The Bridge (3 page)

Then I saw a lighted sign on one of the other cars. Throwing caution to the wind, I ran almost in front of it, waving both arms. The blue car stopped with a screech. I jumped into the back, pointed straight ahead and blurted out the detective movie cliché:

“Follow that green taxi.”

Asking no unnecessary questions, the driver floored the accelerator. The sudden departure pressed me into the seat. We caught up with the green taxi at the third intersection. When we stopped at a red light, there was only one car between us.

The taxi driver clearly had experience in tailing. He avoided the spot right behind the green taxi so we wouldn’t be noticed, but he kept the distance between us small so we wouldn’t lose it in the traffic that was worsening the further we went. He didn’t try to strike up a conversation either. He must have understood I wasn’t in the mood.

The trip took a quarter of an hour. When the green taxi stopped, I was filled with bewilderment and discomfort. What was I doing here? I’d never been in the red light district. As I paid, my eyes avoided the taxi driver’s. I could only hope he understood that I would never go to a place like this unless I was following someone. I sighed with relief when he drove off without a word.

The flashy hair color, swinging bowling ball and whistling probably would not have singled me out here, but what I was carrying now certainly did. Indeed, who would come to this area with an enormous bouquet of roses? Once again people turned to look as I went by. They even chuckled openly and pointed at my back.

I paid no attention, apparently not bothered in the least. The bouquet soon proved to have a good side too. The flowers seemed to discourage the garishly painted ladies and occasional, equally ostentatious males from approaching me. But I, having no such protection, was besieged.

It was hard to get rid of the vermin. At first I thanked them politely for the services they offered, saying that wasn’t the reason I was there. This didn’t put them off, however. They started to tug at my sleeve and stick their faces into mine, assailing me with the heavy odor of cheap perfume. In the end I had to use my hands to fight them off, bringing a flood of insults and even threats.

I stopped in front of the only house with no one standing in front of it. It was a low, narrow two-story building that seemed to be trapped between its stocky neighbors. The two windows were covered with pleated burgundy-colored drapes. I smoothed my hair a bit, put the book into my coat pocket and then rang the bell. The door opened right away, but no one was behind it. As soon as I went inside, the door closed behind me.

More trouble. I could stay outside, but curiosity gnawed at me. How could I miss such a chance? I was vaguely aware that the voyeuristic desire to watch myself in a brothel was rather odd, but strangely enough, this didn’t bother me very much.

Just a few moments before, I’d felt a great resistance to going in myself. It’s always hardest the first time. But since I had just broken the ice, it was easier for me. I went up to the entrance and rang the bell again.

The door opened as before. I hesitated briefly and then went in. After the door closed behind me, seemingly on its own, I was left in reddish gloom. Everything around me was covered with the same drapes I’d seen on the windows: the walls, floor, ceiling. It was as if I’d been enclosed in a box lined with velvet.

Before me was a small vestibule that ended in a steep staircase. As I stood there uncertainly, a very tiny figure appeared at the top of the stairs. At first I thought she was a child, and then I realized that the woman was a midget. She was wearing a long terrycloth robe, also burgundy, and was barefoot. She bowed and crooked her finger, indicating I was to go up.

I started up the stairs against my better judgment. She waited for me to reach her, and then, with a smile, motioned down the hall to her left. I peered in that direction cautiously. The hall was empty, short and dark-red throughout. There was a door in the middle on the right, and beyond it something resembling a small window with the curtain drawn.

She went first, her head turned towards me, a smile glued to her face. When we reached the door, she stretched out her hand, palm up. I stared at it briefly before I understood and quickly reached for my wallet, but didn’t know how much to take out. I thought of asking, but that seemed gauche, so I took out a bill and put it in her hand.

Her hand didn’t budge and her smile tightened. I promptly took out another bill, which broadened her smile, and received a new bow. Both notes disappeared down her cleavage under the terrycloth robe. She pulled down the handle and drew the door towards her, stepping aside.

A multitude of tiny eyes turned my way, looking at me from all sides except the large empty bed in the middle of the room. I had never seen so many poodles in one place, or for that matter so many dogs of any kind. Their white fur seemed to take on a bloody hue in the subdued dark-red light.

I backed away instinctively, as though confronted by great danger, although not a single poodle made any threatening sound. On the contrary, most of them were wagging their tails. I started to shake my head, horror-stricken. Still smiling, the midget calmly closed the door.

As I leaned against the wall in alarm, my eyes as big as saucers, she took my hand, patted the back of it, and then led the way further down the hall. I went docilely, like an obedient child. At the end of the hall was another steep staircase that we took up to the second floor.

There we were greeted by the same empty hall with the covered window and door. When she pulled me towards it, I refused to go, shaking my head wordlessly. She patted the back of my hand again, and this time stroked my cheek as well. Even so, when we continued she pulled me more than I went of my own free will.

We stopped in front of the small window. Her hand stretched out again. Several long moments passed before I took out my wallet. I chose the smallest bill I had and placed it in her palm, then swiftly put the wallet back in my pocket without giving her a chance to ask for more. When this bill disappeared under her robe, the pint-sized woman opened the curtain on the window.

I didn’t look up right away. She had to nudge me in the back before I finally looked through the square glass. In the middle of the otherwise empty room was an ordinary wooden table without any covering. On the right side, sitting on a stool, was a girl dressed in an orange firefighter’s suit. Bright red curls flowed from under her high-crowned metal helmet.

She was holding the little book I had stolen in the secondhand bookstore. Although I couldn’t hear anything, I could see that she was reading out loud. On the table in front of her was a small pile of torn paper. Soon she finished reading the latest page. She tore it out with a brisk movement and added a new handful of confetti to the pile.

I was sitting across from her, in the raincoat, eating. I would take the crown of a white rose from the bouquet on the table, put it on a plate, cut it in half with a knife, stick it on a fork, dip it into something that looked like sauce or dressing and put it in my mouth. This clearly gave me great pleasure, although it made my stomach turn.

The curtain was suddenly pulled across the window. I looked at the midget questioningly, and she stretched out her hand in reply. I shook my head angrily. She shrugged her shoulders, dropped the smile and motioned towards the stairs. I toyed briefly with the idea of defying her, then gave it up. I had already seen everything there was to see. It would only make me nauseous again. Really, eating roses! I turned and left.

At the bottom of the first staircase I looked behind me. For some reason I thought that the midget would see me out, but there was no one there. As I passed by the door on the first floor, I heard growling and then an angry bark. I quickened my steps and almost ran down the second staircase. As the door opened in front of me, I breathed a sigh of relief.

I was in for a wait. I wasn’t going to stay up there until I ate the whole bouquet, was I? In that case they might take me out on an ambulance stretcher. I moved a little away from the entrance and stood by a wall. This soon turned out to be a bad idea. Passers-by started to give me the eye. I didn’t understand why I attracted their attention until one came up and openly asked me how much.

I don’t know what stunned me the most: the question or the eruption of curses that I poured on the would-be customer. I never dreamed that something like that could come out of my mouth. This was where I was plainly mistaken. Vocabulary of that nature was quite suited to the person currently giving vent to such eccentricities on the second floor.

I felt like going back inside the narrow building and confronting the midget lady once again. I’d pay her as much as she asked, go into that room and sharply order myself to hurry up, regardless of how much I enjoyed what I was doing. Was any pleasure worth the humiliation I was going through?

That’s when the door opened again. Not only did I come out, but I was in a terrible rush. Once outside, I didn’t stop. I ran in the direction we’d come from, as though being chased, although no one else appeared at the door to the house, which closed immediately.

There was no time to hesitate. I ran after me. The sight of two men on the threshold of old age chasing each other must have looked odd even in this part of town, and the sound of whistles, expletives and even shouts soon started to echo behind us. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me for the shame.

The chase did have a good side, though. In a twinkling we were out of the red light district and onto a busy street. The catcalls stopped, but people parted before us, sending us reproachful looks. Luckily there were no policemen in the vicinity to stop us and see what was going on, which was the last thing I needed.

Even though, owing to my regular walks, I was in good shape for a man of fifty-six, this demented running was too much for me. Covered with sweat, I soon started to grow short of breath. I would have had an easier time had I known where and why we were running, and particularly how much longer it would take until we got there, but I had no way of knowing.

When we finally stopped, everything seemed clear. A pharmacy, of course! This was exactly what someone who had stuffed himself with white roses needed. We ran inside at close intervals. I almost ran into my own back. The older pharmacist and the young woman who was being served eyed us suspiciously.

Panting, I started to list the medicine I wanted to buy. I listened in bewilderment, standing behind myself in the line. As far as I could tell, none of it had anything to do with indigestion. The pharmacist took three vials of pills from the shelf, each a different color: blue, yellow and brown.

I stuffed them into the pockets of the raincoat, paid the bill and hurried out. The pharmacist was left with her hand stretched forth, holding the change. I felt the need to offer some explanation, but since nothing convincing came to mind, I followed my own lead. Turning around, I too rushed out of the pharmacy.

The pursuit continued, although it slowed down a little. Had I been following someone else, and not myself, I probably would not have been able to keep up the pace, but as it was there was no fear of being left behind.

When we turned off the boulevard onto a side street, the running turned into fast walking. It would have been difficult to run there, anyway, because of the many small restaurants whose tables covered a good part of the sidewalk. I hoped we might sit for a moment in one of them, just long enough to catch our breath, but there clearly was no time to rest.

We did stop in a little while, though. Since I was only a few steps behind me, my loud panting seemed to echo back to me. The window of the store we were standing in front of was full of used theatrical equipment: costumes, overcoats and tricots, boots and ballet slippers, eyeglasses and monocles, wigs, fake beards, moustaches and noses, a jewelry box, a snuff box and powder box, lances, swords and daggers, parts of set designs, framed posters, autographed pictures of actors, programs, opera glasses.

We went in one after the other without opening the door twice. The counter was at the opposite end of the store. I went there, while I stayed by the entrance, staring at an upright suit of armor. I pointed to something on the top of the shelf behind the slim, hunchbacked salesman. The man climbed up a small stepladder and took down two masks: comedy and tragedy—symbols of the theatrical arts. He held them out to me.

I chose the tragedy mask and then beckoned the salesman to draw near. I whispered something to him, and he nodded. I paid and headed for the door. I passed by me without looking at myself, and went out. I was just about to step out too, when the salesman called to me.

“Sir!” I turned around. “This is for you.” He raised the comedy mask. I looked at him in surprise, pointing my thumb at myself questioningly. “Yes, for you.” He came out from behind the counter and headed for me.

“Thank you,” I said tersely after taking the mask. I doubt I would have known what else to say even if I hadn’t been in a hurry. I gave a little nod and went out.

I had already gone pretty far. I had to run again to catch up with me. The mask was light, probably made of aluminum, with slits for the eyes and mouth. It was worn by holding onto a short handle that ended under the chin. The gold paint was scratched in places, as though someone had tried out steel fingernails on the smiling face.

The restaurants and stores thinned out as we continued down the street. They were replaced by low houses in which, judging by the unlighted windows, no one seemed to live. There weren’t many streetlights here, and it had already grown dark, so it became harder and harder to see. Even though I was walking close behind me, had I not known that it was me I would soon not be able to recognize myself.