I was no longer in the country. I was in Germany and received Captain Pjele's death threats by mail or by long-distance telephone. The letterheads showed two crossed axes. Each letter contained a black hair. Whose?
I looked at the letters closely, as if the killers Captain Pjele would send were sitting between the lines, looking up into my eyes.
The telephone rang, and I picked it up. It was Tereza.
Send me some money, I want to visit you.
Are you allowed to travel?
I think so, yes.
That was our conversation.
Then Tereza came to visit. I met her at the station. Her face was hot, my eyes were moist. On that station platform, I wanted t o touch Tereza everywhere at once. My hands were too small for me, I saw the ceiling above Tereza's hair and felt myself floating up toward it. Tereza's suitcase pulled on my arm, but I carried it as if it were full of air. Not until we were on the bus did notice that my hand had been rubbed red by the suitcase handle. I grasped the handrail where Tereza had her hand. I felt Tereza's rings within my hand. Tereza didn't look out the window at the city, she looked me in the face. We laughed as if the wind was giggling through the open window.
In the kitchen Tereza said: Do you know who sent me? Pjele. There was no other way I could have come. She drank a glass of water.
Why did you come?
I wanted to see you.
What did you promise him?
Nothing.
Why are you here?
I wanted to see you. She drank another glass of water.
I said: I'd be perfectly right to throw you out.
Singing in front of Captain Pjele was nothing compared to this, I said. Undressing in front of him didn't make me as naked as you have.
But it can't be such a bad thing that I want to see you, said Tereza. I'll make up something to tell Pjele, something of no use whatsoever. We can make it up together, you and I.
You and I. Tereza had no sense that you and I were finished. That you and I couldn't be spoken in one breath. That I was unable to shut my mouth because my heart was pounding in it.
We drank cofee. She drank it like water, she never let the cup leave her hand. Maybe she's thirsty from the trip, I thought to myself. Maybe she's been thirsty ever since I went to Germany. I saw the white handle between her lips. She drank so quickly, it was as though she wanted to drink up and leave of her own accord. Send her packing, I thought to myself; but she sat there, feeling her face with her hand. How can you send someone packing just as that someone is beginning to stay?
For me it was like being in front of the seamstress's mirror again. I saw Tereza in pieces: two little eyes, a long neck, pudgy fingers. Time stood still; Tereza should go bau she should leave her face here, because I missed it so. She showed me the scar under her arm where they'd cut out the nut. I wanted to take the scar in my hand and stroke it, without Tereza. I wanted to rip my love out of me, throw it on the floor and stamp on it. Quickly lie down where it was lying and let it crawl back through my eyes into my head. I wanted to pull the guilt off of Tereza as if it were a badly made dress.
Her thirsty quenched, she drank a second cup of coffee more slowly than the first. She wanted to stay for a month. I asked about Kurt. He's got nothing but the slaughterhouse in his head, said Tereza, talks about nothing but drinking blood. I don't think he likes me.
Tereza wore my blouses, my dresses and skirts. She went into town with my clothes instead of with me. The first evening I gave her the key and some money. I said: I don't have any time. She was so thick-skinned, my excuse just bounced off her. She went off on her own and came back with bags full of shopping.
In the evening I found her next to the bathtub, about to wash my clothes. I said: It's all right, you don't have to give them back.
After Tereza had left the house, I went out too. Apart from the pounding in my throat, I could feel nothing. I stuck to the surrounding streets. I avoided shops, so I wouldn't run into Tereza. I didn't stay out long, I came back before she did.
Tereza's suitcase was locked. I found the key under the carpet. In the inner compartment of the suitcase I fund a telephone number and a new key. I went to my own front door, the key fit. I dialed the number. A voice said: Romanian Embassy. I locked the suitcase and put the suitcase key back under the carpet. I put the frontdoor key and the telephone number in my desk drawer.
I heard the key in the door, Tereza's footfall in the corridor, the door to her room opening. I heard the rustle of shopping bags, the door to her room, the kitchen door, the refrigerator door. I heard the clink of knife and fork, the running tap, the fridge door slamming shut, the kitchen door, the door to her room. I swallowed hard at each noise. I felt hands taking hold of me, every noise gripped me.
Then my door opened. Tereza stood there with a half-eaten apple in her hand and said: You've been in my suitcase.
I took the key out of the desk drawer. Is this your something of no use whatsoever to Pjele? I said. You've been to get my key copied. Your train leaves tonight.
My tongue felt heavier than the rest of me. Tereza dropped her apple. She packed her suitcase.
We went to the bus stop. There was an old woman waiting there with a square handbag and her ticket in her hand.
She walked up and down saying: There ought to be one any minute. Then I saw a taxi and flagged it down, so that no bus would ever come, so that I wouldn't have to sit or stand there waiting with Tereza.
I climbed in next to the driver.
We stood on the platform, she wishing she could stay another three weeks and I wishing that she could vanish on the spot. There were no goodbyes. Then the train pulled out, and there was no hand waving, either inside or outside.
The track were empty, my legs felt weaker than two threads. I walked home rom the station. I took me half the night. I wished I would never get there. I don't sleep at night anymore.
I wanted love to grow back, like the grass when it's mown down. To grow differently, if need be, like children's teeth, like hair, like fingernails. To spring up at will, wild and untended. The chill of the sheets made me shudder, and so did the warmth that followed when I lay down.
When Tereza died, six months after her return home, I wanted to give my memory away; but to whom? Tereza's last letter arrived after her death:
Now all I can do is breathe like the vegetables in the garden. I have a physical longing for you.
My love for Tereza did grow back. I forced it to, and I had to protect myself. To protect myself from Tereza and me, the way we had been before her visit. I had to tie ma hands. They wanted to write and tell Tereza that I still remembered the two of us. That the cold inside me stirs up love, against all reason.
After Tereza had left, I spoke with Edgar. Ha said: You shouldn't write to her. You've drawn a line. If you write and tell her how much you're suffering, it will start all over again. Then she'll come back to visit you. I think Tereza's known Pjele as long as she's known you. If not longer.
Why and when and how does tightly tied love get mixed up with murder? I felt like shrieking curses beyond my command.
He who loves and leaves shall feel the wrath of God God shall punish him with the pinching beetle the howling wind the dust of the earth.
Shrieking curses, but in whose ear?
Today the grass listens when I speak of love. It seems to me that this word isn't honest even with itself.
Herta Müller
From The Land of Green Plums, 1993
Translated from the German by Michael Hofmann
Fuente: http://www.pwf.cz
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