You have to help Adina, she says. He reaches in his pants pocket, twists the cap off the perfume flask, sprinkles a couple of drops on the curve of her neck, what does it smell like, he says and drops the cap into her blouse. He places the open bottle on the table, the scent hangs in the kitchen, oppressively heavy on Clara’s neck.
She tears her eyes away from the fork in the tree, from this dented green ball, from this mute summer game stuck in the branches.
It smells like secret police, says Clara.
* * *
He goes into the room and bumps into the open umbrella. He stands in the hall and puts on his shoes. Your key’s on the bed, says Pavel, his fingers searching for the laces.
You can keep my key, says Clara, that way you won’t need to have one made. His shoes pinch, they are narrow and hard. You have Adina’s key as well, except she never gave you one.
Two places are set on the table. The two forks are touching each other but not the knives. And the tub of margarine has been scooped out in two corners, down to the plastic bottom. Some bread crumbs have fallen on the margarine, and a bit of crust is on Pavel’s plate.
You’re not saying anything, he says.
She opens the refrigerator and puts the margarine inside. The square of light falls on her feet. I’m going, he says. Her cheek is cold. The meat is packed in cellophane, the cellophane is coated with frost, like the gardens outside.
Pavel’s feet are confused, but his hand is sure, it finds the door handle. He pulls the door shut with a bang.
* * *
The next morning Clara leaves the umbrella right where it was, still open. The umbrella comes from Pavel. Also the dress in the sewing machine. Also the needle stopped in mid-stitch. And the roses in the vase.
The green ball in the fork of the tree peers into the kitchen, the coffee water is boiling. The coffee comes from Pavel, the sugar cubes, the cigarette Clara is smoking, the sweater she is wearing, the pants, the panty hose. Also the earrings, the mascara, the lipstick. And last night’s perfume.
* * *
The cold cigarette smoke leaves a sour taste on her tongue. Her cold breath flies into the air like smoke and tastes sour in her mouth. The dust on the streets lapping behind the trucks has a different smell than the dust of summer. And the clouds in the city have a different smell than they do in summer. Clara paces back and forth in front of the secret police building.
* * *
Two men come down the stairs, then one man, three men, a woman who pulls on a sheepskin jacket as she walks.
A calendar is stuck to the wall behind the guard’s head. Spring, summer, fall, each past month has been crossed off, almost an entire year. The guard stands up to his stomach in the gatehouse window.
Clara feels her throat tighten, she lights a cigarette, have you been summoned, asks the guard, she doesn’t put her lighter away and offers him the pack of cigarettes. He rests his left hand on the telephone and slowly pulls two cigarettes out with his right. One he sticks in his mouth, the other in the left breast pocket of his uniform. One for the mouth and one for the heart, he says. His lighter flickers, he looks at her, so who would you like to see, he asks, blowing the smoke up into his hair. She says: PAVEL MURGU. He dials a number with the hand holding the cigarette, who shall I say is calling, he asks. She says: CLARA. The cigarette sticks out of his breast pocket like a finger, Clara who, he asks, she says, Comrade MURGU will know.
The trucks rattle outside, it’s cold and dreary and isn’t snowing. The trees shake the dust onto the road, have you known the Comrade Colonel very long, asks the gatekeeper, she nods. I’ve never seen you here before, he says. He listens with his throat, with his chin in the receiver, the ash drops, yes yes he says. The cigarette has slipped all the way down into his breast pocket. You may wait for him in the café across the street, he says, the Comrade Colonel will be there in a quarter hour.
* * *
The waitress is wearing a white lace crown on the middle of her head. Her hair is gray, she hums a song as she passes between the smoke and the empty tables. The trucks hum through the windowpane, from above you can see what they’re carrying, sacks and lumber. The waitress balances a tray with five glasses, five policemen are sitting at the table. Next to them are six men in suits and the woman in the sheepskin jacket.
The ceiling has a brown water stain and a light fixture with five arms, four empty sockets and one bulb. The bulb is burning but all it lights is the rising smoke. The woman in the sheepskin calls out MITZI, the waitress sets the empty tray on the table, and one of the men in suits says, seven Jamaica rums. A truck shakes the windowpane. The truck is carrying barrels and pipes. Who knows where they come from, thinks Clara, the barrels and pipes are covered with snow.
Sitting in the corner, next to the door, are two old men with stubbly, toothless faces. They are playing cards. One is wearing a verdigris ring. The cards are notched and worn thin, ace of clubs, says the man with the ring, but there are no clubs left on the card he pulls from his hand, only gray spots.
* * *
Comrade MURGU, says the man with the verdigris ring.
Pavel shakes his hand, how are you getting along with life, he asks. The man wearing the ring laughs with his black empty mouth, how about one more on you, Comrade MURGU, he says. Pavel nods, the laughing mouth calls out MITZI.
The other man sets his cards facedown on the table, once upon a time our MITZI was a great singer, he says. The waitress hums, two Jamaica rums, says the man with the ring. MITZI may be a daughter of the working class, says the other, but she really is an angel. Those were the days, our MITZI was young and famous throughout the city, down at the ȘARI-NENI, they had the best singers and down in the cellar they made the clearest brandy.
Pavel looks over to Clara, and Clara listens as she watches a truck outside drive through the winter dust. The truck is carrying sand and stones.
In those days educated people still drank with the poor folk, says the man with the verdigris ring. One time the professor took a burnt matchstick and drew a picture just for me illustrating the human soul, it was incredibly thin. And the royal notary only had eyes for our MITZI. She had a mouth like a rose, says the man with the verdigris ring, and a voice like a nightingale.
The other snickers with wilted lips. And breasts like white porcelain, he says, and her nipples were more beautiful than most other women’s eyes.
* * *
The men in suits laugh, one of the policemen pulls off his cap and bangs it on the table, the woman in the sheepskin jacket strokes the curls around her collar, Pavel nods to her, claps the man next to her on the shoulder.
The waitress carries her tray, she does not hum as she walks. She is clearly moved, her face is soft, her eyes transfigured, she places two Jamaica rums on the cards in front of the toothless men, smiles and sighs and strokes the head of the one with the verdigris ring.
* * *
Pavel perches on the chair. I’m so happy, he says to Clara, let’s have a drink, he looks at the stain on the ceiling. The waitress comes, two Jamaica rums, he says, and touches Clara’s hand with a fingertip. We’re pretty conspicuous here, he says, everyone’s listening and everyone’s watching.
Do you like it here, asks Clara. Pavel tugs on his tie, as much as you do in the factory, he says.
My head is dark
Adina comes home from school in the afternoon. She washes the chalk off her hands because it gnaws away her fingers. Two sunflower seeds are floating in the toilet bowl. She knows even before she can think it, the fox.