„Then she thought to herself: just because it worked once, doesn’t mean it will work again.” 

(Hanna Krall)

Nothing remarkable happened

between 1999 and 2013 on Russkaya Street in Uzhhorod. The woman sat still, her mind seemingly blank. Both of her hands gripped the chair’s arms tightly. Her shoulders hunched inward, her legs pressed firmly together. She could feel her tights rising slightly as her lower body tensed. Sweat beaded on her forehead, she could see more of the fence outside. Her mouth drooped, her blinking became more frequent. As if the light had suddenly begun to hurt her skin. The man kept sewing, the child stayed glued to the TV.

He focused on the disgust.

The woman panted softly, gently, as her abdominal muscles allowed only minimal movement. She tried not to use too much strength, knowing she’d need it later. Although the panting quickened, no one noticed. Occasionally, she would turn her head until she felt her neck start to strain. She tried to quickly snap her gaze back to the window.

She didn’t want to miss the moment. She pushed her left foot slightly forward under the radiator; the tip of her slipper lifted off the floor, then suddenly dropped back as gravity between her sock and the faux fur lost its grip. She could feel with her foot how the skin and leftover flesh weighed on her bones, like a pole draped with a rug waiting to be dusted.

The man set aside his sewing and walked to the window to pull away the curtain a little more. The woman felt relief and lowered her leg, which was already trembling from the effort. She was glad now that she could see the left side of the street, so she’d know in advance from which direction he’d arrive. But then she got scared, wanting to signal to the man. She only caught the sight of his turning shoulders.

A man appeared at the gate. He hung a bag on the fence.

The woman grew excited. She imagined herself rushing out immediately, her body moving effortlessly. Her breathing quickened to the point where it could be heard over the sound of the TV. The boy knew what was happening; he didn’t turn around. The man was finishing the last stitches on the garment. The woman didn’t move, keeping her eyes on the bag. Anyone could take it. Claiming that it was theirs. And they would show a paper that proved it, or perhaps proved nothing, but still they would show it. And then she would have to scrape up everything from the stove’s bottom.

She would have to scrape up the past fifty years.

The woman was sweating heavily; sometimes she raised her hand slowly to wipe her forehead. It hurt, but she didn’t want the sweat to get in her eyes. The boy paused his game and went out to the yard. He had smelled it for a while. The man walked to the fence, brought in the bag, unpacked it so it could cool off a bit, then put his arm under the woman’s shoulder and took her to the washroom.

The boy had seen this many times. He watched as the old woman gaped, smiled, or slept, soiling herself in the process.

He recounted what had happened

but didn’t remember much. Just the main details. Everything happened quickly. The woman received a call in the afternoon. The boy thought it was from work, and now she would have to go back. She had only slept for a few hours, and it didn’t seem fair. Working at dawn, being allowed to go home, then called back again. The boy played his video game, agitated.

The woman called the man from the kitchen. Sanyi had called; something’s wrong with Babi. Then she left.

The boy wandered during the day, maybe biked or went to the big playground to meet someone. He didn’t see her again until late evening. In the meantime, the woman arrived at the apartment on Szugló Street. The door opened, they didn’t greet each other, just went inside. In the living room, lying face down on the couch, was her husband’s sister. Babi.

Her name escapes him by now. 

The woman drank a bottle of vodka. Her diabetes had been under treatment for some time, but she left more space for the alcohol. She lay unconscious. Her husband started to worry when dark spots appeared on the woman’s pants, and moisture trickled down the couch, leaving a large stain on the light rug. That’s when he made the call.

They washed her, but she didn’t react. She was taken to the hospital.

At home, the woman told the boy she didn’t know what would happen. She lay in silence, occasionally opening her eyes, seeming to want something, but the only thing I could do to help was to hold her neck. But maybe that didn’t matter at all. Then the paramedics frightened me, asking why we let her drink. I, too, fell silent. What was there to explain?

Babi died a few days later.

In the boy’s memory, only one thing remained: the days Babi had looked after him. He didn’t like those mornings, hearing his father leave, and knowing Babi would come into his room. He would pull the pillow over his head, pretending to sleep, pretending not to notice her presence. Sometimes, he recalled his father’s words: Babi can’t cook. She oversalts the meat and burns it because she drinks, and keeps an ear to the window to hear what we’re saying.
He didn’t go to her funeral. No one told him about it, anyway.

He comes home early

from school. Sitting at the computer, he talks to friends online. The headphones block out the sound of the phone. Hours later, he sees the missed calls. He’s not surprised — these things happen, he thinks; sometimes people just miss things.

His father’s voice on the phone is calm, measured.

He has to transfer from the 77 trolleybus to the 82 at Komócsy Street. He hates that stop. He’s been making this journey daily for months now after school. It’s too warm for March. Just a month ago, he was sitting in a restaurant in Mynai, wearing a heavy coat. He thought about Ivan Ilyich and how funny it was that he read it right before the funeral.

From Komócsy Street to Uzsoki, he listens to Lose Yourself twice. He knows every word by heart. He’s seen the movie, too. Since then, he even shows the middle finger differently. For months now, he can only memorize song lyrics, but those almost instantly. On the bus, he tries not to think about how, at the last few stops, only the elderly and disabled remain.

He taps his thigh three times. Three times in a row. Meanwhile, he whispers to himself: I knock on wood, I knock on wood, I knock on wood. The universe and God stay silent. They see that it’s good.

On the first day, he arrived with his father, memorizing the route. It was months ago; he doesn’t remember. He enters through the side gate, up to a smaller, remote building. He circles around the main building, crosses the parking lot, skirts an abandoned block on the left, then straight into the square. Third floor. He doesn’t know the room number. He counts his steps. He knocks three times.

Several women lie in the room. He goes to the back left bed. Later, he won’t remember his father, though he was there. He takes drinks out of the bedside drawer, packs them into a bag. Fanta, Cola, Nestea. And a half-consumed, non-carbonated water from the table. Many things are left on the table, but he doesn’t take them. Meanwhile, the woman watches him. She shakes her head vigorously, perhaps nodding. She doesn’t move the rest of her body. Her eyes are teary. People are moving around her. Maybe a hundred; he doesn’t remember this either. There were many.

There are no birds in the window. The ledge is covered with spikes.

He thinks that he’ll have to bring all this back tomorrow. Or if not tomorrow, then a few days later. When it’s possible to come again. But then he’ll bring a backpack. That way, it’ll be easier. And then he’ll bring more, just to have enough. When it’ll be needed.

He whispers a farewell. Waves to the woman. She tries to say something. She stares. She doesn’t speak. Her sweaty face shows fear, a question, a message. The boy doesn’t think of anything.  He’s not surprised — these things happen, he thinks; sometimes people just miss things.

In the evening, he learns he won’t have to go in anymore.

Only a decade later he looked it up on Google Maps: Gastroenterology Center.

Summons

and testimony. i think I’m able to breathe now. i’ll write it down in this journal, as it is. as honestly as. the sentences will not linger. i was born for myself.

sometimes there is relief, a quiet whisper. i will live a long time. in this family, women die. women die for the sins of men. i knock three times. i don’t want to be afraid.

i am a witness to my own life, which is neither mine nor my own. i record life’s things forever. i wrap myself in wet sheets. i no longer need to pray for them. humanity dwells in sin. do i confess, or do i tattle, I don’t know.

to work, until i’ve told it all.

Translated by Anna Kusztos