The Passport

THE PRAYER HOUSE

“The skinner’s house is going to become a prayer house for the Wallachian Baptists,” says the night watchman to Windisch in front of the mill. “The ones with small hats are Baptists. They howl when they pray. And their women groan when they sing hymns, as if they were in bed. Their eyes get big, like my dog’s.”

The night watchman is whispering, although only Windisch and his dog are by the pond. He’s looking into the night, in case a shadow comes to listen and look. “They’re all brothers and sisters,” he says. “On their festival days they pair off. With whoever they catch in the dark.”

The night watchman follows a water rat with his eyes. The rat cries with a child’s voice and throws itself into the reeds. The dog doesn’t hear the night watchman’s whispers. It stands at the edge and barks at the rat.

“They do it on the carpet in the prayer house,” says the night watchman. “That’s why they have so many children.”

Windisch feels a burning salty sneeze in his nose and forehead from the pond water and the whispering of the night watchman. And Windisch has a hole in his tongue. From being astounded and staying silent.

“This religion comes from America,” says the night watchman. Windisch breathes through his salty sneeze. “That’s across the water.”

“The devil crosses the water too,” says the night watchman. “They’ve got the devil in their bodies. My dog can’t stand them either. He barks at them. Dogs can scent the devil.”

The hole in Windisch’s tongue slowly fills up. “The skinner always said,” says Windisch, “that the Jews run America.” “Yes,” says the night watchman, “the Jews are the ruin of the world. Jews and women.”

Windisch nods. He’s thinking of Amalie. “Every Saturday, when she walks home,” he thinks, “I have to look and see how her toes point outwards when she puts her feet on the ground.”

The night watchman eats a third green apple. His jacket pocket is full of green apples. “It’s true about the women in Germany,” says Windisch. “That’s what the skinner wrote. The worst one here is still worth more than the best one there.”

Windisch looks at the clouds. “Women there follow the latest fashions,” says Windisch. “They would prefer to walk naked on the street if they could. The skinner says, even schoolchildren read magazines full of naked women.”

The night watchman rummages among the green apples in his jacket pocket. The night watchman spits out a bite. “There have been worms in the fruit since the cloudburst,” he says. The dog licks the spat-out piece of apple. It eats the worm.

“There’s something rotten about this whole summer,” says Windisch. “My wife sweeps the yard every day. The acacias are withering. There are none in our yard. The Wallachians have three in their yard. They are far from bare. And every day there are enough yellow leaves in our yard for ten trees. My wife doesn’t know where all the leaves are coming from. There have never been so many dry leaves in our yard before.” “The wind brings them,” says the night watchman. Windisch locks the mill door.

“There isn’t any wind,” he says. The night watchman holds a finger in the air: “There’s always wind, even if one doesn’t feel it.”

“In Germany the forests are drying up in the middle of the year too,” says Windisch.

“The skinner told us,” he says. He looks at the broad, low sky. “They’ve settled in Stuttgart. Rudi’s in another town. The skinner doesn’t write where. The skinner and his wife have been given a subsidized flat with three rooms. They have a kitchen with a dining area and a bathroom with mirrored walls.”

The night watchman laughs. “At their age they still like looking at themselves naked in the mirror,” says the night watchman.

“Some rich neighbours have given them furniture,” says Windisch. “And a television as well. Their next door neighbour is a woman who lives by herself. She’s a squeamish old lady, says the skinner, she doesn’t eat any meat. It would be the death of her, she says.”

“They’ve got it too easy,” says the night watchman “They should come to Romania, then they’ll eat anything.”

“The skinner has a good pension,” says Windisch. “His wife is a cleaner in an old people’s home. The food there is good. When one of the old people has a birthday they have a dance.”

The night watchman laughs. “That would be the life for me,” he says. “Good food and a few young women.”

He bites into the core of his apple. The white pips fall onto his jacket. “I don’t know,” he says, “I can’t make up my mind whether to apply.”

Windisch sees time standing still in the night watchman’s face. Windisch sees the end on the night watchman’s cheeks, and he sees that the night watchman will stay there beyond the end.

Windisch looks at the grass. His shoes are white with flour. “Once you’ve started,” he says, “things just keep going.”

The night watchman sighs. “It’s difficult if you’re alone,” he says. “It takes a long time and we’re not getting any younger.”

Windisch puts his hand on his trouser leg. His hand is cold, and his thigh is warm. “It’s getting worse and worse here,” he says. “They’re taking our hens, our eggs. They take our maize too, before it even ripens. They’ll take your house too and the holding.”

The moon is large. Windisch can hear the rats going into the water. “I feel the wind,” he says. “The knots in my legs are sore. It must be going to rain soon.”

The dog is beside the stack of straw and barking. “The wind from the valley doesn’t bring rain,” says the night watchman, “only dust and clouds.” “Perhaps a storm is coming,” says Windisch, “which will bring the fruit down from the trees again.”

The moon has a red veil.

“And Rudi?” asks the night watchman.

“He’s taking a rest,” says Windisch. He can feel the lie burning on his cheeks. “In Germany it’s not like here with glass. The skinner writes that we should bring our crystal glass with us. Our porcelain, and feathers for the pillows. But not damask and underwear. They’ve got them there in abundance. Furs are very expensive. Furs and spectacles.”

Windisch chews a blade of grass. “The beginning isn’t easy,” says Windisch.

Windisch ties the blade of grass around his forefinger. “One thing is hard, says the skinner in his letter. An illness we all know from the war. Homesickness.”

The night watchman holds an apple in his hand. “I wouldn’t feel homesick,” he says. “After all, you’re among Germans there.”

Windisch ties knots in the blade of grass. “There are more foreign nations there than here, says the skinner. There are Turks and Negroes. They’re increasing rapidly,” says Windisch.

Windisch pulls the blade of grass through his teeth. The blade of grass is cold. His gums are cold. Windisch holds the sky in his mouth. The wind and the night sky. The blade of grass shreds between his teeth.