The Notebook + The Proof + The Third Lie

by Agota Kristof

  "Age doesn't matter. I'm her lover. Is that all you wanted to know?"

  "No, that's not all. I knew that already. But do you love her?"

  Lucas opens the door.

  "I don't know the meaning of that word. No one does. I didn't expect that sort of question from you, Peter."

  "Nevertheless, you will be asked that sort of question many times in the course of your life. And sometimes you will be obliged to answer it."

  "And you, Peter? One day you will also be obliged to answer certain questions. I've been to some of your political meetings. You make speeches, the audience applauds. Do you really believe in what you say?"

  "I have to believe it."

  "But in your deepest self, what do you think?"

  "I don't think. I can't allow myself the luxury. I've lived with fear since I was a child."

  ***

  Clara is standing in front of the window, looking out into the garden engulfed in darkness. She doesn't turn around when Lucas comes into the room.

  She says, "The summer is frightening. It is in the summer that death is closest. Everything dries out, suffocates, comes to a standstill. It's already been four years since they killed Thomas. In August, very early in the morning, at dawn. They hanged him. The disturbing thing is that they start again every year. At dawn, when you go home, I go to the window and I see them. They are starting again, but you can't kill the same person over and over."

  Lucas kisses Clara on the neck.

  "What's wrong, Clara? What's wrong with you today?"

  "Today I received a letter. An official letter. It's there on my desk, you can read it. It exonerates Thomas, proclaims his innocence. I never doubted his innocence. They write: 'Your husband was innocent. We killed him by mistake. We killed many people by mistake, but at present everything is being sorted out. We apologize and promise that such mistakes will not be allowed to happen in the future.' They murder and they exonerate. They apologize, but Thomas is dead! Can they bring him back to life? Can they wipe out that night when my hair went white, when I went mad?

  "That summer night I was alone in our apartment, in Thomas's and my apartment. I'd been alone there for several months. Since they had imprisoned Thomas no one wanted to visit me, no one could, no one dared. I was already used to being alone, it wasn't unusual that I was alone. I didn't sleep, but that wasn't unusual either. What was unusual was that I didn't cry that night. The previous evening the radio announced the execution of a number of people for high treason. Among the names I clearly heard Thomas's name. At three o'clock in the morning, the time of the executions, I looked at the clock. I kept looking at it until seven o'clock, then I went to my job in a large library in the capital. I sat at my desk. I was in charge of the reading room. One after the other my colleagues came up. I heard them whisper, 'She's come!' 'Have you seen her hair?' I left the library, I walked around the streets until evening, I got lost, I didn't know which part of town I was in, even though I knew the town well. I came home in a taxi. At three o'clock in the morning I looked out the window, and I saw them: they were hanging Thomas from the front of the building opposite. I screamed. Some neighbors came. An ambulance took me to the hospital. And now they say it was just a mistake. Thomas's murder, my illness, the months in the hospital, my white hair were just a mistake. Well, let them bring me Thomas alive, smiling. The Thomas who took me in his arms, who stroked my hair, who held my face in his warm hands, who kissed me on the eyes, the ears, the mouth."

  Lucas takes Clara by the shoulders, he turns her to face him.

  "Will you never stop talking to me about Thomas?"

  "Never. I'll never stop talking about Thomas. And you? When will you start talking to me about Yasmine?"

  Lucas says, "There's nothing to say. Especially since she's no longer here."

  Clara punches and scratches Lucas on the face, the neck, the shoulders. She cries, "She's no longer here? Where is she? What have you done with her?"

  Lucas drags Clara onto the bed, he lies on top of her.

  "Calm down. Yasmine has gone to the big city, that's all."

  Clara grips Lucas in her arms.

  "They will separate me from you as they separated me from Thomas. They will put you in prison, take you away."

  "No, that's all over. Forget Thomas, the prison, and the rope."

  At dawn, Lucas gets up.

  "I have to go home. The child wakes up early."

  "Yasmine left her child here?"

  "He's crippled. What would she have done with him in a big city?"

  Clara says, "How could she have left him?"

  Lucas says, "She wanted to take him. I forbade her."

  "Forbade her? By what right? He's her child. He belongs to her."

  Clara watches Lucas get dressed. She says, "Yasmine left because you didn't love her."

  "I helped her when she was in trouble. I never promised her anything."

  "You've never promised me anything either."

  Lucas goes home to prepare breakfast for Mathias.

  Lucas goes into the bookshop. Victor asks him, "Do you need any paper or pencils, Lucas?"

  "No. I'd like to talk to you. Peter said that you wanted to sell your house."

  Victor sighs. "These days nobody has enough money to buy a house with a shop."

  Lucas says, "I'd like to buy it."

  "You, Lucas? With what, my boy?"

  "By selling Grandmother's house. The army has offered a good price for it."

  "I'm afraid it wouldn't be enough, Lucas."

  "I also own a good plot of land. And other things besides. Very valuable things that I inherited from Grandmother."

  Victor says, "Come and see me this evening at the apartment. I'll leave the front door open."

  That evening, Lucas goes up the narrow, dark stairway that leads to the apartment above the bookshop. He knocks at the door, below which there is a crack of light.

  Victor shouts, "Come in, Lucas!"

  Lucas enters a room filled with a thick cloud of cigar smoke, in spite of the open window. The ceiling is stained a dirty brown color, the net curtains are yellowed. The room is crammed with old furniture, divans, sofas, small tables, lamps, trinkets. The walls are covered with paintings, etchings, the floor with layers of threadbare rugs.

  Victor is sitting next to the window at a table covered with a red plush tablecloth. On the table are boxes of cigars and cigarettes. Ashtrays of all shapes and sizes full of cigarette butts stand next to glasses and a half-empty carafe of yellow liquid.

  "Come in, Lucas. Sit down and have a drink."

  Lucas sits down; Victor pours him a drink, drinks up his own glass, refills it.

  "I wish I could offer you a better brandy than this, some of the stuff my sister brought on her last visit, for example, but I'm afraid there's none left. My sister came in July. It was very warm, if you remember. I don't like the heat, I don't like summer. A cool, wet summer, fine, but these dog days make me feel positively ill.

  "When she came my sister brought me a liter of apricot brandy such as we drink at home in the country. My sister probably thought the bottle would last all year, or at least until Christmas. In fact I'd already drunk half the bottle by the first evening. I was ashamed, so I hid the bottle, then I went to buy a bottle of cheap brandy—it's all you can get in the shops—and used it to top off my sister's bottle, which I left out in an obvious place, there on the sideboard in front of you.

  "So by drinking the cheap brandy every evening in secret, I was able to fool my sister by showing her the level in her bottle hardly going down at all. Once or twice, for appearance's sake, I would pour a small glass of this brandy, which I pretended to appreciate, even though it was already quite diluted.

  "I waited patiently for my sister to go. Not that she was in the way, quite the opposite. She made my meals, she darned my socks, mended my clothes, cleaned the kitchen and everything else that was dirty. So she was useful, and what's more, we would have pleasant chats over a good me
al after I closed the shop. She slept in the small room here at the side. She went to bed early and slept soundly. I had the whole night to myself to walk up and down in my room and in the kitchen and the corridor.

  "You must realize, Lucas, that my sister is the person I love most in the world. Our father and mother died when we were young, me especially, since I was still a child. My sister was a little older, five years older. We lived with various relatives, uncles and aunts, but I assure you it was really my sister who brought me up.

  "My love for her hasn't diminished in all this time. You will never know the joy I felt when I saw her getting off the train. I hadn't seen her for twelve years. There was the war, poverty, the border zone. When she managed to save enough money for the journey, for instance, she couldn't get a permit for the zone, and so on. For my part, I never have very much ready cash, and I can't just close up the bookshop when I want. And she can't simply walk out on her clients. She's a dressmaker, and even when times are hard women need a dressmaker. Especially during the hard times when they can't afford to buy new clothes. My sister had to work miracles during the hard times. Turning their dead husbands' trousers into short skirts, their nightgowns into blouses, and as for the children's clothes, any old bit of material would do.

  "When my sister finally managed to get enough money and the necessary papers and permits, she wrote to tell me she was coming."

  Victor gets up, looks out the window.

  "It must be ten o'clock by now."

  Lucas says, "No, not yet."

  Victor sits down again, pours a drink, lights a cigar.

  "I waited for my sister at the station. It was the first time I had ever waited for someone at that station. I was ready to wait for several trains if necessary. My sister arrived on the very last train. She had been traveling all day. Of course I recognized her immediately, but she was so different from the image I had of her in my memory! She had become really small. She had always been petite, but not that much. Her—I have to admit—grumpy face was now lined with hundreds of tiny wrinkles. In a word, she had really aged. Naturally, I said nothing, I kept these observations to myself. She, on the other hand, started crying and said, 'Oh, Victor! You've changed so much! I hardly recognize you. You've put on weight, you've lost your hair, you've let yourself go.'

  "I carried her cases. They were heavy, stuffed with jam, sausages, apricot brandy. She unpacked it all in the kitchen. She had even brought some beans from her garden. I tasted the brandy straight away. While she was cooking the beans I drank about a quarter of the bottle. After washing up she came to join me in my room. The windows were wide open, it was very hot. I kept on drinking. I constantly went over to the window, smoked cigars. My sister talked about her awkward clients, her difficult, solitary life. I listened to her while drinking brandy and smoking cigars.

  "The window opposite lit up at ten o'clock. The man with white hair appeared. He was chewing something. He always eats at that hour. At ten o'clock in the evening he sits at his window and eats. My sister was still talking. I showed her her room and said to her, 'You must be tired. You've had a long journey. Go and rest.' She kissed me on both cheeks, went into the small bedroom at the side, got into bed, and slept, I suppose. I kept on drinking, walking up and down smoking cigars. Now and then I looked out the window. I saw the white-haired man leaning out of his window. I heard him ask the infrequent passersby, 'What time is it? Could you tell me the time, please?' Someone in the street answered, 'It's twenty past eleven.'

  "I slept very badly. The silent presence of my sister in the other room disturbed me. The next morning, I heard the insomniac asking the time again, and someone replying, 'It's quarter to seven.' Later, when I got up, my sister was already working in the kitchen; the window opposite was closed.

  "What do you think of that, Lucas? My sister, whom I haven't seen for twelve years, comes to visit me, and I can't wait for her to go to bed so I can observe the insomniac across the street in peace—the fact is, he's the only person who interests me, even though I love my sister above all.

  "You're saying nothing, Lucas, but I know what you're thinking. You think I'm mad, and you're right. I'm obsessed by this old man who opens his window at ten o'clock at night and closes it again at seven o'clock in the morning. He spends the whole night at his window. I don't know what he does after that. Does he sleep, or does he have another room or a kitchen where he spends the day? I never see him in the street, I never see him during the day, I don't know him and I've never asked anyone anything about him. You're the first person I've talked to about him. What does he think about all night, leaning out of his window? How can we know? By midnight the street is completely empty. He can't even ask the time from the passersby. He can't do that until six or seven in the morning. Does he really need to know the time? Is it possible he doesn't own a watch or an alarm clock? In that case how does he manage to appear at his window at precisely ten o'clock in the evening? There are so many questions I ask myself about him.

  "One evening, after my sister had already left, the insomniac spoke to me. I was at my window. I was looking out for the storm clouds that had been forecast for days. The old man spoke to me from across the street. He said, 'You can't see the stars. The storm is coming.' I didn't reply. I looked elsewhere, left and right up the street. I didn't want to strike up an acquaintance. I ignored him.

  "I sat in a corner of my room where he couldn't see me. I realize now that if I stay here I'll do nothing but drink, smoke, and watch the insomniac through the window, until I become an insomniac myself."

  Victor looks out the window and collapses into his armchair with a sigh. "He's there. He's there and he's watching me. He's waiting for a chance to strike up a conversation with me. But I won't let him, he might as well give up, he won't have the last word."

  Lucas says, "Calm down, Victor. Maybe he's just a retired night watchman who got used to sleeping during the day."

  Victor says, "A night watchman? Perhaps. It makes no difference. If I stay here, he'll destroy me. I'm already half mad. My sister noticed. Before she got on the train she said, 'I'm too old to make such a long and tiring journey again. We should make a decision, Victor, otherwise I'm afraid we might never see each other again.' I asked, 'What kind of decision?' She said, 'Your business is failing, I can see that much. You sit all day in the shop and never get any customers. At night you walk up and down in the apartment and in the morning you're exhausted. You drink too much—you've drunk nearly half the brandy I brought you. If you go on like that you'll become an alcoholic.'

  "I didn't tell her that during her stay I had drunk six other bottles of brandy as well as the bottles of wine we opened at each meal. I didn't tell her about the insomniac either, of course. She continued, 'You look terrible, you have rings round your eyes, you're pale and overweight. You eat too much meat, you get no exercise, you never go out, you lead an unhealthy life.' I said, 'Don't worry about me. I feel fine.' I lit a cigar. The train was late. My sister turned her head away in disgust. 'You smoke too much. You never stop smoking.'

  "I didn't tell her that two years ago the doctors discovered that I had an arterial disease caused by nicotine poisoning. My right iliac artery is blocked, there is no circulation, or hardly any, in my left leg. I get pains in my hip and my calf, and I have no feeling in the big toe of my left foot. The doctors gave me medicine, but there will be no improvement if I don't stop smoking and don't start getting exercise. But I have no desire to stop smoking. In fact I'm totally lacking in willpower. You can't expect an alcoholic to have willpower. So if I want to stop smoking, I will first of all have to stop drinking.

  "I sometimes think that I should give up smoking, and then right away I light up a cigar or a cigarette, and I think while I'm smoking it that if I don't stop smoking it will soon mean the end of all circulation in my left leg, which will bring about gangrene, which in turn will mean amputation of my foot or the whole leg.

  "I said nothing about any of this so as not to worry
my sister, but she was worried anyway. As she got on the train she said, 'Sell the bookshop and come live with me in the country. We can live on next to nothing, in the house we grew up in. We can go for walks in the forest. I'll take care of everything. You'll stop smoking and drinking and you can write your book.'

  "The train left. I went home, I poured myself a glass of brandy, and wondered what book she was talking about.

  "That evening I took a sleeping pill, along with my usual medicine for my circulation, and I drank all the brandy left in my sister's bottle, about half a liter. In spite of the sleeping pill I woke up very early the next morning, with a total lack of sensation in my left leg. I was bathed in perspiration, my heart was pounding, my hands were shaking, I was immersed in a foul and fearful anguish. I checked the time on my alarm clock. It had stopped. I dragged myself to the window. The old man opposite was still there. I called across the empty street, 'Could you tell me the time, please? My watch has stopped.' He turned away, as if consulting a clock, before replying, 'It is half past six.' I was going to get dressed but found that I already was. I had slept in my clothes and my shoes. I went down into the street, I went to the nearest grocery. It was still closed. I walked up and down in the street while I waited. The manager arrived, he opened the shop, he served me. I bought the first bottle of brandy I saw, went home. I drank a few glasses, my anguish disappeared, the man across the street had closed his window.

  "I went down to the bookshop, I sat down at the counter. There were no customers. It was still summer, the school holidays, no one needed books or anything else. Sitting there, looking at the books on the shelves, I remembered my book, the book my sister mentioned, the book I had been intending to write since I was a young man. I wanted to become a writer, to write books, that was the dream of my youth, and we often talked about it together, my sister and I. She believed in me, I also believed in myself, but less and less until finally I completely forgot this dream of writing books.