beams of little spotlights that illuminated the window, even though there was still plenty of daylight. Boxes lined in velvet displayed silver knives, forks and spoons of different shapes, sizes and uses.

What was Madam Vera doing in a place like that? She’d constantly complained about her small pension, saying she barely made ends meet and spent more on the cats than on herself. Had her situation changed? This would be clear soon enough, when she came out.

But this did not happen soon. Madam Vera simply did not emerge from the shop, although she was the only customer in there. This put Madam Olga in a predicament. She couldn’t just stand there in the street. She needed something to do instead of staring blankly in front of her. People would start to give her suspicious looks.

That’s when she remembered she was still holding the leaflet the majorette had given her. She was certain that whatever it was advertising wouldn’t be of the slightest interest, but that didn’t matter. She would pretend to be engrossed in something important. Who would know it was just an advertisement, anyway?

The leaflet turned out to be something other than an ordinary advertisement using the characteristic superlatives. It was instead a pitch for a play called “Food”. The only odd thing about it was the missing name of the playwright. The theater was in the vicinity and a small map on the back showed how to get there.

When she finally raised her eyes from the leaflet, after reading it several times, Madam Olga stared in amazement at an older man who had just passed by her. He was swinging a red bowling ball as though about to throw it and knock down pedestrians like ninepins. She also noted that his hair was as red as Madam Vera’s.

She needn’t have worried about attracting attention standing next to a shop window doing nothing. Who would notice her next to an oddball like that? People turned as he went by, staring with bewilderment or derision. If he’d been a young man, such behavior might have been understandable, but it was certainly not to be expected from someone just a few years her junior.

But she had no more time to spend on the man with the bowling ball. Madam Vera finally appeared at the shop door, loaded down. The bag full of bananas was still clutched in her right hand and her left arm was hugging a large box wrapped in shiny paper tied with a purple ribbon. She continued down the street.

Her pace, however, had changed. As though her load were lighter and not heavier, she strode cheerfully, skipping even, like someone expressing joy with their feet. This was not only bad for her heart, if she continued like that people would start to turn and look at her too. She’d known Madam Vera as a reserved, polite woman, but people seemed to change after death.

This time Madam Olga realized where she was following Madam Vera before they reached their destination. She appeared to be sticking to the path marked on the map on the back of the leaflet that was still in Madam Olga’s hand. But who went to the theater in the afternoon, inappropriately dressed, loaded down with bags and boxes?

The old-fashioned two-story theater with its yellow brick wall seemed squeezed in between modern buildings with glass facades on either side. Nothing indicated that a show was playing there, but the door leading to the vestibule was open. Madam Olga hesitated several moments before deciding to go in after Madam Vera.

Perhaps the dead could take the liberty of acting indecorously, but she still had etiquette to consider. Although she wasn’t dressed properly for the theater, either, it would be even more embarrassing to stand in front of it until Madam Vera came out. She didn’t know how long the play lasted. Smoothing her clothes a little and patting her hair, she stepped into the vestibule.

It was full of mirrors and chandeliers, but otherwise empty. While she’d hesitated, Madam Vera must have entered the auditorium. Obviously she had a ticket already, because a curtain was pulled across the ticket window to the right. The only person present was a short, obese middle-aged woman with very short red hair, standing in front of the auditorium entrance. She was wearing a tight, clinging turquoise leotard, a short blue skirt that didn’t reach even halfway down her enormous thighs, and military boots. The long thin cigarette holder she clenched tightly in her mouth, even though there wasn’t a cigarette in it, only enhanced the grotesque impression she made.

Madam Olga went up to the woman to ask how she might buy a ticket for the show, but before she had managed to say anything, the woman took the leaflet from her hand without a word, pulled aside the dark blue curtain and gestured broadly for her to go in. As she entered, Madam Olga looked at the woman inquisitively, but her face remained expressionless.

As Madam Olga’s eyes adjusted to the darkness, she noted that the auditorium was considerably larger than it appeared from the outside. In the middle of the distant, brightly-lit stage was a long table with a high-backed chair on its opposite side. Since there were no actors, she assumed the show had not yet begun.

It was not immediately clear to her why the moderately large audience suddenly started clapping. Then a spotlight hit the middle seat in the front row and she saw Madam Vera stand up and head towards the stage. The spotlight followed her, and the applause did not subside until she was sitting at the table with the box in shiny paper placed in front of her.

Just as Madam Olga was wondering what had happened to the bag of bananas, the spotlight glided back down to the front row and stopped at a small figure sitting there. She couldn’t make it out properly standing at the back of the auditorium so she started down the aisle. When she had got more or less halfway, she realized she’d been mistaken.

She dropped into the nearest seat in surprise. That wasn’t a child in the front row, as she’d first thought, but a monkey. He had just taken a banana out of the bag on the seat next to him and was starting to peel it. When he brought it to his mouth, a chime sounded on the stage. Madam Olga raised her eyes and saw a silver bell in Madam Vera’s hand.

A liveried servant in a bushy gray wig approached the table from the left side of the stage. He untied the purple bow, unwrapped the shiny paper and raised the lid, then started taking tableware out of the box. He placed a porcelain plate, tall glass, silver knife and fork and a pink silk napkin in front of Madam Vera. Then he picked up the packaging and left.

The moment he disappeared, an aged butler appeared on the other side of the stage. He was wearing a dinner jacket with a white vest, white bow tie and white gloves and was carrying a bottle of some green beverage. Dragging his feet, he reached Madam Vera, showed her the label on the bottle and waited for her to nod her head.

He had a rather hard time removing the cork, and then poured a small amount of liquid into the crystal glass. The foam that formed could be seen even from the middle of the auditorium. He waited once again for Madam Vera’s approval after tasting it, then poured the glass about three-quarters full. He placed the bottle on the table, bowed, and headed back the way he had come.

Before he disappeared, a double door opened at the bottom of the stage and two men emerged. One was red-skinned, naked to the waist, wearing only brown leather breeches and moccasins. A feather was stuck into his hair, which was pulled back into a topknot, and his face was streaked with war paint. The other was wearing polished armor that glistened in the bright light. His visor was lowered and a sheathed sword hung from his waist; he rattled when he moved.