The bone fire, p.39
The Bone Fire, page 39
I bite my skin; the burning blister, salty and painful, bursts into my mouth; I spit it out onto the ground; in the meantime my arm is moving, I’m slapping Krisztina, the slap rings out on her face underneath the palm of my hand. I yell at her: Stop, shut your mouth, do you understand, shut up, we’re not the ones at fault, we can’t do anything about it, not about them dying, not about us surviving, that’s how it was and that’s how it is, there’s nothing more to do, life goes on.
I yell it really loud, because I want it to be true.
Krisztina presses her hand to her face, and she says I can lie to myself if I want to, but she won’t lie anymore, she’s had enough, the time has come for her to tell the truth. She leans forward, begins to scratch the earth with her two hands, quickly and wildly, like a fox, like a dog, and, panting, gasping for breath, she tells me that when she and Réka were little, they played at being princesses, and they always fought about which one of them was the firstborn, because no matter how many times they asked, their father never told them, he always said that even the question itself was foolish, they shouldn’t worry about that, the whole thing took two minutes, two minutes is nothing, they should consider that they were born at the same time—Krisztina is silent; she stops digging, grabs something, pulls it out of the earth with both hands, it’s a crooked black root, no, it’s a black plastic bag; she shakes off the clumps of earth clinging to the bag, then puts it down before me and continues speaking—she says that on their seventh birthday, she woke up with a doll lying on her pillow; it was placed there so that it would be the very first thing that she would see. It was a princess, and at first she couldn’t even believe it was there and not a dream, but it was real, it was really there, and the princess was so beautiful, with a ruffled silver dress and little silver shoes, and she had a crown too, and she had lace gloves, and a necklace, and a bracelet, and a belt, and earrings, and everything was made from silvery, shiny plastic; even her hair was silver, it was the most beautiful doll she had ever seen in her whole life. For minutes she just looked at it, not daring to move, not daring to blink, because she was afraid it would disappear, then she took it and sat it up, and the doll’s eyes sprang open, and she had blue glass eyes, and until that very moment she hadn’t thought of what Réka might have gotten, and it was only when she saw the doll’s eyes spring open that she thought of it, then she suddenly wanted to know, and she leaned up on her elbows in the bed and looked over at Réka’s bed. Réka was still asleep, and on the pillow next to her head there was also a doll, a doll exactly the same as hers, only much more beautiful, because its clothes were not silver but gold, and the doll didn’t have silver hair, but golden hair, and not silver shoes, but golden shoes, and from that she knew that Réka was the first and she was the second, it had always been that way and it would always be that way. And then she got out of bed, softly, so no one would hear, and she went over to Réka’s bed, and she exchanged the two dolls, she exchanged the silver doll for the golden one, and the golden one for the silver one, finders keepers, losers weepers, and then she lay back down in her bed, and she pretended to be asleep until Réka woke up.
Krisztina reaches into the plastic bag and pulls out a doll by its hair; its crown has slipped to one side and it’s broken, but the crown and the dress glimmer in the moonlight anyway. I can’t tell if this is the silver doll or the golden doll, I can only tell that it’s very beautiful, a real doll that can open and close its eyes, and I think of how much I would have loved a doll like that, but Mother was never able to get one for me.
Krisztina says that Réka never knew that she switched the dolls, she never was jealous, she acted as if they were completely the same, as if the whole thing didn’t matter at all; it did, however, matter, it really mattered, because now she knows that she exchanged her fate for Réka’s, and so it was she who was responsible for all the bad things that happened, and she tried to punish herself, but it never worked, and as she says this, she shakes the doll by its hair, the doll’s eyes open, then they close, then they open, then they close again, and in Krisztina’s other hand there is a large glass syringe with a long injection needle at the end. I didn’t notice when she took it out or from where, but I recognize it, it’s the same ear-cleaning syringe with which she almost poked out the eyes of that boy from the seventh grade, the one who squirted water under her skirt.
Krisztina clasps her fingers around the syringe and plunges it into the doll’s stomach, she pulls it out again and thrusts it into the doll’s stomach again, holding the doll by its legs; she stabs it, muttering, Useless, worth nothing, nothing, nothing at all. Pain shoots through my stomach, I know I’m just imagining it, but it hurts. I speak to Krisztina, tell her to stop, I try to reach over; I want to grab her wrist, I want to twist the syringe out of her hand.
The doll falls to the ground; I force open Krisztina’s fingers, she claws at my wrist and I claw at hers, we tear at and yank each other’s hands, somehow I get hold of the syringe, I pull on it, but it’s just the inner part, it slides out, and the syringe fills up with air.
We’re facing each other, kneeling, underneath the bush; each of us grasps half of the pulled-apart syringe with one hand and clutches the other’s wrist with the other; we’re panting. Krisztina begins to pull the syringe toward herself. Help me, she says, I have to help her, don’t I see that she can’t do it by herself, she’s not brave enough, but if I help her, then it’ll work, then at long last she’ll get what she deserves. The needle is already at her throat, its tip is about to touch her skin, she says that if we plunge it in together and squeeze the air into her artery, that will be enough, that will be the end, she read this in a medical encyclopedia. She wants me to do it, she wants me to help her.
Krisztina closes her eyes, bends her head to one side; her neck extends white in the moonlight. I see how the needle casts a shadow on it, the black line on the white skin, I know that somewhere beneath her skin the blue vein is running, it has to be there, it’s there even if I don’t see it. Krisztina is stronger than me, I feel it now, just a little bit stronger, but it’s enough, she’s going to do it, we’re going to do it, I’m going to do it. I look at her face as she lifts it with closed eyes up to the moonlight; I’ve never seen her like this before, frightened and determined and angry and very beautiful, I know that I have to say this, just two words—You’re beautiful—if I could say that to her the way that Péter said it to me, she would let go of my hand, but I can’t speak; panting, I tense my arm, but for nothing; the tip of the needle has already touched the skin, it’s about to pierce through, and as I think of this, my mouth opens, but I don’t speak, instead I begin to sing, and I sing, Lies are dead, long live truth, servitude is dead, long live freedom, and I sing the whole thing, I’m not really singing it, just humming it softly, as if it were a lullaby.
Krisztina doesn’t move; she doesn’t open her eyes, she doesn’t say anything, but I see that tears are running down her face, I feel the grip of her hand loosening.
By the time we put down the syringe, she’s racked by sobs. I know that I’m going to cry too; clutching each other we will cry for Father and Mother, for Réka and all the other dead, and for ourselves too, for the entire world. I think of Father and how he said that crying isn’t good for anything, it’s not worth anything, but I don’t care, I’ve held out till now, the end; I let Krisztina embrace me, I embrace her back, I hold her, I squeeze her, clutching each other, we fall to the side, we’re lying on the dry leaves, our tears are flowing—we’re alive.
37
It’s October 24, Grandfather’s birthday. Grandmother doesn’t reveal how old Grandfather would have been, but she says that we’re going to observe his birthday. At midnight, as if it were New Year’s Eve, because this is her first celebration with me, and we won’t be celebrating New Year’s Eve.
From the radio, I hear a concert; it could be an operetta, because a subdued man’s voice occasionally conveys in a whisper what’s happening onstage; the audience frequently claps during the music, it’s pretty irritating, but it’s hard not to pay attention to it.
Grandmother is sitting next to the table with the damask tablecloth; she is playing solitaire. I look at the pendulum clock—it’s only half past ten.
I don’t know why we’re doing this; ever since Grandmother read Grandfather’s farewell letter, I haven’t seen or heard him in the house even once. I want it to be midnight already, I want to go to sleep.
Grandmother quickly lays out the cards; they rustle between her fingers. Sometimes she stops, looks at the tablecloth, then continues, the cards clicking as she lays them on top of one another.
Now she’s trying it for the third time, and I already know she won’t win. She runs out of cards. Grandmother looks at the columns of cards, then she blows the air out of her mouth once, gathers up the pack, shuffles the cards. I sense that she’s looking at me, but I don’t look back at her, I’m looking at the clock, at the weights, in the shape of pinecones, dangling at the ends of the chains.
She doesn’t deal out the cards again but puts the pack on the table, goes over to the radio, and turns it off.
Again she looks at me. She says that she knows that I’m angry at her. I chose to stay here, but still, I’m angry at her.
I bite my lip; I don’t answer. I want her to leave me alone, I want to go into my room to read. Or to sleep, or even just to think. What do I know?
Grandmother says if only she knew how much time we have left together.
I say nothing to that.
She waits for a little bit, then she asks me to go into the living room and bring the green kerosene lamp from the bureau.
For a moment I think that I’m not going to do it, but in the end I get up.
The glass in the kerosene lamp is placed at the wrong angle; as I lift it, it wobbles, nearly falling out, but I catch it at the very last second.
When I come back into the kitchen, Grandmother has placed a small wooden box on the table, next to the porcelain washbasin. She takes the glass out of the lamp, lights the wick, puts the washbasin in my hands, and tells me to go outside and gather three handfuls of pine needles from the tree.
I go outside without even putting on my coat. Everything is clear in the moonlight; I can see the pattern at the bottom of the washbasin, the three black roosters chasing each other, and if I wanted to, I could even count the number of feathers on their wings. The long pine needles prick my hands; they break off from the branch with short sharp sounds. I toss the pine needles into the washbasin; I look up at the moon, at the stars; I look at the Big Dipper, and I think about the rings of Saturn.
I hear movement in the garden, I look over—a white cat is standing in the grass, looking at me; I see its face in the moonlight. I bare my teeth and meow, loudly, angrily, as if I were a cat too; the cat meows back at me, its eyes flash green, and it disappears among the bushes. I place the washbasin back under my arm and return to the kitchen.
Grandmother asks me if I saw anything or anyone while I was outside.
I shake my head.
Grandmother nods, motions for me to put the basin on the table, pours cold water onto the pine needles; it makes splashing sounds as she mixes it, the needles dance topsy-turvy in the water. Then she puts a steaming mug into my hand, saying that it’s hot punch and I should drink it, it was one of Grandfather’s favorite drinks. It has such a lovely fragrance that I can’t bear it, I must taste it. It’s sweet, with a rum taste, smooth like silk. I drink it in large gulps; it warms me up.
Grandmother opens the wooden box; it’s filled with painted lead soldiers. At first I think they’re all the same, but then I see that I’m wrong, no two are the same, each one is standing differently, each one holds his arms differently, some of them are holding weapons, others just stand there, and their faces are different too; some of them are young and some are old.
Grandmother says, They’re beautiful, aren’t they?
I nod. I’m looking at one figure with his sword drawn; he’s smiling defiantly, he’s very young, almost a child still, his lips are very red.
Grandmother tells me that Grandfather made the soldiers, and he could reenact the entire revolutionary war of 1848 with them, that was one of his favorite pastimes, he used to play with Mr. Pali, and they always ended up fighting over it.
She picks up a beaked ladle and dips it into the box, and I see that three soldiers have already ended up in the ladle. I ask her what she’s doing, and Grandmother says, You’ll see in just a moment. She screws the wick on the kerosene lamp higher, then holds the ladle into the flame.
I cry out for her not to do that, but Grandmother says, Too late. Smoke is rising from the spoon, the paint is sizzling, burning off the soldiers, then they begin to melt; they slowly run together; at first their legs melt, then their arms, then their faces lose their contours, and their heads also become deformed. Their bodies retain their shape longer, then they too start to melt; the three soldiers are now nothing more than three black pebbles, then the pebbles run together, they melt together, and the spoon is half filled with gray molten lead. Grandmother moves it in a circle above the flame; the burning lead, like a whirlpool, climbs up the inner wall of the spoon.
Grandmother says now we can know what the future will bring. Or if it will bring anything at all. She leans above the spoon, deeply inhales the lead vapors, then raises the spoon above the washbasin.
She tips the lead into the washbasin, pouring it out slowly; as it drips down, it looks much clearer than it was in the spoon, something like molten silver. Hissing, it spills into the water; a pine-scented vapor arises from the washbasin. Grandmother leans over the basin; I see that she wants to reach into it, but her hand stops above the water. She clutches the table as if she’s suddenly grown dizzy; fear flashes across her face, then anger; with two hands she grabs the washbasin, lifts it up, and dashes it to the ground. The basin shatters into fragments; the old rug and the floor are covered with water. I look down; between the pieces of porcelain there are the hardened pieces of lead, they create the image of a grinning cat’s face, with a couple of pine needles adhering to them like whiskers.
Grandmother steps over, bends down, picks up some of the porcelain fragments, puts them into her palm, presses them together, and says, Damn your wildcat stubbornness, why didn’t you tell me what you saw?
I shrug my shoulders, and I say, Just because.
Grandmother asks, What color was it?
It was white, I say.
Grandmother says the winter will be hard and long.
We wipe the floor; we gather up the pine needles and the pieces of the washbasin. Of the three roosters, only one has remained whole, on a long diamond-shaped porcelain shard; just as I’m about to throw the pieces of the washbasin into the dustbin, Grandmother takes it from the dustpan, draws her nail along the shard’s edge. I know what she’s thinking; I grab it out of her hand, and I say, Happy birthday, then I throw it into the garbage.
Grandmother winces, and she sighs once.
* * *
Not even a week has gone by, and we wake up to snowfall. As we’re eating breakfast, Grandmother puts a pair of Norwegian-patterned knit gloves next to my plate, saying that I’ll need them.
After breakfast I go out into the yard to try out my new gloves. They are a different kind of gloves; I’ve never had a pair like this before. They look like mittens, but you can pull the front part back, and they become regular five-fingered gloves, but without the tips covered.
A lot of snow fell during the night; the entire courtyard is covered in snow, the trees, the hedge, the woodshed. Nothing is moving in the garden; only the chickadees are rummaging in the lower branches of the walnut tree. They weren’t here yesterday; the snow brought them as well, I think.
Beneath the four pine trees there is much less snow than elsewhere, just a few centimeters, probably blown there by the wind. The lower branches of the pine trees are missing, you can easily stroll under them. The branches were sawed off by Grandfather; they’ve never dried out properly, often resin drips from the end of their stumps.
I’m standing beneath the pine trees, I don’t want to walk all over the freshly fallen snow. I bend down and try to make a snowball, but the snow is still too powdery, it doesn’t stick together. I press the snow in my two gloved hands, compacting it, pressing hard so it will stick together, then I turn and throw the snowball at the woodshed—it falls apart, as if I had sprinkled snow into the air.
I crouch down, but I don’t try to make a new snowball; instead, I press my two fists into the snow, leaving two round marks. I pull back the top part of my mittens, turning them into gloves; I place the tips of my bare fingers next to the circles I made, forming bear paws. I pull my fingers out of the snow so that the tips of the bear claws will be clearly visible. Fresh bear prints; the bear might have passed by here just a few minutes ago. I turn my gloves back into mittens, and I draw the bear’s back paws in the snow as well. They’re bigger than the front paws; this could be a big old bear. I’m thinking about why it came out of its cave when suddenly I realize that I’m being watched.
Somehow the silence became heavier. I look in the direction of the walnut tree; the branches are unmoving, all the chickadees hidden away somewhere.
As I turn my back to the pine trees, I see something out of the corner of my eye, someone standing behind the trunk of the third tree—but no, no one’s there. I walk right up to the tree, stand next to the trunk; on one of the sawed-off branch stumps a large drop of resin is shining. I don’t remember it being there when I came out today. I lean in closer, I inhale the fragrance of the resin, I notice the delicate whirlpool-like creases on its surface, and I know what this is, it’s a fingerprint. It looks like somebody has just pressed his thumb into the fresh drop of resin.
