The Passport

THE CABBAGE WHITE

Amalie is standing in front of the mirror. Her slip is pink. White lace points show under Amalie’s navel. Windisch sees the skin above Amalie’s knee through the holes in the lace. There are fine hairs on Amalie’s knee. Her knee is white and round. Windisch sees Amalie’s knee in the mirror yet again. He sees the holes in the lace run into one another.

Windisch’s wife’s eyes are in the mirror. The tips of Windisch’s eyelashes are beating fast, driving into his temples. A red vein swells in the corner of Windisch’s eye. It tears the tips from the lashes. A torn tip moves in the pupil of Windisch’s eye.

The window is open. The leaves on the apple tree are reflected in the panes.

Windisch’s lips are burning. They’re saying something.

But he’s only talking to himself, to the walls. Inside his own head.

“He’s talking to himself,” says Windisch’s wife in the mirror.

A cabbage white flies through the window into the room. Windisch follows it with his eyes. Its flight is flour and wind.

Windisch’s wife reaches into the mirror. With flabby fingers she straightens the straps of the slip on Amalie’s shoulder.

The cabbage white flutters over Amalie’s comb. Amalie pulls the comb through her hair with an elongated arm. She blows away the cabbage white with its flour. It alights on the mirror. It staggers over the glass, across Amalie’s stomach.

Windisch’s wife presses her fingertip against the glass. She squashes the cabbage white on the mirror.

Amalie sprays two large clouds under her armpits. The clouds run down beneath her arms and into the slip. The spray can is black. In bright green letters on the can are the words Irish Spring.

Windisch’s wife hangs a red dress across the back of the chair. She places a pair of white sandals with high heels and narrow straps under the chair. Amalie opens her handbag. She dabs on eye shadow with her fingertip. “Not too much,” says Windisch’s wife, “otherwise people will talk.” Her ear is in the mirror. It’s large and grey. Amalie’s eyelids are pale blue. Amalie’s mascara is made of soot. Amalie pushes her face very close to the mirror. Her upward glance is made of glass.

A strip of tinfoil falls out of Amalie’s handbag onto the carpet. It is full of round white warts. “What’s that you’ve got?” asks Windisch’s wife. Amalie bends down and puts the strip back in her bag. “The pill,” she says. She twists the lipstick out of its black holder.

Windisch’s wife puts her cheekbones in the mirror. “What do you need pills for?” she asks. “You’re not ill.”

Amalie pulls the red dress over her head. Her forehead slips through the white collar. Her eyes still under the dress, Amalie says: “I take it just in case.”

Windisch presses his hand against his forehead. He leaves the room. He sits down on the veranda, at the empty table. The room is dark. It is a shadowy hole in the wall. The sun crackles in the trees. Only the mirror shines. Amalie’s red mouth is in the mirror.

Small, old women are walking past the skinner’s house. The shadow of their black headscarves precedes them. The shadow will be in church before the small, old women.

Amalie walks over the cobble stones on her white heels. She holds the square folded application in her hand like a white briefcase. He red dress swings around her calves. The Irish Spring flies into the yard. Amalie’s dress is darker beneath the apple tree than in the sun.

Windisch sees that Amalie’s toes point outwards as she puts her feet on the ground.

A strand of Amalie’s hair flies over the alley gate. The gate snaps shut.