“If it is possible to talk about ending up somewhere,” she says, as if she were addressing the wardrobe.
“And are you and your brother the owners of the hotel?”
She hesitates.
“No, our auntie. She’s actually left the country. You could say we run it for her.”
Then she’s about to add something but holds back.
I feel the need to fully understand:
“And you live here with the boy, you and your brother? In the hotel?”
She nods and says they’re waiting for a house in the town. The house she intends to move into—along with some other women and her son and brother—was damaged and has no water or electricity.
“Meanwhile, we live here,” she says, and disappears into the bathroom to place some towels. I hear her unscrew the tap.
“The water is clear,” she says in amazement. She is standing in the doorway.
“There’s no more sand,” she adds.
“I cleared the pipes.”
I hear her turning on the shower.
“The shower works too. And the water is hot,” she says from inside the bathroom.
She’s astonished.
“Yes, I just had to unscrew the showerhead and clear out the sand and mud inside it.”
Then she’s suddenly at the window and has drawn up the blind.
“We used to come here on our holidays as children, my brother and I,” I hear her say.
She stands silently by the window a moment, with her back turned to me.
“There,” she then says, pointing out the window. “Against that wall people were shot. There was a bakery beside it and it was difficult to avoid that corner.”
I approach the window.
“There?”
“Yes. The bullet holes can still be seen in the wall. Anywhere people formed a group or a line there was the risk of being shot.” And she explains that there were battles between neighbourhoods and there was a state of siege, so that some districts were isolated for months on end.
“The people survived by passing food through a tunnel,” she adds.
I think about this. Looking from the window it’s difficult to work out where the sniper might have been positioned.
She becomes silent but then continues:
“There are a number of theories on who the shooter was.” She hesitates and looks over her shoulder, as if trying to ensure that no one is standing at the door.
Unless she is checking on the boy.
“I’ve heard it’s a member of the choir,” she says, adjusting the elastic in her hair.
All over the city
I am buried
Apart from fixing the wardrobe door there are no other chores on the list today. No one knows about me and no one is expecting me. I know that my mother, beyond the ice-cold ocean, is listening to the afternoon story on the radio and eating her rhubarb pudding with cream, but no one expects anything from me. I haven’t been jobless for twenty-six years. What am I to do with a whole six days? Excluding seven hours of sleep, that leaves me with seventeen hours a day to be filled.
“Seventeen times six equals a hundred and two hours,” Mom would have immediately answered.
That means that the glowing star will rise above the earth’s horizon six more times.
Is there still something I want to do?
I could go sightseeing, particularly since I’ve now repeated the claim that I’m on vacation ten times. What church, what museum, what archaeological sites should I visit?
Yesterday the brother at the reception desk had no recollection of the existence of a mosaic mural or other relics, maybe he’ll remember them today.
I ring the bell twice, it takes the young man ten minutes to appear. When he finally does, he is busy doing up the buttons of his white shirt. I notice he is wearing tracksuit trousers and sneakers and has dust and grey particles in his hair that look like plaster or putty, as if he had been working with cement. He has headphones around his neck, which he takes off and places on the desk without turning off Lorde.
I ask him about the mosaic mural again:
“Have you found out anything about that mural? The antiquities?”
“No, unfortunately,” he says. “It takes a long time. I’m working on it.”
I give him more clues and tell him that, according to the information I found online—to be more precise, on Hotel Silence’s website—the wall is divided in two. One part dates back to antiquity, while the other is a more recent addition connected to the health spa the hotel advertises.
“You can’t rely on everything you see on the Web,” says the young man. “Besides, that was before the war,” he explains. “A lot has changed since then.” He then thanks me for reminding him to update the website.
“I’ll continue to make enquiries and will let you know if I find anything,” he adds, focusing his attention on adjusting the stack of maps on the counter.
He then wants to know where I’m off to.
“Going on a walk.”
Then, as quick as a flash, he unfolds a map of the town and repeats yesterday’s instructions on the places I shouldn’t set foot if I don’t want to be reduced to a maimed trunk; not here and absolutely not here. And once again he warns me about deserted areas.
“The sun also shines on the surface of graves,” he concludes, folding the map again. And because I have slept through breakfast, he recommends the only open restaurant down the road. If I want, he can call the owner and let him know to expect me. That way I could be sure he’s cooked something.
I suddenly realise that the young man could be my son’s age, that is to say if I had managed to create another living being.
You who I cross upon
Here I am down on the earth.
Literally speaking.
I spread out the map of the town square. The weather is still and warm and the air is golden with
