XLII IRE
AN OLD, DILAPIDATED BOAT, PAINTED AND REPAINTED, RESTED against the wing of the airplane. The river was placid and the afternoon subdued, a lone afternoon in the middle of the world, animated only by the flight of birds that soared and soared before swooping down on the dead. The other riverbank was the same as the one I had just left behind, with its dead devoured by carrion birds. I pushed the boat far onto the bank so it wouldn’t be washed away. At dusk I came to the edge of a forest. I was again overtaken by the smell of trees; it was a relief to have branches and leaves for a roof. I started down a path that entered the woods amid tall grasses. From afar, I glimpsed a window with a light on inside. It was a deceptive light: When you thought you had almost reached it, it was still far away. I walked for a long time before I arrived at the clearing where a half-brick, half-wooden shack stood next to a well. The light from the window fell in front of the well. Beside it something gleamed. Before peeking through the window to see who lived in that shack in the woods, I leaned down. . I picked up the object and could hardly believe it: In my hand I held a knife just like the one I had given Eva the day I met her so she wouldn’t forget me, the one that was good for so many things. The screwdriver was missing the tip. Who could she have given it to, or who could have taken it from her, and how had it reached that corner of the woods? Had the person who had taken it from her lost it while drawing water from the well? Or on the day after a battle? I was so preoccupied with the knife in my hand that it wasn’t until a good while later that I walked over to the window and peered inside the house.
At the far end of the room hung a yellow-and-blue flowered curtain, and in front of it sat an old woman with a dark scarf around her head, a black shawl draped over her shoulders, and large eyeglasses. Her hand rose and fell rhythmically, pulling a thread. On one side of the curtain was an armoire with two doors, and on top of it a green jug and a bottle holding a candle. The old woman rose and approached the window. I quickly ducked. I circled the house on all fours. At the back of the house, by a window with closed shutters, stood the tallest, broadest tree I had ever seen. The fluttering of birds could be heard coming from deep within the branches. Firewood was stacked next to a cage, blocking my way, and beyond it was a henhouse. I couldn’t spot any windows on the wall where the flowered curtain hung on the inside of the shack, but I did see a pile of wood reaching almost to the roof, covering the entire wall. That, and a few bundles of heather. Just as I turned the corner and was about to walk by the entrance, the door swung open and a voice shouted: Who’s out there? The old woman emerged from the house with an axe in her hand, a dark silhouette against the light inside, tiny and rotund, her voice powerful. Why don’t you answer? What are you staring at? Answer me! If you heard she was beautiful, you’re a bit late! Three weeks late. I moved closer. When she saw me clearly in the light of the house, she lowered the axe. What are you doing here? Answer me! I said I was crossing the forest and was thirsty; the water in the river was disgusting, but I hadn’t dared draw water from the well for fear that the pulley would creak and betray my presence. Why didn’t you want to be discovered? I blurted out the first thing that came to mind: To avoid frightening the people who might be inside the house. She burst out laughing, tossing her head back. Come in, she ordered when she finally stopped laughing. You got money on you? No, I said. Come in! I don’t want it to be said that I haven’t been charitable at least once in my lifetime. Who told you there was a house so deep in the forest? I wanted to say that my feet had led me there but I was wary of angering her. I followed the path, I was fleeing from the river. . the axe gleamed, it looked sharp.
Inside it reeked of smoke and boiled cabbage. A fire was blazing in the small hearth; a box beside the chair where I had seen the old woman sitting held balls of yarn of different colors. Hanging above the hood over the hearth was a painting in a black frame, the glass more dirty than clean and, inside it, an embroidered Virgin Mary: the same that graced my religious medallions. I put my hand in the back pocket of my trousers: They weren’t there. I checked my neck: I wasn’t wearing them. Then I took a good look at the old woman; she was ugly as the devil, with a short, flat nose, small, wide-set eyes, a low forehead, puffy cheeks, and a large mouth. She removed some knickknacks from a round table, and once the table had been cleared she brought out a bottle and two glasses. You’ll see how pleasant this will be. . sit here, I’ll sit facing you. Speak! I glanced at the fireplace hood and then at her; I couldn’t help but compare the embroidered face with the real one. She guessed what I was thinking and started to laugh in that manner of hers, with her head tilted back, the skin of her neck taut and her Adam’s apple trembling. You’re seeing visions. Take a good look at me. Are you mute, or did the cat get your tongue? I’m telling you, you’re seeing visions. She was better at lying than the most deceitful of liars. The Virgin Mary was her, just like that man had said. The Virgin Mary on my religions medallions, all the faces of every Virgin Mary, were her face. She must have really loved herself. Ugly as sin, she loved herself. How could she love herself, so fat and ugly?. . I certainly couldn’t imagine embroidering my own face, with so many faces to choose from in this world. When I was a little girl the nuns taught me to embroider. You can’t imagine how often I have blessed them. But don’t think embroidery is my only talent. She rose and drew back the flowered curtain; behind it was a cot covered with a red bedspread and an armchair with ropes attached to the armrests and the legs. Newish ropes, still white, not very thick. She brought an ashtray and placed it on the table, sat down, and lit a cigarette. You smoke? I shook my head. Well, I do. The soldiers got me in the habit. They always bring me some. Smoke, old woman, smoke. . that’ll keep you entertained. . and in my old age, I smoke and admire the smoke coming out of my mouth and the smoke I expel through my nostrils. Leaning forward, she held the cigarette up to my face, you got to ginger up. How can you go around with those helpless-creature eyes of yours? Aren’t you a man? Lift up your heart then! And hurrah for war and death! She left the cigarette in the ashtray, uncorked the bottle, and filled the glasses to the top. This will loosen up your tongue, liven up your blood. Drink up! She lifted her glass, I lifted mine and emptied it in one swallow, as she did. To the religious medallions! The wine was like fire. I like you, even if you’ve gone mute. I suppose you could be given communion without having to confess. I wasn’t expecting to have such good company tonight. Throw a log on the fire. Drink! Peaceful night, it is. . the rumblings of war reached this far, in case you’re wondering. I admit I don’t know the meaning of the word fear. Never did! She eyed her cigarette and I the ropes on the armchair. Look at me! You’ve never seen anyone like me. Never, never! She filled her glass again. Drink up! And she filled mine again, too. That armchair, she said, stretching out her arm with the glass in her hand, has quite a story. The girl who used to sit in it is buried by the tree in the back, under the rabbit cage. The oldest tree of them all. It was full of birds and she liked looking at it. I turned the armchair around so she couldn’t see it. I covered up the window: shutters closed and a pile of wood over them. So she couldn’t see a thing. Some of them birds have white and black feathers, some have red chests — red from eating so many cherries — some have plumage as green as stagnant water, others grey with blue bellies, all of them chirping and flitting about, and she with her back to them so she’d see only me. Me! I had her for a long time. She was beautiful. There’s no explaining how beautiful she was. When they took me to her. . she was unconscious by the vegetable garden, next to the cabbage patch. A bullet had perforated her thigh. Not gone through it, mind you, it was lodged inside. And with the kitchen knife. . No, with a knife she had in her pocket, which had some other tools that were just a nuisance, I dug out the bullet. . and with these two fingers. The wound got infected. Every day I had to squeeze out the pus and dress it with rags soaked in thyme water. As I nursed her I kept thinking she was mine. . Drink up! She poured me more wine, too much, and it spilled over. Drink up! I’m pouring you wine so you’ll drink it, not so you’ll let it go bad. It burned. It burned my throat. After I’d nursed her back to health I decided to keep her forever. Those cords you’ve been looking at were for tying her up; otherwise she would have escaped. Tied up. Nice and tight, to keep the old woman in the woods company. Drink! Don’t you think she’d have run away if she could, scampering into the forest like a hare? She’d have flown out the window if she’d had wings. . The first to have her was a middle-aged man who was running away from the bullets and was hungry for. . I stepped outside so he wouldn’t feel self-conscious and I heard her scream. How crude of her. And then, what a cry! What a cry the little bird let out. It must have reached the depths of hell. When the man came out he thanked me. I didn’t hold out my hand, but he slipped some coins into my pocket. Thank you. And after that first one, others started coming. Sometimes they had to line up. . had more lice than a hens’ nest filled with old straw.