Home trip
After the car had succeeded in reaching the rounded peak of the mountain, the sound of the engine became completely monotone. I pulled my elbows in close to my body, trying to find a comfortable position while looking out straight ahead over the road for miles and miles. The bend would soon be recognizable on the right side, I thought. I followed the passing acres with my eyes; the cool, November colors sped quickly by, green flecks mixing with gray, blurring the lines and recalling a time from the beginning of my memory. I recognized the room quite clearly, the cupboard, the rug, the lamp.
The window was closed, and only the floor behind the desk lay in shadows, in the chair a cowering form. The boy had drawn both arms over his head, seeking protection; he felt how the coldness of the wall overtook him, without regard to the substance between skin and plaster.
The school notebook no longer lay on the table; the mother, he thought, the mother had swept it onto the floor. Her voice filled the room, a fusion of words and pain. Every cause he could think of seem banal to him. He cowered behind the desk, to the left of the light from the window, arms raised as a shield. He hardly heard the words he stammered. He saw the chain, its links glittering in the daylight that filtered in, producing windsounds which cut through the air.
Individual links of the chain rubbed over his arm, chafing the skin in tiny shreds. No blood, he hoped, with revulsion recalling the image of how he led the dog on its leash down to the street and along the curb, the animal on the chain, the links of which ground the traces of dried blood between them.
He tried to grab hold of the chain, but at the shrieks of the mother, stopped, let go, and again raised his hand in front of his face, late, turned himself sideways and tried to dodge, holding back tears, feeling the impact of the chain on his back.
His head jerked back, hit against the neck support, leaving dull pressure. I gripped the steering wheel more tightly in both hands, heard how the wheels slung stones against the metal of the car. Almost jerkily I steered to the left, corrected the false lane-change, and took a deep breath. I braked the car, turned onto a side street, drove to the garden gate, stopped, and switched the engine off.
For a moment I hesitated. Then I got out. It was not necessary to lock the car. I took a couple of steps toward the garden gate, placed my hand on the latch and pushed it open. The fruit trees had already lost their leaves, I thought. I heard the quiet metallic click of the gate as it latched again. Here and there, withered, leftover pears could be seen, thick under small sacks of corn and lard for the birds who would stay the winter. I heard her open the inside door, climbed the steps to the house, attentive to the noise of my shoes; then I stood there, waiting for her, calmly, certain of her remorse.
(From: Lose/Destinies. Translation by: Anne Holcomb, Little Rock, USA)