The Passport (6 page)

Windisch feels the water gurgling in his shoes. He knows the nail in the sacristy. He knows the long nail on which the cassock hangs. The joiner steps in a puddle. Windisch watches his laces drown.

“The black cassock has already seen a lot,” thinks Windisch. “It has seen the priest looking for baptismal certificates on the iron bed with women.” The joiner asks something. Windisch hears his voice. Windisch doesn’t understand what the joiner is saying. Windisch hears the clarinet and the big drum behind him.

Rain fringes the brim of the night watchman’s hat. The shroud flaps on the hearse. The bunches of hydrangea quiver in the pot holes. They strew leaves in the mud. The mud glistens under the wheels. The hearse turns in the glass puddle.

The music is cold. The big drum sounds dull and wet. Above the village, the roofs are leaning towards the water.

The cemetery glows with white crosses. The bell hangs
over the village with its stuttering tongue. Windisch sees his hat in the puddle. “The pond will grow,” he thinks. “The rain will pull the militiaman’s sacks into the water.”

There’s water in the grave. The water is yellow like tea. “Widow Kroner can drink now,” whispers Skinny Wilma.

The prayer leader steps on a marguerite lying on the path between the graves. The altar boy holds the umbrella at an angle. The incense is drawn into the earth.

The priest lets a handful of mud drip onto the coffin. “Earth, take what is thine. God takes what is his,” he says. The altar boy sings a long wet “Amen”. Windisch can see his back teeth.

Water eats at the shroud. The night watchman is holding his hat against his chest. He’s crushing the brim in his hand. The hat is wrinkled. The hat is rolled up like a black rose.

The priest closes his prayerbook. “We shall meet again on the other side,” he says.

The grave digger is a Romanian. He leans the shovel against his stomach. He makes the sign of the cross on his shoulders. He spits in his hands. He shovels.

The band plays a cold funeral song. The song has no end. The tailor’s apprentice blows into his French horn. He has white spots on his blue fingers. He glides into the song. The big yellow horn is by his ear. It shines like the horn of a gramophone. The funeral song explodes as it tumbles out of the horn.

The big drum booms. The prayer leader’s throat hangs between the ends of her headscarf. The grave fills with earth.

Windisch closes his eyes. They hurt from the wet, white marble crosses. They hurt from the rain.

Skinny Wilma goes out by the churchyard gate. Bunches of hydrangea lie broken in Widow Kroner’s grave. The joiner stands at his mother’s grave and weeps.

Windisch’s wife is standing on the marguerite. “Let’s go,”
she says. Windisch walks beside her under the black umbrella. The umbrella is a large black hat. Windisch’s wife is carrying the hat on a stick.

The gravedigger stands barefoot and alone in the churchyard. He’s cleaning his rubber boots with the shovel.

THE KING IS SLEEPING

Before the war the village band had stood at the station in their dark red uniforms. The station gable was hung with garlands of tiger-lilies, China asters and acacia foliage. People were wearing their Sunday clothes. The children wore white knee socks. They held heavy bouquets of flowers in front of their faces.

When the train steamed into the station, the band played a march. People clapped. The children threw their flowers in the air.

The train moved slowly. A young man stretched his long arm out of the window. He spread his fingers and called: “Silence. His Majesty the King is sleeping.”

When the train had left the station, a herd of white goats came from the meadow. They went along the tracks and ate the bouquets of flowers.

The musicians had gone home with their interrupted march. The men and women had gone home with their interrupted waving. The children had gone home with empty hands.

A little girl who was to have recited a poem for the King when the march had finished, when the clapping had finished, sat in the waiting room and cried, until the goats had eaten all the bunches of flowers.

A BIG HOUSE

The cleaning woman wipes the dust from the banisters. She has a black mark on her cheek and a violet eye. She’s crying: “He hit me again,” she says.

The clothes hooks shine empty around the walls of the hallway. They are a thorny garland. The slippers, small and worn down, stand in a perfect row beneath the hooks.

Each child has brought a transfer to the nursery from home. Amalie stuck the little pictures under the hooks.

Every morning each child looks for its car, its dog, its doll, its flower, its ball.

Udo comes through the door. He’s looking for his flag. It is black, red and gold. A German flag. Udo hangs his coat on the hook, above the flag. He takes off his shoes. He puts on his red slippers. He places his shoes under his coat.

Udo’s mother works in the chocolate factory. Every Tuesday she brings Amalie sugar, butter, cocoa and chocolate. “Udo will only be coming to the nursery for another three weeks,” she said to Amalie yesterday. “We’ve been told about our passport.”

The dentist pushes her daughter through the half-open door. A white beret hangs on the girl’s hair like a snow flake. The girl looks for her dog among the hooks. The dentist gives Amalie a bunch of carnations and a small box. “Anca has a cold,” she says. “Please give her the tablets at ten o’clock.”

The cleaning woman shakes the duster out of the window. The acacia is yellow. The old man sweeps the pavement in front of his house as he does every morning. The leaves of the acacia are blown by the wind.

The children are wearing their Falcons’ uniforms. Yellow blouses and dark blue trousers and pleated skirts. “It’s Wednesday,” Amalie thinks, “Falcons’ day.”

Building bricks click. Cranes buzz. Indians march in
columns in front of little hands. Udo is building a factory. Dolls are drinking milk from little girls’ fingers.

Anca’s forehead is hot.

The anthem can be heard through the classroom ceiling. The big group is singing on the floor above.

The building blocks are lying on top of one another. The cranes are silent. The column of Indians stands at the edge of the table. The factory has no roof. The doll with the long silk dress is lying on the chair. She’s sleeping. She has a rosy face.

The children stand in a semi-circle in front of the teacher’s desk in order of size. They press the palms of their hands against their thighs. They raise their chins. Their eyes grow large and wet. They sing loudly.

The boys and girls are little soldiers. The anthem has seven verses.

Amalie hangs the map of Romania on the wall.

“All children live in blocks of flats or in houses,” says Amalie. “Every house has rooms. All the houses together make one big house. This big house is our country. Our fatherland.”

Amalie points at the map. “This is our Fatherland,” she says. With her fingertip she searches for the black dots on the map. “These are the towns of our Fatherland,” says Amalie. “The towns are the rooms of this big house, our country. Our fathers and mothers live in our houses. They are our parents. Every child has its parents. Just as the father in the house in which we live is our father, so Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the father of our country. And just as the mother in the house in which we live is our mother, so Comrade Elena Ceausescu is the mother of our country. Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the father of all the children. And Comrade Elena Ceausescu is the mother of all the children. All the children love comrade Nicolae and comrade Elena, because they are their parents.”

The cleaning woman leaves an empty wastepaper basket by the door. “Our fatherland is called the Socialist Republic of Romania,” says Amalie. “Comrade Nicolae Ceausescu is the General Secretary of our country, the Socialist Republic of Romania.”

A boy stands up. “My father has a globe at home,” he says. He shapes a globe with his hands. A hand knocks against a vase. The carnations are lying in the water. His Falcons’ shirt is wet.

Shards of glass are lying on the little table in front of him. He’s crying. Amalie pushes the little table away from him. She must not shout. Claudiu’s father is the manager of the butcher’s shop at the corner.

Anca lays her face on the table. “When can we go home?” she asks in Romanian. German is cumbersome and passes her by. Udo is building a roof. “My father is the general secretary of our house,” he says.

Amalie looks at the yellow leaves of the acacia. The old man leans out of the open window as he does every day. “Dietmar is buying cinema tickets,” thinks Amalie.

The Indians march across the floor. Anca swallows the pills.

Amalie leans against the window frame. “Does anyone know a poem?” she asks.

“I know a land with an arc of mountains,/ On whose peaks early glows the morning,/ In whose woods as through the ocean waves/ The spring wind roars till all is blooming.”

Claudiu speaks German well. Claudiu raises his chin. Claudiu speaks German with the voice of a shrunken grown man.

TEN LEI

The little gypsy girl from the next village is wringing out her grass-green apron. Water runs from her hand. Her plait hangs down onto her shoulder from the middle of her head. A red ribbon is plaited into her hair. It sticks out at the end like a tongue. The little gypsy girl stands barefoot with muddy toes in front of the tractor drivers.

The tractor drivers are wearing small, wet hats. Their black hands are on the table. “Show me,” says one. “I’ll give you ten lei.” He puts ten lei on the table. The tractor drivers laugh. Their eyes gleam. Their faces are red. Their glances finger the long flowery skirt. The gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The tractor driver empties his glass. The gypsy girl takes the bank note from the table. She twists the plait around her finger and laughs.

Windisch can smell the schnaps and the sweat from the next table. “They wear their sheepskins all summer long,” says the joiner. Froth from his beer clings to his thumbs. He dips his forefinger into the glass. “The dirty pig beside us is blowing ash into my beer,” he says. He looks at the Romanian standing behind him. The Romanian has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. It’s wet from his saliva. He laughs. “No more German,” he says. Then in Romanian: “This is Romania.”

The joiner has a greedy look. He raises his glass and empties it. “You’ll soon be rid of us,” he shouts. He signals to the landlord, who is standing at the tractor driver’s table. “Another beer,” he calls.

The joiner wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Have you been to the gardener yet?” he asks. “No,” says Windisch. “Do you know where he lives?” asks the joiner. Windisch nods: “On the edge of town.” “In Fratelia, in Enescu Street,” says the joiner.

The little gypsy girl pulls at the red tongue of her plait. She laughs and turns in a circle. Windisch sees her calves. “How much?” he asks. “Fifteen thousand each,” says the joiner. He takes the glass of beer from the landlord’s hand. “A single-storey building. The greenhouses are on the left. If the red car is in the courtyard, it’s open. There’ll be someone cutting wood in the yard. He’ll take you into the house,” says the joiner. “Don’t ring. If you do, the woodcutter will disappear. He won’t open up anymore.”

The men and women standing in the corner of the inn are drinking out of a bottle. A man wearing a crushed, black velveteen hat is holding a child in his arm. Windisch sees the small, naked soles of the child’s feet. The child reaches for the bottle. It opens its mouth. The man pushes the neck of the bottle to its mouth. The child closes its eyes and drinks. “Boozer,” says the man. He pulls back the bottle and laughs. The woman beside him is eating a crust of bread. She chews and drinks. White breadcrumbs float in the bottle.

“They stink of the sty,” says the joiner. A long brown hair hangs from his finger.

“They’re from the dairy,” says Windisch.

The women sing. The child totters up to them and tugs at their skirts.

“Today’s pay day,” says Windisch. “They drink for three days. Then they’ve got nothing left.”

“The milkmaid with the blue headscarf lives behind the mill,” says Windisch.

The little gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The gravedigger is standing beside his shovel. He reaches into his pocket. Gives her ten lei.

The milkmaid with the blue headscarf sings and vomits against the wall.

THE SHOT

The conductress’s sleeves are rolled up. She’s eating an apple. The second-hand on her watch twitches. It’s five past. The tram squeals.

A child pushes Amalie over an old woman’s suitcase. Amalie hurries.

Dietmar is standing at the entrance to the park. His mouth is hot on Amalie’s cheek. “We’ve got time,” he says. “The tickets are for seven. Five o’clock is sold out.”

The bench is cold. Small men carry wicker baskets full of dead leaves across the grass.

Dietmar’s tongue is hot. It burns Amalie’s ear. Amalie shuts her eyes. Dietmar’s breath is bigger in her head than the trees. His hand is cold under her blouse.

Dietmar closes his mouth. “I’ve got my call-up papers for the army,” he says. “My father’s brought my suitcase.”

Amalie pushes his mouth away from her ear. She presses her hand over his mouth. “Come into town,” she says, “I’m cold.”

Amalie leans against Dietmar. She feels his steps. She nestles under his jacket as though she were part of him.

There’s a cat in the shop window. It’s sleeping. Dietmar knocks on the pane. “I still have to buy some woollen socks,” he says. Amalie eats a roll. Dietmar blows a cloud of smoke into Amalie’s face. “Come on,” says Amalie, “I’ll show you my crystal vase.”

The dancer lifts her arm above her head. The white lace dress is stiff behind the window pane.

Dietmar opens a wooden door at the side of the shop. Behind the door is a dark passageway. The darkness smells of rotten onions. Three rubbish bins stand like big tins in a row against the wall.

Dietmar pushes Amalie onto the bin. The lid rattles. Amalie
feels Dietmar’s thrusting member in her stomach. She holds on tightly to his shoulders. A child is talking in the inner courtyard.