The Appointment by Herta Müller Read Free Book Online Page B

never had any time for clothes. Still, men would turn around to look at Lilli. I’d have noticed her too, if I had been a man. The worse she dressed, the more striking her beauty. It was all right for her, but I’d been vain since I was a child. When I was five I cried because my new coat was too big for me. My grandfather said:
    You’ll grow into it, wear some heavy clothes underneath, then it’ll fit. In the old days, two or maybe three coats would have to last your entire life, if you were lucky, and that was if you were rich.
    I’d put it on because I had to. But as soon as I’d turned the corner by the bread factory, I’d take it off. For two winters I carried it more than I wore it, I preferred being cold to looking ugly. And two snows later, when the coat finally fitted me, I refused to wear it because it was now too old as well as ugly.
     
    If I were
going to my hairdresser’s, I’d have to get off right here, next to the student dormitories. I’d much prefer having my hair permed today, or even styled in a bun the way the old secretaries wear it. In fact, I’d rather be having my head shorn beyond recognition at ten sharp than be knocking on Albu’s door. Than lose my wits while he kisses my hand. A beam of sunlight is beating down on the driver’s cheek, the window next to him is open, but there’s no wind coming through. He brushes the grains of salt off the console but doesn’t touch his second crescent roll. Why buy three if all he needs is one. Leaving the tram to sit there, dashing off to the shops, then coming back and putting on this hunger act for all the people he’s kept waiting. The child has fallen asleep, clutching the handkerchief. The father is resting his head against the window, andalthough his hair is matted and dull from days without washing, the sun has set it aglow. Can’t he feel that the tram’s windowpane is even hotter than the sun outside. For the moment I’m safe in the shade, until we reach the bend in the tracks, and even then there’s a chance the sun will keep to the other side of the car. I don’t want to show up at Albu’s dripping with sweat. I’m not sure I’d go so far as to switch seats, with so few passengers I’d get stared at. You need a reason. The father could move to the shady side anytime he wants, a small child counts as a reason. The father could change seats if the boy started to cry, in case it was because of the sun. On the other hand, if the tram were full he couldn’t possibly do that, he’d be lucky to find a seat at all. No matter how much the child cried, the passengers wouldn’t think about the sun, they’d just ask that fool of a father if he didn’t have a pacifier for his miserable bawling brat.
     
    What I used
to like most about summer was playing with the son of the gatekeeper at the bread factory. We’d go to a path that ran alongside the broad avenue and was shaded by the same tall trees. The path was full of ruts and holes; we’d find the places where the dust was thickest. The boy was lame from birth, he would drag along behind me. We’d sit inside the deepest pothole, he’d bend his right leg and stiffly stretch his thin left one out in front. He was glad to be sitting down. He had nimble hands, curly hair, and a sallow complexion. We would become completely absorbed in our game, swirling the dust into snakes that went slithering all over one another.
    That’s how blindworms crawl through the flour, he said, that’s why bread has holes.
    No, the holes are because of the yeast.
    They’re because of the snakes, you can ask my father.
    The snakes could have easily gone on slithering through the pothole for half the day, until his father came to fetch him, carrying a bag from the bread factory. But as soon as my dress got dirty I’d feel bad, so I would run home and leave the boy to fend off the blindworms on his own.
    One day a different gatekeeper was keeping watch at the entrance to the bread factory. Two weeks