The Passport

THE SPIDER

That Saturday Windisch had danced through the night with Barbara in front of the deep horn of the gramophone. They talked about the war as they waltzed.

A paraffin lamp flickered under the quince tree. It stood on a chair.

Barbara had a thin neck. Windisch danced with her thin neck. Barbara had a pale mouth. Windisch hung on her breath. He swayed. The swaying was a dance.

Under the quince tree, a spider had fallen into Barbara’s hair. Windisch didn’t see the spider. He leant against Barbara’s ear. He heard the song on the gramophone through her thick black plait. He felt her hard comb.

By the paraffin lamp, Barbara’s green clover leaves shone from both ears. Barbara whirled in a circle. The whirling was a dance.

Barbara felt the spider on her ear. She started. Barbara cried: “I’m dying.”

The skinner danced in the sand. He danced past. He laughed. He took the spider from Barbara’s ear. He threw it in the sand. He stamped on it with his shoe. The stamping was a dance.

Barbara had leant against the quince tree. Windisch held her head.

Barbara’s hand went to her ear. The green clover leaf no longer hung on her ear. Barbara didn’t look for it. Barbara didn’t dance any more. She wept. “I’m not weeping for the earring,” she said.

Later, many days later, Windisch had sat with Barbara on a bench in the village. Barbara had a thin neck. One green clover leaf shone. The other ear was dark in the night.

Windisch shyly asked about the second earring. Barbara looked at him. “Where would I have looked for it?” she said. “The spider took it away to the war. Spiders eat gold.”

After the war Barbara followed the spider. The snow in Russia took her away, when it melted the second time.