The waiting room had filled with other passengers. Many people were standing — propped between suitcases — the noise had increased. Looked at the clock: there was another hour to go. Stretched out my hand for the book again and bumped into someone’s shoulder. The bench was occupied. Had dozed off. Went out onto the platform, then behind the station. The bus came shortly afterward. We crowded aboard. The driver was ripping tickets from a book. Managed to find a seat. Our route crossed several villages and small towns. We traveled for two hours. Arrived at a small fishing village. From here we could cross to the other bank by boat in the afternoon. The bus had emptied in front of a place called The Village Buffet. Looked at those disembarking passengers. Judging by the way they moved and by their parcels of food and necessities, it looked like we would make the next portion of the journey to the prison together, too. The boat was leaving at noon.
The muddy water ran backward, ground by the boat’s paddles. A powerful smell of gas came from the motor. Had eaten nothing. The movement of the boat, the smell of gasoline, and people’s flapping clothes were making me dizzy. Sat down on one of the benches. The travelers were sharing disaster stories: the biographies of the prisoners they had come to visit. A damp wind struck one’s cheeks.
Had prepared a speech. Would assure him that misfortune had brought us closer together, and that the errors and injustices couldn’t last much longer. At the end of his suffering, he would find an honorable place in society, once again, and another son, too. My voice would be kind and reassuring: it would all be nothing but love. The boat bobbed and danced. Leaned against the rail, closed my eyes. Somewhere close, a piano lilted through a speaker.
— That’s Handel’s Chaconne in G Major.
The wind whispered near my ear: it had the voice of my sister, resurrected from the smoke in which she’d vanished. In a moment, I’d feel the silk of her hands to assure myself she was alive, her voice would be real, to assure myself of being alive.
— You know, I’m a music professor.
Disguised, on this damp boat? But there was nothing to be afraid of; it was just a lady passenger, a music professor.
Didn’t budge. Didn’t open my eyes. Had heard nothing, seen nothing. . there was nothing but to be the essence of patience. . expectation. Might she disappear suddenly, the same way she came — out of smoke — as if she had never existed? It was too late. After managing to turn toward the left, to open my eyes again, there was no longer anyone there — a delusion, then, and only the piano coming from the speaker and the murky water waving.
Viewed from the side, the woman looked tired: hair hidden under an ugly, blackened scarf, tied under the chin, like an old lady. Her gray overcoat hung long, straight, and wide as a cloak. She probably wore slacks: there was a scrap of material that stretched between the hem of her overcoat and the top of her work boots. Didn’t look at her anymore. Then she addressed me: a familiar voice, a very well-known voice. . ah, yes, from the children’s broadcast. Red, soft, puffy cheeks, wrinkled, double chin, thick neck, and yet still, yes, she still had something childish about her, something tender, naughty, and appalling. Glanced at her lively, mobile, green eyes. She was talking, explaining herself.
We got off on the other bank. She came close to me and sat down.
— And what exactly did the friend you’re visiting commit?
— How can I put it. . it would take some explaining. Actually, he stole a pair of shoes from a store.
My eyes opened wide. To me, interest in such curiosities seemed possible. She was waiting for this, to tell her story. Director of a school until several months ago, Professor Tiberiu Covalschi had many shortcomings, and he turned out to be a kleptomaniac. The shoe adventure had been attributed to this condition. There couldn’t be any other explanation. They’d been colleagues at a special schooclass="underline" the pupils were dignitaries’ children, and Covalschi had used his position to terrorize his subordinates.
— It’s not like that anymore. There are other children at our school now, too. But since then I’ve been left with a kind of. .
Unable to find the word, she gestured with her hand to chase away the confusion.
— You’re probably indebted to him if you’ve come this far.
— No, no, not at all. On the contrary — he always behaved badly with me. He did me a lot of harm, as he did to others.
They had gotten close, however, at one point: she had a perpetual need for advice, for someone else’s understanding, since her mother had disappeared into an asylum for the mentally ill. . yeah, the old lady had suffered a lot: she had seen her husband killed before her eyes after he had been forced to dig his own grave. Maybe Covalschi wasn’t all that bad, only deranged: after everything that had happened since that miserable night when he’d terrorized her, she believed he was sick. . he had made her fear those privileged kids, those cars that had brought them to school. . even now, when some limousine happened to stop in front of the school, even though it was rare — and, actually, many people have cars now — she’d begin to tremble the way she used to, yes, she continued having trouble managing the children, the classroom, the classes full of kids who sensed her weaknesses, who blackmailed her and put her in compromising positions. They were terrorizing her — what more could you say? — that was the word. The bags under her eyes were twitching by now. Her eyes had turned gray. Day was passing into dusk. A great, postponed terror dilated itself; she was trembling. Her voice had lost its clarity. It wheezed, deepened.
— Then why did you come here? Still, it seems that. .
— You know, we were kind of friends. I’m attached to the memories.
Little, white balls of foam had blossomed in the corners of her thin, cracked lips.
— Actually, he’s alone. Yes, that’s it. He has nobody. I’m alone too. I wanted to see someone, anyone, to leave home. . I couldn’t stand it anymore, and I think it will please him. I’m also on the way to see Mama, far away in the mountains, at the asylum.
She couldn’t add much more. People were lining up. We rose. The woman had been focused on her confessions, which was fine with me, since she hadn’t asked about the reason for my visit.
The hour approached. We had to climb a hill. There was a long, brick barracks on the peak. We couldn’t see the canal embankments that the prisoners were being forced to build; they were probably far away, and the dormitories where the prisoners would have to be brought were far away too. At noon, right after our arrival, a list had been drawn up with the names of the detainees we were trying to see, and someone had brought it up to the barracks. It was almost evening now. The women were crowding to get to the front; the convoy’s impatience had grown.
We remained in the barracks for another hour, in a state of expectation. Naturally, it would have been best to avoid being in the same series with Madam (or Miss) Professor. Her name fell at the end of the alphabet, mine at the start. The patrol called my name among the first. Hadn’t expected the names of the visited being called, and not the opposite, but Tiberiu Covalschi was in the first series of eight as well, so the professor was near me at the wire grill that separated us from the detainees. The door opened. Gray caps in hand, heads and beards shaved, they entered as they were called.
We were separated by no more than a spider’s web: it was clear that the man across from me didn’t have rich, curly hair anymore. His lenses had gotten bigger. The glass: thick, spiraled, focalized. Maybe this frightened me. He smiled. A wave of scorching heat came over me, but everything that had to be said was clear in my mind. Had all my words already prepared at the moment the signal was given to begin talking.