I Am Tired - Yesterday

I am tired. Yesterday evening, I wrote some more as I drank some beer. Phrases were spinning around in my head. I think that writing will destroy me.

As usual, I take the bus. I close my eyes. We arrive at the first village.

The old woman who distributes the newspapers comes to collect the packet. She has to deliver these papers to all the inhabitants of the village before seven o’clock in the morning.

A young woman with a child in her arms gets on the bus.

Since I have been working at the factory, no one has ever got on at this stop.

Today, a woman got on the bus, and this woman is called Line.

Not the Line of my dreams, not the Line I was waiting for, but the real Line, the little nuisance Line who has already poisoned my childhood. The one who noticed that I wore her elder brother’s clothes and shoes and made sure everyone knew about it. The one who also gave me bread and biscuits to eat that I would rather have refused. But I was too hungry at playtime.

Line would say that she had to help the poor, her parents told her so. And I was the poor person Line chose.

I move forward to the middle of the bus to get a better look at Line. I haven’t seen her for fifteen years. She hasn’t changed much. She is still pale and thin. Her hair is a little darker than before, it is tied back in a hairband. Line’s face isn’t made up, her clothes aren’t very elegant or fashionable. No, Line is no beauty.

She stares into space through the window, then her gaze passes over me for an instant, then turns away immediately.

She must surely know that I killed her father, my father, our father, my mother too, perhaps.

Line mustn’t recognize me. She could turn me in as a murderer. Fifteen years have passed, no doubt there is prescription. On the other hand, what does she know? Does she just know that we have the same father? Had the same father? Is he dead?

The knife was long, but it had hit with something hard inside the man’s body. I had pressed down with all my strength, but I was only twelve and I was undernourished, puny, I was as light as a feather. I didn’t know anything about anatomy and it is quite possible I didn’t touch any vital organs.

We get off at the factory.

The welfare woman is waiting for Line, she accompanies her to the childcare center.

I go into the workshop, I start up my machine, it works like it has never worked before, it sings, it scans: “Line has come, Line has come!”

Outside, the trees dance, the wind blows, the clouds race, the sun shines, it is as fine as a spring morning.

So it was her I was waiting for! I didn’t know. I thought I was waiting for a woman who was unknown, beautiful, unreal. And it is the real Line that has come after fifteen years of separation. We find each other far from our native village, in another village, in another country.

The morning goes by very quickly. At midday, I go and eat in the factory cafeteria. There is a line, it is moving slowly. Line is in front of me. She has coffee and a bread roll. Just like me when I first arrived and didn’t understand these foreign dishes. Everything seemed tasteless and insipid.

Line chooses a table to one side. I sit down at another table, facing her. I eat without raising my eyes. I’m afraid to look at her. When I have finished my meal, I get up, take my tray back, and go to get a coffee. As I walk past Line’s table, I glance at the book she is reading. It is written neither in our native language nor the language of here. I think it is Latin.

I pretend to read too but I can’t concentrate, I can only look at Line. When she raises her eyes, I quickly lower mine. Sometimes, Line gazes out of the window and I realize that there is something about her that has changed significantly: her look. The Line of my childhood had happy, laughing eyes, the Line of now has a sad and somber look, like all the refugees I know.

At one o’clock, we return to the factory. Line works in the workshop on the floor above mine.

In the evening, when we leave the factory, there is a bus waiting for us. I see Line run to the childcare center and return with her daughter. Line sits near to the driver, I a little farther back, but not too far.

Line gets off in the village where she got on that morning. I also get off and follow her. She goes into the little village grocer’s, so do I. She points to the things she wants to buy with her finger: milk, pasta, jam. So she can’t speak the language of this country. Unless she has become dumb, the chatty little girl of my childhood.

I buy a packet of cigarettes and I continue to follow Line in the street. This time she has surely noticed me. But she says nothing. She goes into a two-story house near the church. I look through the ground-floor window. There is a light on. There is a man sitting at a table bent over his books. The rest of the flat is in darkness.

I discover an alley that leads to the forest. I walk across the little wooden bridge and follow the path until I get around to the back of the houses. I sit on the grass and try to identify Line’s house. I think I have worked it out, but I am not sure. The stream and the gardens lie between me and the houses. I can see shadows moving in the rooms at the rear, but that’s all, I can’t recognize anyone.

I think that I must buy some binoculars if I want to see anything.

I return to the front of the house. The man is still at his table. Line is there also, sitting in a chair, bottle-feeding her baby. I don’t know whether it is a boy or a girl, but I now know that Line has a husband.

I decide to catch the bus home. I wait for a long time. The buses don’t run very often in the evening. It is nearly ten o’clock when I get home.

Jean is waiting for me outside the door. He has fallen asleep on the stairs.

He asks me:

“Where were you?”

I say:

“What? Do I have to account for myself to you? What are you doing here? Why don’t you all leave me alone?”

Jean gets up and says in a low voice:

“I waited for you. They need a translator.”

I open the door, I go into the kitchen, I say:

“Go. It’s late. I want to sleep.”

He says:

“I’m hungry.”

I say:

“I don’t care.”

I push him out on to the staircase, he adds:

“Eve wants to see you about the next trial. She looks after the foreigners, the refugees, all the things that concern us. She is always asking about you.”

I say:

“Tell her I’m dead.”

“But that’s not true, Sandor. You aren’t dead.”

“She’ll understand.”

Jean asks:

“Why have you turned so nasty, Sandor?”

“I’m not nasty, I’m tired. Leave me in peace.”

I buy some binoculars. I also buy a bicycle. That way, I won’t have to wait for the bus. I will be able to go to Line’s village whenever I like, day or night. It is only six kilometers from town.

I don’t follow Line anymore. After work, I take the bus back to town. She gets off at her village and doesn’t see me again.

Except in the cafeteria.

It is only later, in the evening, that I go to see Line with my binoculars. There isn’t much to see.

Line puts her child to bed in its cot, then she and her husband go to bed and turn out the light.

Sometimes, Line leans out of the window and smokes a cigarette as she looks at me, only she doesn’t see me, she only sees the forest.

I would like to tell her I am here, that I watch her, that I pay attention to her in this strange world. I would like to tell her that she doesn’t need to be afraid, because I am there, I, her brother, and that I will protect her against any danger.

I’ve heard or read somewhere that the Pharaohs regarded the marriage of brother and sister as the ideal marriage. I think so too, even though Line is only my half-sister. I don’t have any others.

Saturday comes. On Saturday, we don’t work at the factory. So I take my bicycle and go to Line’s village. I observe the couple either from the front of the house or from the forest. I watch Line get dressed, take her little bag. She goes to the bus stop. She is going into town.

I pedal behind the bus. I can keep up with it on the downhill stretch. We arrive in the main square at the same time. Line gets off. She goes into a hairdresser’s. I install myself in a bar, next to the window that looks out on to the square, and I wait.

Two hours later, Line returns, laden with all sorts of shopping. She has a new hairstyle. Her hair is short and curled, like Yolande’s, or almost. I think that I should tell her that this hairstyle doesn’t suit her.

As expected, she catches the bus. I follow on my bicycle. I accompany her to her village, but it’s uphill and I arrive a long time after her.

That Saturday, I forget to go to Yolande’s. Even though there is nothing interesting to see, I stay with Line until eight o’clock in the evening. When I get home, I realize there is nothing in my fridge. I could still call around at Yolande’s, but I prefer to eat at the bar of my countrymen.

Naturally, I find Jean there. He is drinking a beer, surrounded by other refugees whose language I don’t understand.

Jean says to them:

“This is my best friend. Sit down, Sandor. These are my friends.”

I shake hands with all his friends, then I ask Jean:

“How do you communicate with each other?”

Jean laughs:

“It’s easy. We use gestures.”

He signals to the barman by raising eight fingers:

“Beers!”

He leans over to me:

“Will you pay for them, the eight beers?”

“Sure. And eight sausages with potatoes.”

The waiter brings the plates of sausages. My guests applaud when I place my wallet on the table. They eat noisily and order beer after beer.

It is at that moment that Yolande appears in front of me. I see her in a sort of haze. I have drunk too much and the room is thick with cigarette smoke.

I say to Yolande:

“Take a seat.”

“No. Come. I’ve made you something to eat.”

“I’ve already eaten. Sit down and have a sausage. We are among friends.”

She says:

“You are drunk. Do you want me to take you home?”

“No, Yolande. I want to stay here. And drink some more.”

She says:

“Since your countrymen arrived you haven’t been the same.”

“No, Yolande, I am not the same. And I don’t know if I will ever be the same again. To find out, perhaps we need to stop seeing each other for a bit.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know. A few weeks, a month maybe.”

“All right. I’ll be waiting for you.”

The main question is: how do I get to know Line?

Curiously, neither her boss nor the welfare assistant have asked my help in translating when a problem has turned up. Admittedly, the work in the factory is so simple you could explain it to a deaf mute.

That is the second time I have said that Line could be dumb. She speaks so little. In fact, she never talks to anyone.

My only option is to approach her in the cafeteria.

Usually I have no problem approaching women. But with Line I am afraid. I am extremely afraid of being refused.

One day, I make my mind up. As I am passing in front of her table with a coffee, I stop. I ask her in our native language:

“Would you like another coffee?”

She smiles:

“No, thank you. But sit down. I didn’t know you were from my country. Is that why you have been following me?”

“Yes, that’s why. I’m interested in anyone who comes from my country. I want to help them.”

“I don’t think I need your help. Who are you?”

“A refugee from some time back. I have lived here for fifteen years. My name is Sandor Lester.”

“I like the name Sandor. My father was called Sandor.”

“How old is your father?”

“What does that matter? He will soon be sixty. Why do you want to know that?”

I reply:

“My parents died during the war. I was just wondering whether your parents were dead.”

“No, they are both still alive. I’m sorry for you, sorry about your parents, Sandor. I’m called Caroline, but I don’t like the name. My husband calls me Carole.”

“I’ll call you Line.”

She laughs:

“I was called Line when I was a child!”

Then she asks me:

“How can you put up with living in this country?”

“You get used to it.”

“I’ll never be able to get used to it. Never.”

“You will have to. You are a refugee. You came here of your own volition. And you can’t go back.”

“No, I’m not a refugee. My husband was given a grant to work in this country. He is a physicist. We will spend a year here, then we will go back home. Then I will finish my studies and I will teach Greek and Latin. In the meantime, I will work at the factory for a year. My husband’s grant doesn’t cover all our needs. I could have stayed back home, but my husband didn’t want to be separated from the child. Nor from me.”

I walk Line back to her machine:

“Don’t be afraid. A year goes by quickly. I have been working here for ten years.”

“That’s terrible. I couldn’t bear it.”

“No one can bear it, but no one dies of it. A few go mad, but it’s rare.”

That evening, I wait for Line in the bus. She arrives with her baby. I ask her whether it is a boy or a girl.

“She’s my little girl. She is five months old. She is called Violette. Please, don’t follow me anymore.”

The next day, in the cafeteria, I take my tray to Line’s table. I sit down opposite her:

“I’m not following you in the street anymore. But perhaps we can have lunch together.”

“Every day?”

“Why not? We are from the same country. No one will think it strange.”

“My husband is a jealous man.”

“He won’t know. Tell me about him.”

“He is called Koloman. He is doing research. He goes into town every morning, he comes home late in the evening. He also works a lot at home.”

“And you? Don’t you get bored here? You don’t go out, you don’t have any friends.”

“How do you know?”

I laugh:

“I’ve followed you. I’ve been watching you for weeks.”

“Even in the evening? When I get home?”

“Yes, through the window. With binoculars. Forgive me.”

Line blushes, then she says very quickly:

“I’ve got no time to get bored, what with the housework, the child, the shopping, the job at the factory.”

“Doesn’t your husband help you?”

“He hasn’t got the time. On Saturday afternoons he looks after the little one while I do the shopping in town. We can’t find everything we need in the village.”

I interrupt:

“There isn’t even a hairdresser. It’s a shame you’ve had your hair done. This hairstyle doesn’t suit you.”

She gets angry:

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’re right. Excuse me. Continue.”

“Continue what?”

“Your husband looks after the child on Saturday afternoon . . .”

“Looks after is overstating it. He takes her into his study and he works next to her. If she cries too much, he gives her some tea to drink that I have made up earlier. That’s it. He doesn’t change her, he doesn’t rock her, he lets her cry. He reckons it’s good for babies.”

Line lowers her head, she has got tears in her eyes. After a silence, I say:

“That must be very difficult for you.”

She shakes her head:

“It won’t be forever. We go home at the beginning of the summer.”

“No!”

I couldn’t stop myself crying out. Line, taken by surprise, says:

“What do you mean, no?”

“Excuse me. Of course you will go back. But I’ll be very sad to see you go.”

“Why?”

“It’s a long story. You resemble a little girl I left behind fifteen years ago.”

Line smiles:

“I understand. I used to be in love with a boy of my age. One day, he disappeared. He went off to the city with his mother. We never saw them again.”

“Neither the boy nor the mother?”

“No, neither of them. Anyway, the mother was a woman of ill repute. I remember the day they left very well, because my father was attacked on the way home that evening. A vagabond stabbed him near the cemetery and took his wallet. My father was able to walk as far as home, my mother tended to his wound. She saved my father.”

“You never saw Tobias again?”

Line looks me in the eyes:

“I didn’t tell you he was called Tobias.”

We continue to stare at each other. I am the first to speak:

“You see, Line, I recognized you straight away. The first day you got on the bus.”

Line turns even paler than normal, she whispers:

“Tobias, is it you? Why did you change your name?”

“Because I changed my life. And I thought my name was stupid.”

The next morning, Line gets on the bus. She sits next to me, at the back. We are almost alone, there are only a few passengers. No one looks at us, no one takes any interest in us.

Line says:

“I talked to my husband about you. To Koloman. He is pleased I am not on my own at the factory. I lied to him a bit. I didn’t tell him about your mother. I said you were a distant cousin from the capital and that you were a war orphan. He would like to meet you, he wants me to invite you to our house.”

I say:

“No, not straight away. We need to wait for a while.”

“Wait for what?”

“Wait until we have got to know each other again, the two of us.”

At lunchtime, we eat together. Every lunchtime. In the morning we travel together. Every morning. In the evening too.

I only suffer at the weekends, because we don’t work. I ask Line if I can accompany her when she goes shopping on Saturdays. I wait for her in the main square. I follow her around the shops. I carry her parcels. Afterwards, we have a coffee in the refugees’ bar. Then Line catches the bus and goes back to her village, to her husband, to her child. I don’t follow her anymore.

I’ve had enough of seeing her go to bed with her husband every night.

That just leaves Sunday to fill. I tell Line that I will wait for her every Sunday at three o’clock on the little wooden bridge that leads to the forest. If she can get out to take her child for a walk, I will be there.

I wait every Sunday, and every Sunday she turns up.

We go for a walk with her little girl. Sometimes, as it is winter, Line pulls the little one on a sledge. I pull the sledge to the top of a slope, Line and Violette ride down together on the sledge and I descend on foot to meet them at the bottom.

So not a day goes by when I don’t see Line. I can’t do without her.

My days at the factory become days of joy, waking up in the morning is a pleasure, the bus a journey around the world, the main square the center of the universe.

Line doesn’t know that I tried to kill her father, she doesn’t know that my father is the same as hers. So I can ask her to marry me. Here, no one knows we are brother and sister, Line doesn’t know herself, there is nothing standing in the way.

We won’t have any children, we won’t need them. Line already has one, and I hate children. Anyway, Koloman could easily take the child with him when he goes back home. Then the child will have grandparents, a country, everything she needs.

I only want to keep Line here with me. At home. My flat is clean.

I clear out the second bedroom where I was intending to have my study and I install a child’s bedroom in case Line suddenly decides to come and live with me.

After our midday meal, Line and I sometimes play chess. I always win. After the fifth time I win, Line says:

“It’s good that you’re the best at something.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She is angry, she says:

“At school we were at the same level. Then we went our separate ways. I became a language teacher and you remained a mere worker.”

I say:

“I write. I keep a journal and I am writing a book.”

“Poor Sandor, you don’t even know what a book is. Which language do you write in?”

“In the language of here. You wouldn’t be able to read what I write.”

She says:

“It is difficult enough writing in your native language. So, in another language?”

I say:

“I try, that’s all. I don’t care whether it works or not.”

“Really? You don’t care that you might be a worker for the rest of your life?”

“With you, no, I don’t care. Without you, I’m indifferent to everything.”

“You frighten me, Tobias.”

“You frighten me too, Line.”

Every now and again, I see Yolande on Saturday night. I got fed up with watching Line and her husband in the same bed, now I am more than fed up with the bar.

Yolande sings as she cooks, she brings me a whiskey with ice, I read the paper. Then we eat facing each other, in silence. We haven’t got much to say to each other. After the meal, if I can, we make love. I can manage it less and less. I think only of getting home as quickly as possible to start writing.

I no longer write my strange stories in the language of here, I write poems in my native language. These poems are written for Line, of course. But I don’t dare show them to her. I’m not very confident about my spelling and I can imagine Line making fun of me. As for their content, it is still too early for her to know about it. She would be capable of forbidding me to sit at her table in the cafeteria and canceling our Sunday walks.

One Saturday in December, Yolande says to me:

“At Christmas, I’m going to visit my parents. You could come and share our Christmas dinner with us. They’ve been wanting to meet you for ages.”

“Possibly. I might come.”

But on Monday morning, Line tells me her husband suggested they should invite me around on Christmas evening.

“Bring your girlfriend.”

I shake my head:

“If I had a girlfriend, I wouldn’t be spending my Saturdays and Sunday afternoons with you. I will bring a friend.”

I tell Yolande that Jean and I have been invited by some fellow countrymen. Yes, I take Jean with me, just to see the look on the face of the great physicist as he shares his festive fare with my friend the scruffy peasant!

I was mistaken.

Koloman receives us with open arms. He immediately puts Jean at his ease by sitting him down in the kitchen and offering him a beer.

I have seen this house so often from the outside that I am very happy at last to see the flat close up. One room on the side of the street, one room on the side of the garden and forest. Between the two, a kitchen. No bathroom. No central heating either, the rooms are heated by coal fires and the wood stove.

I think that Line would be much better off at my place than here.

She is busy preparing the table in the front room where Koloman usually works. He has cleared the table and stacked his books away.

The tree is decorated, the presents are arranged underneath. Next to the tree, the little girl is playing in her pen.

Koloman lights the candles and the little girl receives her presents. Of course, she isn’t interested, she is only six months old. I have brought her a furry cat and Jean a wooden top he made himself.

Line feeds the baby with a bottle:

“We’ll eat when the baby goes to sleep. It will be quieter.”

Koloman opens a bottle of white wine, pours and raises his glass:

“Merry Christmas, everyone!”

I think that I have never had a Christmas tree. Perhaps Jean is thinking the same thing.

Line puts the child to bed in the back room, then we eat. Duck with rice and vegetables. It is very good.

After the meal, we give each other our gifts. Jean gets a knife with several blades, a corkscrew and a tin-opener. He is very pleased. I get a quill pen, and I’m not sure what Line means by it. I don’t take kindly to it, I treat it as a bad joke.

Koloman turns to me:

“Carole told me you write.”

I look at Line, my face feels warm, I must be all red. I say stupidly:

“Yes, but only with a pencil.”

To change the subject, I quickly give Line the present which Jean and I brought together, a set of liqueur glasses and a carafe. Naturally, I paid for it.

Line starts to clear the table. I help her. We heat some water, Line washes up, I dry. As we work we hear peals of laughter from the room. Jean and Koloman are telling each other jokes.

I go into the room:

“Jean, we have to leave. The last bus is in ten minutes.”

In front of Koloman, I kiss Line on the cheek:

“Thank you, cousin, for a lovely evening.”

Jean kisses Line’s hand:

“Thank you, thank you. Bye, Koloman.”

Koloman says:

“See you soon. I really enjoyed it.”

Between Christmas and New Year we have a week’s holiday from the factory. No more traveling together, no more eating lunch together. Before the holiday, I had told Line:

“I’ll be there, on the bridge, every day, at three o’clock.”

When it is not too cold, I go on the bike. When it snows, I take the bus. I wait on the bridge for a few hours, then I go home and write some poems.

Unfortunately, Koloman must be on holiday too, for he accompanies Line on her walks with the baby. So I hide behind a tree and, once they are out of sight, I leave. I’m sure Line recognizes my bike.

Not once during the whole holiday did Line come. Not once was I able to talk to her.

Had Koloman noticed something during the Christmas meal?

I now prefer work days to days off. I get very bored. I call around at Yolande’s but there is no reply, she is still with her parents. They don’t live far away, but I don’t know their address.

The refugees’ bar is closed.

One evening, I call around at Paul’s. It is Kati who opens the door.

“Good evening, Sandor. What do you want?”

“Nothing in particular. Just to talk a bit with you and Paul.”

“Paul isn’t here. He’s gone. Disappeared. Perhaps he’s gone back home, I don’t know. A few months after Vera died, I found a letter on the kitchen table. He said that he had loved Vera, that he was in love with Vera, and that he would always regret having gone on holiday with me. He said that Vera loved him too, and that’s why she killed herself when we went off on a holiday together and left her on her own.”

I could only mumble:

“I’m so sorry. How will you get by without Paul?”

“Very well. I’m still working at the hospital and I am living with a man from here who has no chance of falling in love with my little sister, since she is dead.”

Kati slams the door. I stand on the doorstep for several minutes. At the time, I had thought that Vera was in love with me. I was wrong. She was in love with her brother-in-law, Paul, her sister’s husband. On the other hand, I feel relieved: Vera didn’t expect anything from me.

On 31 December, I go to the refugee center. I take several pounds of food with me. I go into a big room. People of all colors are busy decorating the room and laying the table. Paper napkins, plastic cups, and cutlery. Pine branches everywhere.

As soon as I walk in there is a commotion, everyone surrounds me, shouting:

“Jean! Jean! It’s your friend!”

Jean leads me to the place of honor, next to the kitchen.

“It’s a real joy to see you here, Sandor!”

So I join in a huge party celebrated by people from countries both known and unknown. Music, dancing, singing. The refugees have permission to celebrate until five o’clock in the morning.

At eleven o’clock, I slip away. I take my bike, I go to the first village. I sit down at the edge of the forest. All the windows in Line’s house are dark.

Soon, the church clock strikes twelve. It is midnight. A new year begins. I am sitting in the frozen grass, my head falls on to my arms, I cry.

Finally, the holidays are over. Line is mine again, for almost the whole day. Even when we work, there is only one floor between us and I can go and see her whenever I like.

The first morning, on the bus, Line says:

“I’m sorry, Sandor, I couldn’t get out of the house on my own. Koloman worked all day and as soon as I was getting ready to go out with Violette, he would announce that a bit of fresh air would do him some good too.”

“Yes, Line, I saw you. It doesn’t matter. Luckily it’s all over now. Everything is as it was before.”

Line says such wonderful things:

“I missed you. I was very bored at home. Koloman virtually never said a word to me. He buried himself in his books. Even when we went for a walk, he hardly spoke. So I thought about you. And I felt sad when I saw your bike. What did you do during the holiday?”

“I waited for you.”

Line lowers her eyes, she blushes.

During lunch, she says:

“I’ve never asked you where you left your mother. You went away together, didn’t you?”

“No, I left before her. I don’t know what has become of her.”

“She was seen in the city, in the street. I’m sorry, Tobias, but I think that your mother carried on the same sort of life as she did in the village.”

“She had no choice. But that’s a part of my life I prefer to forget, Line. Here, no one knows where I come from, what my background is.”

“Poor Tobias. Forgive me. You don’t even know who your father is.”

“You’re wrong, Line, I know very well. But it’s a secret.”

“Even from me?”

“Yes, even from you.”

“Because I know him, perhaps?”

“Yes, because you know him, perhaps.”

Line shrugs he shoulders:

“You know, I couldn’t give a damn if your father is one of those peasants. I can’t even remember their names.”

“Nor me, Line, I can’t remember their names.”

Line and I can now start to talk about the past during our walks or when we are having lunch. Line tells me:

“The year you went away, we finished compulsory education. In the autumn, I went to the city, to stay with one of my mother’s sisters. My older brother was already in the city, on a free place at boarding school. We saw each other every Sunday at our aunt’s. And my parents often visited. They brought some food from the village, because in town there were shortages of everything after the war. Two years later, my younger brother also got a free place, at the same boarding school where my father intended to send you. Later, all three of us went to the Capital to complete our studies at the university. My older brother became a lawyer and the other one became a doctor. You could have become someone too, if you had listened to my father. But you chose to run away and become a nobody. A factory worker. Why?”

I reply:

“Because by becoming a nobody you can become a writer. Besides, that’s just how things worked out.”

“Can you honestly say that, Sandor? That you have to be a nobody to be a writer?”

“I believe so, yes.”

“I think to be a writer you have to be very cultured. Then you need to have read a lot and written a lot. You don’t become a writer overnight.”

I say:

“I’m not very cultured, but I have read a lot and written a lot. To become a writer you only have to write. Of course, sometimes you might not have anything to say. And then sometimes, even when you do have something to say, you don’t know how to say it.”

“And in the end, what’s left of what you write?”

“In the end, nothing, or next to nothing. A one- or two-page piece with my name written at the bottom. Rarely, for I burn almost everything I write. I don’t write well enough yet. Later, I will write a book, I won’t burn it and I will sign it Tobias Horvath. Everyone will think it is a pseudonym. In fact, it is my real name, and you are the only one who knows, Line, aren’t you?”

She says:

“I, too, want to write. When I go back home and Violette is at school, I will write.”

“What will you write?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps the story of a great and impossible love.”

“Why should this love be impossible?”

Line laughs:

“I don’t know. I haven’t started yet.”

“Your book will be false.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I do. Because you don’t know everything. You will never be able to write our story.”

“Do we have a story?”

“Yes, Line, we do.”

“A love story?”

“That depends on you, Line. Unless you have some other impossible love story.”

She smiles and says:

“No, I haven’t. But I could invent one.”

“There’s nothing to invent. I love you, Line, and you love me too.”

We stop. Violette is sleeping in her stroller. It is almost spring already. The snow is thawing, we walk in the mud.

Line looks at her sleeping little girl:

“Yes, I love you too, Sandor. But there’s my husband. And her.”

“But for them, would you love me totally? Would you marry me?”

“No, Tobias. I can’t become the wife of a factory worker, nor continue to work in a factory myself.”

I ask:

“And when I become a great and famous writer and I come back to find you, will you marry me?”

She says:

“No, Tobias. Firstly, I don’t believe in your dream of becoming a famous writer. Secondly, I could never marry Esther’s son. Your mother was left in the village by the Romanies, the gypsies. Thieves and beggars. I have honest, cultivated parents, I come from a good family.”

“Yes, I know. And I have a whore for a mother, an unknown father and I am nothing but a worker. Even if I become a writer, I will always be a good-for-nothing, without culture, without education, a son of a whore.”

“Yes, that’s how it is. I love you, but it’s only a dream. I’m ashamed, Sandor. I feel uneasy with my husband and I feel uneasy with you too. I feel like I am deceiving you both.”

I think about telling her everything, to hurt her like she has hurt me, telling her at least that I have the same father as her, cultured and from a good family. I should tell her but I can’t, I can’t hurt her, I don’t want to lose her.

* * *

Line’s husband has to go away for two days to a conference.

I suggest to Line:

“We could see each other in the evening.”

She hesitates:

“I don’t want you to come to the house. I can’t come to your place, it’s too far, I can’t leave the little one for too long. Wait for me on the bridge. I will come out once Violette is asleep. Around nine o’clock.”

I get there at eight. I lean my bike against the parapet of the bridge. I sit down, I wait, like on so many other evenings. I could wait for hours, days, if necessary, I’ve got nothing else to do.

With the aid of my binoculars, I watch Line. She comes into the back room, puts the child to bed, turns out the light. She opens the window, leans out, she smokes a cigarette. She can’t see me, but she knows I’m there. She waits until her child is asleep.

The church clock strikes nine. It is raining.

A short while later, Line is next to me. She has a scarf over her hair like the ones worn by the women in our country. Except for my mother, who never wore a scarf or a hat. She had magnificent hair, even in the rain.

Line throws herself into my arms. I kiss her on her cheeks, her forehead, her eyes, her neck, her mouth. My kisses are wet with the rain and with tears. I recognize the tears on Line’s face because they are saltier than the raindrops.

“Why are you crying?”

“I have been wicked to you, Sandor. I told you I wouldn’t marry you because of your mother. But it’s not your fault! You can’t help it. You should have been angry and decided not to see me anymore.”

“I thought about it, Line, but I didn’t have the strength. I depend on you entirely. If I had decided not to see you anymore, it would kill me. I can’t get angry with you, even if you hurt me. I know you despise me but I love you enough to put up with it. The only thing I couldn’t stand is you going back home with Koloman.”

“Yet I will be doing precisely that in a few months.”

“I won’t survive it, Line.”

She strokes my hair:

“Of course you will survive it, Sandor. Besides, you only have to come back as well and we can carry on seeing each other.”

“In secret? Behind your husband’s back?”

“There’s no other solution. If you love me, come back with us, stay with me. There’s nothing to stop you.”

“Oh yes there is! Lots of things.”

I hold her tight, I kiss her on the mouth for a long, long time, as the lightning flashes illuminate us, as the thunder rumbles, as a huge warmth spreads through me and as I ejaculate, tight against Line.