The Passport

TEN LEI

The little gypsy girl from the next village is wringing out her grass-green apron. Water runs from her hand. Her plait hangs down onto her shoulder from the middle of her head. A red ribbon is plaited into her hair. It sticks out at the end like a tongue. The little gypsy girl stands barefoot with muddy toes in front of the tractor drivers.

The tractor drivers are wearing small, wet hats. Their black hands are on the table. “Show me,” says one. “I’ll give you ten lei.” He puts ten lei on the table. The tractor drivers laugh. Their eyes gleam. Their faces are red. Their glances finger the long flowery skirt. The gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The tractor driver empties his glass. The gypsy girl takes the bank note from the table. She twists the plait around her finger and laughs.

Windisch can smell the schnaps and the sweat from the next table. “They wear their sheepskins all summer long,” says the joiner. Froth from his beer clings to his thumbs. He dips his forefinger into the glass. “The dirty pig beside us is blowing ash into my beer,” he says. He looks at the Romanian standing behind him. The Romanian has a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. It’s wet from his saliva. He laughs. “No more German,” he says. Then in Romanian: “This is Romania.”

The joiner has a greedy look. He raises his glass and empties it. “You’ll soon be rid of us,” he shouts. He signals to the landlord, who is standing at the tractor driver’s table. “Another beer,” he calls.

The joiner wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Have you been to the gardener yet?” he asks. “No,” says Windisch. “Do you know where he lives?” asks the joiner. Windisch nods: “On the edge of town.” “In Fratelia, in Enescu Street,” says the joiner.

The little gypsy girl pulls at the red tongue of her plait. She laughs and turns in a circle. Windisch sees her calves. “How much?” he asks. “Fifteen thousand each,” says the joiner. He takes the glass of beer from the landlord’s hand. “A single-storey building. The greenhouses are on the left. If the red car is in the courtyard, it’s open. There’ll be someone cutting wood in the yard. He’ll take you into the house,” says the joiner. “Don’t ring. If you do, the woodcutter will disappear. He won’t open up anymore.”

The men and women standing in the corner of the inn are drinking out of a bottle. A man wearing a crushed, black velveteen hat is holding a child in his arm. Windisch sees the small, naked soles of the child’s feet. The child reaches for the bottle. It opens its mouth. The man pushes the neck of the bottle to its mouth. The child closes its eyes and drinks. “Boozer,” says the man. He pulls back the bottle and laughs. The woman beside him is eating a crust of bread. She chews and drinks. White breadcrumbs float in the bottle.

“They stink of the sty,” says the joiner. A long brown hair hangs from his finger.

“They’re from the dairy,” says Windisch.

The women sing. The child totters up to them and tugs at their skirts.

“Today’s pay day,” says Windisch. “They drink for three days. Then they’ve got nothing left.”

“The milkmaid with the blue headscarf lives behind the mill,” says Windisch.

The little gypsy girl lifts her skirt. The gravedigger is standing beside his shovel. He reaches into his pocket. Gives her ten lei.

The milkmaid with the blue headscarf sings and vomits against the wall.