The Left-Handed Woman (5 page)
It was almost night. The woman and the child were in the center of the city, at a snack bar between two big office buildings, and the child was eating a pretzel. The roar of the traffic was so loud that a long-lasting catastrophe seemed to be in progress. A man came into the snack bar; he was bent almost double and had his hand on his heart. He asked for a glass of water and gulped it down with a pill. Then he sat down, stooped and wretched. The evening church bells rang,
a fire truck passed, followed by a number of ambulances with blue lights and sirens. The light flashed over the woman's face; her forehead was beaded with perspiration, her lips cracked and parched.
a fire truck passed, followed by a number of ambulances with blue lights and sirens. The light flashed over the woman's face; her forehead was beaded with perspiration, her lips cracked and parched.
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Late
in the evening she stood by the long windowless side wall of the living room, in the half shadow of the desk lamp: deep quiet; dogs barking in the distance. Then the phone. She let it ring a few times, then answered in a soft voice. The publisher said in French that her voice sounded strange.
in the evening she stood by the long windowless side wall of the living room, in the half shadow of the desk lamp: deep quiet; dogs barking in the distance. Then the phone. She let it ring a few times, then answered in a soft voice. The publisher said in French that her voice sounded strange.
The woman: “Maybe it's because I've been working. That seems to affect my voice.”
The publisher: “Are you alone?”
The woman: “The child is with me, as usual. He's asleep.”
The publisher: “I'm alone, too. It's a clear night. I can see the hills where you live.”
The woman: “I'd love to see you in the daytime.”
The publisher: “Are you working hard, Marianne? Or do you just sit around, out there in your wilderness?”
The woman: “I was in town with Stefan today. He doesn't understand me. He thinks the big buildings, the gas stations, the subway stations, and all that are wonderful.”
The publisher: “Maybe there really is a new beauty
that we just haven't learned to see. I love the city myself. From the roof of our office building I can see as far as the airport; I can see planes landing and taking off in the distance, without hearing them. There's a delicate beauty about it that moves me deeply.” And after a pause, “And what are you going to do now?”
that we just haven't learned to see. I love the city myself. From the roof of our office building I can see as far as the airport; I can see planes landing and taking off in the distance, without hearing them. There's a delicate beauty about it that moves me deeply.” And after a pause, “And what are you going to do now?”
The woman: “Put on my nicest dress.”
The publisher: “You mean we can get together?”
The woman: “I'm going to dress to go on working. All of a sudden I feel like it.”
The publisher: “Do you take pills?”
The woman: “Now and thenâto keep awake.”
The publisher: “I'd better not say anything, because I know you take every warning as a threat. Just try not to get that sad, resigned look that so many of my translators have.”
She let him hang up first; then she took a long silk dress from the closet. At the mirror she tried on a string of pearls but took them right off again. She stood silent, looking at herself from one side.
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The
gray of dawn lay over the colony; the street lamps had just gone out. The woman sat motionless at the desk.
gray of dawn lay over the colony; the street lamps had just gone out. The woman sat motionless at the desk.
She got up and, closing her eyes, zigzagged about the room; then she paced back and forth, turning on her heel every time she came to a wall. Then she walked backward
very quickly, turning aside and again turning aside. In the kitchen she stood at the sink, which was piled high with dirty dishes. She put the dishes into the dishwasher and reached over to the counter and turned on the transistor, which instantly began to blare wake-up music and cheery speaking voices. She turned it off, bent down, and opened the washing machine; she took out a tangled wad of wet sheets and dropped them on the kitchen floor. She scratched her forehead violently until it bled.
very quickly, turning aside and again turning aside. In the kitchen she stood at the sink, which was piled high with dirty dishes. She put the dishes into the dishwasher and reached over to the counter and turned on the transistor, which instantly began to blare wake-up music and cheery speaking voices. She turned it off, bent down, and opened the washing machine; she took out a tangled wad of wet sheets and dropped them on the kitchen floor. She scratched her forehead violently until it bled.
She opened the mailbox outside the house; it was full of junk mail. No handwriting except perhaps for the imitation script in advertising circulars. She crumpled the sheaf of papers and tore them up. She went about the bungalow, putting it in order, stopping, turning around, bending down, scraping at a spot here and there in passing, picking up a single grain of rice and taking it to the garbage pail in the kitchen. She sat down, stood up, took a few steps, sat down again. She took a roll of paper toweling that was leaning in a corner, unrolled it, rolled it up again, and finally put it down not far from its old place.
The child sat watching as she moved fitfully around him. With a brush she swept the chair he was sitting on and silently motioned him to stand up. No sooner had he done so than she pushed him away with her elbow and brushed the seat of his chair, which was not the least bit dirty. The child moved back a step or two and stood still. Suddenly she flung the brush at him with all her might,
but only hit a glass on the table, which burst into pieces. She came at the child with clenched fists, but he only looked at her.
but only hit a glass on the table, which burst into pieces. She came at the child with clenched fists, but he only looked at her.
The doorbell rang; they both wanted to answer. She gave the child a push and he fell backward.
When she opened the door, no one seemed to be there. Then she looked down, and there was the child's fat friend, crouching; he had a crooked grin on his face.
She sat rigid in the living room while the child and his fat friend jumped from a chair onto a pile of pillows, singing at the top of their lungs: “The shit jumps on the piss, and the piss jumps on the shit, and the shit jumps on the spit ⦔ They screeched and writhed with laughter, whispered into each other's ears, looked at the woman, pointed at her, and laughed some more. They didn't stop and they didn't stop; the woman did not react.
She sat at the typewriter. The child came up on tiptoes and leaned against her. She pushed him away with her shoulder, but he kept standing beside her. Suddenly the woman pulled him close and throttled him; she shook him, let him go, and averted her eyes.
At night the woman sat at the desk; something rose slowly from the lower edge of her eyes and made them glisten; she was crying, without a sound, without a movement.
In
the daylight she walked along a straight road, in the midst of a flat, treeless, frozen landscape. On and on she walked, always straight ahead. She was still walking when night fell.
the daylight she walked along a straight road, in the midst of a flat, treeless, frozen landscape. On and on she walked, always straight ahead. She was still walking when night fell.
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She
sat in the town movie house with the two children beside her, surrounded by the cataclysmic din of an animated cartoon. Her eyes closed, she dozed off, then shook herself awake. Her head drooped on Stefan's shoulder. Openmouthed, the child kept his eyes on the picture. She slept on the child's shoulder until the end of the film.
sat in the town movie house with the two children beside her, surrounded by the cataclysmic din of an animated cartoon. Her eyes closed, she dozed off, then shook herself awake. Her head drooped on Stefan's shoulder. Openmouthed, the child kept his eyes on the picture. She slept on the child's shoulder until the end of the film.
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That
night she stood over the typewriter and read aloud what she had written. “â“And no one helps you?” the visitor asked. “No,” she replied. “The man I dream of is the man who will love me for being the kind of woman who is not dependent on him.” “And what will you love him for?” “For that kind of love.”'” Once again she shrugged.
night she stood over the typewriter and read aloud what she had written. “â“And no one helps you?” the visitor asked. “No,” she replied. “The man I dream of is the man who will love me for being the kind of woman who is not dependent on him.” “And what will you love him for?” “For that kind of love.”'” Once again she shrugged.
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She
lay in bed with her eyes open. On the bedside table beside her there was a glass of water and a clasp knife. Outside, someone hammered on the shutters and shouted something. She unclasped the knife, got up, and put on a wrapper. The voice was Bruno's. “Open or I'll kick the door in. Let me in or I'll blow the house up.” She put the knife down, switched on the light, opened the terrace door, and let Bruno in. His coat was open over his shirt. They stood facing each other; they passed through the hallway to the living room, where the light was on. Again they stood facing each other.
lay in bed with her eyes open. On the bedside table beside her there was a glass of water and a clasp knife. Outside, someone hammered on the shutters and shouted something. She unclasped the knife, got up, and put on a wrapper. The voice was Bruno's. “Open or I'll kick the door in. Let me in or I'll blow the house up.” She put the knife down, switched on the light, opened the terrace door, and let Bruno in. His coat was open over his shirt. They stood facing each other; they passed through the hallway to the living room, where the light was on. Again they stood facing each other.
Bruno: “You leave the light on at night.” He looked around. “You've moved the furniture, too.” He picked up some books. “And now you've got entirely different books.” He stepped closer to her. “And the toilet case I brought you from the Far EastâI bet you haven't got it any more.”
The woman: “Won't you take your coat off? Would you care for a glass of vodka?”
Bruno: “You're being pretty formal, aren't you?” And after a pause, “How about yourself? Haven't you got cancer yet?”
The woman didn't answer.
Bruno: “Is one permitted to smoke?”
He sat down; she remained standing.
Bruno: “So here you are, living the good life, alone with
your
son, in a nice warm house with garden and garage and good fresh air! Let's see, how old are you? You'll soon have folds in your neck and hairs growing out of your moles. Little spindly legs with a potato sack on top of them. You'll get older and older, you'll say you don't mind, and one day you'll hang yourself. You'll stink in your grave as uncouthly as you've lived. And how do you pass the time in the meanwhile? You probably sit around biting your nails. Right?”
your
son, in a nice warm house with garden and garage and good fresh air! Let's see, how old are you? You'll soon have folds in your neck and hairs growing out of your moles. Little spindly legs with a potato sack on top of them. You'll get older and older, you'll say you don't mind, and one day you'll hang yourself. You'll stink in your grave as uncouthly as you've lived. And how do you pass the time in the meanwhile? You probably sit around biting your nails. Right?”
The woman: “Don't shout. The child is asleep.”
Bruno: “You say âthe child' as if I'd forfeited the right to use his name. And you're always so reasonable. You women, with your infernal reason. With your ruthless understanding of everything and everyone. And you're never bored, you bitches. Nothing could suit you better than sitting around and letting the time pass. Do you know why you women can never amount to anything? Because you never get drunk by yourselves! You lounge around your tidy homes like narcissistic photos of yourselves. Always acting mysterious, squeaking to cover your emptiness, devoted comrades who stifle people with your stupid humanitarianism, machines for the emasculation of all life. You creep and crawl, sniffing the ground, until death wrenches your mouths open.” He spat to one side: “You and your new life! I've never known a woman to make a lasting change in her life. Nothing but escapades âthen back to the same old story. You know what?
When you remember what you're doing now, it will be like leafing through faded newspaper clippings. You'll think of it as the only event in your life. And at the same time you'll realize that you were only following the fashions. Marianne's winter fashion.”
When you remember what you're doing now, it will be like leafing through faded newspaper clippings. You'll think of it as the only event in your life. And at the same time you'll realize that you were only following the fashions. Marianne's winter fashion.”
The woman: “You thought that out before you came, didn't you? You didn't come here to talk to me or be with me.”
Bruno shouted, “I'd rather talk to a ghost.”
The woman: “You look awfully sad, Bruno.”
Bruno: “You only say that to disarm me.”
For a long time they said nothing. Then Bruno laughed; he turned away and sobbed for a moment, then pulled himself together. “I walked here. I wanted to kill you.” The woman stepped closer, and he said, “Don't touch me. Please don't touch me.” After a pause, “Sometimes I think you're just experimenting with me, putting me to the test. That makes me feel a little better.” After another pause, “Yesterday I caught myself thinking what a comfort it would be at times if there were a God.”
The woman looked at him and said, “Why, you've shaved your beard off.”
Bruno shrugged. “I did it a week ago. And you've got new curtains.”
The woman: “Not at all. It's still the old ones. It would make Stefan happy to get a letter from you.”
Bruno nodded and the woman smiled.
He asked her why she was smiling.
“It just occurred to me that you're the first grownup I've spoken to in days.”
After they had stood for quite some time, each making little gestures as though in private, Bruno asked how she was getting along.
The woman answered calmly, as though not speaking of herself at all, “One gets so tired all alone in the house.”
She went with him when he left. They walked side by side as far as the phone booth. Suddenly Bruno stopped walking and stretched out on the ground with his face down. She crouched beside him.
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On
a cold morning the woman sat in a rocking chair on the terrace, but she wasn't rocking. The child stood beside her, watching the clouds of vapor that came out of his mouth. The woman looked into the distance; the pines were reflected in the window behind her.
a cold morning the woman sat in a rocking chair on the terrace, but she wasn't rocking. The child stood beside her, watching the clouds of vapor that came out of his mouth. The woman looked into the distance; the pines were reflected in the window behind her.
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In
the evening she walked through the almost empty streets of the small town, as if she were going somewhere. She stopped in front of a large, lighted ground-floor window. A group of women were sitting in a kind of schoolroom with a blackboard. Franziska was standing at the blackboard with a piece of chalk, inaudibly elucidating
some economic principle. Notebooks were clapped shut; Franziska sat down with the others. She said something that made the others laugh, not aloud, more to themselves. Two women had their arms around each other. Another woman was smoking a pipe. Still another was wiping something off her neighbor's cheek. Franziska stopped talking, and a few women raised their hands. Franziska counted the hands, then some others raised theirs. In the end they all banged their desks as though in applause. The scene seemed peaceful, as though these women were not a group but individuals brought together by an inner need.
the evening she walked through the almost empty streets of the small town, as if she were going somewhere. She stopped in front of a large, lighted ground-floor window. A group of women were sitting in a kind of schoolroom with a blackboard. Franziska was standing at the blackboard with a piece of chalk, inaudibly elucidating
some economic principle. Notebooks were clapped shut; Franziska sat down with the others. She said something that made the others laugh, not aloud, more to themselves. Two women had their arms around each other. Another woman was smoking a pipe. Still another was wiping something off her neighbor's cheek. Franziska stopped talking, and a few women raised their hands. Franziska counted the hands, then some others raised theirs. In the end they all banged their desks as though in applause. The scene seemed peaceful, as though these women were not a group but individuals brought together by an inner need.
The woman left the window. She walked through the deserted streets. The clock in the church tower struck. When she passed the church, people were singing inside and someone was playing the organ.
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