The Notebook + The Proof + The Third Lie

by Agota Kristof

  The soldiers do not shoot.

  "He's on the other side. We can't shoot over there."

  The sergeant raises his rifle. Two foreign border guards appear on the other side. The sergeant lowers his weapon and hands it to a soldier. He walks up to the corpse, hoists it onto his back, returns, and drops it to the ground. He wipes his face with the sleeve of his uniform. "You'll pay for this, you sons of bitches. You're all nothing but a pile of shit."

  The soldiers wrap the body in a tarpaulin and put it in the back of their vehicle. They drive off. The two foreign border guards go away too.

  The child remains where he is, not moving a muscle. He falls asleep. Early in the morning he is awakened by the singing of birds. He clutches his coat and rubber boots to himself and heads toward the village. He comes across two border guards, who ask him, "Hey, you. Where are you coming from?"

  'The other side of the frontier."

  "You crossed it? When?"

  "Yesterday. With my father. But he fell. He stayed on the ground after the explosion and the soldiers from over there came and took him away."

  "Yes, we were there. But we didn't see you. The soldier who deserted didn't see you either." "I hid. I was scared."

  "How come you speak our language?"

  "I learned it from soldiers during the war. You think they'll make my father better again?"

  The guards lower their eyes. "Definitely. Come with us. You must be hungry."

  The guards bring the child to the village and ask one of their wives to take care of him.

  "Give him something to eat, then bring him to the police station. Tell them that we'll come at eleven to make a report."

  The woman is fat and blond, her face red and smiling.

  She asks the child, "You like milk and cheese? Lunch isn't ready yet."

  "Yes, ma'am, I like everything. I'll eat anything."

  The woman serves him.

  "No, wait, go wash up first. At least your face and hands. I'llget your clothes nice and clean, but I guess you don't have anything to change into."

  "No, ma'am."

  'I'll lend you one of my husband's shirts. It'll be too big for you, but that doesn't matter. Just roll up the sleeves. Here's a towel. The bathroom is right there."

  The child takes his coat and rubber boots into the bathroom with him. He washes, returns to the kitchen, eats bread and cheese and drinks milk. He says, "Thank you, ma'am."

  She says, "You're well brought up and polite. And you speak our language very well. Did your mother stay on the other side?"

  "No, she died during the war."

  "Poor little thing. Come, we have to go to the commissioner's. Don't be scared, the policeman's nice, he's a friend of my husband's."

  At the station she tells the policeman, "Here's the son of the man who tried to cross yesterday. My husband will come by at eleven. I'd be glad to look after the child while they're coming to a decision. Perhaps he'll have to be sent back because he's a minor."

  The policeman says, "We'll see. In any case I'll send him back to you for lunch."

  The woman leaves and the policeman hands the child a questionnaire.

  "Fill it out. If you don't understand any of the questions, ask me."

  When the child hands the questionnaire back the policeman reads it out loud: "Full name, Claus T. Age eighteen. You're not very big for your age."

  "It's because I was ill as a child."

  "Do you have an identity card?"

  "No, nothing. My father and I burned all our papers before we left."

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. Something about being caught. My father told me to do it."

  "Your father stepped on a land mine. If you'd been walking with him you'd have been blown up too."

  "I didn't walk with him. He told me to wait until he was on the other side, then to follow him at a distance."

  "Why did you cross in the first place?"

  "It was my father who wanted to. They were putting him in prison all the time and watching him. He didn't want to live there anymore. And he took me with him because he didn't want me to be alone."

  "Your mother?" "She died in a bombing during the war. Afterward I lived with my grandmother, but she died too."

  "So you don't have anyone left over there. No one who will call for you to be returned. Except the authorities, if you committed any crime."

  "I haven't committed any crimes."

  "Good. All we have to do now is wait for my superiors to decide. For the time being you're not allowed to leave the village. Here. Sign this paper there."

  The child signs the statement, in which there are three lies.

  The man he crossed the frontier with was not his father.

  The child is not eighteen, but fifteen.

  His name is not Claus.

  Some weeks later a man from the city comes to the border guard's house. He says to the child, "My name is Peter N. I will take care of you from now on. Here is your identity card. All it needs is your signature."

  The child looks at the card. His birthdate has been moved back three years, his first name is "Claus," and his nationality is "None."

  The very same day Peter and Claus take the bus to the city. Along the way Peter asks questions:

  "What did you do before, Claus? Were you a student?"

  "A student? No. I worked in my garden, tended my animals, played my harmonica in bars, carried travelers' bags for them."

  "And what would you like to do in the future?"

  "I don't know. Nothing. Why is it so necessary to do anything?"

  "One has to make a living."

  "That I know. I've always done that. I'm happy to do any sort of work to make a little money." "A little money? Through any sort of work? You could get a scholarship and go to school."

  "I don't want to go to school."

  "And yet you should, even just a little bit, to learn the language better. You speak it well enough, but you also have to know how to read and write it. You'll live in a youth house with other students. You'll have your own room. You'll take language courses and after that we'll see."

  Peter and Claus spend the night at a hotel in a big city. In the morning they take a train to a smaller city situated between a forest and a lake. The youth house is on a steep street in the middle of a garden near the center of town.

  A couple, the director of the house and his wife, meet them. They bring Claus to his room. The window looks out onto the park.

  Claus asks, "Who takes care of the garden?"

  The director's wife says, "I do, but the children help out a great deal."

  Claus says, "I'll help you too. Your flowers are very pretty."

  The director's wife says, "Thank you, Claus. You'll be completely free here, but you have to be back in at eleven every night at the latest. You'll clean your own room. You can borrow a vacuum cleaner from the super."

  The director says, "If you have any problems, talk to me."

  Peter says, "You'll be comfortable here, won't you, Claus?"

  Claus is also shown the dining room, the showers, and the common room. He is introduced to the boys and girls there.

  Later Peter shows Claus the town, then brings him to his house.

  "You can find me here if you need me. This is my wife, Clara."

  The three of them have lunch together, then spend the afternoon shopping for clothes and shoes.

  Claus says, 'I've never had this many clothes in my life."

  Peter smiles. "You can throw away your old coat and boots. You'll be getting some money each month for school expenses and pocket money. If you need anything more, tell me. Your board and tuition are paid for, of course."

  Claus asks, "Who's giving me all this money? You?"

  "No, I'm just your tutor. The money comes from the state. Since you have no parents, the state is obligated to take care of you until you're in a position to make a living on your own."

  Claus says, "I hope that will happen as soon as possib
le."

  "In a year you'll decide if you want to go to school or take an apprenticeship."

  "I don't want to go to school."

  "We'll see, we'll see. Have you no ambition at all, Claus?"

  "Ambition? I don't know. All I want is peace to write."

  "To write? What? You want to be a writer?"

  "Yes. You don't have to go to school to be a writer. You just have to know how to write without too many mistakes. I want to learn how to write in your language properly, but that's all I need."

  Peter says, "Writing is no way to earn a living."

  Claus says, "No, I know. But I can work during the day and quietly write at night. That's what I did at Grandmother's."

  "What? You've already written something?"

  "Yes. I've filled a couple of notebooks. They're wrapped up in my old coat. When I've learned to write your language, I'll translate them and show them to you."

  They are in his room at the youth house. Claus unties the string around his old coat. He sets five school notebooks on the table. Peter opens them one after the other.

  'I'm very curious to know what's in these notebooks. Is it a journal of some kind?"

  Claus says, "No, it's all lies." "Lies?"

  "Yes. Made-up things. Stories that aren't true but might be." Peter says, "Hurry up and learn to write our language, Claus."

  We arrive at the capital around seven in the evening. The weather has grown worse; it's cold and the raindrops have turned into ice crystals.

  The embassy building is in the middle of a large garden. I am brought to a well-heated room with a double bed and a bathroom. It's like a suite in a luxury hotel.

  A waiter brings me a meal. I eat very little of it. The meal is not like the kind to which I grew reaccustomed in the little town. I set the tray down outside my door. A man is seated in the corridor a few yards away.

  I shower and brush my teeth with a brand-new toothbrush I found in the bathroom. I also find a comb and, on my bed, a pair of pajamas. I go to bed.

  My pains come back. I wait for a while but they become unbearable. I get up, look through my suitcase, find my medications, take two pills, and return to bed. Instead of going away the pains intensify. I drag myself to the door and open it; the man is still sitting there. I say to him, "A doctor, please. I'm ill. My heart."

  He picks up a telephone hung on the wall next to him. I don't remember what happens next; I faint. I wake up in a hospital bed.

  I stay in the hospital for three days. I undergo all sorts of examinations. At last the cardiologist comes to see me.

  "You can get up and dress. You're going back to the embassy."

  I ask, "You're not going to operate on me?"

  "No operation is necessary. Your heart is perfectly sound. Your pains are the result of anxiety and nervousness and a profound depression. Don't take any more trinitrine, just the sedatives I've prescribed for you."

  He extends his hand to me. "Don't be afraid. You still have a very long time to live."

  "I don't want to live much longer."

  "As soon as you're out of your depression you'll change your mind."

  A car returns me to the embassy. I am brought into an office. A smiling young man with curly hair motions me toward a leather armchair.

  "Have a seat. I'm happy that everything went well at the hospital. But that's not why I called you here. You're looking for your family, and for your brother in particular, are you not?"

  "Yes, my twin brother. But not very hopefully. Have you found something? I was told that the archives were destroyed."

  "I didn't need the archives. I simply looked in the phone book. There's a man in this city whose name is the same as yours. The same last name as well as first name."

  "Claus?"

  "Yes, Klaus T., with a 'K.' So it obviously can't be your brother. But he might be related to you and could give you some information. Here is his address and telephone number in case you'd like to contact him."

  I take the address and say, "I don't know. I'd like to see the street he lives on and his house first."

  "I understand. We can spin by around five-thirty. I'll come with you. Without valid papers you can't go out alone."

  We cross the city. It is already almost night. In the car the curly-haired man says to me, "I did some research on your homonym. He's one of this country's most important poets."

  I say, "The bookseller who rented me her apartment never mentioned it. And yet she must have known his name."

  "Not necessarily. Klaus T. writes under a pen name, Klaus Lucas. He's said to be a misanthrope. He's never seen in public and nothing is known about his private life."

  The car stops in a narrow street between two rows of single- storied houses surrounded by gardens.

  The curly-haired man says, 'There—number eighteen. This is it. It's one of the prettiest parts of the city. Also the quietest and most expensive."

  I say nothing. I look at the house. It is somewhat set back from the street. A few steps lead from the garden to the front door. The green shutters are open on the four windows that look out onto the street. A light is on in the kitchen, and a blue light soon appears in the two living room windows. For the moment the study remains dark. The other part of the house, the part that looks out over the courtyard in the back, is invisible from here. There are three more rooms there: the parents' bedroom, the children's room, and a guest bedroom that Mother used mostly as a sewing room.

  In the courtyard there was sort of a shed for firewood, bikes, and our larger toys. I remember two red tricycles and wooden scooters. I also recall hoops that we rolled down the street with sticks. A huge kite leaned against one of the walls. In the courtyard there was a swing with two seats hanging side by side. Our mother pushed us, and we tried to swing up into the branches of the walnut tree that may still be there behind the house.

  The man from the embassy asks me, "Does all this remind you of anything?"

  I say, "No, nothing. I was only four at the time."

  "Do you want to try right now?"

  "No, I'll call tonight."

  "Yes, that would be best. He's not a man who readily receives visitors. It might be impossible for you to see him."

  We return to the embassy. I go up to my room. I place the number beside the telephone. I take a sedative and open the window. It's snowing. The flakes make a watery sound as they fall on the yellow grass and black earth of the garden. I lie down on the bed.

  I walk through the streets of an unfamiliar town. It's snowing and growing darker and darker. The streets I am following become less and less well lit. Our old house is on one of the last streets. Farther off it is already the countryside. A completely lightless night. There is a bar across from the house. I go in and order a bottle of wine. I am the only customer.

  The windows of the house light up all at once. I see shadows moving through the curtains. I finish the bottle, leave the bar, cross the street, and ring at the garden door. No one answers; the bell isn't working. I open the cast-iron gate; it isn't locked. I climb the five steps that lead to the door on the veranda. I ring again. Two times, three times. A man's voice asks from behind the door, "Who is it? What do you want? Who are you?"

  I say, "It's me, Claus."

  "Claus? Claus who?"

  "Don't you have a son named Claus?"

  "Our son is here, inside the house. With us. Leave."

  The man moves away from the door. I ring again, knock, cry out, "Father, Father, let me in. I made a mistake. My name is Lucas. I'm your son Lucas."

  A woman's voice says, "Let him in."

  The door opens. An old man says to me, "Come in, then."

  He leads me into the living room and sits down in an armchair. A very old woman is seated in another. She says to me, "So, you claim to be our son Lucas? Where were you until now?"

  "Abroad."

  My father says, "Yes, abroad. And why have you come back now?"

  "To see you, Father. You both, and Klaus too.
"

  My mother says, "Klaus didn't go away."

  Father says, "We looked for you for years."

  Mother continues, "After that we forgot you. You shouldn't have come back. It's upsetting everyone. We lead quiet lives and we don't want to be upset."

  I ask, "Where is Klaus? I want to see him."

  Mother says, "He's in his room. As usual. He's sleeping. He mustn't be woken up. He's only four, he needs his sleep."

  Father says, "Nothing proves that you're Lucas. Go away."

  I don't hear them anymore; I leave the living room, open the door to the children's room, and switch on the ceiling light. Sitting up in his bed, a little boy looks at me and begins to cry. My parents run in. Mother takes the little boy in her arms and rocks him.

  "Don't be afraid, little one."

  Father grabs my arm, pulls me across the living room and the veranda, opens the door, and shoves me down the stairs.

  "You woke him up, you idiot. Get lost." I fall, my head strikes a step, I bleed, I lie there in the snow.

  The cold awakens me. The wind and snow are coming into my room and the floor under the window is wet.

  I shut the window, fetch a towel from the bathroom, and sponge up the puddle. I tremble and my teeth chatter. It's hot in the bathroom; I sit on the edge of the tub, take another sedative, and wait for my shivering to stop.

  It's seven in the evening. I am brought a meal. I ask the waiter if I can have a bottle of wine.

  He says, "I'll go see."

  He brings the bottle several minutes later.

  I say, "You can clear away the tray."

  I drink. I pace around my room. From the window to the door, from the door to the window.

  At eight I sit down on the bed and dial my brother's telephone number.

  Part Two

  It is eight o'clock when the telephone rings. Mother has already gone to bed. I'm watching television, a detective movie, as I do every night.

  I spit the biscuit I am eating into a paper napkin. I can finish it later.

  I pick up the telephone. I don't say my name, just "Hello."

  A man's voice at the other end says, "This is Lucas T. I'd like to speak to my brother, Klaus T."