Free The Passport by Herta Müller Page B

small black shoes. Their hands are worn from the rosaries. Their gaze is still radiant from praying.
    Above the skinner’s roof the church bell strikes the middle of the day. The sun is a great clock above the midday tolling. Mass is over. The sky is hot.
    Behind the small, old women the pavement is empty. Windisch looks along the houses. He sees the end of the street. “Amalie should be coming,” he thinks. There are geese in the grass. They are white like Amalie’s white sandals.
    The tear lies in the cupboard. “Amalie didn’t fill it,” thinks Windisch. “Amalie’s never at home when it rains. She’s always in town.”
    The pavement moves in the light. The geese sail along. They have white sails in their wings. Amalie’s snow-white sandals don’t walk through the village.
    The cupboard door creaks. The bottle gurgles. Windisch holds a wet burning globe on his tongue. The globe rolls down his throat. A fire flickers in Windisch’s temples. The globe dissolves. It draws hot threads through Windisch’sforehead. It pushes crooked furrows like partings through his hair.
    The militiaman’s cap circles round the edge of the mirror. His epaulettes flash. The buttons of his blue jacket grow larger in the centre of the mirror. Windisch’s face appears above the militiaman’s jacket.
    First Windisch’s face appears large and confident above the jacket. Then Windisch’s face is small and dejected above the epaulettes. The militiaman laughs between the cheeks of Windisch’s large, confident face. With wet lips he says: “You won’t get far with your flour.”
    Windisch raises his fists. The militiaman’s jacket shatters. Windisch’s large, confident face has a spot of blood. Windisch strikes the two small, despondent faces above the epaulettes dead.
    Windisch’s wife silently sweeps up the broken mirror.

THE LOVE BITE
    Amalie stands in the doorway. There are red spots on the slivers of glass. Windisch’s blood is redder than Amalie’s dress.
    The last breath of Irish Spring hangs on Amalie’s calves. The love bite on Amalie’s neck is redder than her dress. Amalie pulls off her white sandals. “Come and eat,” says Windisch’s wife.
    The soup is steaming. Amalie sits in its fog. She holds the spoon with her red fingertips. She looks at the soup. The steam moves her lips. She blows. Sighing, Windisch’s wife sits down in the grey cloud that rises from her plate.
    The leaves on the trees rustle through the windows. “They’re blowing into the yard,” thinks Windisch. “There are enough leaves for ten trees blowing into the yard.”
    Windisch looks past Amalie’s ear. It’s part of what he can see. Reddish and creased like an eyelid.
    Windisch swallows a soft white noodle. It sticks in his throat. Windisch puts his spoon on the table and coughs. His eyes fill with water.
    Windisch brings up the soup into his plate. His mouth tastes sour. It rises to his brow. The soup in Windisch’s plate is cloudy from the vomit.
    Windisch can see a large courtyard in the soup. It’s a summer evening in the courtyard.

THE SPIDER
    That Saturday Windisch had danced through the night with Barbara in front of the deep horn of the gramophone. They talked about the war as they waltzed.
    A paraffin lamp flickered under the quince tree. It stood on a chair.
    Barbara had a thin neck. Windisch danced with her thin neck. Barbara had a pale mouth. Windisch hung on her breath. He swayed. The swaying was a dance.
    Under the quince tree, a spider had fallen into Barbara’s hair. Windisch didn’t see the spider. He leant against Barbara’s ear. He heard the song on the gramophone through her thick black plait. He felt her hard comb.
    By the paraffin lamp, Barbara’s green clover leaves shone from both ears. Barbara whirled in a circle. The whirling was a dance.
    Barbara felt the spider on her ear. She started. Barbara cried: “I’m dying.”
    The skinner danced in the sand. He danced past. He laughed. He took the spider