She tells me that some of the women are going to help run the hotel when the tourists return.
The house is a three-storey building that stands on its own at the top of the street; the houses on either side of it were blown up. It has a big uncultivated lawn and creeping ivy that stretches to the top floor. May says that the cousin of one of the women was supposed to be helping out with the repairs, but he hasn’t been heard from in a long time.
“I think it’s fairly likely that he’s left the country,” she concludes.
The garden has high walls and I see how a play area could be made for the children. Even though most of the windows of the house are broken, at first glance, the foundation seems to be in a good state. The walls are in one piece and the flooring in surprisingly fine condition, but there’s no running water in the house, no electricity, and no heating. The water pipes and drainage are at the bottom of the neighbourhood and the main worry is that the house has been excluded from the new town planning.
“We’re struggling to get it included,” says May.
There is no furniture in the house, but judging by the mattress on the floor in one of the bedrooms, it’s obvious that someone has been staying here. I see that it will be possible to fix up the house, but I’ll need more tools and materials. The pipes, sewage system, and electrical wiring also need mending. With some minor illegal adjustments we could temporarily connect to the electricity grid and start on some of the most pressing tasks. First the house needs to be sealed off from rodents and rain and the windowpanes have to be changed. I conduct an inspection and see that the mullions and window frames are intact.
“I really want to help you—you women,” I say. “I can do some things but not everything.”
May and I are on the second floor of the house and I’m finishing the measurements of a window when I sense something weighing on her.
“There is one thing I wanted to mention to you before you meet the other women,” she says, leaning against a wall. “The thing is,” she says, “just like we don’t talk about who did what, we don’t ask about who went through what either.”
“I understand.”
I sense some agitation in her.
“You don’t ask a man if he’s killed someone or a woman if she has been raped or by how many.”
“No, you don’t have to worry about me asking any questions,” I say.
“And when one sees a child, one doesn’t wonder whether it’s the child of a woman who was raped by an enemy soldier.”
“No, one doesn’t.”
She adjusts a lock of hair, tucks it under the clip.
“All women are subjected to violence in war,” she continues without looking at me.
I think of how young she is and how much she’s been through.
“Soldiers don’t knock on your door to ask for your permission to shoot.”
“No, they don’t.”
She adjusts her hair again.
“The only way to continue is to pretend we lead a normal life. To pretend everything is okay. To shut one’s eyes to the destruction.”
I notice she has small pearl earrings that she touches from time to time, as if to reassure herself that they’re in place.
I mention this to her and tell her they’re beautiful.
“From my mother,” she says, and is about to add something but stops.
She hesitates.
“Despite the fear, I still clearly remember the stars at night. And the moon too, yes.”
I mention the state where all lose themselves, the good and the bad
When I get back to the hotel, I rip out the last page in the diary and make a list of what has to be done in the house and what I need.
I’d caught a glimpse of my neighbour in the corridor and know he’s back. I knock on the door of number nine.
When he opens, I hand him the list without accepting an invitation to step inside.
He says it could well be that he knows contractors who are building in the area. The question is what would he get in return.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing? That’s not how it works. I do you a favour and you do me a favour in return.”
“Not in this case. You’ll do things and get nothing in return. Except satisfaction,” I add.
“You’ve got to follow the rules of the game.”
“No, you’ve got to tell the contractors, your friends, that otherwise they’ll have the women against them.”
This takes him by surprise.
“Am I to tell the contractors, my friends, that otherwise they’ll have the women against them?”
He repeats my words. I take that as a sign that he’s thinking. Then he says:
“The house hasn’t been included in the reconstruction plan. It may be that some people don’t want you poking your nose into what they’re doing. Are you going to fix the whole country? Armed with your little drill and measuring tape? Do you think you can glue back together a broken world?”
As he says this, I suddenly remember the floral dish with a gilded rim that I broke as a child and glued back together again. It took a lot of work to get the fragments to fit, but I succeeded. Which was why I was surprised when Mom threw it away some days later.
“The world won’t be good just because you’ve got a roll of duct tape,” I hear him say.
EXCHANGE OF MESSAGES
Two days later there is a message waiting for me in reception. The young man hands me a folded handwritten note: Work on sewage system has commenced.
In the next message, I send him the measurements of the windows and the glass I need.
The answer comes the next day:
Goods will
