The man with the guitar approached them and held out his hand. A dark hand, large, with long fingers. He gave the man a coin.
“Perhaps we shouldn’t linger.”
She didn’t answer him. A hand like his, the man asking for charity, began to tighten around her throat gently, gently.
“Do you want me to walk you to the platform?”
No, she couldn’t answer. It was as if she were choking. The hand was tightening around her throat. It was painful in two or three places.
“Do you know which platform it is? I’m afraid you might get lost. .”
The gentleman in the raincoat had opened a suitcase and had taken out a bottle of wine. He poured some into the glass and started to drink slowly. He had eaten the asparagus, stems and all.
He called to the waitress.
“I’m sorry, really sorry. I think without me you’ll find yourself. .”
It was starting to pass. The hand wasn’t so tight now. She was even able to say:
“I’ve always liked traveling by train. . I loved it as a child. . Did I ever tell you that once. .? Oh, there’s no point in my telling you now.”
The waitress brought them the check. They paid. She picked up the suitcase.
When they were at the door of the restaurant, she told him: “Don’t come. It’s better. Do you hear me? Don’t come.”
Tears welled up in her eyes. Again she felt her throat tightening.
He took her by the arm: “Don’t you think we could. . don’t you. .”
He started to kiss her. She turned her face. He felt her whole body stiffen, and he released her arm.
“Good-Bye.”
From a distance he saw her hand the ticket to the control officer. “I won’t see her again,” he thought, “ever again.”
“Excuse me.”
The man with the guitar wanted to get by. The woman was behind him. She was short and plump, wearing a soiled black dress, very shiny.
He let them through and went out to the street.
FRIDAY, JUNE 8
“Hush, little thing, hush.”
She set her dirty old purse on the grass. The metal glaze that covered the clasp had started to flake off, leaving her fingers smelling of nickel. She rubbed them on the edge of her jacket as she unbuttoned her blouse with one hand. Her sagging breasts were pale and lined with dark blue veins. The baby began sucking hungrily, then slowly closed her eyes; when she opened them again, they had a steady, vacant look. A drop of milk trickled from her mouth.
The girl stood motionless, gazing at the river. The wind droned as it whipped through the iron rods of the high bridge, creating ripples on the water, swirling her skirt, playing with the grass. The baby choked, let go of the breast, then searched for it again with an uncertain gesture of her head, like a blind, newborn kitten. Her fists had been clenched the entire time, but they gradually opened, like a flower.
The bridge shook. The shadow of a train sped across the water, letting out a long whistle that blended with the sounds of the bridge and the wind. A cloud of thick smoke slowly began to dissipate beneath the bridge, downstream.
She gave an indifferent glance at the man beside her. She hadn’t heard him approach, nor did she know from what direction he came. He stood in the light, and the sun cast a circle of light on his tattered clothes, which were covered in a yellow dust that sifted as he moved. The neck of a bottle protruded from a leather pouch he was carrying and a half-filled sack rested on his back. He had small, blue eyes, and his mustache and beard were very white. The man glanced at the sleeping baby, her head canted, the skin glistening where the milk had trickled.
“Must be hungry.”
The girl didn’t reply but clutched the baby against her chest, to protect it. The man didn’t notice the gesture. With his finger he gently stroked her rosy forehead.
“You don’t think she’s too delicate to be out in this wind?”
He was confronted by a hard look and heard the woman hold her breath between clenched teeth. He stood there a moment, hesitating.
“None of my business. I can see you’re not the talkative kind. Salut.” He limped away, up a diagonal path toward a vineyard that hugged the slope like a green sheet spread across the arid land. Without turning her head, she followed him with her eyes. He walked fast. Soon she could see only a dark smudge against the bright horizon.
She placed the sleeping infant on the ground, then picked up a nearby rock. She pulled a dirty rope from her pocket and began to wind it around the rock. Two red, feverish spots shone on her emaciated cheeks. The sun caught blue reflections in her hair and made her bloodless fingernails shimmer as her hands knotted the rope.
She strode back to the child’s side and knelt down. Slowly she slipped the rope under her head. The baby whimpered and clenched its fists without waking up.
“Hush, little thing, Go to sleep,” she whispered as she picked up the baby.
The girl had to make an effort to stand up. She placed the rock on the baby’s stomach and walked to the water’s edge. Her feet plunged into the mud. She took a step forward, glanced around with bulging eyes, and threw it as hard as she could.
She heard the sound of water ripping. The body floated a moment, then suddenly disappeared as if someone had jerked it. A flock of birds screeched as it crossed the calm sky. There were many of them, flying in broad rows, carving a black path through the blue.
She faced the wind, walking stiffly — as if with wooden legs — up the same path the old man had taken, following the birds’ screeches.
•
In the distance you could see four scattered houses. By the road, in a patio beneath an arbor of ivy and roses, stood a few tables with iron chairs. She was seated at the back. The setting sun blazed across the sky, and far away the winding river flowed blood red.
She hadn’t walked far. From the bridge to the arbor was a scant half hour, but she had sat on the ground for a long time gazing at the river. She was exhausted, her back and sides ached. The milk from her swollen breasts had dampened her blouse. She was thirsty, and a vein was pulsing on the left side of her neck.
Two men were coming along the road. They stopped, leaned their bicycles against the wall, crossed the patio, and went inside the building.
“I see you got a new customer, mestressa,” the man said, addressing the woman who ran the café. He was middle-aged and had shiny black eyes, dark cheeks, a dark chin, and what appeared to be rough skin. Drops of sweat covered his forehead, and he brushed them away with his hand. His shirt was stuck to his chest, soaking wet.
“What do you say, Belcacem?”
He elbowed his companion, a small, olive-skinned Arab with a large scar across his cheek. The Arab laughed, his teeth gleaming for an instant.
From behind the counter the old woman, a black scarf around her head, pulled out two glasses.
“She’s been here for close to an hour. What are you doing at the quarry with all that blasting?”
The water from the faucet flowed furiously into the zinc basin, splashing the edges with fat, round drops that immediately dribbled down the sides. The woman picked up a bottle of vermouth. The cork squeaked.
“Passing time, mestressa, passing time.” The man picked up the glass, held it up to the light. “Evening, Violeta.”
The servant girl was wiping the tables. She was wearing a short skirt, and when she leaned over you could see the tops of her stockings.
“You gonna say yes to me tonight, Violeta?”
The Arab had finished his vermouth and was standing at the door looking out.
“I won’t have anything to do with family men,” she replied. Her cheeks were round and innocent. She had one lazy eye.