The Passport

THE SECRET WORD

Windisch rides home from the mill. Noon is bigger than the village. The sun scorches its path. The pot hole is cracked and dry.

Windisch’s wife is sweeping the yard. Sand lies around her toes like water. The ripples around the broom are still. “It’s not yet autumn, and the acacias are turning yellow,” says Windisch’s wife. Windisch unbuttons his shirt. “It’s going to be a hard winter,” he says, “if the trees are already dry in the summer.”

The hens turn their heads under their wings. With their beaks they’re seeking out their own shadows, which offer no cool. The neighbour’s spotted pigs root among the wild, white-flowering carrots behind the fence. Windisch looks through the wire. “They don’t give these pigs anything to eat,” he says. “Wallachians. They don’t even know how to feed pigs.”

Windisch’s wife holds the broom to her stomach. “They should have rings in their noses,” she says. “They’ll root up the house by the time winter comes.”

Windisch’s wife carries the broom into the shed. “The postwoman was here,” she says. “She belched and stank of schnaps. The militiaman thanks you for the flour, she said, and Amalie should come for the hearing on Sunday morning. She should bring an application with her and sixty lei’s worth of revenue stamps.”

Windisch bites his lip. His mouth expands into his face, into his forehead. “What good are thanks?” he says.

Windisch’s wife raises her head. “I knew it,” she says, “you won’t get far with your flour.” “Far enough,” shouts Windisch into the yard “for my daughter to become a mattress.” He spits in the sand: “It’s disgusting, the shame of it.” A drop of saliva hangs on his chin.

“You won’t get far with ‘it’s disgusting’ either,” says Windisch’s wife. Her cheek bones are two red stones. “It’s not a question of shame now,” she says, “it’s a question of the passport.”

Windisch slams the door shut. “You should know,” he shouts, “you should know from Russia. You weren’t bothered about shame then.”

“You pig,” cries Windisch’s wife. The shed door opens and shuts, as if the wind was in the wood. Windisch’s wife searches for her mouth with a fingertip. “When the militiaman sees that our Amalie is still a virgin, he won’t want to do it,” she says.

Windisch laughs. “A virgin like you were a virgin, in the churchyard after the war,” he says. “People starved to death in Russia, and you lived from whoring. And after the war you would have gone on whoring, if I hadn’t married you.”

Windisch’s wife lets her mouth fall open. She raises her hand. She raises her forefinger into the air. “You make everybody bad,” she shouts, “because you’re no good yourself and not right in the head either.” She walks across the sand. Her heels are full of cuts.

Windisch follows her heels. She stops on the veranda. She lifts her apron and wipes the empty table with the apron. “You did something wrong at the gardener’s,” she says. “Everybody is let in. Everybody sees about their passport. Except you, because you’re so clever and honest.”

Windisch goes into the hall. The refrigerator hums. “There was no electricity all morning,” says Windisch’s wife. “The refrigerator defrosted. The meat will go off if this continues.”

There’s an envelope on the refrigerator. “The postwoman brought a letter,” says Windisch’s wife. “From the skinner.”

Windisch reads the letter. “Rudi isn’t mentioned in the letter,” says Windisch. “He must be back in the sanatorium.”

Windisch’s wife looks into the yard. “He sends greetings to Amalie. Why doesn’t he write himself.”

“He wrote this sentence here,” says Windisch. “This sentence with PS.” Windisch lays the letter on the refrigerator.

“What does PS mean?” asks Windisch’s wife.

Windisch shrugs. “It must be a secret word.”

Windisch’s wife stands in the doorway. “That’s what happens when children study,” she sighs.

Windisch stands in the yard. The cat is lying on the paving stones. It’s asleep. It’s lying in the sun. Its face is dead. The stomach breathes weakly beneath the fur.

Windisch sees the skinner’s house, caught in the midday light. The sun gives it a yellow radiance.