feet. I had hands again, I had feet again, and I could feel my own breath.
Then I reached down over the precipice to my left, fished up my trousers from the floor, and heard the sound of the matchbox in the pocket.
“Don’t turn on the light, please,” said her voice next to me now, and she sighed too.
“Cigarette?” I whispered.
“Yes,” she said.
In the light of the match she was all yellow. A dark yellow mouth, round, black, anxious eyes, skin like fine, soft, yellow sand, and hair like dark honey.
It was hard to talk, to find something to say. We could both hear time trickling away, a wonderful dark flowing sound that swallowed up the seconds.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked all of a sudden. It was as if she had fired a shot, quietly and with such perfect accuracy that a dam burst inside me, and before I had time to take another look at her face in the light of the glowing cigarette tips I found myself speaking. “I was just thinking about who will be lying in this room seventy years from now, who will be sitting or lying on these six square feet of space, and how much he will know about you and me. Nothing,” I went on, “he’ll only know there was a war.”
We each threw our cigarette ends onto the floor to the left of the bed; they fell soundlessly onto my trousers. I shook them off, and the two little glimmering dots lay side by side.
“And then I was thinking who had been here seventy years ago, or what. Maybe there was a field, maybe corn or onions grew here, six feet over my head, with the wind blowing across, and every morning this sad dawn came up over the horizon of the
puszta
. Or maybe there was already a house belonging to someone.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “seventy years ago there was a house here.”
I was silent.
“Yes,” she said, “I think it was seventy years ago that my grandfather built this house. That’s when they must have put the railroad through here. He worked for the railroad and built this little house with his savings. And then he went to war, ages ago, you know, in 1914, and he was killed in Russia. And then there was my father; he had some land and also worked for the railroad. He died during this war.”
“Killed?”
“No, he died. My mother had died before. And now my brother lives here with his wife and children. And seventy years from now my brother’s great-grandsons will be living here.”
“Maybe so,” I said, “but they’ll know nothing about you and me.”
“No, not a soul will ever know that you were here with me.”
I took hold of her small hand—it was soft, so soft—and held it close to my face.
In the square patch of window a dark-gray darkness showed now, lighter than the blackness of the night.
I suddenly felt her moving past me, without touching me, and I could hear the light tread of her bare feet on the floor; then I heard her dressing. Her movements and the sounds were so light; only when she reached behind her to do up the buttons of her blouse did I hear her breath come more strongly.
“You’d better get dressed,” she said.
“Let me just lie here,” I said.
“I don’t want to put on the light.”
“Don’t put on the light, let me just lie here.”
“But you must have something to eat before you go.”
“I’m not going.”
I could hear her pause as she put on her shoes and knew she was staring in astonishment into the darkness where I was lying.
“I see” was all she said, softly, and I couldn’t tell whether she was surprised or alarmed.
When I turned my head to one side I could see her figure outlined in the dark-gray dawn light. She moved very quietly about the room, found kindling and paper, and took the box of matches from my trouser pocket.
These sounds reached me almost like the thin, anxious cries of a person standing on a riverbank and calling out to someone who isbeing driven by the current into a great body of water; and I knew then that if I did not get up, did not
Then I reached down over the precipice to my left, fished up my trousers from the floor, and heard the sound of the matchbox in the pocket.
“Don’t turn on the light, please,” said her voice next to me now, and she sighed too.
“Cigarette?” I whispered.
“Yes,” she said.
In the light of the match she was all yellow. A dark yellow mouth, round, black, anxious eyes, skin like fine, soft, yellow sand, and hair like dark honey.
It was hard to talk, to find something to say. We could both hear time trickling away, a wonderful dark flowing sound that swallowed up the seconds.
“What are you thinking about?” she asked all of a sudden. It was as if she had fired a shot, quietly and with such perfect accuracy that a dam burst inside me, and before I had time to take another look at her face in the light of the glowing cigarette tips I found myself speaking. “I was just thinking about who will be lying in this room seventy years from now, who will be sitting or lying on these six square feet of space, and how much he will know about you and me. Nothing,” I went on, “he’ll only know there was a war.”
We each threw our cigarette ends onto the floor to the left of the bed; they fell soundlessly onto my trousers. I shook them off, and the two little glimmering dots lay side by side.
“And then I was thinking who had been here seventy years ago, or what. Maybe there was a field, maybe corn or onions grew here, six feet over my head, with the wind blowing across, and every morning this sad dawn came up over the horizon of the
puszta
. Or maybe there was already a house belonging to someone.”
“Yes,” she said softly, “seventy years ago there was a house here.”
I was silent.
“Yes,” she said, “I think it was seventy years ago that my grandfather built this house. That’s when they must have put the railroad through here. He worked for the railroad and built this little house with his savings. And then he went to war, ages ago, you know, in 1914, and he was killed in Russia. And then there was my father; he had some land and also worked for the railroad. He died during this war.”
“Killed?”
“No, he died. My mother had died before. And now my brother lives here with his wife and children. And seventy years from now my brother’s great-grandsons will be living here.”
“Maybe so,” I said, “but they’ll know nothing about you and me.”
“No, not a soul will ever know that you were here with me.”
I took hold of her small hand—it was soft, so soft—and held it close to my face.
In the square patch of window a dark-gray darkness showed now, lighter than the blackness of the night.
I suddenly felt her moving past me, without touching me, and I could hear the light tread of her bare feet on the floor; then I heard her dressing. Her movements and the sounds were so light; only when she reached behind her to do up the buttons of her blouse did I hear her breath come more strongly.
“You’d better get dressed,” she said.
“Let me just lie here,” I said.
“I don’t want to put on the light.”
“Don’t put on the light, let me just lie here.”
“But you must have something to eat before you go.”
“I’m not going.”
I could hear her pause as she put on her shoes and knew she was staring in astonishment into the darkness where I was lying.
“I see” was all she said, softly, and I couldn’t tell whether she was surprised or alarmed.
When I turned my head to one side I could see her figure outlined in the dark-gray dawn light. She moved very quietly about the room, found kindling and paper, and took the box of matches from my trouser pocket.
These sounds reached me almost like the thin, anxious cries of a person standing on a riverbank and calling out to someone who isbeing driven by the current into a great body of water; and I knew then that if I did not get up, did not
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