Free The Left-Handed Woman by Peter Handke

the world. What month is it anyway?”
    The actor sat down across the table from her. “February.”
    â€œAnd what continent are we living on?”
    â€œOn one among several.”
    The woman: “Have you a name?”
    The actor said it; he looked to one side, laughed, and moved the glasses around on the table. Finally he looked at her again and said, “I’ve never followed a woman before. I’ve been looking for you for days. Your face is so gentle—as though you never forgot that we’re all going to die. Forgive me if I’ve said something stupid.” He shook his head. “Damn it, the second I say something I want to take it back! I’ve longed for you so these last few days that I couldn’t keep still. Please don’t be angry. You seem so free, you have a kind of”—he laughed—“of lifeline in your face! I burn for you, everything in me is aflame with desire for you. Perhaps you think I’m overwrought from being out of work so long? But don’t speak. You must come with me. Don’t leave me alone. I want you. Don’t you feel that we’ve been lost up to now? At a streetcar stop I saw these words on a wall: ‘HE loves you. HE will save you.’ Instantly I thought of you. HE won’t save us; no, WE will save each other. I want to be all around you, sense your presence everywhere; I want my hand to feel the warmth rising from you even before I
touch you. Don’t laugh. Oh, how I desire you. I want to be with you right this minute, entirely and forever!”
    They sat motionless, face to face. He looked almost angry; then he ran out of the café. The woman sat among the other people, without moving.
    A brightly lighted bus came driving through the night, empty except for a few old women, passed slowly around a traffic circle, then vanished into the darkness, its strap handles swaying.
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    Another evening the woman and child sat in the living room, throwing dice. It was stormy outside and the doors rattled. Now and then the two of them stopped playing and listened to the roaring of the storm.
    The phone rang. They let it ring for quite some time. Finally the child answered and said, “I don’t want to talk now.” Then to the woman, “Bruno wants to come over with the teacher.” The woman made a gesture of assent, and the child said into the phone, “Yes, I’ll still be awake.”
    As they went on playing, another bell rang. This time it was the door.
    The publisher was outside. The instant the child opened the door, the publisher said, “What is little, has tired eyes, and isn’t in bed, though it’s long after the children’s programs are over?”

    He entered in long strides and embraced the woman.
    She asked, “Have you been to see your lost author again?”
    The publisher: “There is no lost author. Never has been.”
    He pulled a bottle of champagne out of his coat pocket and said there was more in the car.
    The woman: “But do ask the chauffeur in.”
    After a brief pause the publisher opened the door and beckoned to the chauffeur, who entered hesitantly, after wiping his shoes at great length.
    The publisher: “You are invited to share a glass with us.”
    The woman: “Or two.”
    The doorbell rang again. When the chauffeur answered it, the salesgirl from the shop stood there smiling. She was beautiful now.
    They all sat or stood drinking in the living room. The child went on throwing dice. Music. The publisher had his eyes on the floor; then he looked from one person to another. Suddenly he seemed pleased and refilled the chauffeur’s glass.
    Then it was the telephone ringing again. The woman answered and said at once, “Yes, of course I know. Your voice sounds so close. You’re in the phone booth at the corner, I can tell.”
    The doorbell rang, the short ring of a familiar.
    The woman nodded to the