The Left-Handed Woman (7 page)

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Authors: Peter Handke

Tags: #Modern

BOOK: The Left-Handed Woman
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The man stood beside his pictures: he had aged a good deal since then; now he was almost bald and his smile was different. The father asked about the girl, but the man only made a gesture as of throwing something behind him, and went away.
After snapping their pictures, they roamed about, waiting for them to develop. When they came back the machine ejected a strip of photos. The woman reached for it, but the pictures were of a man, a total stranger.
She looked around. The man in the pictures stood behind her and said, “Your pictures were ready long ago. I've taken the liberty of looking at them. I hope you'll forgive me.” They exchanged photos. The father took a good look at the man and said, “You're an actor, aren't you?”
The man nodded silently and averted his eyes. “But I'm unemployed at the moment.”
The father: “I've seen you in films. You always seem embarrassed at the thought of what you have to say next. That's what makes it really awkward.”
The man laughed and again averted his eyes.
The father: “Are you such a coward in private life, too?”
After laughing and averting his eyes yet again, the man met the father's gaze for a moment.
The father: “Your trouble, I believe, is that you always hold back something of yourself. You're not shameless enough for an actor. You want to be a personality, like the actors in those American movies, but you never risk your own self. As a result, you're always posing.”
The man looked at the woman, but she didn't come to his rescue.
The father: “In my opinion you should learn how to run properly and scream properly, with your mouth wide open. I've noticed that even when you yawn you're afraid to open your mouth all the way.” He poked the man in the stomach and the man doubled up. “You haven't been keeping yourself in trim, either. How long have you been unemployed?”
The man: “I've stopped counting the days.”
The father: “In your next film make a sign to show that you've understood me.”
The man smacked the palm of his hand with his fist. The father made the same gesture. “That's it!” He walked away, but called back. “You haven't even been discovered yet. I'm looking forward to seeing you grow older from film to film.”
The actor and the woman looked after the old man; before going their ways they began to shake hands, but instantly recoiled from the slight electric shock.
The woman said, “Everything's full of electricity in the winter.”
They separated, but then they found that they were going the same way and proceeded side by side in silence. At the parking lot they overtook the old man. They nodded goodbye but went on together when it turned out that their cars were almost next to each other.
On the road the woman saw the actor pass her; he was looking straight ahead. She turned into a side road.
 
 
 
The
woman stood on the station platform with her father and the child. When the train pulled in, she said, “It has done me good to have you here, Father.” She wanted to say something more but only stammered. Her father made various gestures, then suddenly said to the child, who had picked up the suitcases, “You know that I still can't distinguish colors. But there's something else I want you to know: I'll soon be an old man, but I still don't wear carpet slippers around the house. I'm almost proud of it.” He hopped nimbly up the steps backward and vanished inside the train, which was already in motion. The child said, “He's not so clumsy after all.”
The woman: “It's always been an act with him.”
They stood on the empty platform—the next train wasn't due for an hour—and looked at the gently rising
mountain behind the town. The woman said, “Let's climb up there tomorrow. I've never been to the top.” The child nodded. “But we can't dawdle. The days are still very short. Bring your new compass.”
 
 
 
Late
in the afternoon they were at a nearby open-air zoo. A good many people were moving silently through the grounds. A few were standing still and laughing in a hall of mirrors. The sun went down, and most of the visitors headed for the exit. The woman and child stood looking at one of the cages. It was getting dark and windy; they were almost alone. The child drove an electric car around a circular track, and the woman sat on a bench at the edge of the concrete surface.
She stood up and the child called out, “It's so nice here. I don't want to go home yet.”
The woman: “Neither do I. I only stood up because it's so nice.” She looked at the western sky, the lower edge of which was still yellow. Against it the leafless branches looked barer than usual. A sudden gust of wind drove some leaves across the concrete. They seemed to come from another season.
 
 
 
It
was dark when they reached the bungalow. There was a letter in the mailbox. The woman recognized Bruno's handwriting on the envelope and gave the letter to the child. She put the key in the lock but didn't open the door. The child waited; then finally he asked, “Aren't we going in?”
The woman: “Let's stay out here a little while.”
They stood for quite some time. A man with an attache case came along and kept looking around at them after he passed.
 
 
 
That
evening, while the woman cooked dinner, slipping into the living room now and then to correct her manuscript, the child read Bruno's letter to himself in an undertone: “‘Dear Stefan, Yesterday I saw you on your way home from school. I couldn't very well stop, because I was caught in a column of cars. You had a headlock on your fat friend.'” At this point the reading child smiled. “‘Sometimes it seems to me that you never existed. I want to see you soon and'”—here the reading child frowned—“‘sniff you …'”
 
 
 
During
the night the woman sat alone in the living room and listened to music—the same record over and over again:
The Left-Handed Woman
She came with others out of a
Subway exit,
She ate with others in a snack bar,
She sat with others in a Laundromat,
But once I saw her alone, reading the papers
Posted on the wall of a newsstand.
 
She came with others out of an office building,
With others she shoved her way up to a
Market counter,
She sat with others on the edge of a playground,
But once I saw her through a window
Playing chess all alone.
 
She lay with others on a grass plot,
She laughed with others in a
Hall of mirrors,
She screamed with others on a roller coaster,
And after that the only time I saw her alone
Was walking through my wishful dreams.
 
But today in my open house:
The telephone receiver is facing the wrong way,
The pencil lies to the left of the writing pad,
The teacup next to it has its handle on the
Left,
The apple beside it has been peeled the wrong way
(but not completely),
The curtains have been thrown open from the left
And the key to the street door is in the left
Coat pocket.
Left-handed woman, you've given yourself away!
Or did you mean to give me a sign?
 
I want to see you in a foreign continent,
For there at last I shall see you alone among others,
And among a thousand others you will see me,
And at last we shall go to meet each other.
In
the morning the woman and the child, not conspicuously dressed for the mountain, which was not very high, stepped out of the house. They walked past other bungalows, and once they stopped outside one of the almost .
windowless housefronts and looked at a brown door to the left and right of which two black-stemmed lanterns had been affixed, as though to decorate a gigantic sarcophagus.
On the gently rising forest path the sun was perceptible only as a somber light. Turning off the path, they climbed a slope and passed a fishpond, which had been drained for the winter. Deep in the woods they stopped at a Jewish graveyard; the tombstones had sunk halfway into the ground. Farther up, the wind whistled on such a high note that it almost hurt their ears. Here the snow was pure white, while farther down there had been grains of soot on it, and here dog tracks gave way to deer tracks.
They climbed through underbrush. Birds were singing on every side. Fed by the melting snow, a little brook rushed loudly past. A few dry leaves stirred on the thin branches of the oak trees; strips of white bark hung trembling from the birch trunks.
They crossed a clearing, at the edge of which some deer stood huddled together. The snow was not very deep; stalks of withered grass peered out and bent in the wind.
The higher they climbed, the brighter grew the light. Their faces were scratched and sweaty. At the top—it hadn't been very far—they made a brush fire in the lee of a boulder.
 
In the early afternoon they sat by the fire and looked down into the plain, where now and then a car sent up a flash of sunlight; the child had his compass in his hand.
Once, far below, a spot shone bright for a time and then vanished—a closed window among many open ones.
It was so cold that no sooner had the clouds of smoke rising from the fire left the shelter of the boulder than they dispersed into wisps and vanished. The woman and the child ate potatoes that they had brought along in a little sack and roasted in the coals, and drank hot coffee out of a thermos bottle. The woman turned to the child, who was sitting motionless, looking down into the plain. She stroked his back lightly, and he laughed, as though that were the most plausible thing to do.
After a while she said, “Once you sat by the sea like this, looking at the waves for hours. Do you remember?”
The child: “Of course I remember. It was getting dark, but I didn't want to go. You and Bruno were angry because you wanted to go back to the hotel. You were wearing a green skirt and a white blouse with lace cuffs, and a wide hat that you had to hold on to because the wind was blowing. There weren't any shells on that beach, only round stones.”
The woman: “When you start remembering, I'm always afraid you'll confound me with something I did long ago.”
The child: “Next day Bruno pushed you into the water with your clothes on as a joke. You were wearing brown shoes that fastened with a button …”
The woman: “But do you also remember the evening
when you lay motionless on your back in the sandbox outside the house and didn't stir a muscle?”
The child: “I don't know anything about that.”
The woman said, “Then it's my turn to remember. Your head was resting on your hands and one leg was bent at the knee. It was summer, a clear moonless night; the sky was full of stars. You lay on your back in the sand and no one dared say a word to you.”
After a time the child said, “Maybe because it was so quiet in the sandbox.”
They looked down into the plain, ate and drank. Abruptly the woman laughed and shook her head. Then she told him a story. “Years ago I saw some pictures by an American painter. There were fourteen of them. They were supposed to be the Stations of the Cross—you know, Jesus sweating blood on the Mount of Olives, being scourged, and so on. But these paintings were only black-and-white shapes—a white background and crisscrossing black stripes. The next-to-last station—where Jesus is taken down from the cross—was almost all black, and the last one, where Jesus is laid in the tomb, was all white. And now the strange part of it: I passed slowly in front of the pictures, and when I stopped to look at the last one, the one that was all white, I suddenly saw a wavering afterimage of the almost black one; it lasted only a few moments and then there was only the white.”
The child tried to whistle but couldn't manage it in the
cold. The woman said, “Let's take a picture before we go.”
The child photographed her with an ungainly old Polaroid camera. The picture showed her very much from below, looking down; behind her there was only sky and the barest suggestion of the treetops. The woman pretended to be horrified. “So that's how grownups look to children!”
At home she got into the bathtub and the child got in with her. They both leaned back and closed their eyes. The child said, “I can still see the trees on the mountain.” Steam rose from the water. The child whistled in the bathtub and the woman looked at him almost severely.
Later she sat up straight at the typewriter and typed rapidly. In the twilight the colony looked as though it belonged to the forest, which rose up behind it, and to the darkening sky.
 
 
 

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