I went back to work and the pace picked up, since there were no apples lying in the grass and only a few drifted leaves.
Maybe I should say something about the mouse, about the mouse and the mosquitoes. Saturday night Martina had woken me up. “Do you hear that? Don’t you hear it?” She sounded just a little hysterical. “A mouse! Don’t you hear it?” The mouse must have scampered in at the window. There had been frost the past few mornings. Martina claimed mice had no trouble clambering up a stucco wall, especially if it was overgrown with a grapevine.
A mousetrap didn’t even occur to us, as if that was old-fashioned, obsolete. Martina’s plan was to lure the Findeisens’ cat over, and I was supposed to move one cabinet after the other away from the wall. There was no mention of a mousetrap until noon, when she was hanging up the wash and told Becker’s wife all about it.
The two green interlocking boxes looked more like a homemade telescope. Inside was a triggered pedal, so that when the mouse ran over it the door slammed shut behind. Becker’s wife had recommended using sponge cake. Sponge cake was sure to catch any mouse. As I said, that had been two days ago, and I knew of no reason to feel guilty.
And then I just couldn’t take it anymore. I left the mower standing in the middle of the lawn and walked over to her.
“I bought a sponge cake,” I said. “Would you like a piece?” I wanted to add that even stale sponge cake tasted good with Martina’s jelly. But she interrupted me.
“Keep your fingers crossed for us,” she repeated more loudly. With every step she took the legs of her black leather pants rubbed together — a sound somewhere between a squeak and a crunch. “If you want to do something for us, cross your fingers.”
As she spoke Becker’s wife braced herself against the clothes pole and stared at me almost savagely.
Standing between the fence and the quince tree, I listened to her and had no idea how I would ever be able to make my retreat.
Kevin was in a coma. It had happened in front of the theater, between the two construction sites.
She described it all in great detail. I might even say she got caught up in it, pressing both hands to her ribs and pelvis, slapping her thighs, only to begin squeezing her temples between the heels of both hands and attempting to turn her head, but holding it in place as if caught in a vise. Her sweater had inched up to her navel.
Becker’s wife began to weep. I was about to scale the fence and take her hand in mine when their telephone rang.
She left the back door ajar. So I waited. After a few minutes I pushed the mower over to the fence, dragged the extension cord over, and set to work again in view of her back door, never letting it out of my sight. I assumed Becker’s wife was telling somebody what she had just told me, and wondered if she was making the same gestures as she held the phone, but with only one hand touching her body.
Instead of bothering to bend over to empty the mower basket, I went into a squat and, slipping the plastic bag around it, upended it all at once. I worked as if under the watchful eye of a supervisor.
To be honest I was relieved that the reason for her strange behavior wasn’t because of some misunderstanding between us — if there has to be a dispute, better one with your colleagues than your neighbors. At home you need your peace and quiet.
Neighborliness requires nothing more than a greeting and a few extra words. That’s no problem in summer. And when there’s nothing more to do in the yard, you don’t see much of one another, even if your back doors are only forty feet apart.
I rang the doorbell at the Beckers’ and the Findeisens’ just once all last winter, under the pretext of needing a couple of onions and a lemon. You have to do that sort of thing on weekends, of course. And bring back at least twice as much on Monday. You want them to know they can depend on you. Moreover, hardly a week goes by that I don’t accept a package for somebody on the block. And I’m willing to do other favors as well, all anybody needs to do is ask.
And so I kept my eye on her back door, but somehow missed the moment when she closed it. Had Becker’s wife noticed that I had long since finished mowing around the quince tree? Had I looked ridiculous?
It was on the little strip of grass between the street and the house that I found the schnapps bottles. There was always at least one, but this time there were three: two bottles of Golden Meadow and one of Little Coward. A fourth one missing its label had been set upside down on the narrow brick border around our herb bed. Evidently street people had taken a break at our place on their way to the shelter. That also explained the dog shit, which luckily the mower cleared as it passed over.
I always assumed we had come to some tacit agreement with the street people: They were to screw the tops back on the bottles and not fling them into the street or against the wall of the house. Most of the time I just tossed these wino bottles into the garbage, although normally we carefully separate metal caps from glass. But tossing four of them into the container at once — no, I couldn’t do it. On the other hand, the idea of screwing off the caps disgusted me — those belong in the yellow bag — plus having to rinse out the bottles before putting them in the bin for throwaway glass. I propped all four against the garbage can. Maybe Martina would come up with a solution.
That particular afternoon the grass smelled at times like sorrel, then like fish, and then again like it had in the spring. It even left a taste like sliced cucumbers in my mouth.
Around five o’clock Becker himself came home and vanished into the house. He works in a computer store. At one time he had been part of the cadre responsible for selling Planeta printing presses worldwide. Martina always holds up his example to me — he had just rolled up his sleeves. Because he, or so she claimed, didn’t think he was too good for any job.
He’s one of those people who can eat whatever they want and never get fat — and pride themselves on the fact. He almost always wears faded blue jeans, with a big bunch of keys hanging from one belt loop to announce his comings and goings like a cowbell.
Ten minutes later the Beckers drove off with the two girls.
Although it was almost dark and I had done more than enough for one day, I went on working. I prefer to go back into the house along with Martina, or after her on those rare occasions when she fixes supper. Nowadays she’s frequently late, a whole hour on that particular Tuesday. I waited to tell her the news until she was sitting in the kitchen.
I had taken note of every detail — from the broken cheekbones, collarbones, and ribs, to the pelvis and legs, down to the decrease in cerebral pressure, and how Nancy, who had witnessed the whole thing, was getting psychological counseling.
Holding her head between her hands, Martina looked as if she were covering her ears. She often sits there like that when she’s tired. I think we were both relieved to find Felix at the door.
In May he had joined a group of fellow students in a shared apartment not far from Market Square, a real tumbledown dump. He’s been paying the fifty marks’ rent himself. I don’t know where he’s getting the money from.
Martina told him about the Beckers. I was hoping she would forget some detail so I could chime in. She asked me how the driver was doing. I shrugged.
“Close call,” was all that Felix managed to come up with in reply to Martina’s report. She wanted to know what he meant by that. Felix had his mouth full and chopped at the air with the edge of his hand. “It happened to our neighbors, that’s a close call.”
I waited for Martina to say something. But nothing apt came to her either.
Ever since he moved out, Felix and I are getting along better again. We both think Martina’s new hairdo is silly. From a distance it looks like she’s wearing a beret.