The Appointment by Herta Müller Read Free Book Online

each other in the face is tiring, particularly for me. The only things I trust here are the ones that don’t change. But the tree is growing: it gave the blouse its name. I may leave my happiness at home, but the blouse that grows is here.
    If I haven’t been summoned, I go into town on foot, taking side streets as far as the Korso. Beneath the acacias it’s raining either white flowers or yellow leaves. Or if nothing is falling, then the wind is rushing down. When I was still going to thefactory, I rarely made it into town during the middle of the day—not more than twice a year. I had no idea so many people weren’t at work at that hour. Unlike me, they are all paid to run around, having made up stories of burst pipes, illness, or funerals to tell the boss, and even bask in the sympathy of their colleagues and superiors before setting off on their outing. Just once I had my grandfather die because I wanted to buy a pair of gray platform shoes when the shops opened at nine on the dot. I’d seen them in the window late the previous afternoon. I lied, went into town, bought the shoes, and then the lie came true. Four days later at dinner my grandfather fell from his chair, dead. When the telegram arrived early the next morning, I took my three-day-old gray platforms and held them under the tap to make them swell. I put them on, went to the office and said I’d need the next two days off since my kitchen was flooded. Whenever I tell a bad lie, it comes true. I took the train to attend the funeral. My shoes dried on my feet from one station to the next; I got out at the eleventh. The whole world was upside down, I carried the funeral from my lie all the way to that little town and then found myself standing in the cemetery facing the flood in the kitchen. The thump of the clods falling on the coffin lid sounded like my gray shoes on the path as I followed the procession.
    In those days I was a good liar. Nobody ever found me out. But the trouble was that the lies themselves began to take me at my word. Since then I’ve preferred to be caught in a lie rather than be caught by trouble. The exception is Albu—there I’m good at lying.
    These days I walk aimlessly into town. Riding to the factory never seemed to make any sense. It’s hard to believe, but the senselessness kept itself better concealed in those days. If I sit down at a sidewalk café and order an ice cream, as I did yesterday,I immediately decide I want a piece of cake. In reality all I want is to sit: not even that, just stop walking for a while. Making myself comfortable, I push the chair closer to the table. Once the chair is right, I want to jump up and leave, but I’m still not ready to go on walking. From far away the streetside tables are a destination, inviting me to linger, the tablecloth corners fluttering. Only when I’m sitting comfortably does my impatience flare up. Just when my exasperation at the wait reaches the breaking point, the ice cream arrives. The table is round, so is the ice cream dish, so are the scoops of ice cream. Next come the wasps. They’re very pushy and determined to eat their fill, their heads are also round. Although I had to think twice before spending any money, I can’t bear to eat what I’ve just paid for.
    Senselessness was easier for me to handle than aimlessness. Nowadays I invent goals to pursue around town instead of lies in the factory. I follow women my age. I spend hours in the clothing stores and try on the things they like. Only yesterday I put on a striped dress, deliberately backward. I plucked and pulled at it, placed my hands around the neckline as a collar, and let my fingers dangle as if they were a bow. I was beginning to like the dress. What I hadn’t reckoned with was this feeling of leaving myself behind. The dress looked as if I’d have to say goodbye quickly. My mouth was bitter, I couldn’t think of anything to say to myself in the short time I had left. I didn’t want to sit back and