Today I Start - Yesterday

Today I start the idiotic routine again. I get up at five o’clock in the morning, I wash, I shave, I make some coffee, I set off, I run to the main square, I get on the bus, I close my eyes, and the full horror of my present life stares me in the face.

The bus stops three times. Once in the town and once in each village we pass through. In the fourth village is the factory in which I have worked for ten years.

A clockwork factory.

I lay my face in my hands as if I were sleeping, but I do it to hide my tears. I cry. I’ve had enough of the gray overalls, I’ve had enough of clocking in, I’ve had enough of starting up my machine. I’ve had enough of work.

I put on the gray overalls, I clock in, I go into the workshop.

The machines are running. Including mine. I only have to sit in front of it, take the parts, place them in the machine, press the pedal.

The clockwork factory is a huge building that dominates the valley. All the people who work there live in the same village except for the odd few, like me, who come from town. There aren’t many of us, the bus is almost empty.

The factory produces spare parts for other factories. Not one of us could assemble a whole watch.

I have to pierce a hole in a particular part, the same hole in the same part for the last ten years. That is the sum total of our work. Place a part in the machine, press on the pedal.

This work enables us to earn just enough to eat, to live somewhere and, above all, to be able to come to work the next day.

Whether it is dark or light outside, the neon lights are on all the time in the huge workshop. Soothing music is piped out of loudspeakers. The management thinks the staff works better with a bit of music.

There is this little chap, one of the workers, who sells sachets of white powder, tranquilizers which the village chemist makes up especially for us. I don’t know what it is, I buy some occasionally. With this powder, the day passes more quickly, you feel a little less unhappy. The powder doesn’t cost much, almost all the workers use it, the management turns a blind eye, and the village chemist makes a killing.

Sometimes there are outbursts; a woman gets up, shouts:

“I can’t take any more!”

They take her away, work continues, they tell us:

“It’s nothing, her nerves are shot.”

In the workshop everyone is alone with their machine. We can’t talk to each other, except in the bathrooms, and even then not for very long—our absences are counted, noted, recorded.

After work in the evening there is just enough time to do some shopping and eat; you have to go to bed early to be able to get up early in the morning. Sometimes I wonder whether I live to work or whether it is the work which keeps me alive.

And what sort of life is it?

Monotonous work.

Miserable wages.

Loneliness.

Yolande.

There are thousands of Yolandes in the world.

Blonde and beautiful, all more or less stupid.

You pick one of them and make do.

But Yolandes don’t fill the solitude.

Yolandes don’t work in manufacturing if they can help it, they work in shops where they earn even less than they would in a factory. But shops are cleaner and it is easier to meet a future husband.

It is mainly mothers of families that work in factories. They run home at eleven o’clock to prepare the midday meal. The management allows this, since they are on piecework. They come back at one o’clock with the rest of us. Their children and husbands have eaten. They have gone back to school or the factory.

It would be easier if they all ate at the factory cafeteria, but that would be too expensive for a family. I can afford it. I have the dish of the day, which is the cheapest. It’s not very good, but I’m not bothered.

After the meal, I read a book I have brought from home, or else I play chess. On my own. The other workers play cards, they don’t look at me.

After ten years I am still a stranger to them.

Yesterday, I found a note in my mailbox: I had to go and collect a registered letter from the post office. The note said: “Town Hall, Magistrates Court.”

I was afraid. I wanted to run away, far away, and even farther again, across the seas. Was it possible that they had tracked me down after so many years?

I go to collect the letter from the post office. I open it. I have been summoned as an interpreter in a trial where the accused is a refugee from my country. My expenses will be paid, my time off will be arranged with the factory.

I turn up at the court at the appointed time. The woman who meets me is very beautiful. So beautiful I want to call her Line. But she is too severe. She seems inaccessible.

She asks me:

“Do you still have enough of your native language to translate the proceedings of a trial?”

I say:

“I haven’t lost any of my native language.”

She says:

“You must take an oath and swear to translate what you hear word for word.”

“I swear.”

She gives me a piece of paper to sign.

I ask her:

“Do you want to go for a drink?”

She says:

“No, I am tired. Come to my place. I’m called Eve.”

We go in her car. She drives fast. She stops in front of a villa. We go into a modern kitchen. Everything in her place is modern. She pours me a drink and we sit on a large sofa in the living room.

She puts her glass down, kisses me on the mouth. She undresses slowly.

She is beautiful, more beautiful than all the women I have met in my life.

But she is not Line. She will never be Line. No one will ever be Line.

There is a whole band of fellow countrymen at Ivan’s trial. His wife is there too.

Ivan came here in November of last year. He found a small, two-room flat in which he, his wife and their three children all lived crowded together. His wife was taken on as a cleaner by the insurance company who owned the building. She cleaned the offices every evening.

After a few months, Ivan too found some work, but in another town, as a cook in a large restaurant. His work there was quite satisfactory.

Except that, once a week, he sent a parcel to his family. A parcel containing food stolen from the restaurant’s provisions. He is also accused of having dipped into the till, but he denies this and nothing is proved.

The trial is not only about these petty larcenies. Ivan’s case is much more serious. When he was locked up in the town prison awaiting trial, one evening he knocked out the guard, escaped and ran back home. His wife was at work, the children were asleep. Ivan waited for his wife so that he could run away with her but the police got there first.

“You are sentenced to eight years in prison for your attack on the guard.”

I translated. Ivan looked at me.

“Eight years? Are you sure you understood right? The guard didn’t die. I didn’t intend to kill him. He is here, in good health.”

“I’m only the translator.”

“And what about my family, what will happen to them in the next eight years? My children? What will happen to them?”

I say:

“They will grow up.”

The guards take him away. His wife faints.

After the trial I go with my fellow countrymen to the bar they have frequented since they came here. It is a noisy, popular bar in the town center, quite near where I live. We drink beer and talk about Ivan.

“He was a fool to try to get away!”

“He would have got off with a few months.”

“They might have deported him.”

“That would have been better than going to prison.”

Someone says:

“I live in the flat above Ivan’s. Since they’ve been there, I have heard his wife crying every evening when she got back from work. She sobs for hours. Back in her village she had family, neighbors, friends. I think she’ll go back now. She won’t wait eight years for Ivan here, alone with her children.”

Later I learned that Ivan’s wife had in fact returned to her country with her children. I sometimes think that I should go and see Ivan in prison, but I don’t do anything about it.

I go to the bar more and more often. I go there almost every evening. I get to know my countrymen. We sit at a long table. A girl from our country serves our drinks. She is called Vera and she works here from two o’clock until midnight. Her sister Kati and her brother-in-law Paul are regulars. Kati works in a hospital in town. They have childcare there where she can drop off her little girl who is only a few months old. Paul works in a garage, he is mad about bikes.

I also get to know Jean, a farm worker without any qualifications, who follows me everywhere. He hasn’t found any work yet and, in my opinion, never will. He is dirty, badly dressed, he still lives in the refugee center.

Paul becomes a friend. I often spend the evening at his place. His wife gets back from work, she still has to prepare the meals, do the washing, look after the baby.

Paul says:

“I’m falling asleep, but I have to wait until midnight to go and fetch Vera.”

His wife says:

“She can go home on her own. It’s a small town. She’s not in any danger.”

I say to them:

“Go to bed. I’ll take care of Vera.”

I go back to the bar. Vera is counting up all the money with the landlord. She sees me in the entrance, she smiles at me.

I say:

“Paul is tired. I’ll be walking you home this evening.”

She says:

“That’s nice of you. I could go home on my own, you know. But Paul says he is responsible for me.”

“How old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

“He’s right that you are still little more than a child.”

“You’re exaggerating.”

We go out into the street. It is past midnight. The town is deserted, completely silent. Vera takes my arm, she presses close to me. Outside the house she says:

“Kiss me.”

I kiss her on the forehead and leave her.

I go to fetch her another evening. She points out a young boy who is still sitting at the end of a table, the last customer.

“You don’t need to wait for me. Andre will walk me home.”

“Is he one of us?”

“No, he’s from here.”

“You can’t even have a conversation.”

“So what? There’s no need to talk. He’s a good kisser.”

I promise Paul not to leave Vera on her own. So I follow them to the house. Outside the door, they kiss for a long time.

I think that I should tell Paul about it, but I do nothing. I only say that I can’t go to fetch Vera anymore because I too have to go to bed early, because of my work.

So Paul goes to the bar every night and, with him around, Andre is out of the picture.

One Sunday afternoon at Paul’s, we talk about holidays. Paul is happy. He has saved up and bought himself a second-hand motorbike. Kati and he are going to make a tour of the country. They will leave the baby at the hospital nursery.

I ask:

“What about Vera? What will she do for two weeks?”

Vera says:

“I don’t have any holidays. I will work as usual. What about you, Sandor, what will you do?”

“I’m going away for a week with Yolande. We’re camping at the seaside. The second week, I can take care of you.”

“You’re too kind.”

Paul interrupts:

“Don’t worry, Sandor. I’ve asked Jean to walk Vera home at night. It’s not as if he has anything else to do. I’m giving him some money for his drinks.”

Vera starts to cry:

“Thank you, Paul. You couldn’t find anyone better for me than that stinking peasant.”

She leaves the kitchen and we hear her sobbing in her bedroom. We don’t say anything. We avoid each other’s gaze.

When I get home, I think that I could marry Vera. The age difference isn’t that great, not even ten years. But first I have to get rid of Yolande. I must make the decision to leave her. During the holiday. This will allow me to cut short this dreadful trip, which will be as boring and unpleasant as last year: a whole week, day and night, with Yolande! Not to mention the heat, the mosquitoes, the crowded campsite.

As expected, the week drags by. Yolande spends all day lying on a towel in the sun, since the only thing that matters to her is to go home with a tan, and to wear light clothes to show it off. I spend the day reading in the tent, and in the evening I walk along the seashore, for as long as possible to make sure that Yolande is asleep when I return.

There’s no chance of breaking with her, since we hardly exchange a word.

In any case, I’ve given up on the idea of marrying Vera. Because of Line, who might turn up at any moment.

We get back from the holiday on a Sunday evening. Yolande goes back to work on the Monday. I help her to unload her little car, to put the tent and the mattress up in the attic. Yolande is happy, she has a fine tan, the holiday has been a success.

“Until Saturday.”

I go to the bar. I am in a hurry to see Vera. I sit down at a table, a waiter comes to serve me. I ask him:

“Isn’t Vera here?”

He shrugs his shoulders:

“She hasn’t come in the last five days.”

“Is she ill?”

“I’ve no idea.”

I leave the bar, I run over to Paul’s house. They live on the second floor. I run upstairs, I ring the bell. I knock on the door. A neighbor hears me, she opens her door and says:

“There’s no one there. They’re on holiday.”

“The young girl as well?”

“I’ve told you, there’s no one there.”

I go back to the bar. I see Jean, sitting on his own at a table. I shake him:

“Where is Vera?”

He recoils:

“What you getting so worked up about? Vera’s gone away. I walked her home the first two nights and she said I didn’t need to come anymore because she was going on holiday with some friends.”

I immediately think of Andre.

I also think: I hope Vera comes home before Paul gets back and I hope they let her have her job back!

In the days that follow I drop in at the bar several times and also call around at Paul’s several times. I only learned later what had happened.

Paul and Kati came home the following Saturday. Vera wasn’t there and her bedroom was locked. There was a strange smell in the flat. Kati opened the windows and went to fetch her baby from the nursery. Paul came to my place, we went to the bar where we found Jean. We had a discussion and I mentioned Andre. Paul was furious. He went home and, since the strange smell was still there, he forced open the door to Vera’s bedroom. Vera’s already decomposing body was lying on the bed.

The post mortem showed that Vera had taken an overdose of sleeping pills.

Our first death.

There were others not long after.

Robert opened his veins in his bath.

Albert hanged himself, leaving a note on the table written in our language: “Fuck you.”

Magda finished peeling her potatoes and carrots, then she sat on the floor, turned on the gas and put her head in the oven.

The fourth time we are having a collection in the bar, the waiter says to me:

“You foreigners are always collecting for wreaths, you’re always going to funerals.”

I reply:

“You’ve got to amuse yourself somehow.”

In the evenings, I write.