The Passport

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