The Notebook + The Proof + The Third Lie

by Agota Kristof

  Finally an officer stops. He says something in a language we don't understand. He asks us questions. We don't answer. We stand motionless, one arm raised, the other held out. Then he fumbles in his pockets, places a coin and a bit of chocolate in our dirty hands, and goes off, shaking his head.

  We go on waiting.

  A woman passes by. We hold out our hands. She says:

  "Poor kids. I have nothing to give you."

  She strokes our hair.

  We say:

  "Thank you."

  Another woman gives us two apples, another some biscuits.

  A woman passes by. We hold out our hands. She stops and says:

  "Aren't you ashamed to beg? Come with me, I've got a few easy little jobs for you. Cutting wood, for example, or cleaning up the terrace. You're big enough and strong enough for that. Afterward, if you work well, I'll give you some bread and soup."

  We answer:

  "We don't want to work for you, madam. We don't want to eat your soup or your bread. We are not hungry."

  She asks:

  "Then why are you begging?"

  "To find out what effect it has and to observe people's reactions."

  She walks off shouting:

  "Dirty little hooligans! And impertinent too!"

  On our way home, we throw the apples, the biscuits, the chocolate, and the coins in the tall grass by the roadside.

  It is impossible to throw away the stroking on our hair.

  Harelip

  We are fishing in the stream. Harelip runs by. She doesn't see us. She lies down in the grass and lifts her skirt. She isn't wearing underpants. We see her bare buttocks and the hair between her legs. We don't have hair between our legs yet. Harelip has some, but not very much.

  Harelip whistles. A dog arrives. It's our dog. She takes him in her arms and rolls with him in the grass. The dog barks, gets loose, shakes himself, and runs off. Harelip calls him gently as she strokes her sex with her fingers.

  The dog comes back, sniffs Harelip's sex several times, and starts to lick it.

  Harelip spreads her legs and presses the dog's head to her belly with both hands. She breathes very deeply and wriggles.

  The dog's sex becomes visible, it gets longer and longer, it is thin and red. The dog raises his head and tries to climb onto Harelip.

  Harelip turns over, she is on her knees, she offers her backside to the dog. The dog places his front paws on Harelip's back, his hindquarters trembling. He feels around, gets closer and closer, puts himself between Harelip's legs, and sticks himself against her buttocks. He moves very quickly backward and forward. Harelip gives a cry, and after a moment she falls on her stomach.

  The dog walks off slowly.

  Harelip lies on the ground for a while, then gets up, sees us, and blushes. She shouts:

  "Dirty little spies! What did you see?"

  We answer:

  "We saw you playing with our dog."

  She asks:

  "Am I still your friend?"

  "Yes. And we'll allow you to play with our dog as much as you like."

  "And you won't tell anybody what you saw?"

  "We never tell anybody anything. You can depend on us."

  She sits down in the grass and cries:

  "Only animals love me."

  We ask:

  "Is it true your mother is mad?"

  "No. She's just deaf and blind."

  "What happened to her?"

  "Nothing. Nothing special. One day she went blind, and later on she went deaf. She says it'll be the same for me. Have you seen my eyes? In the morning, when I wake up, my eyelashes are stuck together and my eyes are full of pus."

  We say:

  "It's certainly an illness that medicine can cure."

  She says:

  "Maybe. But how can you go to a doctor without money? Anyway, there aren't any doctors. They're all at the front." We ask:

  "And what about your ears? Do they hurt?" "No, I don't have any problem with my ears. And I don't think my mother has either. She pretends not to hear anything, that suits her when I ask her questions."

  Exercise in Blindness and Deafness

  One of us pretends to be blind, the other deaf. To begin with, by way of training, the blind one ties one of Grandmother's black shawls over his eyes and the deaf one stuffs his ears with grass. The shawl smells bad, like Grandmother.

  We hold hands and go out walking during air raids, when people are hiding in their cellars and the streets are deserted.

  The deaf one describes what he sees:

  "The street is long and straight. It is lined with low singlestory houses. They are white, gray, pink, yellow, and blue. At the end of the street, I can see a park with trees and a fountain. The sky is blue, with a few white clouds. I can see planes. Five bombers. They are flying low."

  The blind one talks slowly so that the deaf one can read his lips:

  "I can hear the planes. They are making a deep sputtering noise. Their engines are laboring. They are full of bombs. Now they've passed over. I can hear the birds again. Otherwise everything is quiet."

  The deaf one reads the blind one's lips and answers:

  "Yes, the street is empty."

  The blind one says:

  "Not for long. I can hear footsteps in the side street on the left."

  The deaf one says:

  "You're right. It's a man."

  The blind one asks:

  "What is he like?"

  The deaf one answers:

  "Like all of them. Poor, old."

  The blind one says:

  "I know. I recognize old men's footsteps. I can also hear that he's barefoot, so he's poor."

  The deaf one says:

  "He's bald. He's wearing an old army jacket. His trousers are too short. His feet are dirty."

  "What about his eyes?"

  "I can't see them. He's looking down."

  "And his mouth?"

  "His lips are too drawn. He must have lost all his teeth."

  "And his hands?"

  "They're in his pockets. The pockets are huge and filled with something. Potatoes or walnuts, there are bumps showing. He's raising his head, he's looking at us. But I can't make out the color of his eyes."

  "Can you see anything else?"

  "Lines, deep lines on his face, like scars."

  The blind one says:

  "I can hear the sirens. The raid is over. Let's go home."

  Later, with time, we no longer need a shawl over our eyes or grass in our ears. The one playing the blind man simply turns his gaze inward, and the deaf one shuts his ears to all sounds.

  The Deserter

  We find a man in the forest. A living man, a young man, without a uniform. He is lying behind a bush. He looks at us without moving.

  We ask him:

  "Why are you lying there?"

  He answers:

  "I can't walk anymore. I've come from the other side of the frontier. I've been walking for two weeks. Day and night. Especially night. I'm too weak now. I'm hungry. I haven't eaten for three days."

  We ask:

  "Why haven't you got a uniform? All young men have a uniform. They are all soldiers."

  He says:

  "I don't want to be a soldier anymore."

  "You don't want to fight the enemy anymore?"

  "I don't want to fight anyone. I have no enemies. I want to go home."

  "Where is your home?"

  "Still a long way off". I'll never get there if I don't find something to eat."

  We ask:

  "Why don't you go and buy something to eat? Don't you have any money?"

  "No, I don't have any money, and I can't be seen. I must hide. No one must see me."

  "Why?"

  "I left my regiment without leave. I ran away. I'm a deserter. If they found me, I'd be shot or hanged."

  We ask:

  "Like a murderer?"

  "Yes, exactly like a murderer."

  "And yet you don't wan
t to kill anyone. You just want to go home."

  "Yes, I just want to go home."

  We ask:

  "What do you want us to bring you to eat?"

  "Anything."

  "Goat's milk, hard-boiled eggs, bread, fruit?"

  "Yes, yes, anything."

  We ask:

  "And a blanket? The nights are cold, and it often rains."

  He says:

  "Yes, but you mustn't be seen. And you won't say anything to anybody, will you? Not even to your mother."

  We answer:

  "No one will see us, we never say anything to anybody, and we have no mother."

  When we come back with the food and blanket, he says:

  "You're very kind."

  We say:

  "We weren't trying to be kind. We've brought you these things because you absolutely need them. That's all."

  He says again:

  "I don't know how to thank you. I'll never forget you."

  His eyes fill with tears.

  We say:

  "Crying is no use, you know. We never cry, even though we aren't men yet, like you."

  He smiles and says:

  "You're right. Excuse me, I won't do it anymore. It's just because of the exhaustion."

  Exercise in Fasting

  We announce to Grandmother:

  "Today and tomorrow we won't eat. We'll only drink water."

  She shrugs her shoulders:

  "I couldn't care less. But you'll work as usual."

  "Of course, Grandmother."

  The first day, she kills a chicken and roasts it in the oven. At midday, she calls us:

  "Come and eat!"

  We go to the kitchen, it smells very good. We're a bit hungry, but not too much. We watch Grandmother carve up the chicken.

  She says:

  "It smells good. Can you smell how good it smells? Do you want a leg each?"

  "We don't want anything, Grandmother."

  "That's a pity, because it's really very good."

  She eats with her hands, licking her fingers and wiping them on her apron. She gnaws and sucks the bones.

  She says:

  "Very tender, this young chicken. I can't imagine anything betteï."

  We say:

  "Grandmother, since we've been in your house, you have never cooked a chicken for us."

  She says:

  "I've cooked one today. Now's your chance."

  "You knew we didn't want anything to eat today or tomorrow."

  "That's not my fault. This is just more of your damn nonsense."

  "It's one of our exercises. To get us used to bearing hunger."

  "Then get used to it. Nobody's stopping you."

  We leave the kitchen and go out to do our chores in the garden. By the end of the day, we are really very hungry. We drink a lot of water. In the evening, we find it hard to get to sleep. We dream of food.

  Next day, at midday, Grandmother finishes the chicken. We watch her eating it in a kind of fog. We're no longer hungry. We feel dizzy.

  In the evening, Grandmother makes pancakes with jam and cream cheese. We feel sick and have stomach cramps, but as soon as we go to bed, we fall into a deep sleep. When we get up, Grandmother has already left for the market. We want to have our breakfast, but there is nothing to eat in the kitchen. No bread, no milk, no cheese. Grandmother has locked everything away in the cellar. We could open it, but we decide not to touch anything. We eat raw tomatoes and cucumbers with salt.

  Grandmother comes back from the market and says: "You haven't done your work this morning." "You should have woken us up, Grandmother." "You should have woken yourselves up. But just this once, I'll give you something to eat all the same."

  She makes us a vegetable soup with what she brings back from the market, as usual. We don't eat much. After the meal, Grandmother says:

  "It's a stupid exercise. And bad for the health."

  Grandfather's Grave

  One day, we see Grandmother leave the house with her sprinkling can and her gardening tools. But instead of going to the vineyard, she sets off in a different direction. We follow her at a distance to find out where she is going.

  She goes into the cemetery. She stops in front of a grave and puts down her tools. The cemetery is deserted. There is nobody but Grandmother and us.

  Hiding behind bushes and tombstones, we get closer and closer. Grandmother is shortsighted and hard of hearing. We can observe her without her knowing.

  She pulls up the weeds on the grave, digs with a spade, rakes the soil, plants flowers, fetches water from the well, and comes back to water the grave.

  When she has finished her work, she gathers her tools together, then kneels down in front of the wooden cross, but sitting back on her heels. She joins her hands over her belly as if to say a prayer, but what we hear are mainly oaths:

  "Shit . . . bastard . . . pig . . . scum . . . demon . . ."

  When Grandmother leaves, we go see the grave: it is very well maintained. We look at the cross: the name written on it is Grandmother's. It is also Mother's maiden name. The Christian name is double, with a hyphen, and those two Christian names are our own Christian names.

  On the cross, there are also dates of birth and death. We calculate that Grandfather died at the age of forty-four, twenty-three years ago.

  In the evening, we ask Grandmother:

  "What was our Grandfather like?"

  She says:

  "What? You don't have a Grandfather."

  "But we used to have."

  "No, never. He was already dead when you were born. So you never had a Grandfather."

  We ask:

  "Why did you poison him?"

  She asks:

  "What are you talking about?"

  "People say you poisoned Grandfather."

  "People say . . . people say . . . Let them tell their tales."

  "You didn't poison him?"

  "Leave me alone, sons of a bitch! Nothing was proved! People will say anything."

  We go on:

  "We know you didn't like Grandfather. So why do you look after his grave?"

  "For that very reason! Because of what people say. To stop them telling their tales! And how do you know I look after his grave, eh? You've been spying on me, sons of a bitch, you've been spying on me again! May the devil take you!"

  Exercise in Cruelty

  It's Sunday. We catch a chicken and cut its throat as we have seen Grandmother do. We bring the chicken into the kitchen and say:

  "You must cook it, Grandmother."

  She starts shouting:

  "Who gave you permission? You have no right! I give the orders here, you little shits! I won't cook it! I'd rather croak first!"

  We say:

  "All right. We'll cook it ourselves."

  We start to pluck the chicken, but Grandmother snatches it from our hands:

  "You don't know how to do it! You filthy little bastards, you'll be the death of me, you're God's punishment on me, that's what you are!"

  While the chicken is cooking, Grandmother cries:

  "It was the most beautiful one. They took the most beautiful one on purpose. It was just ready for the Tuesday market."

  As we eat the chicken, we say:

  "It's very good, this chicken. We'll eat chicken every Sunday."

  "Every Sunday? Are you crazy? Do you want to ruin me?"

  "We shall eat a chicken every Sunday, whether you like it or not."

  Grandmother starts crying again:

  "But what have I done to them? Woe is me! They want to kill me. A poor old defenseless woman. I don't deserve this. And I've been so good to them!"

  "Yes, Grandmother, you are good, very good. So it is out of goodness that you will cook a chicken for us every Sunday."

  When she calms down a bit, we say to her again:

  "When there's something to be killed, you must fetch us. We'll do it."

  She says:

  "You like that, eh?"

  "
No, Grandmother, as a matter of fact, we don't like it. It's for that reason that we must get used to it."

  She says:

  "I see. It's a new exercise. You're right. It's good to know how to kill when you have to."

  We begin with fish. We pick them up by the tail and bang their heads against a stone. We soon get used to killing animals intended to be eaten: chickens, rabbits, ducks. Later, we kill animals that it would not have been necessary to kill. We catch frogs, nail them down on a board, and slit their bellies open. We also catch butterflies and pin them to a piece of cardboard. Soon we have a fine collection.

  One day we hang our cat, a ginger tom, from the branch of a tree. As he hangs, he stretches and grows enormous. He has spasms and convulsions. When he isn't moving anymore, we cut him down. He lies sprawled on the grass, motionless, then suddenly gets up and runs off.

  Ever since then, we sometimes see him at a distance, but he no longer comes near the house. He doesn't even come to drink the milk we put in front of the door on a little plate.

  Grandmother says:

  "That cat is getting wilder and wilder."

  We say:

  "Don't worry, Grandmother, we'll take care of the mice."

  We make traps and drown the mice we catch in boiling water.

  The Other Children

  We meet other children in the Little Town. As the school is closed, they are out all day long. There are big ones and little ones. Some have their homes and mothers here, others are from elsewhere, like us. Especially from the Big Town.

  A lot of these children are living with people they didn't know before. They have to work in the fields and vineyards; the people who look after them are not always nice to them.

  The big children often attack the smallest ones. They take all they have in their pockets, and sometimes even their clothes. They beat them up too, especially those who come from elsewhere. The young ones from here are protected by their mothers and never go out alone.

  We are not protected by anybody, so we learn to defend ourselves against the big ones.

  We make weapons: we sharpen stones, we fill socks with sand and gravel. We also have a razor, which we found in the chest in the attic, next to the Bible. We have only to take out our razor and the big boys run away.