There Once Lived a Woman Who Tried to Kill Her Neighbor's Baby (24 page)

The girl stepped back noiselessly and tiptoed into the corridor.

“I’ll be right back,” she called out, seeing the two heads turn in her direction.

In the corridor she tiptoed to the door and then out onto the stairs. Her heart was pounding, and she couldn’t catch her breath. “Thank God the very first door opened with my key. No one noticed that I don’t remember anything,” she thought.

She walked down one flight and heard loud steps behind her.

Immediately she thought of trying the key again and, to her surprise, it opened another door. She sneaked inside and locked the door behind her.

The apartment was empty and dark.

No one was pursuing the poor girl; no one was knocking at the door. Who knows, maybe the two strangers finally gave up on her and walked away with their pile of rags.

Now she could consider her situation. The apartment wasn’t very cold—that was good. She’d found a shelter, finally, albeit a temporary one, and she could lie down somewhere in the corner. Her neck and spine ached with fatigue. The girl walked quietly through the apartment. The windows let in light from the street, and the rooms were completely empty. When she entered the last room, her heart began to
beat faster—she noticed a pile of rags in the corner, the same corner as in the apartment upstairs.

The girl waited for something else to happen, but nothing happened, so she walked to the pile and lay down on the rags.

“Are you crazy?” She heard someone’s choking voice and felt the rags moving beneath her like snakes. Immediately two heads and four arms poked through them: her two companions were vigorously making their way through the pile until, finally, they were free.

Her knees weak, the girl fled to the stairwell. Directly behind her, someone was slithering into the corridor. Then suddenly she saw a streak of light underneath the nearest door. Again, the girl used her key to unlock that apartment.

A woman stood on the doorstep, holding a burning match.

“Please,” whispered the girl, “please save me.”

Behind her, her two companions slithered down the stairs.

“Get in,” said the woman, lifting the match.

The girl tumbled inside and shut the door.

The stairs were quiet; they must have stopped to think.

“What do you think you’re doing, bursting into other people’s apartments at this hour?” the woman asked her roughly.

“Please, let’s get away from this door. Let’s go somewhere we can talk,” pleaded the girl.

“I can’t, the match will die if I walk,” the woman said hoarsely. “We only get ten matches each.”

“I’ve got some right here—please, take them.”

She found the matchbox in her pocket and offered it to the woman.

“Light one yourself,” the woman said.

The girl lit a match, and in its flickering light they walked down the corridor.

“How many do you have?” asked the woman, glancing at the matchbox.

The girl shook the box.

“Not many,” said the woman. “Now you probably have only nine left.”

“Do you know how to escape?” whispered the girl.

“You can wake up, but not always. I won’t wake up anymore. My matches are all gone—bye-bye,” and she began to laugh, baring her large teeth. She was laughing quite noiselessly, as if she simply wanted to stretch her mouth.

“I want to wake up,” said the girl. “I want to end this horrible nightmare.”

“As long as your match is burning, you can escape. I’ve just used my last match to help you. Now I don’t care what happens. In fact, I’d rather you stay. You know, it’s all very simple—you don’t have to breathe. You can fly wherever you want. You will need neither light nor food. The black coat will protect you from all your problems. I will soon fly over to check on my children. They were little brats—they never listened to me. The younger one spat at me when I told them their father wasn’t coming back. He cried, and then he spat. I can’t love them anymore. I dream of how I’ll fly to look at my husband and his new girlfriend. I don’t care
about them, either. I’ve understood everything, finally. What a fool I was!”

And she laughed again. “With the last match my memory came back. I’ve remembered my entire life and know I was wrong. Now all I can do is laugh at myself.”

Indeed, she was grinning widely and soundlessly.

“Where are we?” asked the girl.

“I can’t tell you, but soon you’ll find out. There will be a smell.”

“Who am I?”

“You’ll find that out, too.”

“When?”

“When the last match is gone.”

The girl’s match had almost burned down.

“While it’s burning you can still wake up. I don’t know how. I couldn’t.”

“What’s your name?”

“Soon they will write my name with black paint on a small metal plaque that they will stick into a pile of dirt. When I read it, I’ll find out. A can of paint has been opened; the plaque is ready, too. Others don’t know yet—neither my husband, nor his new girl, nor the children. It’s so empty here! Soon I’ll fly away. I’ll see myself from above.”

“Please don’t go,” pleaded the girl. “Do you want some of my matches?”

The woman thought and said, “I suppose I could take one. I think my children may still love me. They’re going to cry. No one wants them—their father with his new wife doesn’t want them.”

The girl stuck her free hand into her pocket and pulled out not the matchbox but a scrap of paper.

“Listen to what it says! ‘Please don’t blame anyone. Mother, forgive me.’ A moment ago it was blank!”

“Aha, so that’s what you wrote on yours. Mine said, ‘Can’t go on like this. Children, I love you.’ Just now the words appeared.”

And the woman pulled out her note from the black coat’s pocket. She began to read it and suddenly exclaimed: “Look, the letters are disappearing! Somebody must be reading it. Someone has already found it. . . . The ‘c,’ the ‘a’ are gone, the ‘n’ is disappearing, too!”

The girl asked her, “Do you know why we’re here?”

“I do, but I won’t tell you—you will find out yourself. You still have a few matches left.”

The girl took the matchbox and offered it to the woman: “Take them! Take them all! But please tell me.”

The woman divided the matches and asked, “Do you remember who the note was for?”

“No.”

“Then light another match—this one is out. With each match I remembered more.”

So the girl took out her remaining matches and lit all four of them.

Everything became illuminated: she could see herself standing on a chair; on the desk she could see the note that said “please don’t blame anyone”; outside the window lay the dark city, and her lover, her betrothed, wouldn’t pick up the phone after she’d told him about her pregnancy; instead his
mother would answer, “Who is it and what do you want?”—knowing perfectly well who it was and what she wanted.

The last match was burning down, but the girl wanted to know who was sleeping in the next room, who was moaning and breathing heavily as she stood on that chair, tying her thin scarf to the pipe under the ceiling. Who was that person sleeping in the next room, and the other one, who was lying awake, staring into space, crying?

Who were they?

The match was almost out.

A little longer—and the girl knew everything.

And then, in that empty, dark apartment, she reached for her scrap of paper and lit it with the dying match.

And she saw that on the other side, in the other life, in the next room her ailing grandfather was asleep, and her mother was on a cot by his side because he was dangerously ill and constantly needed water.

And someone else, someone who loved her and whose presence she could sense was there too—but the note was burning so quickly—that someone was standing in front of her, offering her consolation, but she could neither see nor hear him, her heart was too full of pain. She loved only her betrothed, him and only him; she no longer loved her mother or her grandfather, or him, who was offering her consolation that night.

Then, at the very last moment, when the little flame was licking her fingers, she felt the desire to speak to him. But the poor little scrap of paper was burning out, as were the last fragments of her life in that room with a chair. And then the
girl pulled off the black coat and touched its dry fabric with the last flame of her note.

Something snapped. She smelled burning flesh, and two voices outside shrieked in pain.

“Take off your coat now!” she cried to the woman, who was smiling peacefully, her mouth stretched wide open, the last match dying in her hand. And the girl, who was still here, in the dark corridor with the smoking overcoat, but also in her room perched on a chair, gazing into those loving eyes—she touched the woman’s coat with her burning sleeve, and immediately a new double howl was heard from the stairs. A revolting smoke came from the woman’s coat, and the woman threw off the coat and immediately vanished.

The room around her vanished, too.

That same moment the girl stood on a chair with a scarf tied around her neck and, choking with saliva, was looking at the note on the desk, fiery circles dancing before her eyes.

In the next room someone groaned, and she heard her mother asking sleepily, “Father, want some water?”

As quickly as she could, the girl untied the scarf and took a breath; with shaking fingers she loosened the knot on the pipe, jumped off the chair, crumpled the note, and flopped on her bed, pulling the covers over her.

Just in time.

Her mother, blinking from the light, peeked into the room. “Dear God, what a terrible dream I’ve just had: a pile of earth in the corner, and from it some roots were growing . . . and your hand,” she said tearfully. “And it was stretching toward me, as if asking for help . . . Why are you sleeping
with your scarf on? Is your throat sore? Let me cover you up, my little one. I was crying in my dream . . .”

“
Mom
,” the girl replied in her usual voice, “you and your dreams. Can’t you leave me alone? It’s three in the morning, for your information!”

On the other side of the city a woman vomited up a handful of pills and washed her mouth thoroughly.

Then she went to the nursery where her fairly large children, ten and twelve years old, were sleeping, and rearranged their blankets.

Then she got down on her knees and prayed to be forgiven.