The Passport by Herta Müller Page A

golden cross on the chain hangs over the green dress. There is so much green around the cross.
    Windisch’s wife moves her arm. The cross swings on the chain. The train travels quickly. It has found an empty track among the many trains.
    Windisch’s wife stands up. Her gaze is fixed and certain. She sees the station. Under her perm, inside her skull, Windisch’s wife has already furnished the new world, into which she is carrying her large suitcase. Her lips are like cold ashes. “God willing, we’ll come back for a visit next summer,” she says.
    *    *    *
    The pavement is cracked. The puddles have swallowed the water. Windisch locks the car. A silver circle gleams on the car. Inside it are three spokes like three fingers. There are flies on the bonnet. Bird shit sticks to the windscreen. Behind on the boot, the word Diesel. A horse-drawn waggon rattles by. The horses are bony. The waggon is made of dust. The carter is a stranger. He has large ears under his small hat.
    Windisch and Windisch’s wife are walking in a ball of cloth. He’s wearing a grey suit. She has a grey costume of the same cloth.
    Windisch’s wife is wearing black shoes with high heels.
    In the pot hole Windisch feels the cracks tugging at his shoes. There are blue veins on his wife’s white calves.
    Windisch’s wife looks at the sloping red roofs. “It’s as if we never lived here,” she says. She says it as if the sloping roofs were red pebbles under her shoes. A tree lays its shadow over her face. Her cheek bones are stony. The shadow withdraws to the tree. It leaves wrinkles on her chin. Her golden cross gleams. The sun catches it. The sun holds its flames on the cross.
    The postwoman is standing by the boxwood hedge. There is a tear in her patent leather bag. The postwoman holds out her cheek for a kiss. Windisch’s wife gives her a bar of Ritter Sport chocolate. The sky-blue paper is shiny. The post-woman lays her fingers on its golden edge.
    Windisch’s wife moves the stones in her cheekbones. The night watchman comes towards Windisch. He raises his black hat. Windisch sees his own shirt and his own jacket. The wind drives the shadow of a spot onto Windisch’s wife’s chin. The shadow falls onto the jacket of her costume. Windisch’s wife wears the shadow beside her collar like a dead heart.
    “I’ve got a wife,” says the night watchman. “She’s a milkmaid in the cowsheds in the valley.”
    Windisch’s wife sees the milkmaid with the blue headscarf standing outside the inn next to Windisch’s bicycle. “I know her,” says Windisch’s wife, “she bought our bed.”
    The milkmaid looks across the road to the square in front of the church. She eats an apple and waits.
    “I suppose you don’t want to emigrate now,” says Windisch. The night watchman crushes his hat in his hands. He looks over to the inn. “I’m staying here,” he says.
    Windisch sees the band of dirt on his shirt. A vein beats on the night watchman’s neck. Time stands still. “My wife is waiting,” says the night watchman. He points over to the inn.
    The tailor raises his hat in front of the war memorial. He looks at the tips of his shoes as he walks. He stops at the church door beside Skinny Wilma.
    The night watchman brings his mouth up to Windisch’s ear. “There’s a young owl in the village,” he says. “It know its way around. It’s already made Skinny Wilma ill.” The night watchman smiles. “Skinny Wilma is clever,” he says. “She scared the owl away.” He looks over to the inn. “I’m going,” he says.
    A cabbage white flutters past the tailor’s face. The tailor’s cheeks are pale, like curtains under his eyes.
    The cabbage white flies through the tailor’s cheek. The tailor sinks his head. The cabbage white flies out of the back of the tailor’s head, white and uncrumpled. Skinny Wilma flaps her handkerchief. The cabbage white flies through her forehead and into her head.
    The night watchman walks beneath