by Peter Handke
All three together, they mounted the stairs.
At the coatrack Bruno dressed to go out. So did the actor; at first he tried to put his head through one of the armholes of his sleeveless sweater.
The woman noticed and smiled.
She opened the door.
Bruno already had his coat on; the actor followed him out and said to Bruno, “I’ve got my car.”
Bruno looked into space for a moment and then replied, “That’s good. I’ve perspired a bit.”
Standing at the door, the woman looked after them as they walked to the car.
They stopped and pissed side by side, with their backs to her. When they proceeded on their way, they kept changing sides, because neither wanted to be on the right.
The woman went back into the house. She closed the door and locked it. She carried glasses and bottles into the kitchen, emptied the ashtrays, washed up. She moved the chairs in the living room back into their old positions, opened a window and aired the room.
She opened the door to the child’s room; the child was just turning over in bed, and one of his toenails, which Bruno had done a poor job of cutting, scratched against the sheet.
Standing at the hall mirror, she brushed her hair. She looked into her eyes and said, “You haven’t given yourself away. And no one will ever humiliate you again.”
She sat in the living room, propping her legs on a second chair, and looked at the sketch the chauffeur had left. She poured herself a glass of whiskey and pushed up the sleeves of her sweater. She smiled to herself and shook the dice cup, leaned back and wiggled her toes. For a long time she sat perfectly still; her pupils pulsated evenly and grew gradually larger. Suddenly she jumped up, took a pencil and a sheet of paper, and began to sketch: first her feet on the chair, then the room behind them, the window, the starry sky, changing as the night wore on—each object in every detail. Her strokes were awkward and uncertain, lacking in vigor, but occasionally she managed to draw a line with a single, almost sweeping movement. Hours passed before she laid the paper down. She looked at it for some time, then went on sketching.
In the daylight she sat in the rocking chair on the terrace. The moving crowns of the pine trees were reflected on the window behind her. She began to rock; she raised her arms. She was lightly dressed, with no blanket on her knees.
Written in Paris during the winter and spring of 1976
Also by Peter Handke
Kaspar and Other Plays (1970)
The Goalie’s Anxiety at the Penalty Kick (1972)
Short Letter, Long Farewell (1974)
A Sorrow Beyond Dreams (1975)
The Ride Across Lake Constance and Other Plays (1976)
A Moment of True Feeling (1977)
And so they all, each in his own way, reflectingly or unreflectingly, go on with their daily lives; everything seems to take its accustomed course, for indeed, even in desperate situations where everything hangs in the balance, one goes on living as though nothing were wrong.
Goethe, Elective Affinities
Translation copyright © 1977, 1978 by Farrar, Straus and Giroux, Inc. Originally published in German under the title Die linkshändige Frau © 1976 by Suhrkamp Verlag, Frankfurt am Main All rights reserved
Published simultaneously in Canada by
McGraw-Hill Ryerson Ltd., Toronto
Designed by Cynthia Krupat
eISBN 9781466806962
First eBook Edition : December 2011
Second printing, 1978
The text of this book first appeared in The New Yorker
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Handke, Peter. / The left-handed woman.
Translation of Die linkshändige Frau.
I. Title.
PZ4.H2363Le [PT2668.A5] / 833’9’14 / 78-5568
