Free The Appointment by Herta Müller Page A

after them. By the time they reached Lilli, it was not only her dress that was in tatters. The dogs had torn Lilli’s body to shreds. Under their muzzles Lilli lay red as a bed of poppies. The soldiers drove off the dogs and stood around in a circle. Then two of them went to the hut, took a drink of water, and carried back the stretcher.
    Lilli’s stepfather told me this. Red as a bed of poppies, he said. And when he said it, I thought of cherries.
     
    The boy has
fallen asleep in the sun. The father tugs at the handkerchief, the fingers loosen, the boy goes on sleeping even while his father bends the little arm back so he can return the handkerchief to its jacket pocket. Even while the father stands up, spreads his legs, and turns the boy around so his back is facing forward and his open mouth is pressed against the father’s shoulder. We’re almost at the main post office. The father carries the child to the door of the car. The tram comes to a stop, the temporary silence makes the car seem even emptier. The driver reaches for the second crescent roll, then hesitates and takes a swig from his bottle. Why is he drinking before he eats. The giant blue mailbox is in front of the post office, how many letters can it take. If it were up to me to fill it, it would never have to be emptied. Since the notes meant for Italy, I haven’t written to a soul—just told someone something now and then: you have to talk, but you don’t have to write. The driver is munching away at his second roll, it must have dried out a little, judging by the crumbs. Outside, the father carries the sleeping boy across the middle of the street, where there isn’t a safe crossing. If a car comes now he won’t make it. How’s he supposed to run carrying a child, and a sleeping child at that. Maybe he checked to make sure there was nothing coming before he crossed. But he’d have to look over the boy’s head to see what might be coming from the right, and he could easily miss something. If there’s an accident, it’ll be his fault. This is the same man who, before the boy fell asleep, said: Our Mami doesn’t wear sunglasses. If she did, she wouldn’t see how blue your eyes are. He walks up to the post office, carrying the childlike a parcel. If the boy doesn’t wake up, he’ll put him in the mail. An old woman sticks her head in the open door and asks: Does this tram go to the market. Why don’t you read what’s on the sign, the driver says. I’m not wearing my glasses, she says. Well, we just go and follow our nose and if that takes us to the market then we’ll get there. The old woman gets in, and the driver starts up. A young man takes a running jump on board. He’s panting so loud it takes my breath away.
     
    I had spotted
Lilli’s stepfather at a table outside a café. He pretended not to recognize me, but I said good morning before he could turn his head away. That morning it had looked like rain, and many of the sidewalk tables were unoccupied. I sat down at his. It’s all right to bother people sitting at sidewalk tables. He ordered a coffee and said nothing. I also ordered a coffee and said nothing. This time I had an umbrella crooked over my arm, and he was wearing a straw hat. He looked different than he had at Lilli’s funeral. As he tossed shriveled acacia leaves from the tablecloth into the ashtray he looked more like Lilli’s officer. But his hands were clumsy and ungainly. Once the waitress had set our coffees on the table, he put his thumb on the handle of his cup and turned it around and around on the saucer until it squeaked. Grains of sugar stuck to his thumb, he rubbed them off with his index finger, then lifted his cup and slurped.
    This is so weak it’s thinner than pantyhose, he said.
    Was that supposed to make me think about his love in the kitchen. I said: It could be stronger.
    At that he gave a brief laugh and raised his eyes as if he were resigned to my presence.
    I’m sure Lilli told you that I used