The bone fire, p.19
The Bone Fire, page 19
I look at them too; on the tubes are smiling red cows, their mouths gaping open. I know what’s going to happen. Grandmother is going to make that tsk-tsk sound again, then the caps will fly off one tube, and another one, and then I will fall to my knees, and another one, and then my mouth will open as well, and another one, and then I’ll be catching this or that tube in my hands, and with both my hands I’ll press the cream into my mouth; my stomach is churning, I see Grandmother’s hand moving, I know that she’s going to click her tongue again, Dive, I think, dive, but Grandmother doesn’t click her tongue.
There’s just a handkerchief in her hand; she extends it to me, she tells me to wipe my chin, because it’s a mess. Then she crouches down and begins to throw the tubes back into the box. She speaks to me over her shoulder, tells me to help, what am I waiting for.
I can’t bear it, so I ask her why she has so many tubes of cream. Snorting, Grandmother chortles, saying that Grandfather liked his coffee best with this kind of cream in it, but it was such a rare treasure that he could only permit himself to have it on Sundays, and they could get a hold of it only very rarely; then one time, she went into the city, into the new shop, and she saw tubes of cream standing there in piles; she couldn’t resist and bought as many as she could carry home alone.
* * *
I’m sitting at the kitchen table, writing my lessons. There was a lot today; I leave my math homework for last, but I’m almost finished with that as well, I’m working on the last problem when the tip of my pen suddenly makes a loud scratching sound, and as I raise it, it spits a great big splotch of ink onto the paper. I quickly reach into my pencil case, grab the crumpled-up blotter, and press it onto the splotch, but I know it won’t help; because of the stain I’ll have to rip the page out of my notebook and write the whole thing over again.
The ink stain slowly seeps into the paper; at first its edges appear, then the middle part; it looks like a face, a face or a lion’s head. I press the blotting paper down more firmly on the page; the lion’s mane grows, it spreads out, it’s no longer just a head now but an entire beast, a dog or a fox; it has a pointy face, ears pressed back; it yelps, grimacing.
I remove the blotting paper; around the new ink stain there are bunch of old ones, dark blue and pale blue ink stains, among them are stains of dried blood, and black ink prints extending out. They abut each other, they clutch at each other, the blotting paper is filled with them.
I turn the paper on its side, and I look at the forms weaving into each other, for many of them I do not know what they are the traces of. I think that I should just crumple it together and throw it out, but I know that I won’t; instead I’ll go to the pantry and bring out the large iron, and with it I’ll smooth out the blotting paper. The iron is very heavy; it will smooth out all the creases, and then I can put the blotter into the folder with my drawings.
* * *
That evening I dream of running. Even in my dream I know that it’s because of track practice. I’m in a race; I reach down for the compass dangling from my neck, the map placed in the nylon sheath, but there is only a heavy silver chain there, there’s no compass hanging from it, no small pouch for the map, no cross on it, no medal. I let it go; I’m not standing now but running, I run as far as the forest path, the ground is supple but not too soft, I jump across the puddles and the muddy tire tracks or I run around them. The path slowly rises, it will take me to the top of the hill; there I will have a good look around, and I’ll figure out where I am. When I get that far, I’ll also be able to find the next point where I have to stamp my running card—and then I’ll know where the goal lies.
I look down at my feet; my head is bent, I’m running with slackened shoulders, easy running should always begin with loosened shoulders, if your shoulders are tense, then your entire body will become rigid, fatigue will come more easily, and your muscles will fill with lactic acid. I run, I jump across the black roots poking out from the earth; the path is ever steeper, I know that in a moment, I’ll be at the top of the hill.
I look over to the side, and I see that the trunks of the trees are black. It’s as if the entire forest has burned down; they could have been enormous pine trees, but they’re all cindery and dark, swallowing every sound within themselves.
The path rises more and more; I think it’ll never come to an end, I’m never going to reach the top of the hill, but then I see that above, among the trees, the sun is shining through. I imagine that the goal is there, up the top of the hill. I run with open arms; leaping, I run.
And then at once I’m at the top. I stop, I’m panting, I wipe my forehead, I unzip my sweat jacket halfway down, pull my braid out from beneath it. The fire must have been much greater on the other side of the hill, there is nothing there but black ash. I look to the left, and I see that a huge crater has ripped through the side of the hill, on its edge lies a blackened tree; something dangles from one of the branches, and I know that it can only be the stamp.
I’m already in front of it, I reach for it, then I remember that I don’t even have my running card, but it’s too late, I’ve already grabbed it and pulled it toward myself. The earth moves below me, collapsing into ashes, a black whirlwind pulls me down, down into the depths of the crater. I fall down, but I’m looking up at the sky, I would like to see the sun one last time.
I wake up feeling that everything is hurting, my entire body; I feel as if I’m made of earth, the soles of my feet hurt, my ankles, my calves, my bottom, and my back too, all along my spine, right up to my shoulders. I haven’t felt anything like this for a while. I think of Mother, of how she taught me to stretch. I haven’t stretched in a long time. When I was little, Mother stretched with me every morning, she said it would help me grow.
I hear Grandmother out in the kitchen as she putters around. I lie there and I feel that I won’t be able to move at all. I am made of earth, of ashes.
I think of the dream, I think of how beneath the covers, my arms are cindery branches; for a moment I just lie there, I don’t even dare move my hand from beneath the blanket. I look at the white wall and try to think about stretching; I pull my arms up very slowly from beneath the covers, very slowly I pull up both my arms, upward to the ceiling, I imagine that the pain is tepid sand beneath my skin, dense and moist, it fills up my body.
I stretch my arms out as much as I can; my elbows crack, the sand moves within me, slowly it begins to flow along the inner part of my arm down back into my body, filling my chest, making me groan; it feels good, I stretch some more. I bend my arms back a bit, enough that my shoulders and back are taut, I stretch my thighs, I stretch myself out—Father always said that I should imagine that I’m growing. I’m not imagining that now; rather, I’m imagining the sand flowing out of my body through my back and my bottom, hissing; it falls out of me, flowing across my bed, down through the floor, flowing back into the earth.
I look at the wall, I see the shadow of my outstretched arm, the shadow of my hand, it doesn’t look the same as before, the edge is gray and blurry, only the middle part of it is black, as if it were an x-ray, as if I can see the bones in my arm, in my hand, and in my fingers, a skeletal hand drawn from shadows on the wall. I look at it; I squeeze my hand, then I spread my fingers out, I look at the skeletal hand, the bones in the fingers opening and then closing, I’m not imagining this now, and I’m not dreaming, it’s really there, the shadow of my other hand is also a bone shadow.
It can’t be there, this wall next to the window, and there can be no shadow on it; cold goose bumps run all along my arm, then I understand—on the wall facing the window hangs a glass mirror with wavy silvering, and that’s what is reflecting the pale morning light so strangely, making the shadows faint and indistinct.
As I sit up, I reach toward the ceiling and I think for a moment that perhaps I might see my own skull on the wall, the vertebrae of my spine, the gangrenous black ribs in my chest, but no—on the wall I am nothing more than a pale-edged blurry shadow.
I stand up, feeling the stiffness in my body, but now it doesn’t hurt so much. I fold up my blanket and begin to make the bed.
19
During gym class I have to wear my hair up in a bun. When class is over, I take off my gym clothes, and put my skirt and my blouse back on. I pull out my hairpins, unwind my bun, undo it, quickly comb it out, and once again I plait my hair. I take the end of the braid and reach into my skirt pocket for my jingling hairband, but today it’s not there. I dig around in my pocket, but I don’t find it, there’s only my handkerchief, the stub of a pencil, half of a walnut, and a razor blade wrapped in paper that I brought for drawing class.
I remember very clearly that I put the hairband in my pocket when I put on my gym clothes, then twisted my hair into a bun and pinned it with the hairpin, but the hairband isn’t there anymore. I take everything out of my pocket, place it all on the bench, I turn my pockets out, but I can’t find the hairband anywhere.
I crouch down and I look to see if it fell behind the bench, but it isn’t there either.
I ask Olgi if she by any chance has seen it anywhere? She says no; the other girls are already headed out, chatting among themselves, the hairband is nowhere to be seen.
In the meantime, my braid has come half undone. I plait it again, and I pull the black rubber band that I use during gym class from my wrist, wind it around the end of my braid, but as I pull it, it breaks and flies into the corner.
The bell for the next class is ringing, the girls have already left, and I’m alone in the dressing room. I know that I have to hurry, I can’t be late for geography class.
I don’t have anything to tie my hair back with; for a moment I stand there, I don’t know what to do, and I look down at my shoes, at my white shoelace.
I take out the razor, unwrap it from the wax paper, I cut a piece off my left shoelace, and I use that to tie up the end of my braid.
I run along the corridor to get to class on time, but all the while I’m only thinking of my hairband and where it could’ve gone.
I get to the staircase, grab the banister, take the stairs three at a time; I definitely put it in my pocket, I couldn’t have lost it, so that means that only one thing happened—it was stolen. Someone was jealous of my beautiful hairband, and so she took it from my pocket.
I make it to the classroom right before the teacher does, not even getting to my own desk by the time he comes in.
During geography class I don’t pay any attention, I copy everything that’s written on the blackboard into my exercise book, but the whole time I’m only thinking of who it could have been. I look at the girls, and I try to figure out which one did it, but none of them are behaving strangely or suspiciously, none of them turns away, none of them bends her head or otherwise avoids my gaze.
The bell rings for the long recess. I don’t leave. I unpack my entire schoolbag onto my desk, maybe it’s in there, but at the same time I know I won’t find it there.
Only the seventh-graders stay inside. Hajni is erasing the blackboard, Olgi is sweeping.
I shake out my books and workbooks, thinking perhaps it slid between the pages, but at the same time I know that it couldn’t have slid in there.
I pack everything back into my bag. Olgi puts down the broom, she asks me if I’ve found it. No, I tell her.
Olgi says she has a stomachache and has to go to the bathroom, she asks me if I can stay inside till she comes back, because a seventh-grader can only leave the classroom if someone takes her place while she’s gone. I motion to her that it’s okay for her to go. Then Hajni says she has to go too. She leaves the classroom with Olgi.
I’m alone in the classroom. I walk amid the rows of desks, thinking of my hairband, thinking of the small bells, wondering where they could be, in whose desk the hairband is, whose schoolbag.
When I walk next to the teacher’s platform for the third time, I stumble on something. I look down; it’s the dustpan, and next to it is the little broom. I kicked the dustpan by mistake, and half of the swept-up dust has fallen out of it. I crouch down, pick up the small broom, and begin to sweep it back into the dustpan.
The dust is gray and very fine, there’s a lot of it, at least three fistfuls of dust, filling up at least half of the dustpan. I sweep up all of it, then I put down the broom, and I pick up the dustpan to take it to the dustbin to pour it out.
The dust is so fine that it shifts with every step, sliding back and forth on the dustpan, almost as if it were water. I hold the dustpan with two hands, carry it that way. I look at the dust, and I think again of my hairband, of what Grandmother will say when she finds out that I lost it.
The dust moves again as if it had been stirred by the wind; something like an eddy forms on its surface, I see it for a split second and then it’s gone, and at the same time I hear the sound of my hairband’s silver bells, very softly and very far away.
I know that I’m just imagining it; they can’t be ringing, I stuffed flax into them. I stop and listen, I want to know where the sound is coming from, but there is only silence.
I stop near the first desk, and I place the dustpan on the top of the desk.
I look at the dust; its surface is smooth, pencil shavings and sunflower-seed shells are mixed in with paper pellets.
With my left hand I reach in, grab a bit of dust, sprinkle it into the air, and I think of the sound of the bells.
The dust falls in long straight lines, pointing toward the coats. I step forward and reach into the dust, I once again sprinkle it into the air; the streak grows longer, I follow it, I let it lead me, let it show me the way.
As I get to the coats, the streak of dust turns away, moving along the coat rack, alongside the coats, and I reach the second-to-last coat when I run out of dust. I turn the dustpan toward the floor, but there’s no more dust in it. I look down; on the parquet floor, dark brown from kerosene, the dust is gray and snaking, and at its end, the triangular tip of a pencil shaving is pointing toward the second-to-last coat.
It’s a dark purple quilted coat, I don’t know whose it is, but I know it’s a boy’s, not a girl’s.
I throw the dustpan onto the floor. I take the coat from the hanger, I shake it, but in vain, because I don’t hear the sound of the bells. I know that the hairband is in the coat somewhere, it must be in there.
I put it down on the last desk in the classroom, I reach into the two outer pockets, then the two inner pockets. I find coins, buttons, a piece of string, and a matchbox, which I open; inside is a slingshot made of green wire as well as round pins bent into U-shapes, their tips stuck into pieces carved out of a white eraser. I look through the pockets one more time, but I don’t find the hairband.
I know I don’t have much time; the girls will be back in a moment, I need to hang the coat back up and sweep the dust back into the dustpan. I put everything back in the pockets of the coat. As I pick it up to hang it back up again, I see a slight rip in the lining. It must be hidden there, behind the lining. Quickly I palpate everywhere on the coat; the outer waterproof layer rustles beneath my palm, and there, at the bottom of the coat, well below the pockets, I suddenly sense something hard. It’s the hairband, I can tell for certain by the forms of the round bells.
I don’t know how to get it out. I think of the razor blade; I’m about to reach for it when I hear the girls coming back. I quickly grab the dustpan and the broom, and I begin to sweep.
* * *
I can’t figure out whose coat it is. During the next recess I stand next to it, the razor in my hands, but there are too many pupils in the classroom, I don’t dare touch the coat, and I don’t dare to cut my hairband out of the lining.
There still two classes left; I’m not able to pay proper attention during either one of them, I can only think about who that purple coat belongs to. I look at the boys, I try to figure out which one of them it could be.
Iván notices that I’m looking at him; he yawns. I realize that he was actually smiling, but he didn’t want me to notice, so he made it look like he was yawning. I know it’s not his coat, his coat is green.
* * *
After the last class of the day, as the bell rings, I quickly grab my coat and my bag, and I’m the first to run out of the classroom, the first to run down the steps, the first to run out the school gates, but I don’t head into the street; instead I crouch beneath the bushes next to the fence, I crouch down so no one can see me, and from there I wait for the purple coat to come along.
For a long time there’s no purple coat. I’m beginning to think there won’t even be one, that somehow the boy realized I’m watching for him and instead he climbed over the school fence and went home another way. I’m just about to climb out from behind the bushes to set out for home myself, but then I decide to count to one hundred very slowly; I’ll wait until I finish, just in case he heads this way.
I begin to count nice and slow. I’m already at seventy when I see the purple coat beyond the bushes. The purple coat is passing by me; its owner’s head is hanging down, kicking a stone and whistling something, but from here, on the other side of the bushes, I can’t tell who it is.
I set off after him, but I don’t go onto the sidewalk, I’m taking the path between the row of bushes and the fence. Suddenly he kicks the stone from the sidewalk and goes after it into the street; he’s having a hard time kicking it back onto the sidewalk, so I’m able to catch up to him, I even pass him, but the bushes are hiding me, so he still doesn’t see me. I look back, see his face—it’s Gazsi, the stuttering boy.
