"And what does she do, your mother?"
"She works right here at the hotel. She cleans the floors twice a day. But she wants me to have an education."
"An education as what?"
"That she couldn't say, since she doesn't know what educated people do. She thinks professor or doctor, I guess."
I say, "Good. How much for carrying the suitcase?"
He says, "It's up to you, sir."
I give him two coins.
"That enough?"
"Yes, sir."
"No, sir, that's not enough. Don't tell me you've carried that heavy suitcase all the way from the station for as little as that."
He says, "I take what I'm given, sir. I don't have the right to charge more. And then there are poor people. Sometimes I end up carrying suitcases for free. I like the work. I like waiting at the station. I like seeing the people who arrive. The people from here, I know them all by sight. I like seeing the people who come from other places. Like you. You've come from far away, haven't you?"
"Yes, very far. Another country."
I give him a banknote and enter the hotel.
I choose a corner room from which I can see the whole square, the church, the grocery store, the shops, the bookseller's.
It's nine at night and the square is empty. Lights are on in the houses. Blinds are being lowered, shutters closed, curtains pulled; the town is going to bed.
I settle down at one of the windows in my room and watch the square, the houses, late into the night.
During my childhood I often dreamed of living in one of the houses on Central Square—it didn't matter which one—but most of all the blue house where there was and still is a bookseller's.
But the only one I lived in when I was here was the ramshackle one belonging to Grandmother, far from the center of town, at its very limits, near the frontier.
At Grandmother's I worked from morning till night, as she did herself. She fed me and housed me, but she never gave me money, which I needed to buy soap, toothpaste, clothes, and shoes. So at night I came to town and played the harmonica in bars. I sold the wood that I gathered in the forest along with mushrooms and chestnuts. I also sold eggs that I stole from Grandmother, as well as fish, which I quickly learned to catch. I also did all sorts of work for anyone who would pay. I delivered messages, letters, and packages; people trusted me because they thought I was a deaf-mute.
In the beginning I didn't speak, not even to Grandmother, but soon I had to talk numbers in order to sell my wares.
I spent much time at night on Central Square. I looked through the window of the bookseller-stationer's, at the white paper, the school notebooks, the erasers, the pencils. All of it was too expensive for me.
To make a bit more money, whenever I could I went to the station and waited for travelers. I carried their suitcases.
And so I was able to buy paper, a pencil and eraser, and a big notebook in which I wrote down my first lies.
Several months after the death of Grandmother some people came into the house without knocking. They were three men, one in the uniform of a border guard. The other two were in civilian dress. One of these two didn't say anything but only noted things down. He was young, almost as young as I. The other had white hair. It was he who questioned me.
"How long have you lived here?"
I say, "I don't know. Since the hospital was bombed."
"Which hospital?"
"I don't know. The center."
The man in the uniform interrupts. "He was already here when I took command of this unit."
The civilian asks, "When was that?"
'Three years ago. But he was here before that."
"How do you know?"
"It's obvious. He worked around the house like someone who had always been here."
The white-haired man turns to me. "Are you related to Mrs. V., née Maria Z.?"
I say, "She was my grandmother."
He asks me, "Do you have documents proving the relationship?"
I say, "No, I don't have any papers. All I have are the sheets I buy at the bookseller's."
He says, "This is the situation. Take this down!"
The younger civilian writes: "Mrs. V., née Maria Z., is deceased without heirs, and so all her possessions, house, and lands will become state property belonging communally to the town of Z., which will make use of them as it deems fit."
The men stand up and I ask them, "What should I do?"
They look at one another. The uniformed man says, "You must leave."
"Why?"
"Because this place doesn't belong to you."
I ask, "When do I have to leave?"
"I don't know."
He looks at the white-haired man in civilian clothes, who says, "We'll inform you soon enough. How old are you?"
"Fifteen, nearly. I can't leave before the tomatoes ripen."
He says, "Of course, the tomatoes. You're only fifteen? Well, then, there's no problem."
I ask, "Where should I go?"
He is silent for a moment and looks at the man in uniform; the man in uniform looks back at him. The civilian lowers his eyes. "Don't worry. You'll be taken care of. Above all, don't be scared."
The three men go outside. I follow them, walking on the grass to make no noise.
The border guard says, "Can't you leave him alone? He's a good little fellow and he works hard."
The man in civilian dress says, "That's beside the point. The law is clear. The property of Mrs. V. belongs to the commune. Your little fellow has been living on it illegally for almost two years."
"And who's been harmed by it?"
"No one. But come on—why are you defending that little good-for-nothing?"
"For three years I've watched him tending his garden and his animals. He's not a good-for-nothing, in any case no more than you are."
"You dare call me a good-for-nothing?"
"I didn't say that. All I said is that he's no more of one than you are. And anyway I don't give a damn. Not about you, not about him. In three weeks I'll be out of the service and tending my own garden. You, sir, will have a soul on your conscience if you turn that child out into the street. Good night, and sleep well."
The civilian says, "We won't be turning him out. We'll take care of him."
They leave. Several days later they come back. The same man with the white hair and the young man; they have brought a woman with them. She is older and wears eyeglasses; she looks like the director at the center.
She says to me, "Listen to me carefully. We don't want to hurt you; we want to take care of you. You're coming with us to a nice house where there are children like you."
I say to her, 'I'm not a child anymore. I don't want to be taken care of. And I don't want to go to a hospital either."
She says, "It isn't a hospital. You'll be able to study there."
We're in the kitchen. The woman speaks but I don't listen. The white-haired man speaks too. I don't listen to him either.
Only the young man who writes everything down doesn't speak; he doesn't even look at me.
As she leaves, the woman says, "Don't worry. We're on your side. Everything will be better soon. We won't abandon you; we're going to take care of you. We're going to rescue you."
The man adds, "You can stay here for the summer. The demolition will begin at the end of August."
I'm scared, scared of going to a house where I will be taken care of, where I will be rescued. I must leave here. I ask myself where I could go.
I buy a map of the country and one of the capital. Every day I go to the station and consult the schedule. I ask how much tickets are to this or that town. I only have a very little bit of money and don't want to use what Grandmother left me. She had warned me: "No one must know that you have all this. You'll be questioned, locked up, and everything will be taken from you. And never tell the truth. Pretend you don't understand the questions. If people take you for an idiot, so much the better."
Gr
andmother's legacy is buried under the bench in front of the house, a canvas bag that contains jewels, gold pieces, and money. If I tried to sell it all, I would be accused of having stolen it.
It was at the station that I met the man who wanted to cross the border.
It is night. The man is there, in front of the station, his hands in his pockets. The other travelers are already gone. Station Square is deserted.
The man signals me to come closer and I walk toward him. He has no luggage.
I say, "Usually I carry travelers' bags. But I see that you don't have any."
He says, "No, I don't."
I say, "If I could be of some other service. I can see that you're a stranger in town."
"And how can you tell I'm a stranger?"
I say, "No one in town wears clothes like yours. And everyone in our town has the same face. A face that's recognized and familiar. You can tell who people from our town are even if you don't know them personally. When a stranger comes he's immediately spotted."
The man looks around us. "Do you think I've been spotted already?"
"Absolutely. But if your papers are in order it won't matter much. You'll present them at the police station tomorrow morning, and you can stay as long as you like. There's no hotel, but I can show you to houses where they rent out rooms."
The man says, "Follow me."
He sets off toward town, but instead of taking the main road he veers off to the right, onto a small dusty road, and sits down between two bushes. I sit down beside him and ask, "Are you trying to hide? Why?"
He asks me, "Do you know the town well?"
"Yes, perfectly."
"The border?"
"That too."
"Your parents?"
"I don't have any."
"They're dead?"
"I don't know."
"Whose house do you live at?"
"Mine. It's Grandmother's house. She's dead."
"With anyone else?"
"Alone."
"Where's your house?"
"At the other end of town. Near the border."
"Could you put me up for one night? I have a lot of money."
"Yes, I can put you up."
"Do you know a way we can get to your house without being seen?"
"Yes."
"Let's go. I'll follow you."
We walk in the fields behind the houses. Sometimes we have to clamber over fences and gates and cross gardens and private yards. Night has fallen, and the man behind me makes no noise.
When we reach Grandmother's house I congratulate him: "Even at your age you had no trouble following me."
He laughs. "At my age? I'm only forty, and I fought in the war. I learned how to get through towns without making noise."
After some time he adds, "You're right. I'm old now. My youth was swallowed up by the war. Do you have anything to drink?"
I set some brandy on the table and say, "You want to cross the border, don't you?"
He laughs again. "How did you guess? Do you have anything to eat?"
I say, "I can make you a mushroom omelet. I also have goat's cheese."
He drinks while I make dinner.
We eat. I ask him, "How did you make it into the frontier zone? You need a special permit to come to our town."
He says, "I have a sister who lives here. I asked permission to visit her and it was granted."
"But you're not going to see her."
"No. I don't want to make trouble for her. Here, burn all this in your stove."
He gives me his identity card and other papers. I throw everything into the fire.
I ask, "Why do you want to leave?"
"That's not your business. Show me the way, that's all I ask. I'll give you all the money I have."
He puts banknotes on the table.
I say, "It's no great sacrifice to leave that much behind. Anyway it's not worth anything on the other side."
He says, "But here, for a young fellow like you, it's worth quite a bit."
I throw the bills into the fire.
"You know, I don't need money that much. I have everything I want here."
We watch the money burn. I say, "You can't cross the frontier without risking your life."
The man says, "I know."
I say, "You should also know that I could turn you in right now. There's a border post right across from my house, and I collaborate with them. I'm an informer."
Very pale, the man says, "An informer, at your age?"
"Age has nothing to do with it. I've turned in a number of people who wanted to cross the frontier. I see and report on everything that goes on in the forest."
"But why?"
"Because sometimes they send in plants to see if I inform on them or not. Until now I was forced to report them whether they were plants or not."
"Why until now?"
"Because tomorrow I'm crossing the frontier with you. I want to get out of here too."
A little before noon the next day we cross the frontier.
The man walks in front and doesn't have a hope. Near the second barrier a land mine goes off and takes him with it. I walk behind him and risk nothing.
I watch the empty square until late into the night. When I finally go to bed, I dream.
I go down to the river; my brother is there, sitting on the bank, fishing. I sit down beside him.
"You getting many?"
"No. I was waiting for you."
He stands and packs up his rod. "It's been a long time since there were fish here. There isn't even water anymore."
He reaches for a rock and throws it at the other rocks in the dried-up river.
We walk toward town. I stop in front of a house with green shutters. My brother says, "Yes, it was our house. You recognized it."
I say, "Yes, but it wasn't here before. It was in another town."
My brother corrects me: "In another life. And now it's here and it's empty."
We reach Central Square.
In front of the bookshop door two little boys are sitting on the stairs that lead up to the living quarters.
My brother says, 'Those are my sons. Their mother is gone."
We go into the kitchen. My brother makes the evening meal. The children eat in silence, not raising their eyes.
I say, 'They're happy, your sons."
"Very happy. I'm going to put them to bed."
When he returns he says, "Let's go to my room."
We go into the large room and my brother retrieves a bottle hidden behind the books on the shelves.
"This is all that's left. The barrels are empty."
We drink. My brother strokes the red plush tablecloth.
"You see, nothing's changed. I kept everything. Even this hideous tablecloth. Tomorrow you can move in to the house."
I say, "I don't want to. I'd rather play with your children."
My brother says, "My children don't play."
"What do they do?"
"They are preparing to make it through life."
I say, "I made it through life and haven't found anything."
My brother says, "There's nothing to find. What were you looking for?"
"You. It's because of you that I came back."
My brother laughs. "Because of me? You know very well that I'm just a dream. You must accept that. There is nothing anywhere."
I am cold and stand up.
"It's late. I have to go back."
"Go back? Where?"
'To the hotel."
"What hotel? You're at home here. I'm going to introduce you to our parents."
"Our parents? Where are they?"
My brother points at the brown door that leads into the other half of the apartment.
'There. They're asleep."
'Together?"
"As ever."
I say, "They shouldn't be woken up."
My brother says, "Why not? They'll be overjoyed to see you after all these years."
I step backward toward
the door.
"No, no, I don't want to see them again."
My brother grabs my arm. "You don't want to, you don't have to. I see them every day. You should see them at least once, just once!"
My brother pulls me toward the brown door; with my free hand I grab a very heavy glass ashtray from the table and hit him on the back of the neck with it.
My brother's forehead slams into the door and he falls. There is blood on the floor all around his head.
I leave the house and sit on a bench. An enormous moon lights the empty square.
An old man stops in front of me and asks for a cigarette. I offer him one, as well as a light.
He stays there, standing in front of me, smoking his cigarette.
After a few moments he asks, "So, then, you killed him?"
I say, "Yes."
The old man says, "You did what you had to do. That's good. Few people do what must be done."
I say, "It was because he wanted to open the door."
"You did well. It was good that you stopped him. You had to kill him. With that everything falls into order, the order of things."
I say, "But he won't be here anymore. Order doesn't mean much to me if he isn't here anymore."
The old man says, "On the contrary. From now on he'll always be with you wherever you go."
The old man moves off; he rings at the door of a little house and goes in.
When I wake up the square has already been busy for quite some time. People are moving around it on foot or by bicycle. There are very few cars. The shops are open, including the bookseller's. The hotel corridors are being vacuumed.
I open my door and call out to the cleaning woman: "Could you bring me a cup of coffee?"
She turns around; it is a young woman with very black hair.
'I'm not allowed to serve the guests, sir, I'm just a cleaning woman. We don't have room service. There's a restaurant and a bar."
I go back into my room, brush my teeth, shower, then climb back in under the covers. I'mcold.
There is a knock at the door. The cleaning woman comes in and sets a tray down on the night table.
"You can pay for the coffee at the bar whenever you like."
She lies down beside me on the bed and offers me her lips. I turn my head away.
"No, my lovely one. I'm old and ill."
She stands and says, "I have very little money. The work I do is very badly paid. I'd like to give my son a dirt bike as a birthday present. And I have no husband."
The Notebook + The Proof + The Third Lie Page 26
