The Fox Was Ever the Hunter (17 page)

After Adina had eaten the cold apple she took three more into the yard and let them freeze overnight. She set them on a rock, a hand’s width apart, so the dark frost could gnaw all around the peel. In the morning she thawed them in the kitchen. Then they were soft and brown. Frozen apples were Adina’s favorite.

*   *   *

The child’s father has stepped out of the compartment and has been standing a long time in the corridor with the bare field in his forehead. He has spotted three deer, each time he called to the sleeping mother, and each time she shifted her head and the child but didn’t get up.

Now the other passengers are crowding into the corridor, Adina as well, along with a round woman wearing a fox collar with tied paws, and the thin old man who won a bet and a sheep.

The Danube is riding along with the train, the passengers can see the far bank and the roads on the other side, thin as a thread, and moving cars and forests. Not a single shoe shuffles in the corridor, no one moves, no one speaks. The old man’s eyes, too, widen and press away his wrinkles. The father catches his breath, a forbidden sigh. Then he closes his mouth, look, Yugoslavia, he calls into the compartment. But the mother stays in her seat. Her brother swam across six years ago, he says, now he’s in Vienna. He squints, trying to make out individual waves in the glare, do you have children, he asks. Adina says, no.

*   *   *

The waiting room has no bench, just a cold cast-iron stove. The cracked concrete floor is strewn with light green spittle and sunflower seeds. Above the stove is a wall newspaper with the dictator’s portrait appearing three times, the black inside the eye is as big as the button on Adina’s coat. It shines. And the spit on the floor shines.

Everything that shines also sees.

*   *   *

There’s a bench outside the station, Ilie wrote her in the summer, the bus stop is next to that. The bus is only for officers riding out to their unit from the small town. Still, now and then the driver will give the soldiers a lift, but he prefers to take young women.

Five officers are sitting in the bus. They wear green caps with gray fur earflaps bound with green ties. The officers’ ears are visible below the flaps, rimmed red from the burning frost. The backs of their heads are shaven.

The driver is wearing a hat, and underneath his coat he’s wearing a suit. White cuffs with dark streaks of dirt and thick blue buttons stick out of his coat sleeves. A signet ring gleams on his left hand. Three officers climb in.

Where to, the driver asks. Adina hoists her bag onto the step, to the unit, she says. As he bends over, his blue scarf drops over his hand. He carries her bag into the aisle, our army is always in need of beautiful women, he says. The officers break out in a squall of laughter.

Adina takes the first seat, next to an officer with white-haired temples. The smell of damp winter clothes fills the air. Who is the young lady hoping to visit, asks a voice from the back, and Adina turns her head and sees a gold tooth behind the empty seats. Her black coat is lost in all the green coats. A soldier, she says. Outside the window a factory spews pipes and fencing into an open field. The driver raises his hand and says, we have a lot of those, when we get there the young lady can pick whichever one she wants.

The corn turns away from the window, broken, forgotten in the frost, why just one, says the man with the gold tooth, this country has more than enough to spare. The laughter bursts ahead into a section of forest that is black and bare.

*   *   *

What’s your soldier’s name, asks the officer next to Adina, his temples are made of paper, his eyes look at her hands, his coat makes his eyeballs shimmer green. She says, his name is Dolga. Crows fly over the field, and the officer says, we have two of those, and the man with the gold tooth laughs so loud that his left earflap comes untied and drops onto his epaulette. He takes off his cap, his hair is matted down, his temples shaven. He reties the earflaps, the strings are short, his fingers are fat, he closes his lips over his gold tooth, the bow gets as small as two fingertips, he sets his cap back on his head.

What’s his first name, asks the officer next to Adina, she draws her fingers up inside her coat sleeve and says, Ilie.

Outside is a ditch overgrown with thin reeds, what does the young lady do for a living, asks the officer next to Adina, twisting his coat button. Behind the bend Adina sees the poplar lane that Ilie described, and a brick wall and the barracks. Teacher, she says.

*   *   *

Ilie wrote that everything is flat, that when you’re outside you sit or lie in nothingness, and even though the shortest plants can block your view you can stand up and still be looking nowhere.

*   *   *

From the bus she sees the wind silently tearing at the tree rows. In that case do you know
The Last Night of Love, the First Night of War
says an officer behind the driver, a book like life itself, young lady, a beautiful book.

They all have bare necks, bare temples, Adina thinks, they’ve been shorn like that for years, none of them is young. But at some point they will laugh and in the middle of their laughter, in the middle of the squall, they will look at one another and see that their stamped-down sacks of cut hair are full and weigh as much as they do.

*   *   *

Ilie’s hands are jittery, his fingernails dirty and torn. For an hour I had the compartment all to myself, says Adina, there was no sun to be seen, but there were shadows everywhere, then I fell asleep.

I dreamed, says Adina, that a fox was crossing an empty field that had just been plowed. As it moved it stooped down and swallowed some earth. It ate and ate and got fatter and fatter.

Next to the door is a blackboard, and a picture showing a tank at the edge of the forest. Sitting on the tank is a group of soldiers, one of the soldiers is Ilie. The officers are standing in the grass.

You have it good, says Ilie, you can still feel fear, my head is dark, I haven’t had any dreams for a long time. Above and below the tank are portraits of the dictator, the black inside the eye. Here you have to forget yourself day after day, says Ilie, the only thing I remember about me is that I always think of you. The unit’s honors are on display beside the black inside the eye.

Ilie points to the tank. In October, he says, we took the tank out into open terrain. He kisses Adina’s fingers, what terrain, she asks, it’s all flat here. You have to drive out a ways, he says, there’s a hill back there by the forest. To keep the tank from slipping when we went uphill we had to get out and throw rocks under the track from behind and then on the way down we had to throw rocks from in front. Once the tank was down by the edge of the forest we all lay down in the grass. We spent the whole day like that. And in the evening we marched back to the barrack on foot.

His hands are rough, he laughs and swallows his voice, that tank’s still out there by the forest, he says. You know, if the Russians had waited for us they would never have made it to Prague. Now come on and I’ll show you the yard.

*   *   *

Ilie stops in front of a pile of wet sandbags, they make us drag those from the wall to the fence, the fence to the road, and from the road back to the wall, he says. His footsteps clatter, he points at his clunky boots. As soon as it’s summer I won’t be needing these anymore. And the only soft road I know around here is the Danube.

A soldier walks by carrying a steaming bucket. Adina pulls her coat in close and wraps her arms around herself. So then the summer after that your bones will be lying out in the wheat. Ilie’s face is straining ahead. The poplar lane is shrinking, crawling into the earth because it will soon be dark. But you’ll come with me, he says. His throat is long, his neck and temples shaven bare. He bows in her direction and she shakes her head.

You’ll be flying around in heaven, says Adina, an angel with a bullet wound. Then she looks at the ground. Or else you’ll be down on the pavement, driving a street sweeper in Vienna. And you’ll still be here, says Ilie, waiting for them to cut up the rest of your fox, and then what.

The fox on the table

The alarm ticks and ticks. Three a.m.

Maybe the fox paws have reattached themselves during the night, Adina thinks. She sticks her foot out of the bed and slides the hind legs away from the fur. The tail gives her toes a fright, it’s still so soft and bushy and not shriveled up despite having been cut off.

Adina picks up the two legs and tail and takes them to the kitchen. She sets them on the table and fits them together so it looks like the fox is crawling right through the tabletop, that while its tail and hind legs support it from the top, the rest is rummaging around below.

The moon inside the kitchen window is so bloated it can’t stay there. By six a.m. it has been gnawed by the morning and its face is bleary-eyed. The early buses go whooshing by, or perhaps that’s the moon trying to leave the city and its jagged edge is getting caught on the border of the night. Dogs yelp as if the darkness had been a large sheltering pelt and the deserted streets an untroubled brain. As if the dogs of the night were afraid of the daylight, when people are out and about, and when the hunger that seeks encounters the hunger that strays. When yawn meets yawn and speech meets bark with the same breath inside the mouth.

Adina’s stockings smell of winter sweat, they jerk like the train as she tugs them on over her bare legs. Then she puts her coat on over her nightgown—and with it all the little black coats from the viaduct and the big green coats from the bus. The little train station is still there in the buttons on her coat and so is the black inside the eye. Her coat pocket still contains her flashlight and some money from the trip. Her keys are on the kitchen table. The filth from the barracks yard still clings to her soles. Adina slips into her shoes.

*   *   *

The flashlight circle stumbles, the curbstone is poorly rounded. A cat leaps out of the garbage bin, leaving a sound of broken glass, its paws are white.

The parking lot is empty, the stadium keeps its earthen wall in the dark, the sky overhead turns gray. From the factory in back of the stadium comes the sound of clanging iron. The smokestack isn’t visible, only the yellow smoke. The streetcar squeals around the corner. Some windows are lit and awake, others are dark and asleep.

Morning comes later to the quiet streets of power. The windows stay dark, the lanterns hanging from their ornate lampposts illuminate the stone angels and lions, their circles of light are private property, they do not belong to those passing through, to those who themselves do not belong in these streets.

The poplars are knives, they hide their blades, and sleep while standing. Over at the café the white iron chairs have been cleared and stored, winter doesn’t need a chair, winter doesn’t sit, it stamps around the river and lurks under the bridges. The water doesn’t shine and doesn’t see, it leaves the poplars alone.

Early in the evening the fishermen go to bed and early in the morning they stand outside the stores. In the afternoon they meet in the smoky café and drink and talk until the water starts to shine again. Morning fog hides the clock in the cathedral bell tower when it strikes seven, but the tops of the acacias are already awake. Locks are now unlocked, latches shoved aside, shop doors opened. Gray light peels the bark off the acacia twigs, and at the edge of the park thorns peek out of every branch, but the trunks below don’t notice.

*   *   *

Adina is the first customer in the store. The cashier puts a windbreaker on over her light blue smock. Her fur cap swallows her eyebrows. Adina picks up a basket. The jars of marmalade are arranged in rows. They are all the same height, have the same dust, the same bulging glass and the same tin lids and labels. If an officer were to walk by, Adina thinks, they would salute. They are distinguished only by the amount of rust on the lids and the drops that have leaked out and stick to the labels.

Adina places a bottle of brandy in her basket. The cashier is drinking coffee that sends steam into her face. No alcohol before ten, she says, then takes one short and one long slurp of coffee and wipes the drops off her chin. She raises her eyes halfway into her cap and sets down her coffee cup. She reaches into the basket, the scuffed red nail polish makes her fingers look as though they were sprouting new tips. She moves the bottle next to the register.

Adina lays a bill next to the coffee cup. I’ve never been drunk in my life, she says quietly, it’s seven in the morning, and I’ve never been drunk, and the day is just around the corner. It’s seven in the morning, just like it’s been seven in the morning every other day, and every day was just around the corner, and I’ve never been drunk before in my life. Her voice falls apart, her cheeks are flushed and wet, it’s seven in the morning, here’s my brandy and here’s my money and a day around the corner and I’ve never been drunk, and I don’t want to wait any longer, I want to get drunk right this minute and not wait till ten. The cashier presses the money back into Adina’s hand, that’s what a lot of people want, she says.

A man wearing a light blue smock takes Adina by the shoulders and shoves her to the door, chasing her out with the words law and brandy and police. Her shoes drag, the dried dirt from the barracks flakes off in little pieces and the wet dirt from the park breaks off in big clumps. Her nightgown is sticking out a couple inches under her coat. The cashier holds the door open. Who do you think you are, Adina screams, don’t touch me, you hear, get your hands off me.

*   *   *

Adina rings three times. The door to the apartment opens, a glaring square of light blinds her face. She steps through the entry hall carrying a bare branch. Go into the kitchen, says Paul, Anna’s still asleep in the other room. Adina nods once and twice and three times, he follows her and notices her nightgown sticking out under her coat. Adina hands him the bare branch and laughs, explodes with laughter, these are going to be lilacs, she says. She sits at the kitchen table, in front of a cup splattered with coffee that’s sitting next to a key. Adina looks at the wall clock, lays a bill on the table and clutches her face. Here are my eyes, she says, here is my forehead and here is my mouth. She unbuttons her coat. And this is my nightgown, she says. And that’s a wall clock, and a key on the table, and outside a day is just around the corner, and I’m not crazy, it’s eight in the morning, it’s eight in the morning every day, I want to get drunk right this minute and not wait till ten. She pushes the coffee cup to the edge of the table.