The Bridge, page 3
I felt like going back inside the narrow building and confronting the midget lady once again. I’d pay her as much as she asked, go into that room and sharply order myself to hurry up, regardless of how much I enjoyed what I was doing. Was any pleasure worth the humiliation I was going through?
That’s when the door opened again. Not only did I come out, but I was in a terrible rush. Once outside, I didn’t stop. I ran in the direction we’d come from, as though being chased, although no one else appeared at the door to the house, which closed immediately.
There was no time to hesitate. I ran after me. The sight of two men on the threshold of old age chasing each other must have looked odd even in this part of town, and the sound of whistles, expletives and even shouts soon started to echo behind us. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me for the shame.
The chase did have a good side, though. In a twinkling we were out of the red light district and onto a busy street. The catcalls stopped, but people parted before us, sending us reproachful looks. Luckily there were no policemen in the vicinity to stop us and see what was going on, which was the last thing I needed.
Even though, owing to my regular walks, I was in good shape for a man of fifty-six, this demented running was too much for me. Covered with sweat, I soon started to grow short of breath. I would have had an easier time had I known where and why we were running, and particularly how much longer it would take until we got there, but I had no way of knowing.
When we finally stopped, everything seemed clear. A pharmacy, of course! This was exactly what someone who had stuffed himself with white roses needed. We ran inside at close intervals. I almost ran into my own back. The older pharmacist and the young woman who was being served eyed us suspiciously.
Panting, I started to list the medicine I wanted to buy. I listened in bewilderment, standing behind myself in the line. As far as I could tell, none of it had anything to do with indigestion. The pharmacist took three vials of pills from the shelf, each a different color: blue, yellow and brown.
I stuffed them into the pockets of the raincoat, paid the bill and hurried out. The pharmacist was left with her hand stretched forth, holding the change. I felt the need to offer some explanation, but since nothing convincing came to mind, I followed my own lead. Turning around, I too rushed out of the pharmacy.
The pursuit continued, although it slowed down a little. Had I been following someone else, and not myself, I probably would not have been able to keep up the pace, but as it was there was no fear of being left behind.
When we turned off the boulevard onto a side street, the running turned into fast walking. It would have been difficult to run there, anyway, because of the many small restaurants whose tables covered a good part of the sidewalk. I hoped we might sit for a moment in one of them, just long enough to catch our breath, but there clearly was no time to rest.
We did stop in a little while, though. Since I was only a few steps behind me, my loud panting seemed to echo back to me. The window of the store we were standing in front of was full of used theatrical equipment: costumes, overcoats and tricots, boots and ballet slippers, eyeglasses and monocles, wigs, fake beards, moustaches and noses, a jewelry box, a snuff box and powder box, lances, swords and daggers, parts of set designs, framed posters, autographed pictures of actors, programs, opera glasses.
We went in one after the other without opening the door twice. The counter was at the opposite end of the store. I went there, while I stayed by the entrance, staring at an upright suit of armor. I pointed to something on the top of the shelf behind the slim, hunchbacked salesman. The man climbed up a small stepladder and took down two masks: comedy and tragedy—symbols of the theatrical arts. He held them out to me.
I chose the tragedy mask and then beckoned the salesman to draw near. I whispered something to him, and he nodded. I paid and headed for the door. I passed by me without looking at myself, and went out. I was just about to step out too, when the salesman called to me.
“Sir!” I turned around. “This is for you.” He raised the comedy mask. I looked at him in surprise, pointing my thumb at myself questioningly. “Yes, for you.” He came out from behind the counter and headed for me.
“Thank you,” I said tersely after taking the mask. I doubt I would have known what else to say even if I hadn’t been in a hurry. I gave a little nod and went out.
I had already gone pretty far. I had to run again to catch up with me. The mask was light, probably made of aluminum, with slits for the eyes and mouth. It was worn by holding onto a short handle that ended under the chin. The gold paint was scratched in places, as though someone had tried out steel fingernails on the smiling face.
The restaurants and stores thinned out as we continued down the street. They were replaced by low houses in which, judging by the unlighted windows, no one seemed to live. There weren’t many streetlights here, and it had already grown dark, so it became harder and harder to see. Even though I was walking close behind me, had I not known that it was me I would soon not be able to recognize myself.
Owing to the poor lighting I couldn’t tell where we were when we finally got there. The brick wall we’d followed for the last fifty meters had no distinguishing marks. It could have been a large warehouse or a tall fence. I heard a metallic sound when I knocked on it. I had to stare hard to make out the dark outline of a door in the wall.
A lighted rectangle appeared head-high. I put on the tragedy mask. Darkness reigned once again when the rectangle disappeared, but not for long. The door opened inward with creaking hinges and I was bathed in light. I entered quickly and the door closed noisily behind me. I was alone in the darkness.
I might have been uncertain as to what to do, but the unease I felt decided matters for me. I didn’t feel like staying there. I went up to the door and knocked. The metal was rough and cold. A small window opened and a large male head, totally bald, appeared. He glared at me without a word.
As I brought the comedy mask to my face, I wondered whether it might be wiser to stay outside. But there was no time to change my mind. The door opened with another creak and a giant appeared.
He was naked to the waist, wearing only broad cotton pants and slippers. His skin was shining, as though rubbed with oil. He waved me inside. I couldn’t refuse that invitation. After all, I couldn’t turn my back on myself.
Closing the door behind me, the giant turned and indicated the long hallway extending before me. The floor was covered with a thick black carpet. Framed pictures lined both walls, lighted from the ceiling by the slanting beams of spotlights.
I gave a brief nod to the Goliath and then headed down the hallway. As I followed my distant figure, I glanced at the paintings I passed. They were not ordinary portraits. The faces of the men and women of varying ages were anything but cheerful. They expressed anxiety, worry, fear, even despair. It was as if they had just come face to face with something dreadful. I scurried after myself.
I caught up with me at the place where the hallway widened into an enormous room. It was illuminated by four chandeliers resembling huge Christmas trees. The floor and walls were lined with marble, so white that it sparkled in the bright light. On the right-hand side were six tall windows with black drapes pulled over them.
I headed towards the left-hand side and the massive roulette table in the center of the wall. The croupier at its head was a girl with short red hair and a round face sprinkled with freckles. She was wearing a white blouse and green vest, with a matching green bow tie.
An easel had been set up behind her and a painter was sitting on a tall round chair, holding a palette. He was young as well and sported a thick beard. He was wearing a formal evening suit, and his tie was so colorful that it looked as though he used it to wipe his brush.
On the opposite side was a rather stout middle-aged violinist in a gray evening gown. Her hair was the color of coal and it reached almost to her waist. She was looking at the floor, head bowed.
On the wall above the roulette table hung two large paintings in heavy engraved black frames. The left one depicted a gold mask with its crescent-shaped mouth turned upwards, while the right one had the crescent turned downwards.
When I sat on the only chair at the table, placing the mask in my lap, the painter stood up and set to work. He mixed the paint on the palette a little with his brush, then started to lay it on the canvas with short, brisk movements. At the same time, the violinist raised her instrument and bow and started to play, her head still bowed.
When I too went up to the table, no one paid any attention to me. I stood behind myself, holding the mask behind my back. Although there were no bets on the table, the croupier spun the roulette wheel, then threw the ivory ball in the opposite direction. When it stopped, the long rake used to clear the bets was pointing at number three.
I reached into the pocket of my raincoat and took out the three vials. Without a moment’s hesitation I put all three on the space for black numbers. The ball once again went on its circular path. As though uninterested in the outcome of the throw, I looked at the central area with numbers in front of me, arms resting on the edge of the table. I, however, bent over slightly so I could see better.
This time the croupier pointed at number twelve, then reached out with the rake to clear the vials. She drew them in with a skilled movement, without knocking any of them over. They disappeared into a round opening next to the roulette wheel. The rake went up again, waiting for a new bet.
My hand plunged once more into my coat pocket. Again there was no hesitation. I put the three jewels on the space for even numbers. My eyes focused on the table top once more, but I drew closer to the head of the table.
I didn’t understand how I could be so indifferent. These weren’t pills of no consequence but authentic gems. Where did I acquire the audacity to take such a risk? I had never gambled before. What if an odd number came up?
I stared dully at the tiny ball that came to land in pocket number fifteen. There was a lump in my throat as I watched the shovel at the top of the rake pick up the three precious stones and carry them inexorably towards the opening in the table next to the croupier. They disappeared as though swallowed up by a dark, round maw.
The monster was clearly insatiable because the rake went up once again, inviting new bets. But what was left to bet? The answer appeared straightaway: the mask in my lap went into the space for the first eighteen numbers.
The croupier bowed. The painter placed his palette and brush on the chair and clapped. The violinist raised her head for the first time, and the flicker of a smile crossed her lips. When the ball was rolled for the fourth time, I went right up to the head of the table. My eyes began spinning too, unintentionally following its circular movement.
My eyes kept moving even after the ball stopped, as though wanting to move it from number twenty-six where it had callously landed. Not wanting to watch the rake pull in the new booty, I turned towards myself. I was sitting stock-still, staring blankly, as though this had nothing to do with me.
The croupier cleared her throat. I didn’t see what she did with the mask. The opening was too small for it to go inside. The rake pointed to the ceiling again. The painter picked up his palette and brush, but did not go back to painting. The violinist was holding her instrument at the ready, but did not put the bow to the strings.
I got up from the chair. The game was over. I had nothing else to lose. What a dupe I’d made of myself! A man really doesn’t know himself, at least not when he’s patently losing his self-control.
In utmost disbelief, I watched as I took off the raincoat, rolled it up and put it on the number zero. Although the space was considerably larger than the other numbers, the coat covered it completely, even going a little outside the rectangle.
The painter started laying paint on the canvas in feverish, almost frenzied strokes, as though suddenly overcome by a burst of inspiration. The tempo of the violin, striking up the same moment, lagged not a bit. The croupier threw the ball again, more forcefully than the other times. It spun so fast I thought it would fly out of the wheel.
When it started to slow down a feeling of sadness came over me. I couldn’t take this lunacy any longer. I couldn’t watch the final circuits of the ball or my own self as I stared at the tabletop. I raised my eyes from the roulette table to the two paintings hanging above it.
And that’s when it happened.
The ball hadn’t landed yet. Although I noticed the change, at first it seemed a matter of course, like something I see every day. It was not until the large wheel turned silent that I finally figured out that paintings don’t change places just like that. The comedy mask should have been on the left-hand side and the tragedy mask on the right. And not the other way around, as they were now.
I stared fixedly at the two large frames, although there was a stir around me. It took a loud noise to snap me out of my fascination. The croupier stood up and broke the rake. The painter angrily jabbed the sharp end of the brush into the canvas, making holes and tears. The violin was on the floor and the violinist was stamping on it in wrath.
The wheel was moving very slowly now, carrying the ball where it rested in the only green pocket—the zero. On top of the raincoat covering this number’s space lay the mask with the mouth turned down.
I first took the mask, then the coat, paying no attention to the demonstrations of anger around me. I threw the raincoat over my arm and headed towards the hallway. I didn’t linger a moment. I headed after myself.
We weren’t walking one behind the other anymore, but side by side. The hallway seemed shorter, as though we were getting to the giant faster than we’d reached the room. He was looming in front of the door, arms crossed on his naked chest. I handed him the tragedy mask I’d just received as my winnings. He took it, but didn’t move. I quickly gave him my comedy mask.
The darkness we entered wasn’t the least bit forbidding anymore. We weren’t in it very long, though. Still walking side by side, we continued down the street, which started to curve to the right. At the end of the bend we reached a new boulevard with a river running along the opposite side. I hadn’t been in this part of town, but I knew approximately where we were located.
The boulevard was bathed in neon light and had more cars than pedestrians. We took the first pedestrian crossing to the other side and turned left, going along the river under a row of bushy chestnut trees. We didn’t talk. A man only rarely has something to say to himself.
A stone bridge soon appeared before us. It had a low, wide parapet and ornate lighting. We stopped in the middle and stared at the water, where the lights were shimmering in reflection as though in a dark, trembling mirror. A brightly-lit boat full of cheerful music started to emerge festively from under the bridge.
When it had gone downriver, I looked around me. There weren’t any vehicles or people on the bridge just then. I laid the raincoat across the parapet, then climbed onto it. For a moment it seemed that I would turn and say something. But I didn’t.
I took a step over the edge and disappeared at once, as though sucked in by the darkness below. I didn’t watch myself go. I knew I wouldn’t see a thing. Just as I didn’t hear any splashing sound that might have disturbed the calm evening waters. Leaving the raincoat on the parapet, I headed back to the riverbank. Tomorrow I will buy a new raincoat with lapels of equal width.
THE SCARF
Madam Olga realized she’d made a mistake as soon as she left the shop with a large “Sale” sign spread across its window. The scarf hadn’t been expensive, but she didn’t need one. She never wore scarves. And even if she did, she definitely wouldn’t wear one this color. Yellow didn’t suit her, particularly not a shade as bright as this. Moreover, the scarf she’d bought had a defect. One end had two round spots of a distinctly darker shade, resembling the large eyes of a sleeping snake. Owing to their regular shape and symmetrical position they might have appeared a result of design, but a closer look revealed that they were due to a slip-up in dyeing.
Madam Olga, in actual fact, did not like sales. The crowds in the shops and the customers’ behaviour got on her nerves. There seemed to be something of the scavenger in their desire to buy things they most often didn’t need solely because of the low price. Nonetheless, she was rarely able to resist the call of the showy signs on the windows, although most of the time, once inside, she kept the impulse to buy for the sake of buying at bay. She would usually leave a sale empty-handed and angry at herself for not being of stronger character.
Now she was angrier than ever because she’d not only purchased a defective scarf but had put it on immediately. She was unable to explain this to herself. The frenetic atmosphere in the shop must have been to blame. No one acted normally there. Where had she got the idea she could walk through town wearing such a scarf? Who else dressed so gaudily at her mature stage of life?
The answer to her unspoken question appeared before she had time to remove the yellow snake. In front of the window stood an older woman; she would not have given her a second thought if it weren’t for the fact that she was wearing the same scarf. Madam Olga stared at it, trying to see whether it had a defect too, but all at once that ceased to be important. A fleeting glance was all she needed to realize that she knew the woman. Or rather, she used to know her. When she was still among the living.
Madam Vera, Madam Olga’s fourth-floor neighbor, had died three and a half months ago. She’d had a weak heart for a long time, and it had finally failed her. They had not been very intimate. They would stop and chat whenever they happened to meet, but did not visit each other. Madam Olga didn’t know much about her. Madam Vera was the widow of a retired bank clerk, without children. She’d been devoted to her two cats, taken in by a distant relative after the funeral.
Madam Olga might easily have failed to recognize Madam Vera. She’d cut her hair and changed the color. Before she’d hidden the gray with a black rinse, which suited her quite well, but now she’d chosen red. This might have been flattering too if it weren’t for its youthful, flamboyant shade, which did not suit her age. And neither did the scarf, for that matter. But the woman was certainly Madam Vera. The mole on her right cheek removed all doubt.
