The Passport

THE SUMMER KITCHEN

The night watchman is sleeping on the bench in front of the mill. His black hat makes his sleep velvety and heavy. His forehead is a pale streak. “The earth frog is in his head again,” thinks Windisch. He sees time standing still on his cheeks.

The night watchman is talking in his dream. His legs twitch. The dog barks. The night watchman wakes up. Startled, he takes off the hat. His forehead is wet. “She’ll kill me,” he says, His voice is deep. It goes back into his dream.

“My wife was lying naked and curled up on the pastry board,” says the night watchman. “Her body was no larger than the body of a child. Yellow juice was dripping from the pastry board. The floor was wet. There were old women sitting round the table. They were dressed in black. Their plaits were unkempt. They hadn’t combed their hair for a long time. Skinny Wilma was as small as my wife. She was holding a black glove in her hand. Her feet didn’t reach the floor. She was looking out of the window. Then the glove fell out of her hand. Skinny Wilma looked under the chair. The glove wasn’t under the chair. The floor was bare. The floor was so far below her feet that she had to cry. She screwed up her wrinkled face and said: it’s a disgrace to leave the dead lying there in the summer kitchen. I said I didn’t even know that we had a summer kitchen. My wife raised her head from the pastry board and smiled. Skinny Wilma looked at her. Don’t mind me, she said to my wife. And then to me: she’s dripping and she smells.”

The night watchman’s mouth is open. Tears run down his cheeks.

Windisch grips him by the shoulder. “You’re driving yourself crazy,” he says. The keys jingle in his jacket pocket.

Windisch pushes the door of the mill with his foot.

The night watchman looks into his black hat. Windisch pushes his bicycle past the bench. “I’m going to get the passport,” he says.