I stood up, stiff and sore, hurried to the door and quickly closed it.
Imagine if someone had discovered me, imagine if customers had looked in and seen me sleeping in the shop, right in the middle of opening hours. Even more stories could arise from such things, yet again I could put myself on the map as the village fool. But maybe, hopefully, the afternoon had been just as bloody quiet, or should I say as blessedly quiet, as the morning.
My stomach clamored for nourishment and wrapped in paper was a last piece of the pie. Dry and cold, the grease had congealed into a wormlike ridge around the edge. I ate it all the same and simultaneously swore I would never again allow myself be tempted into eating this dish. Perhaps not even pie at all. Although, what difference did it make?
I closed up, locked the door and set out for home.
The voices from the tavern grew louder.
The windows were warm yellow squares in the darkness. For the first time in my life, I felt drawn to them. A goblet of cheap wine, merely. It couldn’t do any harm. I stopped. If someone saw me in there, that I’d become one of them, would it really change anything?
Everything was as usual outside the tavern. The same scenes played themselves out this evening as on every other evening; two rough workmen were arguing loudly, one of them bumped into the other, shoved him, soon they would fight. A stout tramp gurgled to himself as he lurched down the street; at the same time a tall lout came staggering out the door, brushed against the corner and spewed twice where nobody could see, but the sounds of the day’s supper and the excessively large amounts of alcohol he had consumed, which found its way back out into the fresh air, were not to be mistaken.
No. I headed home. I had not sunk that low. When I passed the building, I noticed that even more people were outside on this bright summer evening.
A young girl’s vulgar squealing. “Stop it! Don’t!”
It was a no that said yes. Followed by intense giggling.
It was only now that I recognized the voice. It was Alberta. I didn’t even need to see her to know how her large breasts were most certainly on the verge of swelling out of her dress, I could literally feel the penetrating odor of the cleavage between them all the way here.
Somebody was pressing against her and digging with his hands at all of her curves, slurring drunken incoherence against her throat, absorbed in his own lust, own intoxication, own desire, pounding against this wind-fallen fruit, this rotting fruit, that would soon bulge into something unrecognizable, swell up, for nine whole months. A young boy, judging by his ungainly figure, perhaps no more than fifteen or sixteen years old, the voice still hoarse and fresh, recently changed. He was far younger than she was, should have been at home, in bed, sleeping or perhaps reading, studying, planning for the future, to make somebody proud, to make a name for himself. A door opened, the light fell through, disclosing with whom Alberta was having vertical intercourse, who the young figure was, who far too soon had commenced his own process of putrefaction, consumed by what he believed was passion, who at exactly this moment was in the process of putting his entire existence at risk, and who didn’t see me, see his father, his father who believed that life had long since hit rock bottom, but who at this moment truly had the rug pulled out from under his feet.
Edmund.
Chapter 45
TAO
I continued along the subway track, passed several stations, but didn’t see any people, saw no sign of any kind of life. Mile after mile, still running, with lungs that burned and the taste of blood in my mouth. Every station I caught sight of awakened a hope. But every attempt to open a door, to come out onto the platform was the same slap in the face. Because they weren’t in operation. I was still in no-man’s-land.
I had no idea my legs could carry me this far, that I could push myself this hard. But now there was nothing left.
I sank down against the wall of a house. There was a tearing in my chest due to lack of oxygen. The darkness closed in around me, around the city, around what had once been a city. Directly across from me lay a collapsed building, destroyed beyond recognition, perhaps the last thing they’d done, those who’d moved away from here. As if they didn’t want there to be anything left. But everywhere there were traces of people. Old adverts posted, a broken bicycle, threadbare curtains bearing marks of the wind and weather behind a broken window, nameplates on entrance doors, some playful, handwritten, others formal and manufactured. Where were they now, all those who had lived their lives here?
I hadn’t thought about it before, but the rubbish had been removed. The bins were empty, lined up along the sidewalk, neatly in a row, down the whole street. Perhaps that was actually the last thing that had happened here. A garbage truck had rumbled through the deserted streets and cleaned up to prevent rats. Or perhaps to gather up the final remnants of nourishment, of organic waste that could be scavenged, scraped out and served again. Preferably as animal feed, or also for us, as food for humans, camouflaged, disguised, mixed into forcemeat and sausages, as canned food—with additives of all the different artificial components of flavors and chemicals that made our food edible.
My mouth watered. I’d been saving the package of biscuits for the way home. Now I had nothing.
I tried getting on my feet, but they gave out from under me. My muscles burned. I tried again, supporting myself against the wall, and this time I succeeded.
Step by step I walked over to the closest gate, pushed at it carefully. The movement produced a thunderous sound in the metal.
Inside there was an empty courtyard. Leaves had been blown into small piles in the corners. On both of the long sides there was a door. I tried one of them.
It led to an entrance, a cramped, narrow stairway. The day was sliding away out there, just a few small cracks in the wall admitted the dwindling twilight onto the steps.
I limped up the stairs. Every step hurt, but my breathing was no longer as heavy. I came up to the second floor. A door on either side. I tried the closest one. It was locked. I continued across the landing and stopped. Then I tried again, pushed the handle down. The expectation of meeting the same resistance was in my hand, so I jumped when the door slid open.
I stood there. The odor of the flat spread out into the staircase, hitting me. There was nothing special about it, but all homes have their own smell. The smell of the people who live there. The food they have eaten, the clothes they have washed, the shoes they have worn, the sweat they have secreted, the breath they have exhaled during the late-night hours—the rank smell from sleeping people’s mouths—bedding that perhaps should have been changed, a frying pan that should have been washed, but left for the next day, so the food residue had congealed and started to decay.
But now only the shadow of all the smells remained, almost hidden by the massive stuffiness.
I stepped across the doorway. The flat was small, just two rooms. Like our flat, Kuan’s and mine. Perhaps this had also housed a small family of three. A bedroom towards the courtyard, a combined sitting room and kitchen facing the street.
I closed the door behind me and walked into the sitting room. It was virtually empty, vacated, although the largest furnishings had clearly been left behind. A frayed corner sofa that was a little too big and covered with gray fabric loomed, taking up almost half the floor. An old, warped chest of drawers painted black stood against the opposite wall.