I know I can choose among thirty-three letters, which is more than in most other languages. I start with two sentences:
I still exist.
I’m still here.
And then add another:
I’m trying to understand why.
What more can I write? Should I describe the sky, say that I wake up at night and that black trees wrestle with the black sky, that the moon is bigger than it is back home, that I have started to look at myself in the mirror? That I read poetry? That half of what I eat are things I’ve never eaten before?
I take a moment, then continue:
The water is as red as when a bloody shirt is rinsed in a bathtub.
That’s a total of fifteen words.
I add another three words: Everything dusty grey.
And then a whole sentence in the line below:
Yesterday for dinner there were big potatoes with the meat (like the ones that your granny boils with goulash), grown in fields where there are no land mines.
Finally:
Need screws?
Cross that out:
Need screws?
I skip the spare parts.
All of a sudden May is standing at the door and she asks what I’m writing.
“Are you writing a story?” she asks.
“You could say that.”
“What happens?”
“I haven’t decided it all yet.”
“Does someone die?”
“Only the old people. Everyone dies in the right age sequence.”
“Good.”
She puts down a towel.
“I don’t fear the night anymore,” I hear her say as she closes the door behind her.
I wait for the world to take on a form
Fifi informs me that someone is asking for me downstairs.
It’s the owner of the restaurant, who has turned up with my thuggish assailant. The men have positioned themselves by the sunglasses stand. I also notice that an inflatable tiger has been added to the hotel shop since yesterday.
“It was a misunderstanding” is the first thing the restaurant owner says.
The thug remains silent. He’s wearing a leather jacket over a patterned shirt and has an earring in one ear.
The owner pushes him aside.
“He says he’s sorry,” he continues. The brute has a sullen expression that betrays no sign of remorse.
“He’s not going to do it again.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“He wants to show you something. You need to follow him.”
Should I follow my assailant? Follow him down a twisted alley?
“No, I’m in no mood for that.”
“You won’t regret it. He wants to make up for this misunderstanding.”
“No, I’m not interested.” And I add that I’m busy. Which happens to be true. I’m reading Dorothy Parker’s biography, What Fresh Hell Is This?
“He’s going to get furniture for the house you’re working on. You said the women needed furniture.”
I mull on this. We need furniture for three floors, seven women, three children, and one brother.
“What do you say about that?” he continues.
“Nothing.”
“Would you be willing to consider it?”
The restaurant owner drags me over to the fireplace. We stand by the forest landscape painting, or under it, to be precise; from this perspective, the light falls on the canvas differently and I notice that the tree trunks in the foreground of the picture are withered on one side.
“You’ve demonstrated that you are a real man,” he says, slapping a hand on my shoulder.
He nods towards the thug. As far as I can make out, he’s trying out sunglasses in the mirror. Fifi is keeping an eye on him but also keeps us in view.
“He said you weren’t afraid.”
I think quickly. My head is still full of stitches.
“A man must forgive,” says the restaurant owner, and adds that what they’re talking about is a warehouse, full of furniture, which is about to be torn down to build a pharmaceutical factory. It so happens that he knows the contractor supervising the project. The furniture has piled up in the warehouse, rescued from here and there when ruins were being cleared or abandoned houses were emptied. It contains more or less a full inventory of household items.
“My acquaintance needs to get rid of it before the bulldozer drives over it. You’re welcome to take anything you want. It would have been quickest to set it all on fire, but the contractor didn’t get the permit from the town,” he concludes.
He lowers his voice and takes me by the arm.
“I’ve heard there’s some fine bits of furniture between the piles. Quality stuff. Recliners with footrests.”
I give it some thought. I see that my assailant is looking in the mirror with a price tag dangling between his eyes.
“Nine o’clock tomorrow morning,” I say. “On the dot.”
CHOIR BOY
The assailant shows up punctually at nine and waits in the lobby. The top four buttons of his shirt are undone, flashing his tanned chest, and he’s wearing the mirrored sunglasses that he bought the day before and doesn’t remove, despite the dim light. Fifi seems apprehensive and asks to come with us, but I decline the offer and follow the thug.
The warehouse is located on the outskirts of the town, and on the way my escort repeats that this has all been a misunderstanding.
I’m in no mood to discuss the issue and point out that, if he wants to talk to me, he’ll have to take off his sunglasses.
He immediately complies.
“Call me Bingo,” he says.
When he pulls back the sliding door of the warehouse, it turns out to be crammed with furniture and personal items that have been thrown together haphazardly.
Entire lives, I think to myself.
“The place has been combed for explosives,” he says before we step inside.
The warehouse looks like something between a flea market and a furniture storage room and, surprisingly, most of its contents seem to be in decent enough shape. Other things can be fixed or modified. It’s no problem to make some legs for a tabletop or to revamp furniture, that’s where I’m on home ground.
“People have been using this as firewood,” he says, pushing aside half a chest
