The bone fire, p.12
The Bone Fire, page 12
That’s when I notice that around the edge of the wooden disk there is a groove, and in that groove there is a thick black hairband, about half a finger’s width, and on it are small metal spheres.
I take one and pull it; the hairband snaps away from the edge, making other metal balls ring; they are tiny sphere-shaped bells, but it seems each one has a different tone, and together they make a beautiful sound. I tauten the hairband with three fingers, shake my hand, and I listen to how it rings, and through the fissures cut into the tiny spheres I see that in each one, a colored glass ball the size of a peppercorn makes a cracking sound.
Grandmother says that this was Mother’s favorite hairband, she wore it very often, and now I can wear it too.
I pull my braid across my shoulder, pull off the green rubber band that holds it at the end, and put the hairband in its place. I loop it around eight times, doubling it over so it will be good and tight.
As it tightens against my hair, it rings softly once, then, as I drop my braid onto my chest, it rings again, louder this time. The sphere-shaped bells now sound deeper than they did when they were in my hands, and it really is as if every one of the tiny bells rings slightly differently. I hear them all at once, and yet the sound of each one is distinct; the ringing sounds come apart and interweave with one another again, they weave together and come apart again, making me a little dizzy.
I clutch the side of the writing cabinet; the dizziness lasts for only a moment, passing as quickly as it came.
Grandmother smiles at me, says that it has been a long time since she heard those tiny bells, how beautiful they sound, it’s easy to get lost in them. If I don’t want them to ring with every step or every movement, then I can do what Mother did. She used to stuff some flax into the bells so they wouldn’t ring; I should look in the pouch, there surely is some left in there.
I reach into the velvet pouch and at the very bottom my fingers do feel something soft. I pull it out and see thin rose-brown filaments woven together, flexible and soft.
I pick up the end of my braid and place a bit of the filament in one of the tiny bells, pushing it into the opening with the tip of the nail of my ring finger; it goes in very easily, and it muffles the sound of the tiny bell.
I pinch off another bit of flax, and one by one, I stuff the inside of every bell.
By the time I’m done, the hairband has grown completely silent.
Grandmother smiles again; she holds a mirror up in front of me, and she says I should look at how beautiful I am. The hairband suits me.
It’s really quite beautiful; the bells gleam, the sunlight flashes into my eyes from the mirror.
Slowly I stuff the remaining bits of flax into the velvet pouch. I shake my braid once, and I listen to the silence.
* * *
When Grandmother comes home she puts a black shopping bag on the table in front of me. I look to see what she has brought. The bag is half filled with large gleaming oranges with waxy skins. I’ve never seen so many oranges at once. I reach into the bag, take out one, press the nail of my thumb into the skin; an oily orange smell emerges, and suddenly I think of the institute. I think of the day when the drunken Swede showed up.
It’s afternoon, the sun is shining, all the girls are outside in the courtyard, we’re playing in the snow, which has melted a bit; it’s easy to make snowballs out of it because it sticks. The snow is almost as tall as the grass poking out of it. We’ve decided we’re going to build a snow house, one that will be big enough for all the girls to fit inside; one after the other we push the large snowballs, building the snow walls. It’s not too cold, but I’m freezing, I really don’t feel like building the snow house, but I know that if I don’t go along with Ramóna and Kinga, the two biggest girls—they were the ones who decided to build the snow house—then they will give me a wash, scrubbing my face till it’s red with snowballs rolled until they’re hard.
My wool gloves quickly become soaked through, so I roll my snowball nice and slow; it already reaches up to my waist, creaking beneath its own weight. I have to lean against it with my entire body to push it forward. Kinga notices that I’m faltering; she stands next to me, saying that I’m a good worker, this will be the biggest snowball, nobody else is going to roll one as big as mine, and I say yes, but what I really want is for her to leave me alone, the snowball will end up breaking from its own weight; but it doesn’t break, it’s just very hard to roll. Suddenly I see that the snow is not white but black between my two gloves. At first I don’t understand, then I look down at the ground, and I see that we’re standing right in the middle of where the bonfire was, we’re rolling the snowballs across it, across one large strip where the ground became completely black from the ashes. Kinga yells at me: Look what you’ve done! I say it wasn’t me, we did it together. Kinga screeches, That’s not true, you’re the one who did it! I shrug my shoulders, and I say, Fine, it was me, let’s keep pushing the snowball; the ashes will disappear by the time we get to the wall, and you won’t be able to see it. Kinga screams that I’m an idiot, this is impossible, everyone knows what the ashes are from, they’re from the burned pictures of the Comrade General; if we build them into the house, the entire thing will be ruined. So then let’s not build it, I say, I really couldn’t care less, but Kinga keeps on screaming; the others gather around. I know what’s going to happen, they will think she’s right, and they’re going to wash my face with the black snow. I bite my lip; I don’t care what they do, I don’t care what they want.
Then one of the girls points at the gates, yells that someone is coming, a car, a big car, and really, there’s a large red car speeding in along the driveway, the snow and the gravel crunching beneath its tires. Somebody is yelling that they came for her, definitely they came for her; she begins to run toward the car, and all the girls begin to yell, they all run toward the car, I too start running toward the car, I know that they haven’t come for me, no one can come for me, but still I run toward the car together with the others. The large red station wagon stops, its brakes squealing, then it reverses, turns across the driveway, but no one gets out; the car begins to tip, somebody screams that it’s going to flip over, somebody else yells that it’s going to hit us, but still we don’t stop, and the car doesn’t flip over; it jerks back onto its wheels and comes to a stop.
The door opens; a man gets out, clutches the door. His entire body is trembling, his face as white as a wall.
We stand around him, looking at him.
The man lets go of the door, takes a step toward us; swaying, he says: My God, girls, have you lost your minds? What would have happened if I’d hit you? Nearly all of you just got killed, never do that again, do you hear, never again!
Nobody says a word, we just look at him, then Ramóna asks: Who are you looking for, sir, whose father would you be? Who have you come to pick up?
The man stands there, his forehead and his face covered in sweat, still trembling, and he speaks only after a while, says that isn’t why he came.
Kinga then says that if he hasn’t come for that, what is he looking for here? He should leave—we’ll call the headmistress.
The man starts walking toward the trunk of his car, saying that he didn’t come to take anything away but to bring something. He opens the trunk, leans in, and pulls out a large cardboard box. He says that he too belongs here, we should know that he was born here, and he had to leave here fifteen years ago; that filthy piece of trash chased him all the way to Sweden so his heart would be chewed apart by those maggots, and when he saw on television that they’d blown his head apart, well, for the love of God, he could hardly believe it, but then when he saw that it really was true, then, well, he knew what he had to do. He went and packed his car up with everything that he could get at home, so much that he could hardly fit in the car himself, and another thing: he had driven here for more than thirty-six hours straight without closing his eyes once, never stopping, but now here he was, and by the time he got to this point, he had given out everything he’d brought, but then at the very last minute he found out that here, not far away from the city where he had been born, there was an orphanage, so he quickly came here so that he could help us in whatever way he could—help us orphans as well—so here it is, look, this is what he brought, eat up, they’re oranges.
As he speaks he opens up the cover of the box and gestures toward us, and it really is filled with oranges. Each one is wrapped up in tissue paper. We look at the oranges; no one moves, then Ramóna steps over to the box, takes one out, takes off the paper and puts the tissue paper into her pocket; with her other hand she raises the orange to her mouth, bites into it, red juice sprinkles and drips down the corner of her mouth. Ramóna spits the skin into the snow, and she says: Very tasty. Inside, the orange is completely red; I’ve never seen anything like that. Ramóna jabs her fingers into the orange, breaking it in two, the red juice sprinkling everywhere; she rips out the segments from the inner skin.
And then everyone is biting and ripping and opening and eating; the oranges are very cold and very sweet, and as I swallow, I hear the man saying: Yes, girls, eat, because I brought these here out of the goodness of my heart, and as he says this, I’m thinking to myself that it’s not really proper, eating like this in front of a stranger.
My face goes warm from the memory of this shame. I turn the half-peeled orange around in my hand. I give it to Grandmother, and I say that maybe she should peel it. The juice from the orange is stinging the sores on my fingers.
* * *
Next to one of the trees on the walkway lies an enormous dog. I’ve never seen a dog so big, I don’t know what breed of dog it is. Its leash is wrapped around the trunk of the tree; it lies there, waiting for its owner. As I walk past it, I see that it’s a St. Bernard, but a very old one, its hair is almost completely white.
The dog begins to stir, then stands up. I tell the dog that I don’t mean it any harm. I approach it, saying, Don’t be afraid, dog, it’s just me, but the dog grumbles, baring its teeth, and when I try to pet it, it opens its mouth and latches onto my thigh.
A boy appears next to the dog—he must be the owner—grabs its collar and shouts: What are you doing, Burkus, bad dog, let go immediately! Burkus doesn’t let go, it continues to growl loudly and hold on to my thigh, I can feel the pressure of the dog’s teeth through my skirt. I know that the dog could bite into my thigh if it wanted to, or rip out an enormous piece of my flesh, but no, it merely holds on to it.
Its saliva drips down between its teeth onto my skirt; its eyes are bloodshot. The large brown irises stare at me; I see my own face reflected within them. Its teeth squeeze my thigh harder and harder; the boy tries to pull the dog aside with the leash. The dog doesn’t budge, and its growling only grows deeper.
I tell the boy to let go. My voice is deep and raspy. The boy lets the leash drop.
I look into the dog’s eyes; in the corner of one eye there is a bit of yellow rheum that looks like a dried-out morsel of bread.
I speak to it again. I say to it: Good dog, clever dog. Everything’s fine, I tell it, there’s no problem.
I slowly lower the palm of my hand onto its head, between its two ears, where the broad white stripe that runs up from its nose comes to an end.
Its bristles are warm and soft; beneath my palm I can feel the curvature of its skull.
It’s still grumbling, still squeezing my thigh with its teeth.
Once again I look into its eyes, into the exact center of its eyes, into the black mirror of its pupils, and I see myself reflected in them; I see my blouse, I see the hairband with its tiny bells around my braid, I see my face as I try to half smile, I see my own eyes, I see the fear in my eyes, I see that they are green, exactly like Mother’s eyes, I see the black spots of my pupils, and I see as well that I’m afraid—the fear pours out of me like black smoke.
I sense that I’m trembling inside and that in a moment my entire body will begin to tremble. I don’t want that. I don’t want to be afraid. I want the dog to let go of me. And I remember what Grandmother once told me about animals.
I want the dog to listen to me. I want it to serve me. I press my palm hard down on its head, and then suddenly my nose is filled with the scent of acrid laundry soap and washing up; the colors disappear, I see my face from below, my eyes are not green but gray. I grumble, my teeth are hurting, everything hurts, but there’s flesh in my mouth, flesh and bones, I want to bite it off, I’m not allowed to, but even so, I must, I can already sense the taste of it in my mouth. This is not permitted. I know that I’m not allowed to do this. I’m afraid; I open my mouth. I release the flesh.
My mouth is gaping; I close it. I come back to myself.
Burkus stands, his mouth wide open, his tongue hanging out; he’s panting, his eyes turned upward, white; the palm of my hand is still on his head. I remove my hand. In the corner of his eye there is still that tiny piece of rheum, and with my thumb I wipe it away.
Burkus falls onto one side, his flanks moving quickly up and down.
My thigh is hurting; I grab it through my skirt. I turn away and, tottering, I start off for Grandmother’s house. I hear as the owner calls out to his dog: Burkus, my little dog, what’s wrong with you? But I don’t look back, I don’t want to know what happened; my thigh really hurts, I keep on walking.
12
The woodshed is something like a real house, with a tile roof and windows, but it’s boarded up, and you can’t see into it anywhere.
I’m outside in the garden a lot, and I don’t pay much mind to the woodshed. Then one day, when I’m walking past it, it’s as if I hear soft crying sounds coming from inside. I walk over to the door and I grab the handle, but I can open the door only a very narrow crack; the lock won’t let me move it any farther. I try to look in through the crack, but I can’t see anything. I call in: Is there a problem? No one answers, and now I don’t hear the weeping sounds anymore. I let go of the handle, and I think that I certainly must have been imagining the crying, or else it was just a cat. Then I call out, Kitty, kitty, but nothing moves. I leave the woodshed and go back into the house.
I’m writing out my lesson when Grandmother enters the room. She asks me what I was looking for by the woodshed. I tell her that I didn’t mean to do anything wrong, but I heard someone crying in there.
Grandmother tells me to come with her now.
We go out to the garden. We stand in front of the woodshed. Grandmother looks at me. For the last time, she says, she’s telling me not to go near it. No matter what I hear—I should never go near the woodshed.
I say, Fine, I won’t go near it. But I definitely heard a crying sound.
Grandmother says I was just imagining it.
Then she says that it would be better if, for safety’s sake, we put a fence around the woodshed. She reaches into her pocket, takes out a small plastic bag, and tells me to hold out my hands, then she pours tiny white pebbles into my palms. They are smooth and not very heavy. Each one is carved into the shape of a tooth.
Grandmother takes one and tosses it on the ground. She tells me to throw one on the ground as well. I throw a tiny pebble in the shape of a tooth next to the one that Grandmother threw.
Good, Grandmother says, now let’s go around the woodshed in a nice little circle, and with each step we will throw one of these small stones.
We set off, dropping the pebbles one after the other. And all the while I’m looking at the woodshed, and I’m watching it, just in case I hear something—but all is silent.
We circle back to the first pebble. Right at that point I run out of stones to toss.
Grandmother tells me to note this well: I must never step across the pebbles we have just thrown down. If I ever do, she will know.
Fine, I say, I won’t step across them. Grandmother nods, and she tells me not to bother anymore with the woodshed.
* * *
Once again I’m outside in the garden, and again I hear the crying.
Now it’s much louder. I’m certain it’s the sound of crying. And I’m just as certain that it’s coming from the woodshed.
I want to go over there, but when I try to step across the stones with one leg, the sole of my foot begins to hurt. A lot. As if it had been bitten by something.
I stand on one foot; drawing my breath in sharply, I pull my leg back. I pull off my tennis sneaker and my sock—on the sole of my foot there are tiny red teeth marks. I rub my sole with the palm of my hand, and it stops hurting. I put my sock and my shoe back on.
Once again I hear the crying.
I look up at the walnut tree; one of its branches extends out above the woodshed. I’ve climbed up it once already; a large section of bark is missing from its trunk, you have to use that as a step to grab onto the lowest branch.
I jump, grab the branch, and pull myself up.
I’m already up by the big fork in the tree, then I climb to the end of the branch, where I’m above the roof of the woodshed.
I look at the mossy roof tiles; I don’t dare try to climb down them.
Once again I hear the sound of weeping. I take a deep breath and lower myself onto the roof.
Now the sound of crying is really loud.
I grab hold of one tile, dig my fingers underneath it, pull it to one side, then do the same with a second and third tile. The gap is wide enough, I can pass through it.
I climb in through the opening in the tiles.
I’m in the loft of the woodshed, and it’s dusty. Beneath my legs is a thick layer of broken walnut shells; they make cracking sounds and prick my hands as I place them down. Crouching, I climb out next to a large suitcase; I move in the direction of the weeping. I come to a ladder, and I climb down. I’m afraid.
The weeping sound stops.
The woodshed is filled with odds and ends: I see a wheelbarrow, bicycle wheels, a large chest, gas canisters, earthen crockery, tied-up sacks. Next to one wall there is a stack of cut wood; above the wood on the wall there is a spade and above that a miner’s helmet.
