I was scared, I said as I sat down beside him. I was searching for you.
He nodded, uttering not a word, and he did not look at me. But for the first time in ages, he nodded.
•
THE INTRUDER, I recall him as immature and young now that I am older myself. I believe I saw him again at a bus stop many years ago. I was intending to take the bus not far from here. There had been a lot of rain that spring, fine drizzle that washed away the last remnants of winter on the streets and the roads. Is that not the way winter disappears every year, I am never able to notice it, in this city everything is rained away and that’s how it has been here for as long as I can remember, the rain that competes only with the fog and the wind, it comes from the front, at an angle, lashing you in the face even if you hold an umbrella before you like a shield, rain in fine vertical lines suspended in the air, or invisible, so light that you don’t actually believe it’s raining until you arrive home and discover that everything is damp. He was waiting at the bus stop, the one located next to an old tramway kiosk. I positioned myself at a distance, sheltering from the rain, we were the only ones there, we were waiting for the same bus. He was a few years older now, his hair was hanging down across his forehead, it seemed darker, but that was perhaps because it was wet. It was probably also because of the cold rain that he had a twitch at his mouth, a slight twitch, it could have been conscious or involuntary, he had this twitch, as though the rain was bothering him, but like the dog so many years earlier, he could not drag himself away, could not protect himself, but had to stand there becoming gradually wetter with the rain running down his face, his clothes, his shoes. He looked over at me, a brief glance with no sign of recognition, but I had an urge to say hello. I wanted to greet him, I became confused about this need to demonstrate that I recognized him. At that moment I remembered it differently, that morning he had stood inside my house. I saw before me the undeveloped boyish face, the seriousness in his eyes, the worn-out overcoat he had been wearing, other details popped up, even the hand that accepted the money was transformed in my memory, did it not tremble? And what I had later read in the newspaper, the description of him as confused, I remembered that he had stood there, by my side, facing the children, in the bright open living room with the windows overlooking the terrace and the garden, I thought I had never got to know what he wanted, for me he had simply been an intruder, a threat, but now I thought that he could just as well have been someone seeking refuge. Or searching, for something or someone.
~ ~ ~
At three o’clock I drive to collect Simon, I drive the usual route, parking in front of the low building with benches outside. And there he is. It is always astonishing that he has managed, that he has got through the day and emerged at the other side. Sometimes he smiles and seems almost secretive. Other times he is exhausted and falls asleep in the car on the way home.
If I go inside, I find him in the room with the people in whose company he spends the day. A young caregiver who is always there, I cannot hear his voice, but through the glass door I can see that he is talking to Simon, at one point he kneels down, and his white trouser legs are stretched at the knees as he explains something and Simon looks at what he is showing him.
Simon himself is sitting between two women as if between two soft rocks, one with hair like white foam, he seems to participate with pleasure in the making of a rug, but they are obviously talking above his head. I see their mouths moving as they work. Or is it two parallel monologues, I can’t know that of course, I can’t hear through the door. I look at his hands. The hands I loved to feel on my spine, my breasts. The same hands that examined patients, comforted our children.
A skinny woman, one of the patients, suddenly begins to clap, and the similarity to an assembly at kindergarten is striking. At the same time I see that Simon is involved, it seems as though he considers it is not too bad.
He looks at me as I come in, they all look at me, as though I am intruding. He makes a grimace. Of happiness or displeasure? Or does he see my embarrassment, and is making fun of me? You always worry too much.
They call out their goodbyes, see you tomorrow. He smiles.
I STOP OFF at a few stores on the way home. He is clearly content to accompany me on the shopping trip, as though I have devised something for his entertainment. We have now developed the habit of him waiting in the car, I’ll be back soon, I say and he nods. But today I open the door at his side and wait for him to stand on his feet, we walk between the aisles and both of us pick up items, as we have always done. He still walks slightly too fast, I have to call to him to wait. Why do you take so long, he used to say, we have a list with us you know, the food will be out of date before we get home. His teasing. You’re always running a marathon, I said, there’s nobody here giving out medals. He liked that I answered back. Now he gathers apples into a bag, weighing them on the scale hanging above the counter. He enjoyed charming the girls at the checkout, cracking jokes. They knew him in this supermarket, before. Now there’s a new girl here, someone who works part time, I usually say hello to her, she doesn’t have that bored expression most of the other checkout operators adopt, we chat a little, once I almost asked her if she ever tired of her job. Fortunately I didn’t say that. Simon wants to help me with the bags as we are packing them into the car, he lifts them up, one by one. It strikes me that he is trying to demonstrate his presence. And then we are home again. After dinner I have the feeling that he is watching me as I load the dishwasher, but when I turn around he has already left the room.
~ ~ ~
When I walked past the church in late summer last year, I saw that the plastic sheeting placed over the façade was being tugged aloft by the wind, it was standing proud like a flag and then falling back. Until being lifted again a few seconds later. I liked to walk past even when there were no others there. Occasionally I saw the pastor. He might be standing outside on the gravel talking to a couple of the workmen, once he was standing in front of his car.
I stopped to say hello to him, and he was keen to show me how the work was progressing, they were happy with what had been done, he said. He told me a little about the church building. The architect who had designed it in the thirties. We chatted for a while. He asked how Simon was getting on. And before I answered, he said that becoming old isn’t easy, not for any of us. When he said that, he cast his eyes down, as though he were ashamed of complaining. I often walked past the church during the fall months. The air was clear and fresh, it was no longer warm. The improvements had been going on for a while by then, I wondered when it would become visible, whether the change would be something you would notice.
I DID NOT see him again until December. It was cold then. I had intended to walk around the lake, it was a normal weekday, in the morning. I had not expected to meet anyone, but walked there concentrating on keeping my coat closed, as a button had fallen off when I was putting it on, and I had let it be, because I had not wanted to miss the walk. There was something about the cold weather, the frost on the bare trees and ice on the water. I saw at once that it was him, he was wearing a big gray jacket, like a member of an Arctic expedition, perhaps that was what made him look leaner. Or else he had lost weight during the course of the weeks I had not seen him. He stood peering at the water, like the boy I used to see down there. I followed his gaze the short distance to the edge of the lake, where the dirt had solidified and the frost had settled, and toward the white expanse covering the water, surprisingly intact, even though the more fragile layer at the edge indicated that it was not safe.