The Passport

THE SILVER CROSS

Amalie is sitting on the floor. The wine glasses are lined up according to size. The schnaps glasses are all shiny. The milky flowers on the sides of the fruit bowls are rigid. The vases stand along the wall. The crystal vase stands in the corner of the room.

Amalie holds the small box with the tear in her hand.

Amalie hears the tailor’s voice inside her head: “He never harmed a soul.”

A piece of fire burns in Amalie’s forehead.

Amalie feels the militiaman’s mouth on her neck. His breath smells of schnaps. He squeezes her knee with his hand. He pushes her dress up. “Ce dulce eşti — You’re so sweet,” he says. His cap lies beside his shoe. The buttons on his tunic shine.

The militiaman unbuttons his tunic. “Take your clothes off,” he says. A silver cross hangs beneath the blue tunic. The priest takes off his black cassock. He brushes a strand of hair from Amalie’s cheek. “Wipe your lipstick off,” he says. The militiaman kisses Amalie’s shoulder. The silver cross falls in front of his mouth. The priest strokes Amalie’s thigh. “Take your slip off,” he says.

Amalie sees the altar through the open door. Among the roses is a black telephone. The silver cross hangs between Amalie’s breasts. The militiaman’s hands squeeze Amalie’s breasts. “You’ve got nice apples,” says the priest. His mouth is wet. Amalie’s hair hangs over the side of the bed. Her white sandals are under the chair. The militiaman whispers: “You smell good.” The priest’s hands are white. Light catches the red dress at the end of the iron bed. The black telephone rings among the flowers. “I haven’t got time now,” groans the militiaman. The priest’s thighs are heavy. “Cross your legs on my back,” he whispers. The silver cross presses into Amalie’s shoulder. The militiaman has a damp forehead. “Turn round,” he says. The black cassock hangs on the long nail behind the door. The priest’s nose is cold. “My little angel,” he pants.

Amalie feels the heels of the white sandals in her stomach. The fire from her forehead is burning in her eyes. Amalie’s tongue presses down in her mouth. The silver cross gleams in the window pane. A shadow is hanging in the apple tree. It’s black and disturbed. The shadow is a grave.

Windisch is standing in the door way. “Are you deaf?” he says. He holds the big suitcase out to Amalie. Amalie turns her face to the door. Her cheeks are wet. “I know,” says Windisch, “leave-taking is hard.” He seems very large in the empty room. “It’s just like in the war again,” he says. “We go and we don’t know, if and how and when we’ll come back.”

Amalie fills the tear once again. “It doesn’t get so wet with water from the well,” she says. Windisch’s wife puts the plates into a suitcase. She takes the tear in her hand. Her cheek bones are soft and her lips are damp. “You would hardly believe, that there is such a thing,” she says.

Windisch can feel her voice inside his head. He throws his coat into the suitcase. “I’ve had enough of her,” he shouts, “I don’t want to see her any more.” He lowers his head. And quietly adds: “The only thing she can do is make people sad.”

Windisch’s wife wedges the cutlery between the plates. “Indeed it is,” she says. Windisch sees the slimy finger which she pulled out of her hair. He looks at his passport photo. He rocks his head from side to side. “It’s a difficult step,” he says.

Amalie’s glass shines in her suitcase. The white patches on the walls of the room grow larger. The floor is cold. The light bulb casts long rays into the suitcase.

Windisch puts the passports in his jacket pocket. “Who knows what will become of us?” sighs Windisch’s wife. Windisch looks at the piercing rays of light. Amalie and Windisch’s wife shut the suitcase.