the other four didn’t stay there long, either. When Papa died, the first plate became redundant. My moving to the city cleared the second from the table. Grandfather’s death meant the third was no longer needed.
The tram is
listing to one side. Maybe the rails have buckled from the heat. The old lady has something wrong with her nerves, her head is shaking left and right, as if she were constantly saying no. Are we almost at the market, she asks. The driver says: Not for a while yet. The young man is standing by the rear door. We’re only at the courthouse, he says, don’t you come from around here. Of course I do, says the old woman, but yesterday I broke my glasses. I went to the optician’s, but they didn’t have a thing, no lenses, no glue, not a thing. Now I have to wait two whole weeks.
If only I were as old as she is, but it’s impossible to swap places, not even with Lilli or Paul. I don’t ever want to have to get off at the courthouse. It’ll all come out at the trial, you’ll speak there all right, says Albu whenever he doesn’t like my answer. The driver pulls the third roll out of his shirt pocket, takes a bite and puts it down. He swallows and the mouthful goes tumbling down his throat. If we take too long I won’t get any eggs today, says the old lady. The tram stops to let on a man in a suit carrying a briefcase. In that case I’ll just buy plums, the old lady goes on, as she sizes up the new passenger, thengiggles: The good thing about them is that they’ll make it home in one piece. After all, plums don’t break, you know. You can’t bake a cake without eggs, says the driver, and a shot of rum and a lot of sugar. I know about you men, says the old lady, with your sweet tooth.
While Mama and
I were eating after Grandfather’s funeral, the broom keeled over in the corner of the room. The handle crashed against the floor. I had seen my father keel over, and it must have been the same with my grandfather. I picked up the glass of water. If Mama had been curious about how I was getting along, I would have told her about the lie in the factory, and about the death I had brought along with me in my new gray platform shoes. But the waterglass was unmoved. She stuffed a piece of bread crust into her mouth, then got up and stood the broom back in the corner.
Whenever a coat hanger dropped on the floor in the factory, or an umbrella fell in the tram, or a parked bicycle tipped over on the street, I could feel the cold vinyl, rushing in from both temples straight to the middle of my forehead. Mama was chewing and drinking a lot of water, she was more convinced than I was that she was my mother. She looked into her plate and said:
You know, once I started to send you a letter. I was sitting in the café, and it just occurred to me to write. It must have been May or July, and now, what month is it, that’s right, it’s already September. I went to the post office, put a stamp on the envelope, but then I forgot your address.
I looked into her eyes and let myself be taken in.
Do you still have it, I asked.
It’s somewhere here on a piece of paper, I just have to find it.
I never called her Mother when I spoke to her, I just said You, the way you would to a child whose name you didn’t know, anything more formal seemed inappropriate. Listening to her was tiresome, it didn’t matter whether I said anything or not, just like it hadn’t mattered when I left home for no real reason—I could just as well have stayed. After all, there were enough office jobs in our small town, even in the bread factory. As people say nowadays: that’s just the way things turned out.
On my way to the station the air smelled of flour. The gatekeeper stood at the factory entrance, brushing dandruff off his uniform jacket. He doffed his cap and greeted me, I didn’t recognize him. After I had passed, he yawned loudly. I spun around as if instead of the gatekeeper there had been a loose concrete slab gaping
The tram is
listing to one side. Maybe the rails have buckled from the heat. The old lady has something wrong with her nerves, her head is shaking left and right, as if she were constantly saying no. Are we almost at the market, she asks. The driver says: Not for a while yet. The young man is standing by the rear door. We’re only at the courthouse, he says, don’t you come from around here. Of course I do, says the old woman, but yesterday I broke my glasses. I went to the optician’s, but they didn’t have a thing, no lenses, no glue, not a thing. Now I have to wait two whole weeks.
If only I were as old as she is, but it’s impossible to swap places, not even with Lilli or Paul. I don’t ever want to have to get off at the courthouse. It’ll all come out at the trial, you’ll speak there all right, says Albu whenever he doesn’t like my answer. The driver pulls the third roll out of his shirt pocket, takes a bite and puts it down. He swallows and the mouthful goes tumbling down his throat. If we take too long I won’t get any eggs today, says the old lady. The tram stops to let on a man in a suit carrying a briefcase. In that case I’ll just buy plums, the old lady goes on, as she sizes up the new passenger, thengiggles: The good thing about them is that they’ll make it home in one piece. After all, plums don’t break, you know. You can’t bake a cake without eggs, says the driver, and a shot of rum and a lot of sugar. I know about you men, says the old lady, with your sweet tooth.
While Mama and
I were eating after Grandfather’s funeral, the broom keeled over in the corner of the room. The handle crashed against the floor. I had seen my father keel over, and it must have been the same with my grandfather. I picked up the glass of water. If Mama had been curious about how I was getting along, I would have told her about the lie in the factory, and about the death I had brought along with me in my new gray platform shoes. But the waterglass was unmoved. She stuffed a piece of bread crust into her mouth, then got up and stood the broom back in the corner.
Whenever a coat hanger dropped on the floor in the factory, or an umbrella fell in the tram, or a parked bicycle tipped over on the street, I could feel the cold vinyl, rushing in from both temples straight to the middle of my forehead. Mama was chewing and drinking a lot of water, she was more convinced than I was that she was my mother. She looked into her plate and said:
You know, once I started to send you a letter. I was sitting in the café, and it just occurred to me to write. It must have been May or July, and now, what month is it, that’s right, it’s already September. I went to the post office, put a stamp on the envelope, but then I forgot your address.
I looked into her eyes and let myself be taken in.
Do you still have it, I asked.
It’s somewhere here on a piece of paper, I just have to find it.
I never called her Mother when I spoke to her, I just said You, the way you would to a child whose name you didn’t know, anything more formal seemed inappropriate. Listening to her was tiresome, it didn’t matter whether I said anything or not, just like it hadn’t mattered when I left home for no real reason—I could just as well have stayed. After all, there were enough office jobs in our small town, even in the bread factory. As people say nowadays: that’s just the way things turned out.
On my way to the station the air smelled of flour. The gatekeeper stood at the factory entrance, brushing dandruff off his uniform jacket. He doffed his cap and greeted me, I didn’t recognize him. After I had passed, he yawned loudly. I spun around as if instead of the gatekeeper there had been a loose concrete slab gaping
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