Claudiu speaks German well. Claudiu raises his chin. Claudiu speaks German with the voice of a shrunken grown man.
TEN LEI
The little gypsy girl from the next village is wringing out her grass-green apron. Water runs from her hand. Her plait hangs down onto her shoulder from the middle of her head. A red ribbon is plaited into her hair. It sticks out at the end like a tongue. The little gypsy girl stands barefoot with muddy toes in front of the tractor drivers.
The tractor drivers are wearing small, wet hats. Their black hands are on the table. “Show me,” says one. “I’ll give you ten lei.” He puts ten lei on the table. The tractor drivers laugh. Their eyes gleam. Their faces are red. Their glances finger the long flowery skirt. The gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The tractor driver empties his glass. The gypsy girl takes the bank note from the table. She twists the plait around her finger and laughs.
Windisch can smell the schnaps and the sweat from the next table. “They wear their sheepskins all summer long,” says the joiner. Froth from his beer clings to his thumbs. He dips his forefinger into the glass. “The dirty pig beside us is blowing ash into my beer,” he says. He looks at the Romanian standing behind him. The Romanian has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. It’s wet from his saliva. He laughs. “No more German,” he says. Then in Romanian: “This is Romania.”
The joiner has a greedy look. He raises his glass and empties it. “You’ll soon be rid of us,” he shouts. He signals to the landlord, who is standing at the tractor driver’s table. “Another beer,” he calls.
The joiner wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Have you been to the gardener yet?” he asks. “No,” says Windisch. “Do you know where he lives?” asks the joiner. Windisch nods: “On the edge of town.” “In Fratelia, in Enescu Street,” says the joiner.
The little gypsy girl pulls at the red tongue of her plait. She laughs and turns in a circle. Windisch sees her calves. “How much?” he asks. “Fifteen thousand each,” says the joiner. He takes the glass of beer from the landlord’s hand. “A single-storey building. The greenhouses are on the left. If the red car is in the courtyard, it’s open. There’ll be someone cutting wood in the yard. He’ll take you into the house,” says the joiner. “Don’t ring. If you do, the woodcutter will disappear. He won’t open up anymore.”
The men and women standing in the corner of the inn are drinking out of a bottle. A man wearing a crushed, black velveteen hat is holding a child in his arm. Windisch sees the small, naked soles of the child’s feet. The child reaches for the bottle. It opens its mouth. The man pushes the neck of the bottle to its mouth. The child closes its eyes and drinks. “Boozer,” says the man. He pulls back the bottle and laughs. The woman beside him is eating a crust of bread. She chews and drinks. White breadcrumbs float in the bottle.
“They stink of the sty,” says the joiner. A long brown hair hangs from his finger.
“They’re from the dairy,” says Windisch.
The women sing. The child totters up to them and tugs at their skirts.
“Today’s pay day,” says Windisch. “They drink for three days. Then they’ve got nothing left.”
“The milkmaid with the blue headscarf lives behind the mill,” says Windisch.
The little gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The gravedigger is standing beside his shovel. He reaches into his pocket. Gives her ten lei.
The milkmaid with the blue headscarf sings and vomits against the wall.
THE SHOT
The conductress’s sleeves are rolled up. She’s eating an apple. The second-hand on her watch twitches. It’s five past. The tram squeals.
A child pushes Amalie over an old woman’s suitcase. Amalie hurries.
Dietmar is standing at the entrance to the park. His mouth is hot on Amalie’s cheek. “We’ve got time,” he says. “The tickets are for seven. Five o’clock is sold out.”
The bench is cold. Small men carry wicker baskets full of dead leaves across the grass.
Dietmar’s tongue is hot. It burns Amalie’s ear. Amalie shuts her eyes. Dietmar’s breath is bigger in her head than the trees. His hand is cold under her blouse.
Dietmar closes his mouth. “I’ve got my call-up papers for the army,” he says. “My father’s brought my suitcase.”
Amalie pushes his mouth away from her ear. She presses her hand over his mouth. “Come into town,” she says, “I’m cold.”
Amalie leans against Dietmar. She feels his steps. She nestles under his jacket as though she were part of him.
There’s a cat in the shop window. It’s sleeping. Dietmar knocks on the pane. “I still have to buy some woollen socks,” he says. Amalie eats a roll. Dietmar blows a cloud of smoke into Amalie’s face. “Come on,” says Amalie, “I’ll show you my crystal vase.”
The dancer lifts her arm above her head. The white lace dress is stiff behind the window pane.
Dietmar opens a wooden door at the side of the shop. Behind the door is a dark passageway. The darkness smells of rotten onions. Three rubbish bins stand like big tins in a row against the wall.
Dietmar pushes Amalie onto the bin. The lid rattles. Amalie feels Dietmar’s thrusting member in her stomach. She holds on tightly to his shoulders. A child is talking in the inner courtyard.
Dietmar buttons his trousers. Music is coming out of the small window at the back of the yard.
Amalie sees Dietmar’s shoes moving forward in the queue. A hand tears the tickets in half. The usherette is wearing a black headscarf and a black dress. She switches off her torch. Corn cobs trickle out of the long neck of the harvester behind the tractor. The short is over.
Dietmar’s head rests on Amalie’s shoulder. Red letters appear on the screen: “Pirates of the Twentieth Century.” Amalie puts her hand on Dietmar’s knee. “Another Russian film,” she whispers. Dietmar lifts his head. “At least it’s in colour,” he says in her ear.
The green water ripples. Green forests line the shore. The deck of the ship is wide. A beautiful woman is holding on to the ship’s railing. Her hair blows like leaves.
Dietmar crushes Amalie’s finger in his hand. He looks at the screen. The beautiful woman speaks.
“We won’t see each other again,” he says. “I’ve got to join the army, and you’re emigrating.” Amalie sees Dietmar’s cheek. She moves. She speaks. “I’ve heard Rudi’s waiting for you,” says Dietmar.
On the screen, a hand opens. It reaches into a jacket pocket. On the screen are a thumb and an index finger. Between them is a revolver.
Dietmar is talking. Behind his voice, Amalie hears the shot
WATER HAS NO PEACE
“The owl is injured,” says the night watchman. A cloud-burst on the day of a funeral is too much even for an owl. If it doesn’t see the moon tonight, it won’t ever fly again. If it dies, the water will stink.”
“The owls have no peace, and the water has no peace,” says Windisch. “If it dies, another owl will come to the village. A stupid young owl that doesn’t know anything. It will sit on anyone’s roof.”
The night watchman looks up at the moon. “Then young people will die again,” he says. Windisch sees that the air just in front of him belongs to the night watchman. His voice manages a tired sentence. “Then it will be like the war again,” he says.
“The frogs are croaking in the mill,” says the night watchman.
They make the dog crazy.
THE BLIND COCK
Windisch’s wife sits on the edge of the bed. “There were two men here today,” she says. “They counted the hens and noted it down. They caught eight hens and took them away. They put them in wire cages. The trailer on their tractor was full of hens.” Windisch’s wife sighs. “I signed,” she says. “And for four hundred kilos of maize and a hundred kilos of potatoes. They’ll take those later, they said. I gave them the fifty eggs right away. They went into the garden in rubber boots. They saw the clover in front of the barn. Next year we’ll have to grow sugar-beet there, they said.”