Alice

by Judith Hermann

  I will, Alice said, I promise.

  They didn’t talk about Raymond. The Romanian didn’t ask about Raymond, and Alice didn’t mention him. Raymond hadn’t cared much for the Romanian, maybe he’d been jealous, maybe he knew something or guessed or had a suspicion. The last shall be the first? Or the first shall be the last? But there was nothing to know. And there wouldn’t be.

  They didn’t talk about any of the other things either. Actually, Alice realised that they were talking right past these things; possibly they were both too exhausted or couldn’t decide whether they should. Whatever. She was glad it was this way.

  Misha’s child is doing well, the Romanian said at one point; she’s growing up in the cemetery.

  How do you know, Alice said.

  I heard, the Romanian said casually. She plays in the cemetery, at Misha’s grave. Her mother is always there. It’s actually quite pleasant at the cemetery. In this weather. Nice and shady.

  Yes, Alice said. Shady and cool.

  The street lamps went on an hour before midnight. The climbers at the artificial rock wall next to the sheep meadow slowly roped down in wide arcs. Scissor-cuts. They made no sound. Crumpled moths tumbled into the light cast by the street lamps. Lightning bugs, the Romanian said. Alice knew that wasn’t right.

  If you stay a little longer you’ll be able to see the space station. It passes by here, from back there; he pointed up and to the left, up into the black sky. And Mars, Saturn, Jupiter – they’ll show up too. Believe me.

  How does that old saying go? Alice asked.

  Which saying?

  The saying we used to remember the planets by when we were children. My very enthusiastic mother just served us, and so on and so forth.

  You must know it, the Romanian said. I recited it for you many times.

  Say it again anyway.

  My very enthusiastic mother just served us noodle pudding.

  They said it together, Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, and Pluto. It doesn’t apply any more, the saying, that is, the Romanian said. I hope you know that Pluto’s been disposed of. In its stead there are now two other planets.

  I know, Alice said. We could think up a new saying.

  Later on she went home. Through a very friendly night. She continued to wave for quite a stretch without turning round, watching her shadow on the street, a distinct shadow, sharply outlined, the waving hand much daintier than her own. She knew that the Romanian, standing on his balcony, would be waving back until she had turned the corner. Goodbye. She walked past the closed cafés where the chairs were stacked and leaning against the tables, along the edge of the park towards the apartment house where she continued to live and where she had left the light on in the room on the third floor. All around the park, the smell of grass. Raymond was sitting in front of the house. On the step leading to the front door, his back against the wall, calm and waiting. Surprisingly, he was smoking; Alice could see the glowing tip of his cigarette. She walked a little faster, crossed the intersection, her shoes clattering on the cobblestones; the figure at the front door got up, and Alice wasn’t disappointed when she saw that it wasn’t Raymond at all, but the second Indian cook.

  Four Eyes. In the end, a magician too. In his own way.