The Left-Handed Woman by Peter Handke Read Free Book Online

I’ll blow the house up.” She put the knife down, switched on the light, opened the terrace door, and let Bruno in. His coat was open over his shirt. They stood facing each other; they passed through the hallway to the living room, where the light was on. Again they stood facing each other.
    Bruno: “You leave the light on at night.” He looked around. “You’ve moved the furniture, too.” He picked up some books. “And now you’ve got entirely different books.” He stepped closer to her. “And the toilet case I brought you from the Far East—I bet you haven’t got it any more.”
    The woman: “Won’t you take your coat off? Would you care for a glass of vodka?”
    Bruno: “You’re being pretty formal, aren’t you?” And after a pause, “How about yourself? Haven’t you got cancer yet?”
    The woman didn’t answer.
    Bruno: “Is one permitted to smoke?”
    He sat down; she remained standing.

    Bruno: “So here you are, living the good life, alone with your son, in a nice warm house with garden and garage and good fresh air! Let’s see, how old are you? You’ll soon have folds in your neck and hairs growing out of your moles. Little spindly legs with a potato sack on top of them. You’ll get older and older, you’ll say you don’t mind, and one day you’ll hang yourself. You’ll stink in your grave as uncouthly as you’ve lived. And how do you pass the time in the meanwhile? You probably sit around biting your nails. Right?”
    The woman: “Don’t shout. The child is asleep.”
    Bruno: “You say ‘the child’ as if I’d forfeited the right to use his name. And you’re always so reasonable. You women, with your infernal reason. With your ruthless understanding of everything and everyone. And you’re never bored, you bitches. Nothing could suit you better than sitting around and letting the time pass. Do you know why you women can never amount to anything? Because you never get drunk by yourselves! You lounge around your tidy homes like narcissistic photos of yourselves. Always acting mysterious, squeaking to cover your emptiness, devoted comrades who stifle people with your stupid humanitarianism, machines for the emasculation of all life. You creep and crawl, sniffing the ground, until death wrenches your mouths open.” He spat to one side: “You and your new life! I’ve never known a woman to make a lasting change in her life. Nothing but escapades —then back to the same old story. You know what?
When you remember what you’re doing now, it will be like leafing through faded newspaper clippings. You’ll think of it as the only event in your life. And at the same time you’ll realize that you were only following the fashions. Marianne’s winter fashion.”
    The woman: “You thought that out before you came, didn’t you? You didn’t come here to talk to me or be with me.”
    Bruno shouted, “I’d rather talk to a ghost.”
    The woman: “You look awfully sad, Bruno.”
    Bruno: “You only say that to disarm me.”
    For a long time they said nothing. Then Bruno laughed; he turned away and sobbed for a moment, then pulled himself together. “I walked here. I wanted to kill you.” The woman stepped closer, and he said, “Don’t touch me. Please don’t touch me.” After a pause, “Sometimes I think you’re just experimenting with me, putting me to the test. That makes me feel a little better.” After another pause, “Yesterday I caught myself thinking what a comfort it would be at times if there were a God.”
    The woman looked at him and said, “Why, you’ve shaved your beard off.”
    Bruno shrugged. “I did it a week ago. And you’ve got new curtains.”
    The woman: “Not at all. It’s still the old ones. It