freak. A gleaming pink intestine on my stomach that looks rather like ... well, you'll have to forgive me; it's so hard for me to talk about this. But it looks rather like a penis. And I'm a woman, after all.
I put on a clean nightdress and went and sat at the kitchen table. I don't know how long I sat there. I felt encapsulated, with no room for any thoughts, not even despair. Then I raised my head, and my eyes automatically looked at the window. For a wild moment I thought I saw a face against the pane. I stared and stared, but it didn't reappear. I don't know how much time must have passed before I finally asked myself the question:
What
should I do now?
When I reached that stage, the feeling of paralysis left me. And with the return of reality came the emotions: they nearly knocked me unconscious. I recalled his eyes, shining with fright and determination. To come here and force his way in had been important for him. How could money be that important? I was sitting one pace from the cellar door. If I opened it, the light from the kitchen would make it possible for me to see him. I had to get up and take a look, if only through the trapdoor. And then I remembered that I should call someone soon. Explain everything. There was so much that had to be done. Reluctantly, I got to my feet and opened the trapdoor. I didn't dare look. But I couldn't pretend that nothing had happened. If I went into another room and sat there until morning, he would still be lying in the same position. I stood with my back turned and counted to ten, to twenty. He wasn't going anywhere. He had fallen to his death. Thirty, forty. Cautiously, I turned. Why didn't he scream? I squatted by the open door. The light was slanting down over the stairs. The top step came into focus, then the others. The first thing I saw was his feet, lying on the second step from the bottom. His body was twisted into an impossibly contorted position. One arm was stretched out to the side, but I couldn't see the other one; maybe he was lying on it. His forehead was a white patch in the darkness, his cap was gone. No one could lie like that and still be alive. The angle of his head gave me a terrible clue. I stood there as long as I could, staring at him, listening for any sounds, but it was as quiet as the grave. I straightened up. I realized that the worst had happened. He was dead.
The thought came to me with absolute calm, as something important, but not dramatic. What would I have done if he had still been alive? I should have called for an ambulance, but the mere idea of having to explain everything was unthinkable. Strangers stomping into Irma's house? I put the trapdoor back in place, and laid the rug on top. It was simple. No one knew that
he had come into my house. I tried to think: I had important decisions to make. I took a deep breath, in and out, and then another, in and out. I decided to stay home the next day. I hardly ever missed work, so no one would think it odd. I could say I was coming down with the flu. And then I felt it: the strange sensation that I had been in this selfsame situation before. I couldn't understand it—fear must be playing tricks on me. But I had always believed that one day something terrible would happen. Whenever I sat in the red chair near the window I would let my thoughts wander. In my mind I'd been through almost every nightmare that might befall me, and now, here it was: what I'd been waiting for. Once I realized the connection, I grew calmer. The worst imaginable thing had occurred; in other words, it was finally over. The problem was out in the open and could now be resolved. It was time for action. However, I told myself, first I needed to get some sleep. I felt worn out. Afterward, I would get rid of all the traces. Had he left any traces? I looked around, went into the study. What about his knife? Was it down in the cellar? I was talking to myself in a low voice: "There's a dead man in the cellar. He came here to attack
I put on a clean nightdress and went and sat at the kitchen table. I don't know how long I sat there. I felt encapsulated, with no room for any thoughts, not even despair. Then I raised my head, and my eyes automatically looked at the window. For a wild moment I thought I saw a face against the pane. I stared and stared, but it didn't reappear. I don't know how much time must have passed before I finally asked myself the question:
What
should I do now?
When I reached that stage, the feeling of paralysis left me. And with the return of reality came the emotions: they nearly knocked me unconscious. I recalled his eyes, shining with fright and determination. To come here and force his way in had been important for him. How could money be that important? I was sitting one pace from the cellar door. If I opened it, the light from the kitchen would make it possible for me to see him. I had to get up and take a look, if only through the trapdoor. And then I remembered that I should call someone soon. Explain everything. There was so much that had to be done. Reluctantly, I got to my feet and opened the trapdoor. I didn't dare look. But I couldn't pretend that nothing had happened. If I went into another room and sat there until morning, he would still be lying in the same position. I stood with my back turned and counted to ten, to twenty. He wasn't going anywhere. He had fallen to his death. Thirty, forty. Cautiously, I turned. Why didn't he scream? I squatted by the open door. The light was slanting down over the stairs. The top step came into focus, then the others. The first thing I saw was his feet, lying on the second step from the bottom. His body was twisted into an impossibly contorted position. One arm was stretched out to the side, but I couldn't see the other one; maybe he was lying on it. His forehead was a white patch in the darkness, his cap was gone. No one could lie like that and still be alive. The angle of his head gave me a terrible clue. I stood there as long as I could, staring at him, listening for any sounds, but it was as quiet as the grave. I straightened up. I realized that the worst had happened. He was dead.
The thought came to me with absolute calm, as something important, but not dramatic. What would I have done if he had still been alive? I should have called for an ambulance, but the mere idea of having to explain everything was unthinkable. Strangers stomping into Irma's house? I put the trapdoor back in place, and laid the rug on top. It was simple. No one knew that
he had come into my house. I tried to think: I had important decisions to make. I took a deep breath, in and out, and then another, in and out. I decided to stay home the next day. I hardly ever missed work, so no one would think it odd. I could say I was coming down with the flu. And then I felt it: the strange sensation that I had been in this selfsame situation before. I couldn't understand it—fear must be playing tricks on me. But I had always believed that one day something terrible would happen. Whenever I sat in the red chair near the window I would let my thoughts wander. In my mind I'd been through almost every nightmare that might befall me, and now, here it was: what I'd been waiting for. Once I realized the connection, I grew calmer. The worst imaginable thing had occurred; in other words, it was finally over. The problem was out in the open and could now be resolved. It was time for action. However, I told myself, first I needed to get some sleep. I felt worn out. Afterward, I would get rid of all the traces. Had he left any traces? I looked around, went into the study. What about his knife? Was it down in the cellar? I was talking to myself in a low voice: "There's a dead man in the cellar. He came here to attack
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