of the room grow larger. The floor is cold. The light bulb casts long rays into the suitcase.
Windisch puts the passports in his jacket pocket. “Who knows what will become of us?” sighs Windisch’s wife. Windisch looks at the piercing rays of light. Amalie and Windisch’s wife shut the suitcase.
THE PERM
A wooden bicycle creaks in the fence. Above, a bicycle of white cloud swims peacefully in the sky. Around the white clouds the clouds are water. Grey and empty as a pond. Around the pond only silent mountains. Grey mountain ranges heavy with longing for home.
Windisch is carrying two large suitcases, and Windisch’s wife is carrying two large suitcases. Her head is moving too quickly. Her head is too small. The stones of her cheek bones are enclosed in darkness. Windisch’s wife has cut off her plait. Her short hair is permed. Her mouth is hard and narrow from her new teeth. She talks loudly.
Box trees sway in the church garden. A strand loosens from Amalie’s hair. The strand returns to her ear.
The pot hole is cracked and grey. The poplar stands like a broom in the sky.
Jesus sleeps on the cross by the church door. When he wakes up, he’ll be old. The air in the village will be brighter than his naked skin.
At the post office the lock is hanging on its chain. The key isin the postwoman’s house. It opens the lock. It opens the mattress for the hearings.
Amalie is carrying the heavy suitcase with her glass. Her handbag hangs over her shoulder. In it is the box with the tear. In her other hand, Amalie carries the crystal vase with the dancer.
The village is small. People are walking in the side streets. They’re far away. And are drawing further away. The maize is a black wall at the end of the streets.
Windisch sees the grey swathes of time standing still around the station platform. A blanket of milk lies over the rails. It reaches up to their heels. Over the blanket lies a glassy skin. The still time spins a web around the suitcases. It tugs at their arms. Windisch shuffles over the gravel.
The steps of the train are high. Windisch lifts his shoes out of the blanket of milk.
Windisch’s wife wipes the dust from the seats with her handkerchief. Amalie holds the crystal vase on her knees. Windisch presses his face against the window. A picture of the Black Sea hangs on the wall of the compartment. The water stands still. The picture rocks. It’s travelling too.
“I’ll feel sick in the aeroplane,” says Windisch. “I know that from the war.” Windisch’s wife laughs. Her new teeth chatter.
Windisch’s suit is too tight. The sleeves are too short. “The tailor made it too small for you,” says Windisch’s wife. “Such expensive cloth and completely wasted.”
As the train travels on, Windisch feels his forehead slowly filling with sand. His head is heavy. His eyes sink into sleep. His hands tremble. His legs twitch and are awake. Windisch sees an expanse of rusty scrub through the window. “Since the owl took his son, the tailor can’t think anymore,” says Windisch. Windisch’s wife holds her chin in her hand.
Amalie’s head hangs on her shoulder. Her hair covers hercheeks. She’s sleeping. “Let her sleep,” says Windisch’s wife.
“Now that I don’t have my plait anymore, I don’t know how to hold my head.” Her new dress with the white lace collar shines green like water.
The train rattles over the iron bridge. The sea rocks over the wall of the compartment, over the river. There is much sand but little water in the river.
Windisch follows the beating wings of the small birds. They fly in ragged flocks. They’re searching for woods along the river flats, where there are only thickets and sand and water.
The train travels slowly, because the rails criss-cross in confusion, because the town is beginning. Scrap heaps. Small houses stand in overgrown gardens. Windisch sees that many rails run into one another. He sees other trains on the confusion of rails.
The
Windisch puts the passports in his jacket pocket. “Who knows what will become of us?” sighs Windisch’s wife. Windisch looks at the piercing rays of light. Amalie and Windisch’s wife shut the suitcase.
THE PERM
A wooden bicycle creaks in the fence. Above, a bicycle of white cloud swims peacefully in the sky. Around the white clouds the clouds are water. Grey and empty as a pond. Around the pond only silent mountains. Grey mountain ranges heavy with longing for home.
Windisch is carrying two large suitcases, and Windisch’s wife is carrying two large suitcases. Her head is moving too quickly. Her head is too small. The stones of her cheek bones are enclosed in darkness. Windisch’s wife has cut off her plait. Her short hair is permed. Her mouth is hard and narrow from her new teeth. She talks loudly.
Box trees sway in the church garden. A strand loosens from Amalie’s hair. The strand returns to her ear.
The pot hole is cracked and grey. The poplar stands like a broom in the sky.
Jesus sleeps on the cross by the church door. When he wakes up, he’ll be old. The air in the village will be brighter than his naked skin.
At the post office the lock is hanging on its chain. The key isin the postwoman’s house. It opens the lock. It opens the mattress for the hearings.
Amalie is carrying the heavy suitcase with her glass. Her handbag hangs over her shoulder. In it is the box with the tear. In her other hand, Amalie carries the crystal vase with the dancer.
The village is small. People are walking in the side streets. They’re far away. And are drawing further away. The maize is a black wall at the end of the streets.
Windisch sees the grey swathes of time standing still around the station platform. A blanket of milk lies over the rails. It reaches up to their heels. Over the blanket lies a glassy skin. The still time spins a web around the suitcases. It tugs at their arms. Windisch shuffles over the gravel.
The steps of the train are high. Windisch lifts his shoes out of the blanket of milk.
Windisch’s wife wipes the dust from the seats with her handkerchief. Amalie holds the crystal vase on her knees. Windisch presses his face against the window. A picture of the Black Sea hangs on the wall of the compartment. The water stands still. The picture rocks. It’s travelling too.
“I’ll feel sick in the aeroplane,” says Windisch. “I know that from the war.” Windisch’s wife laughs. Her new teeth chatter.
Windisch’s suit is too tight. The sleeves are too short. “The tailor made it too small for you,” says Windisch’s wife. “Such expensive cloth and completely wasted.”
As the train travels on, Windisch feels his forehead slowly filling with sand. His head is heavy. His eyes sink into sleep. His hands tremble. His legs twitch and are awake. Windisch sees an expanse of rusty scrub through the window. “Since the owl took his son, the tailor can’t think anymore,” says Windisch. Windisch’s wife holds her chin in her hand.
Amalie’s head hangs on her shoulder. Her hair covers hercheeks. She’s sleeping. “Let her sleep,” says Windisch’s wife.
“Now that I don’t have my plait anymore, I don’t know how to hold my head.” Her new dress with the white lace collar shines green like water.
The train rattles over the iron bridge. The sea rocks over the wall of the compartment, over the river. There is much sand but little water in the river.
Windisch follows the beating wings of the small birds. They fly in ragged flocks. They’re searching for woods along the river flats, where there are only thickets and sand and water.
The train travels slowly, because the rails criss-cross in confusion, because the town is beginning. Scrap heaps. Small houses stand in overgrown gardens. Windisch sees that many rails run into one another. He sees other trains on the confusion of rails.
The
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