The Passport

THE SEAGULL

Windisch’s wife switches on the television. The singer leans against a railing by the sea. The hem of her skirt flutters. The tips of the singer’s slip hang above her knee.

A seagull flies over the water. It flies close to the edge of the screen. Its wing tip thrusts into the room.

“I’ve never been to the seaside,” says Windisch’s wife. “If the sea wasn’t so far away, seagulls would come to the village.” The seagull plunges down to the water. It swallows a fish.

The singer smiles. She has the face of a seagull. She opens and closes her eyes as often as her mouth. She sings a song about the girls from Romania. Her hair wants to be water. Small waves ripple at her temples.

“The girls from Romania,” sings the singer, “are gentle as the flowers in the meadows in the month of May.” Her hands point to the sea. Sandy bushes quiver by the shore.

A man is swimming in the water. He swims after his hands. Far out into the water. He is alone, and the sky ends. His head moves on the surface. The waves are dark. The seagull is white.

The singer’s face is soft. The wind shows the lace hem of her slip.

Windisch’s wife stands in front of the screen. She points at the singer’s knee with her fingertip. “The lace is nice,” she says, “it’s definitely not from Romania.”

Amalie stands in front of the screen. “The lace dress of the dancer on the crystal vase is exactly like that.”

Windisch’s wife puts some plain cakes on the table. The tin bowl is under the table. The cat licks the soupy vomit from it.

The singer smiles. She closes her mouth. Behind her song the sea beats on the shore. “Your father should give you money for the crystal vase,” says Windisch’s wife.

“No,” says Amalie. “I’ve saved some money. I’ll pay for it myself.”