All of a sudden the sun peeked out, because up till then it had been hidden behind the mist. The mist covered a wide area, but it also extended high into the air. There are mists like that. It was then I saw my hat, a few feet away in the grass. And next to the hat was the muzzle of a cow, as if it was sniffing at the hat. I reached down, carefully took the hat from under the cow’s muzzle, then the whole cow emerged from the mist. At the same instant other cows began to appear on all sides, as if from the wall of mist. The sun was thinning out the mist almost as I watched, the meadows stretched into the distance and more and more cows had come, like someone had driven them out of the mist toward me. Some of them were raising their heads and staring, evidently startled by my presence. Some came closer till I could see their large mute eyes.
I was overcome by fear of them. I hurried away, and kept glancing back to see if they were following me. Though cows are the gentlest creatures under the sun. Of all creatures that exist, including humans. I used to graze them, I know. They weren’t moving, they were standing there watching, as if they couldn’t understand why I was running away from them. I tripped over a molehill and almost fell. I thought that maybe my grandfather was waiting for the mole with a spade. But no. It was because I’d looked around yet again to see if the cows were following me.
Glancing back constantly, I came upon a small group of women standing around a pile of dried potato stalks. You know what potato stalks are, right? The plants that are left after you dig up the potatoes. You make a bonfire of the dried stalks, you bake potatoes in it, there’s always smoke everywhere. When you’re driving in the fall, but earlier than now, you can see plumes of smoke from the fires rising here and there in the fields.
More and more piles of stalks appeared as the mist cleared. At each pile there was an identical group of women, all dressed in black. I was about to tip my hat and apologize for the interruption when one of the women turned to me with her finger on her lips, indicating that I should be quiet. It only lasted a split second, but I noticed a boundless sorrow in her expression. She was wearing a black hat with a huge brim; her eyes were big and dark, and her sorrow pierced me.
The women made room and another of them, who also wore a black hat though with a somewhat narrower brim, beckoned me to stand amongst them. I thought that they must want to light the bonfire, but they didn’t have matches. Potato stalks, fall, meadows, cows, mist — everything pointed to this. Perhaps they were even planning to bake potatoes? I reached into my pocket for matches, but the woman standing closest to me stopped my arm and gave me a reproachful look.
I couldn’t say how many of them were standing around the pile. I wasn’t counting. Besides, you know how it is in dreams. Dreams don’t like numbers. Most of the women were elegantly dressed in black overcoats, black furs, black hats and shawls and gloves. And the black of each woman’s outfit was different from that of any of the others.
One of them had a black veil wound around her hat. Another wore a huge hat decorated with black roses — I think she was the one who had turned to me with her finger to her lips to stop me from speaking. I just hadn’t noticed the roses at the time. Another had a tiny little hat, but with a black pearl the size of a poppy head pinned to the front. I know there are no pearls like that, but in dreams there are, evidently. One had no hat, only a black veil over her head, dark glasses in gilt frames, and a black fur that glistened with droplets of mist. Yet another wore a hat with a veil so thick that nothing of her face could be seen. That woman’s sorrow seemed the most painful of all to me.
Among them were some country women. Muffled in shawls, in sleeveless jackets, wearing thin worn overcoats and crooked shoes, they hunched over, whether from sadness or from the drudgery of life. It must have been colder than it seemed to me, because they were blowing on their stiff blue hands. It occurred to me that perhaps the women in the elegant outfits were their daughters, daughters-in-law, cousins, who had come back from where they lived out in the world for the baking of potatoes. What could fine ladies like that be wanting for, if not the taste of potatoes baked in a bonfire.
“Have the potatoes been put into the bonfires yet?” I asked in a half-whisper.
“What potatoes?” asked the woman with the pearl the size of a poppy head, indignant at my question.
“Then what is it?”
“They’re dying,” said one of the country women in a voice filled with grief, as she blew on her hands.
“Who? Where?” I didn’t understand.
“The old farmers here, in these piles, they’re dying,” the women in the hat with the black roses said softly in my ear.
“Lord in heaven,” sighed one of the country women. Tears prevented her from saying any more.
“What do you mean, they’re dying?” It was still a mystery to me.
The one in the dark glasses chided me:
“Please stop talking. Show some respect.”
All the same I leaned over the pile of stalks, thinking I might recognize someone from our village. But there was only the narrowest of gaps, no bigger than a final sigh, and I couldn’t see a thing. I was about to widen the crack a little, but I heard someone murmur above me:
“Please don’t do that.”
I looked to see who had spoken, and I realized I didn’t know a single one of the women, either the fine ladies or the country women. Well, the one in the veil I might have noticed in passing at some point. But how could I see through her veil to check. The veil was dark as night, plus it was densely patterned with knots, they looked like little flies. I thought to myself that if I kept my eyes on her, at some moment she might need to wipe her tears, then she’d have to lift the veil. All at once a voice reached me from under the veiclass="underline"
“Please don’t look at me like that. Especially because this isn’t me, despite what you think.”
“Ah, the priest’s here at last,” said one of the country women.
I did in fact see a priest. He had risen from his knees at a nearby pile and was headed toward us. He wore a surplice, had a stole around his neck, and carried a Bible. I was about to shout:
“Hey, Priest! Remember me?”
I knew him right away. But when he came close, it turned out that it wasn’t the welder from the building site, but a photographer. Without even asking, right away he took our picture. I’m standing with the group of women around a pile of dry potato stalks, in the brown felt hat. Can you imagine, I had so many hats in my life, but in the picture I’m wearing the brown felt one.
He clicked the shutter and took the picture out of the camera on the spot. It was in color, of course. My hat is brown, the meadow is green, the pile of stalks we’re standing around is grayish, and the black of each woman’s outfit is different. I believe he said which magazine he was from, but I don’t remember. He said he’d just learned that here, on the meadows, in the piles of stalks old farmers were dying, and he’d come.
“The issue’s going to sell like hotcakes,” he said, crowing with anticipation. All he had to do was get into the middle of the pile.
He fixed a long lens on his camera. He knelt down by the pile and inserted the lens into the gap the size of a final sigh. He clicked and clicked, all excited, exclaiming: Excellent, fantastic, even better. Except that when he was done, it was like someone began to pull him into the pile. He struggled and struggled, calling out, Help me, someone, till in the end he had to let go of his camera. And that’s how he lost possession of it.