The Fox Was Ever the Hunter (10 page)

*   *   *

The gatehouse shadow has widened. The sun is looking for the shortest path between Victory Street and the wire spools in the yard. The sun is boxy and squeezed in at the edges, with a gray spot right in the middle.

There are days in late summer when the loudspeaker up by the gatehouse crackles. Then the gateman stares at the sky for a long time and says, up there, above those tin roofs, over the city, higher than the brewery cooling tower, the sun’s turned into a rusty water tap.

Outside the gate is a pothole where the sparrows powder themselves in the dust. Lying on the ground between them is a screw.

The gatekeepers sit in the gatehouse. They play cards. The iron is resting on the edge of the table. The gatekeeper confiscated the iron and reported the man with the wounded thumb to the administration. Tomorrow the man with the wounded thumb will receive a written reprimand.

*   *   *

Sparrows are hopping inside the workroom. Their feet and beaks are black from the machine oil. They peck at sunflower seeds and melon seeds and bread crumbs. When the workroom is empty the letters on the slogans are larger than ever, WORK and HONOR and PARTY, and the lamp by the door to the dressing room has a long neck. The dwarf with the red shirt and the tall shoes sweeps the oily floor with an oily broom. Sitting on a nearby loom is a watermelon. It is bigger than his head. The watermelon has light and dark stripes.

The light slants through the door to the factory yard. And the cat sits next to the door and chews on a piece of bacon rind. The dwarf looks through the door into the yard.

And the dust flies without a reason. And the door creaks.

Nuts

The woman with the gnarled hands spits on the cloth and rubs the apples until they shine. She sets out the shining apples in a row, red cheeks in front, scars toward the back. The apples are small and malformed. The scale is empty. To weigh the fruit she uses two iron bird head weights, their beaks swing past each other until weights and apples balance out and come to a stop. Then the old woman counts out loud until her eyes come as close together as the iron beaks. Like the beaks her eyes are hard and silent because they know the price.

*   *   *

All the vendors in the market hall are old. Within the concrete walls, under the concrete roof, behind the concrete tables and on the concrete floor the country village can be seen in their faces—gardens fending off the creeping wheatgrass.

*   *   *

Liviu has been talking about these villages ever since he took a job teaching in the part of the country cut off by the Danube. He talks about summer days that grow tired until they snap shut between the eyes, days that amount to nothing more than the evening, when the head sags into sleep before the body can come to rest. He tells about the wakeful sleep of the young and the leaden sleep of the old. And about how in their nighttime wakefulness and leaden sleep the day’s toil keeps on trembling in their fingers and trudging in their feet. And how their ears mistake their own snoring for the voice of the village policeman and the mayor, who tell them even in their dreams what must be planted in every garden, every flower bed. Because the policeman and the mayor have their lists and their accounting. And they expect their tribute, no matter if flea beetles, worms, snails or mildew come and devour everything or not. Even if rain forgets the village and the sun burns it down to the last fiber and flattens it so night climbs in from all sides at once.

Liviu visits the city three times a year. He doesn’t feel at home in Paul’s apartment, where he lived for some time, or in the city where he lived for a long time. In the morning he asks for brandy and calls it PLUM MILK.

When Liviu visits, Paul says that he moves like a trapped dog inside the apartment and like a runaway dog when he’s out in town. And that Liviu is hanging by a thread, and that this thread is about to snap, and that Liviu knows it and so he talks and talks until his voice is hoarse.

Liviu tells Paul and Adina about the nights in his village, where only two corners are lit—at the houses of the mayor and the policeman. Two yards, two sets of steps, two gardens where even the foliage is guarded by light. Singled out and quiet. Everything else is buried in darkness. The dogs run off into the night and bark only in places where the bulbs have long burned out, where the trees lead the houses toward the Danube as they lean out over the water.

You can’t see the water, says Liviu, and you don’t hear it in the village. You only hear it in the middle of your head, but the pressure’s so strong you can’t feel your feet. As though you could drown right there on dry ground, he says, right inside your own ears.

Every now and then you hear shots in the distance, Liviu explains. No louder than a cracking branch. Only different, very different. When that happens the dogs go quiet for a moment and then start barking even louder. That means someone was trying to swim upriver during the night and cross the Danube where it forms the border. On his own. When you hear that sound you know it’s all over. He stares at the edge of the table, presses one hand against the back of the chair and closes his eyes for a moment. So I drink, says Liviu. The plum milk burns, my eyes jitter so the lightbulb starts to float, or the candle when there’s no electricity. I keep drinking until I forget the shots, says Liviu. Until the plum milk makes my legs go wavy. And I keep forgetting, he says, until there’s nothing more to think about, until there’s absolutely no escaping the fact that the Danube has cut off the village from the rest of the world.

Out in the country you’re a boy from the city, and here in town you’re a peasant, says Paul. You ought to come back. The city knows who we are, you and I, out there you have thousands of village policemen guarding just a few hundred strips of asphalt.

Paul starts singing and Liviu hums along:

Face without face

Forehead of sand

Voice without voice

What could I trade with you

One call a brother

For a single cigarette

Liviu climbs onto the chair and swats the hanging lampshade with his hand. The cord swings back and forth. Along with its shadow.

My only thought is this

What could I sell to you

My coat is old and rumpled

With just one button left

Paul’s eyes are half closed and Liviu’s have swum out of his head with all the singing. But maybe they aren’t his eyes at all—perhaps it’s just his mouth that’s so wet.

Night comes and sews a sack

Sews a sack of darkness

Liviu catches the lampshade with his hand. He stops singing, and Paul bangs more loudly on the table.

Stepmothergrass has bitter blades

The freight train whistles at the station

Little child where are your parents

Sitting on the asphalt is a barefoot shoe

*   *   *

Paul looks out the window at the antennas of the neighboring apartment block. He stands up and shoves his chair to the table. Then he glances up at Liviu, who laughs without making a sound. Too bad lamp cords don’t just hang down from the sky, Liviu says into the silence, because then anyone could go outside and hang himself wherever he wanted.

Don’t look at me like that, Liviu says to Paul. The sentence drops right into Paul’s face. Paul leaves the room, Liviu climbs off the chair. When he’s back on the floor he says to Adina as well as to himself, if you ask me Paul isn’t much of a doctor.

Paul sits alone in the kitchen, talking to himself but loud enough so the others can hear. Tonight, he says, a couple came to the hospital. The man had a small hatchet stuck in his head. The handle was on top and looked like it was growing out of his hair. There wasn’t a drop of blood to be seen. The doctors gathered around the man. The woman said it happened a week ago. The man laughed and said he felt good. One female doctor said all we can do is cut off the handle, the blade can’t be removed because the brain has gotten used to it. The doctors went ahead and removed the blade. And the man died.

Adina and Liviu briefly exchange glances.

*   *   *

The carrots on the table are wooden, the onions stunted. The tinsmith is standing behind a pile of nuts. But he isn’t wearing his leather apron and there isn’t any string around his neck, his wedding ring is on his finger. He sticks his hand into the nuts, they rattle like gravel. Neither hand is missing a finger. The man with the nuts is not the tinsmith with the fruit in the newspaper cones. The man with the nuts doesn’t say, eat slowly so you can savor every bite for a long time.

But he could be.

The man has the tinsmith’s eyes, he looks at the scale, the bird head weights go up and down. The beaks come to a stop and the eyes know the price. Adina opens her bag, the nuts tumble inside. Two fall to the ground. Adina bends over.

A man with a reddish-blue flecked tie beats her to it. Adina bumps against his shoulder, he’s already picked up the nuts that rolled away. Adina notices a birthmark on his neck, as big as the tip of her finger. The man tosses both nuts into her bag, evidently they didn’t want to stay with you, he says, you know there’s a reason people say DUMB NUT, can I have one. She nods. He reaches into her bag and takes two. He closes his hand and squeezes one against the other as he walks alongside her. The shell cracks, he opens his hand. One nut is whole, the other broken. Adina looks at the white brain in his palm. The man drops pieces of shell onto the ground and eats the nutmeat. His birthmark hops, his forehead glistens, he sticks the other nut in his jacket pocket. What’s your name, he asks. A milky residue is on his teeth, the nuts rattle in her bag with every step. Adina clutches the bag under her arm, what does that have to do with nuts, she says. What are we going to do now, he says. Nothing, says Adina.

She turns and walks away from him.

*   *   *

Pavel stands by the left side entrance to the market hall and watches Adina leave, the light twists strings of dust before his eyes. His cheeks move, his tongue uncovers chewed bits of nut lodged between his teeth, his birthmark has stopped hopping. He takes the remaining nut out of his pocket and lays it on the asphalt. He places the edge of his heel right over the shell. Then he steps on the nut with all his weight. And the shell cracks. Pavel bends over, picks the brain out of the shell, then chews and swallows.

*   *   *

Parked outside the right entrance to the market hall is a black car with a yellow license plate. The number on the plate is low—a number of privilege. The man in the car is resting his head on the steering wheel and staring absently into the market hall. He watches an old woman. The concrete table cuts her stomach off from her legs. The old woman is sifting red paprika, which trickles out of the sieve like red spiderwebs, always landing in the same place. The mountain under the sieve grows quickly.

The young lady isn’t exactly approachable, says Pavel. Doesn’t matter, says the man in the car, that doesn’t matter. The old woman knocks on the sieve. She smooths down the mountain peak, her hands are as red as the paprika. And her shoes.

Pavel’s tongue searches for the bits of nut stuck in his teeth, get in, says the man in the car, we’re leaving.

*   *   *

The sun is resting on the mailboxes in the stairwell. The rambling roses cast shadows on the wall. Their flowers are small and grow in tight clumps.

The eye of the mailbox is not black and empty, it is white. A white mailbox eye is a letter from a soldier, a letter from Ilie. But Adina’s name isn’t on the envelope, just like it wasn’t there the week before. Once again there is no stamp, no postmark, no sender. And once again inside the envelope is a torn piece of graph paper the size of a hand, with the same sentence in the same writing: I FUCK YOU IN THE MOUTH.

Adina crumples the envelope together with the note and feels dry paper sticking in her throat. The elevator is dark, no glowing green eye means no electricity. The stairwell smells of boiled cabbage. The nuts rattle as she walks. In the darkness Adina starts to count out loud, instead of the stairs she counts her left shoe and then her right. Each shoe raises and lowers itself, without her doing anything. Until every number is nothing more than her voice.

*   *   *

The bag with the nuts is on the kitchen table, the crumpled paper is on the nuts, next to the bag is an empty bowl. The drawer is half open, knife fork knife fork fork fork, together the tines make up a comb. Adina opens the drawer all the way, large knives and among them the hammer.

Her hand sets a nut on the table and the hammer hits it lightly. The nut has a crack, three firm blows and the shell breaks apart. And the brain inside the shell.

Cockroaches crawl over the stove. Seven reddish-brown large ones, four dark brown medium ones, nine small black ones the size of apple seeds. They don’t crawl, they march. A soldier’s summer for Ilie, no letter for Adina. On the other wall, inside her room, is a picture that is lit every morning by a band of light—Ilie in his uniform, hair like a hedgehog, grass straw in his mouth, shadow on his cheek, grass on his shoes. Every morning the whole day hangs suspended from this straw of grass.

*   *   *

Like Liviu, Ilie is in the flat land down south. The Danube is just as close and just as far from each, but they’re in different places. In one place the Danube cuts off part of the country by flowing straight, in the other it cuts off part of the country by flowing crooked. In both places the shots being fired are the same, like a cracking branch, but different. Very different.

*   *   *

There are August days in this city when the sun is a peeled pumpkin that heats the asphalt from below and the concrete of the apartment blocks from above. Then it’s so hot that heads pass through the day with the top of their skulls detached. At noon even the smallest thoughts crinkle up inside the heads and don’t know where to go. Breath grows heavy in mouths. And all anyone is left with is a stray pair of hands used to press wet bed-sheets against the windowpanes to cool things down. The sheets are already dry before the hands pull back from the glass.