The Left-Handed Woman
Table of Contents
She
was thirty and lived in a terraced bungalow colony on the south slope of a low mountain range in western Germany, just above the fumes of a big city. She had brown hair and gray eyes, which sometimes lit up even when she wasn't looking at anyone, without her face changing in any other way. Late one winter afternoon she was sitting at an electric sewing machine, in the yellow light that shone into the large living room from outside. One entire side of the room consisted of a single pane of glass, looking out on the windowless wall of a neighboring house and on a grass-overgrown terrace with a discarded Christmas tree in the middle of it. Beside the woman sat her eight-year-old son, bent over his copybook, writing a school essay at a walnut table. His fountain pen scratched as he wrote, and his tongue protruded from between his lips. Now and then he stopped, looked out of the window, and went on writing more busily than ever. Or he would glance at his mother, who, though her face was averted, noticed his glance and returned it. The woman was married to the sales manager of the local branch of a porcelain
concern well known throughout Europe; a business trip had taken him to Scandinavia for several weeks, and he was expected back that evening. Though not rich, the family was comfortably well off, with no need to think of money. Their bungalow was rented, since the husband could be transferred at any moment.
was thirty and lived in a terraced bungalow colony on the south slope of a low mountain range in western Germany, just above the fumes of a big city. She had brown hair and gray eyes, which sometimes lit up even when she wasn't looking at anyone, without her face changing in any other way. Late one winter afternoon she was sitting at an electric sewing machine, in the yellow light that shone into the large living room from outside. One entire side of the room consisted of a single pane of glass, looking out on the windowless wall of a neighboring house and on a grass-overgrown terrace with a discarded Christmas tree in the middle of it. Beside the woman sat her eight-year-old son, bent over his copybook, writing a school essay at a walnut table. His fountain pen scratched as he wrote, and his tongue protruded from between his lips. Now and then he stopped, looked out of the window, and went on writing more busily than ever. Or he would glance at his mother, who, though her face was averted, noticed his glance and returned it. The woman was married to the sales manager of the local branch of a porcelain
concern well known throughout Europe; a business trip had taken him to Scandinavia for several weeks, and he was expected back that evening. Though not rich, the family was comfortably well off, with no need to think of money. Their bungalow was rented, since the husband could be transferred at any moment.
The child had finished writing and read aloud: “âMy idea of a better life. I would like the weather to be neither hot nor cold. There should always be a balmy breeze and once in a while a storm that makes people huddle on the ground. No more cars. All the houses should be red. The trees and bushes should be gold. I would know everything already, so I would not have to study. Everybody would live on islands. The cars along the street would always be open, so I could get in if I happened to be tired. I would never be tired any more. They wouldn't belong to anyone. I would always stay up at night and fall asleep wherever I happened to be. It would never rain. I would always have four friends, and all the people I don't know would disappear. Everything I don't know would disappear.'”
The woman stood up and looked out of the smaller side window. In the foreground a line of motionless pine trees. Below the trees several rows of individual garages, all as rectangular and flat-topped as the bungalows. The driveway leading to the garages had a sidewalk, and though it had been cleared of snow a child was pulling a sled along it. Down in the lowland, far behind the trees, lay the outskirts of the city, and from somewhere in the hollow
a plane was rising. The woman stood as if in a trance, but instead of going stiff she seemed to bend to her thoughts. The child came and asked her what she was looking at. She didn't hear him, she didn't so much as blink. The child shook her and cried, “Wake up!” The woman shook herself, and put her hand on the child's shoulder. Then he, too, looked out and in turn lost himself, openmouthed, in the view. After a while he shook himself and said, “Now I've been woolgathering like you.” They both began to laugh and they couldn't stop; when their laughter died down, one started up again and the other joined in. In the end they hugged each other and laughed so hard that they fell to the floor together.
a plane was rising. The woman stood as if in a trance, but instead of going stiff she seemed to bend to her thoughts. The child came and asked her what she was looking at. She didn't hear him, she didn't so much as blink. The child shook her and cried, “Wake up!” The woman shook herself, and put her hand on the child's shoulder. Then he, too, looked out and in turn lost himself, openmouthed, in the view. After a while he shook himself and said, “Now I've been woolgathering like you.” They both began to laugh and they couldn't stop; when their laughter died down, one started up again and the other joined in. In the end they hugged each other and laughed so hard that they fell to the floor together.
The child asked if he could turn on the television. The woman answered, “We're going to the airport now to meet Bruno.” But he was already turning on the set. The woman bent over him and said, “Your father has been away for weeks. How can I tell him that ⦔ The child heard nothing more. The woman made a megaphone with her hands and shouted as if she were calling him in the woods, but the child only stared at the screen. She moved her hand back and forth in front of his eyes, but the child bent his head to one side and went on staring openmouthed.
The woman stood in the space outside the garages in her open fur coat. Puddles of melted snow were freezing over. The sidewalk was strewn with the needles of discarded Christmas trees. While opening the garage door,
she looked up at the colony and its tiers of box-shaped bungalows, some of which were already lighted. Behind the colony a mixed forestâmost!y oaks, beeches, and pinesârose gently, unbroken by any village, or even a house, to the top of one of the mountains. The child appeared at the window of their “housing unit,” as her husband called the bungalow, and raised his arm.
she looked up at the colony and its tiers of box-shaped bungalows, some of which were already lighted. Behind the colony a mixed forestâmost!y oaks, beeches, and pinesârose gently, unbroken by any village, or even a house, to the top of one of the mountains. The child appeared at the window of their “housing unit,” as her husband called the bungalow, and raised his arm.
At the airport it wasn't quite dark yet; before going into the terminal, the woman saw bright spots in the sky over the flagpoles with their shimmering flags. She stood with the others and waited, her face expectant and relaxed, open and self-possessed. Word came over the loudspeaker that the plane from Helsinki had landed, and soon the passengers emerged from behind the customs barrier, among them Bruno, carrying a suitcase and a plastic bag marked “Duty-Free Shop.” He was just a little older than she, and his face was drawn with fatigue. He wore, as always, a double-breasted gray pin-striped suit and an open shirt. His eyes were so brown that it was hard to see his pupils; he could watch people for a long time without their feeling looked at. He had walked in his sleep as a child, and even now he often talked in his dreams.
In front of all the people, he rested his head on the shoulder of his wife's fur coat, as if he had to take a nap that minute. She took his suitcase and plastic bag, and then he was able to throw his arms around her. For a long time they stood embracing; Bruno smelled slightly of liquor.
In the elevator that took them to the underground garage, where she had parked, he looked at her and she observed him. She got into the car first and opened the door from inside. Instead of getting in, he stood looking straight ahead. He beat his forehead with his fist; then he held his nose and tried to blow air out of his ears, as though the long flight had stopped them up.
On the road to the small town on the mountain slope where the bungalow colony was, the woman put her hand on the radio knob and asked, “Would you like some music?” He shook his head. By then it was dark; nearly all the lights were out in the high-rise office buildings along the road, but the housing developments on the hills were bright.
After a while Bruno said, “It was always so dark in Finlandâday and night. And I couldn't understand a single word of the language! In every other country a few of the words are similarâbut there's nothing international about that language. The one thing I've remembered is the word for beerââ
olut
' I got drunk fairly often. Early one afternoon, when just a little light had come into the sky, I was sitting in a self-service café. All at once I began to scratch the table in a frenzy. The darkness, the cold in my nostrils, and not being able to speak to anyone. It was almost comforting to hear the wolves howl one night. Or to pee into a toilet bowl with our company's initials on it. There's something I've been wanting to tell you, Marianne. I thought of you often up
there, of you and Stefan. For the first time in all the years since we've been together, I had the feeling that we belonged to each other. Suddenly I was afraid of going mad with loneliness, mad in a cruelly painful way that no one had ever experienced before. I've often told you I loved you, but now for the first time I feel that we're bound to each other. Till death do us part. And the strange part of it is that I now feel I could exist without you.”
olut
' I got drunk fairly often. Early one afternoon, when just a little light had come into the sky, I was sitting in a self-service café. All at once I began to scratch the table in a frenzy. The darkness, the cold in my nostrils, and not being able to speak to anyone. It was almost comforting to hear the wolves howl one night. Or to pee into a toilet bowl with our company's initials on it. There's something I've been wanting to tell you, Marianne. I thought of you often up
there, of you and Stefan. For the first time in all the years since we've been together, I had the feeling that we belonged to each other. Suddenly I was afraid of going mad with loneliness, mad in a cruelly painful way that no one had ever experienced before. I've often told you I loved you, but now for the first time I feel that we're bound to each other. Till death do us part. And the strange part of it is that I now feel I could exist without you.”
The woman rested her hand on Bruno's knee and asked, “And how did the business go?”
Bruno laughed. “Orders are picking up again,” he said. “Those northerners may not eat very well, but at least they eat off our china. The next time, our Finnish customers will have to come down here and see us. The prices have stopped falling; we don't have to give such big discounts as we did during the crisis.” He laughed again. “They don't even speak English. We had to talk through an interpreter, a woman with a child and no husband, who studied in Germanyâin the south, I think.”
The woman: “You think?”
Bruno: “No, of course not. I know. She told me.”
After putting the car away they walked past a lighted phone booth with a shadowy form moving about inside, and turned into one of the narrow, deliberately crooked lanes that cut across the colony. He put his arm over her shoulders. While opening the door of their house, the
woman looked back at the half-dark lane and the tiers of bungalows, all with their curtains drawn.
woman looked back at the half-dark lane and the tiers of bungalows, all with their curtains drawn.
Bruno asked, “Do you still like it here?”
The woman: “Sometimes I wish we had a stinking pizza joint outside the door, or a newsstand.”
Bruno: “I know I'm always relieved to get back.”
The woman smiled to herself.
In the living room the child was sitting in a big, broad armchair, reading by the light of a standing lamp. He looked up for a moment when his parents came in. Bruno stepped close to him, but he didn't stop reading. Finally he smiled almost imperceptibly, stood up, and searched Bruno's pockets for presents.
The woman came from the kitchen, carrying a silver tray with a glass of vodka on it, but by then there was no one in the living room. She went down the hall and looked into the rooms that branched off it like cells. When she opened the bathroom door, Bruno was sitting motionless on the rim of the tub, watching the child, who was already in his pajamas, brush his teeth. The child had rolled up his sleeves to keep the water from running into them. He carefully licked the toothpaste from the open tube and then, standing on tiptoe, put the tube back on the shelf. Bruno took the glass of vodka from the tray and asked, “Aren't you drinking anything? Have you made any plans for the evening?”
The woman: “Why? Am I different than usual?”
Bruno: “You're always different.”
The woman: “What do you mean by that?”
Bruno: “You're one of the few people I don't have to be afraid of. What's more, you don't make me want to playact.” He sent the child away with an affectionate pat.
In the living room, as they were picking up the toys the child had been playing with that day, Bruno stood up and said, “My ears are still buzzing from the plane. Let's go to the hotel in town for a festive dinner. It's too private here for my taste right now. Tooâhaunted. I would like you to wear your low-cut dress.”
The woman was still squatting on the floor, picking up toys. “What will you wear?” she asked.
Bruno: “I'll go just as I am. I always do. I'll borrow a tie at the reception desk. I feel like walking. All right?”
The hotel restaurant, whose lofty ceiling gave it a palatial look, was half empty. Bruno was still adjusting his tie as they walked into the dining room, guided by a bowlegged waiter. The headwaiter pulled out chairs for them, and they had only to let themselves sink down. They unfolded their white napkins in unison and laughed.
Bruno not only ate everything on his plate but wiped the plate clean with a piece of bread. Afterward, holding up and gazing into a glass of Calvados, which took on a reddish glow in the light of the chandeliers, he said, “Tonight I felt the need of being served like this! How sheltered one feels! A taste of eternity!” The headwaiter stood in the background as Bruno continued. “I read an
English novel on the plane. There's a passage about a butler who combines dignity with eagerness to serve. The hero watches him and meditates on the mature beauty of the feudal master-servant relationship. To be waited on in this proud, respectful way, if only for a brief moment at tea, reconciles him not only with himself but also, in some strange way, with the whole human race.” The woman turned away; Bruno spoke to her, and she turned back but did not look at him.
English novel on the plane. There's a passage about a butler who combines dignity with eagerness to serve. The hero watches him and meditates on the mature beauty of the feudal master-servant relationship. To be waited on in this proud, respectful way, if only for a brief moment at tea, reconciles him not only with himself but also, in some strange way, with the whole human race.” The woman turned away; Bruno spoke to her, and she turned back but did not look at him.
Bruno said, “We'll spend the night here. Stefan knows where we are. I left the telephone number on his bedside table.” The woman lowered her eyes and Bruno motioned to the waiter, who bent over him. “I need a room for the night,” he said. “You see, my wife and I want to sleep together right away.”
The waiter smiled. There was nothing conspiratorial, only sympathy in the way he looked at them. “There's a trade fair on at the moment, but I'll inquire,” he said. At the door he turned around and added, “I'll be back in a moment.”
The two were alone in the dining room. Candles were still burning on all the tables, and around them needles were falling almost soundlessly from sprays of evergreen. Shadows moved over the tapestries of hunting scenes on the walls. The woman gave Bruno a long look. Though she was very grave, her face lit up almost imperceptibly.
The waiter came back and said in a voice that sounded as if he had been hurrying, “Here is the key to the tower
room. Statesmen have slept there, but I'm sure you see no harm in that.” Bruno dismissed the waiter's remark with a wave of the hand, and without seeming offensive the waiter added, “I wish you a very good night. I hope the tower clock doesn't disturb you; you see, the big hand purrs every minute.”
room. Statesmen have slept there, but I'm sure you see no harm in that.” Bruno dismissed the waiter's remark with a wave of the hand, and without seeming offensive the waiter added, “I wish you a very good night. I hope the tower clock doesn't disturb you; you see, the big hand purrs every minute.”
As Bruno opened the door to the room, he said very calmly, “Tonight I feel as if everything I'd ever wished for had come true. As though I could move by magic from one place of happiness to another, without transition. I feel a magic power, Marianne. And I need you. And I'm happy. Everything inside me is buzzing with happiness.” He smiled at her, and there was surprise in his smile. They went in and switched on all the lightsâin the vestibule and bathroom as well as the bedroom.
In the first gray of dawn the woman was awake. She looked toward the window, which was partly open; the curtains were parted, and the winter fog was blowing in. The minute hand purred softly. She said to Bruno, who was sleeping beside her, “I want to go home.”
Other books
Ecstasy (A Contemporary Romance) by Bella Andre
Losing Lila by Sarah Alderson
The Necromancer by Scott, Michael
Bloodstar: Star Corpsman: Book One by Douglas, Ian
Wander Dust by Michelle Warren
5PM by Chris Heinicke
Alexandra by Carolly Erickson
Grumbles from the Grave by Robert A. Heinlein, Virginia Heinlein
The Ambassador's Wife by Jennifer Steil
Mammoth Book of Best New Horror by Stephen Jones
