by Herta Müller
“Amalie is to come to see the priest on Saturday afternoon,” she says. “The priest has to look for her baptismal certificate in the register.”
Windisch’s wife ends the prayer. She takes two steps. She stops in front of the prayer leader’s face. “The baptismal certificate isn’t so urgent, is it?” she says. “Very urgent,” says the prayer leader. “The militiaman has told the priest that your passports are ready at the Passport Office now.”
Windisch’s wife crushes her handkerchief. “Amalie is bringing a crystal vase on Saturday,” she says. “It’s fragile.” “She can’t go straight to the priest from the station,” says Windisch.
The prayer leader grinds the sand with the tip of her shoe. “Then she should go home first,” she says. “The days are still long.”
GYPSIES BRING LUCK
The kitchen cupboard is empty. Windisch’s wife bangs the doors shut. The little gypsy girl from the next village stands barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, where the table used to stand. She puts the cooking-pots into her large sack. She unties her handkerchief. She gives Windisch’s wife twenty-five lei. “I don’t have any more,” she says. The tongue of ribbon sticks out of her plait. “Give me a dress as well,” she says. “Gypsies bring luck.”
Windisch’s wife gives her Amalie’s red dress. “Now go,” she says. The little gypsy girl points to the teapot. “The teapot too,” she says. “I’ll bring you luck.”
The milkmaid with the blue headscarf pushes the handcart with the pieces of the bed through the gate. The old bedding is tied to her back.
Windisch shows the television to the man with the small hat. He switches it on. The screen hums. The man carries the television out. He puts it on the table on the veranda. Windisch takes the banknotes from his hand.
A horse and cart from the dairy are standing in front of the house. A man and woman are standing by the white patch where the bed used to be. They look at the wardrobe and the dressing table. “The mirror is broken,” says Windisch’s wife. The milkmaid lifts up a chair and looks at the underside of the seat. Her companion taps the table top with his fingers. “The wood is sound,” says Windisch. “You can’t buy furniture like that in the shops any more.”
The room is empty. The cart with the wardrobe goes along the street. The chair legs stick up beside the wardrobe. They rattle like the wheels. The table and dressing table are on the grass outside the house. The milkmaid sits on the grass and follows the cart with her eyes.
The postwoman wraps the curtains in a newspaper. She looks at the refrigerator. “It’s been sold,” says Windisch’s wife. “The tractor man is coming to collect it this evening.”
The hens lie with their heads in the sand. Their feet have been tied together. Skinny Wilma is putting them in the wicker basket. “The cock went blind,” says Windisch’s wife. “I had to kill it.” Skinny Wilma counts the banknotes. Windisch’s wife holds her hand out for them.
The tailor has black braid on the points of his collar. He rolls up the carpet. Windisch’s wife looks at his hands. “You can’t escape fate,” she sighs.
Amalie looks at the apple tree through the window. “I don’t know,” says the tailor. “He never harmed a soul.”
Amalie feels a sob in her throat. She leans her face out of the window. She hears the shot.
Windisch is standing in the yard with the night watchman. “There’s a new miller in the village,” says the night watchman. “A Wallachian with a small hat from a water mill.” The night watchman hangs some shirts, jackets and trousers over the carrier of the bicycle. He reaches into his pocket. “I said, it’s a present,” says Windisch. Windisch’s wife tugs at her apron. “Take them,” she says, “he’s glad to give them to you. There’s still a pile of old clothes lying around for the gypsies.” She tugs at her cheek. “Gypsies bring luck,” she says.
THE SHEEP FOLD
The new miller is standing on the veranda. “The mayor sent me,” he says. “I’m going to be living here.”
His small hat is at an angle. His sheepskin is new. He looks at the table on the veranda. “I could use that,” he says. He walks through the house. Windisch follows him. Windisch’s wife follows Windisch barefoot.
The new miller looks at the door in the hall. He turns the handle. He looks at the walls and ceiling in the hall. He knocks on the door. “This door is old,” he says. He leans against the door frame and looks into the empty room. “I was told the house was furnished,” he says. “What do you mean, furnished?” says Windisch. “I’ve sold my furniture.”
Windisch’s wife stamps out of the hall. Windisch can feel his head throbbing.
The new miller looks at the walls and ceiling in the room. He opens and closes the window. He presses the floorboards down with the tip of his shoe. “Then I must phone my wife,” says the miller. “She’ll have to bring some furniture.”
The miller goes into the yard. He looks at the fences. He sees the neighbour’s spotted pigs. “I’ve got ten pigs and twenty-six sheep,” he says. “Where’s the sheepfold?”
Windisch sees the yellow leaves on the sand. “We’ve never had sheep,” he says. Windisch’s wife comes into the yard with a broom in her hand. “The Germans don’t have any sheep,” she says. The broom crunches lightly in the sand.
“The shed will make a good garage,” says the miller. “I’ll get hold of some planks and build a sheepfold.”
The miller shakes Windisch’s hand. “The mill is beautiful,” he says.
Windisch’s wife brushes large circular waves in the sand.
THE SILVER CROSS
Amalie is sitting on the floor. The wine glasses are lined up according to size. The schnaps glasses are all shiny. The milky flowers on the sides of the fruit bowls are rigid. The vases stand along the wall. The crystal vase stands in the corner of the room.
Amalie holds the small box with the tear in her hand.
Amalie hears the tailor’s voice inside her head: “He never harmed a soul.”
A piece of fire burns in Amalie’s forehead.
Amalie feels the militiaman’s mouth on her neck. His breath smells of schnaps. He squeezes her knee with his hand. He pushes her dress up. “Ce dulce eşti — You’re so sweet,” he says. His cap lies beside his shoe. The buttons on his tunic shine.
The militiaman unbuttons his tunic. “Take your clothes off,” he says. A silver cross hangs beneath the blue tunic. The priest takes off his black cassock. He brushes a strand of hair from Amalie’s cheek. “Wipe your lipstick off,” he says. The militiaman kisses Amalie’s shoulder. The silver cross falls in front of his mouth. The priest strokes Amalie’s thigh. “Take your slip off,” he says.
Amalie sees the altar through the open door. Among the roses is a black telephone. The silver cross hangs between Amalie’s breasts. The militiaman’s hands squeeze Amalie’s breasts. “You’ve got nice apples,” says the priest. His mouth is wet. Amalie’s hair hangs over the side of the bed. Her white sandals are under the chair. The militiaman whispers: “You smell good.” The priest’s hands are white. Light catches the red dress at the end of the iron bed. The black telephone rings among the flowers. “I haven’t got time now,” groans the militiaman. The priest’s thighs are heavy. “Cross your legs on my back,” he whispers. The silver cross presses into Amalie’s shoulder. The militiaman has a damp forehead. “Turn round,” he says. The black cassock hangs on the long nail behind the door. The priest’s nose is cold. “My little angel,” he pants.
Amalie feels the heels of the white sandals in her stomach. The fire from her forehead is burning in her eyes. Amalie’s tongue presses down in her mouth. The silver cross gleams in the window pane. A shadow is hanging in the apple tree. It’s black and disturbed. The shadow is a grave.
Windisch is standing in the door way. “Are you deaf?” he says. He holds the big suitcase out to Amalie. Amalie turns her face to the door. Her cheeks are wet. “I know,” says Windisch, “leave-taking is hard.” He seems very large in the empty roo
m. “It’s just like in the war again,” he says. “We go and we don’t know, if and how and when we’ll come back.”
Amalie fills the tear once again. “It doesn’t get so wet with water from the well,” she says. Windisch’s wife puts the plates into a suitcase. She takes the tear in her hand. Her cheek bones are soft and her lips are damp. “You would hardly believe, that there is such a thing,” she says.
Windisch can feel her voice inside his head. He throws his coat into the suitcase. “I’ve had enough of her,” he shouts, “I don’t want to see her any more.” He lowers his head. And quietly adds: “The only thing she can do is make people sad.”
Windisch’s wife wedges the cutlery between the plates. “Indeed it is,” she says. Windisch sees the slimy finger which she pulled out of her hair. He looks at his passport photo. He rocks his head from side to side. “It’s a difficult step,” he says.
Amalie’s glass shines in her suitcase. The white patches on the walls of the room grow larger. The floor is cold. The light bulb casts long rays into the suitcase.
Windisch puts the passports in his jacket pocket. “Who knows what will become of us?” sighs Windisch’s wife. Windisch looks at the piercing rays of light. Amalie and Windisch’s wife shut the suitcase.
THE PERM
A wooden bicycle creaks in the fence. Above, a bicycle of white cloud swims peacefully in the sky. Around the white clouds the clouds are water. Grey and empty as a pond. Around the pond only silent mountains. Grey mountain ranges heavy with longing for home.
Windisch is carrying two large suitcases, and Windisch’s wife is carrying two large suitcases. Her head is moving too quickly. Her head is too small. The stones of her cheek bones are enclosed in darkness. Windisch’s wife has cut off her plait. Her short hair is permed. Her mouth is hard and narrow from her new teeth. She talks loudly.
Box trees sway in the church garden. A strand loosens from Amalie’s hair. The strand returns to her ear.
The pot hole is cracked and grey. The poplar stands like a broom in the sky.
Jesus sleeps on the cross by the church door. When he wakes up, he’ll be old. The air in the village will be brighter than his naked skin.
At the post office the lock is hanging on its chain. The key is in the postwoman’s house. It opens the lock. It opens the mattress for the hearings.
Amalie is carrying the heavy suitcase with her glass. Her handbag hangs over her shoulder. In it is the box with the tear. In her other hand, Amalie carries the crystal vase with the dancer.
The village is small. People are walking in the side streets. They’re far away. And are drawing further away. The maize is a black wall at the end of the streets.
Windisch sees the grey swathes of time standing still around the station platform. A blanket of milk lies over the rails. It reaches up to their heels. Over the blanket lies a glassy skin. The still time spins a web around the suitcases. It tugs at their arms. Windisch shuffles over the gravel.
The steps of the train are high. Windisch lifts his shoes out of the blanket of milk.
Windisch’s wife wipes the dust from the seats with her handkerchief. Amalie holds the crystal vase on her knees. Windisch presses his face against the window. A picture of the Black Sea hangs on the wall of the compartment. The water stands still. The picture rocks. It’s travelling too.
“I’ll feel sick in the aeroplane,” says Windisch. “I know that from the war.” Windisch’s wife laughs. Her new teeth chatter.
Windisch’s suit is too tight. The sleeves are too short. “The tailor made it too small for you,” says Windisch’s wife. “Such expensive cloth and completely wasted.”
As the train travels on, Windisch feels his forehead slowly filling with sand. His head is heavy. His eyes sink into sleep. His hands tremble. His legs twitch and are awake. Windisch sees an expanse of rusty scrub through the window. “Since the owl took his son, the tailor can’t think anymore,” says Windisch. Windisch’s wife holds her chin in her hand.
Amalie’s head hangs on her shoulder. Her hair covers her cheeks. She’s sleeping. “Let her sleep,” says Windisch’s wife.
“Now that I don’t have my plait anymore, I don’t know how to hold my head.” Her new dress with the white lace collar shines green like water.
The train rattles over the iron bridge. The sea rocks over the wall of the compartment, over the river. There is much sand but little water in the river.
Windisch follows the beating wings of the small birds. They fly in ragged flocks. They’re searching for woods along the river flats, where there are only thickets and sand and water.
The train travels slowly, because the rails criss-cross in confusion, because the town is beginning. Scrap heaps. Small houses stand in overgrown gardens. Windisch sees that many rails run into one another. He sees other trains on the confusion of rails.
The golden cross on the chain hangs over the green dress. There is so much green around the cross.
Windisch’s wife moves her arm. The cross swings on the chain. The train travels quickly. It has found an empty track among the many trains.
Windisch’s wife stands up. Her gaze is fixed and certain. She sees the station. Under her perm, inside her skull, Windisch’s wife has already furnished the new world, into which she is carrying her large suitcase. Her lips are like cold ashes. “God willing, we’ll come back for a visit next summer,” she says.
* * *
The pavement is cracked. The puddles have swallowed the water. Windisch locks the car. A silver circle gleams on the car. Inside it are three spokes like three fingers. There are flies on the bonnet. Bird shit sticks to the windscreen. Behind on the boot, the word Diesel. A horse-drawn waggon rattles by. The horses are bony. The waggon is made of dust. The carter is a stranger. He has large ears under his small hat.
Windisch and Windisch’s wife are walking in a ball of cloth. He’s wearing a grey suit. She has a grey costume of the same cloth.
Windisch’s wife is wearing black shoes with high heels.
In the pot hole Windisch feels the cracks tugging at his shoes. There are blue veins on his wife’s white calves.
Windisch’s wife looks at the sloping red roofs. “It’s as if we never lived here,” she says. She says it as if the sloping roofs were red pebbles under her shoes. A tree lays its shadow over her face. Her cheek bones are stony. The shadow withdraws to the tree. It leaves wrinkles on her chin. Her golden cross gleams. The sun catches it. The sun holds its flames on the cross.
The postwoman is standing by the boxwood hedge. There is a tear in her patent leather bag. The postwoman holds out her cheek for a kiss. Windisch’s wife gives her a bar of Ritter Sport chocolate. The sky-blue paper is shiny. The post-woman lays her fingers on its golden edge.
Windisch’s wife moves the stones in her cheekbones. The night watchman comes towards Windisch. He raises his black hat. Windisch sees his own shirt and his own jacket. The wind drives the shadow of a spot onto Windisch’s wife’s chin. The shadow falls onto the jacket of her costume. Windisch’s wife wears the shadow beside her collar like a dead heart.
“I’ve got a wife,” says the night watchman. “She’s a milkmaid in the cowsheds in the valley.”
Windisch’s wife sees the milkmaid with the blue headscarf standing outside the inn next to Windisch’s bicycle. “I know her,” says Windisch’s wife, “she bought our bed.”
The milkmaid looks across the road to the square in front of the church. She eats an apple and waits.
“I suppose you don’t want to emigrate now,” says Windisch. The night watchman crushes his hat in his hands. He looks over to the inn. “I’m staying here,” he says.
Windisch sees the band of dirt on his shirt. A vein beats on the night watchman’s neck. Time stands still. “My wife is waiting,” says the night watchman. He points over to the inn.
The tailor raises his hat in front of the war memorial. He looks at the tips of his shoes as he walks. He stops at the church door beside Skinn
y Wilma.
The night watchman brings his mouth up to Windisch’s ear. “There’s a young owl in the village,” he says. “It know its way around. It’s already made Skinny Wilma ill.” The night watchman smiles. “Skinny Wilma is clever,” he says. “She scared the owl away.” He looks over to the inn. “I’m going,” he says.
A cabbage white flutters past the tailor’s face. The tailor’s cheeks are pale, like curtains under his eyes.
The cabbage white flies through the tailor’s cheek. The tailor sinks his head. The cabbage white flies out of the back of the tailor’s head, white and uncrumpled. Skinny Wilma flaps her handkerchief. The cabbage white flies through her forehead and into her head.
The night watchman walks beneath the trees. He pushes Windisch’s old bicycle.
The car’s silver badge jingles in the night watchman’s jacket pocket. The milkmaid walks barefoot in the grass beside the bicycle. Her blue headscarf is a patch of water. Leaves are floating in it.
The prayer leader walks slowly through the church door carrying a thick hymn book. It’s St. Anthony’s book.
The church bell strikes. Windisch’s wife is standing at the church door. The organ hums through Windisch’s hair in the dark air. Windisch walks down the bare passageway between the benches with his wife. Their heels click on the stone. Windisch’s hands are clasped. Windisch is hanging from his wife’s golden cross. A tear of glass hangs on his cheek.
Skinny Wilma’s eyes follow Windisch. Skinny Wilma lowers her head. “He got that suit from the army,” she says to the tailor. “They’re taking communion and haven’t confessed.
GLOSSARY
Banat: Former Hungarian province under the Habsburg monarchy. After the First World War it was divided between Romania and Yugoslavia.
