Free The Fox Was Ever the Hunter by Herta Müller Page A

fists.
    A horse cart stops in front of the lone house with the houseleeks, a man climbs down and carries a mesh bag full of bread loaves through the garden into the house. He keeps close to the wall, behind the grapevines.
    *   *   *
    At eight o’clock all the pupils gather in front of the school, reads the girl with the frog. A man drives us out to the field on a truck. There’s lots of laughing on the way. Every morning the agronomist waits at the edge of the field. He is tall and thin. He wears a suit and has nice clean hands. He is a friendly man.
    Except yesterday he slapped you, says the twin. Why didn’t you write that, says Adina. The horse in front of the empty cart is standing completely still.
    The other twin lowers his head below his desk, you can’t write about the slapping, he says. He takes the slice of bread smeared with lard that he’s holding and sticks it on the composition.
    The girl with the frog tears a white ribbon out of her braid, sticks the end of her braid in her mouth and cries.
    *   *   *
    The man carries an empty mesh bag back past the grapevines and climbs onto the cart. A dwarf crosses the grass in front of the school. His red shirt glows, he is carrying a watermelon.
    Comrade, says the girl with the frog to Adina.
    *   *   *
    A clock is set on the wall over the door to the director’s office, its hands measure the coming and going of the pupils and teachers. Over the head of the director is the forelock and the black inside the eye. The rug has an ink stain, a display case holds the speeches of the dictator. The director smells of bitter tobacco perfume, you know why I’ve called you here, he says. Next to his elbow is a dahlia that faces away from the desk, the water in the vase is cloudy. No, says Adina, I don’t know. His eyebrows draw together gray and thin, you told the pupils they should eat as many tomatoes as they can because they’re not allowed to take any home. And you also said something about exploiting minors. A fleck of dust lingers in the light above the dahlia. That’s not true, Comrade Director, says Adina. Her voice is quiet, the director steps across the ink stain and stands behind Adina’s chair. His breath is dry and short, he slides his hand into her blouse and moves down her back. Don’t say COMRADE, he says, now’s not the time for that.
    Adina’s back stays rigid, her disgust doesn’t let it bend, her mouth says, my back is fine, no warts there. The director laughs, very well, he says. She presses her back against the chair, he removes his hand, I won’t report it this time, he says. He brushes against the dahlia. And who will believe you, says Adina. She sees the blood of the melons in the reddish leaves of the dahlia. I’m not like that, he says. His sweat smells heavier than the tobacco in the perfume. He combs his hair.
    His comb has blue teeth.

 
    The cat and the dwarf
    A line of heads passes between the rusty spools of wire in the factory yard. The man at the gatehouse looks up into the sky. What he sees is the loudspeaker next to the gate.
    *   *   *
    In the morning, between six and seven-thirty, music comes out of this loudspeaker. The gateman calls it morning music. He uses it as a clock. Anyone who passes through the gate after the music has stopped is late to work. Anyone who isn’t stepping to the music on his way to the lathes and looms, anyone crossing through the yard when it is quiet is written up and reported.
    The marching songs are loud even before it’s light outside. The wind beats against the corrugated tin roof. The rain pounds on the asphalt. The women’s stockings are spattered, the men’s hat brims turn to gutters. Out on the street the daylight comes sooner, but inside the factory the wire spools are still black and wet from the night. Even in summer it takes the day longer to reach the factory yard than to light the street outside.
    *   *   *
    The gateman chews sunflower seeds and spits