The Sinistra Zone

It’s said that meeting up with a dwarf in the morning is a good omen. And indeed, early in the day on one of the luckiest days of my life — when Elvira Spiridon and her velvety behind moved in with me — I’d crossed paths with Gábriel Dunka, the dwarf. In Dobrin City, back when both of us were just scraping by, he was among the few people authorized to keep a pair of scissors at home, and I would go over for a trim occassionaly. The one actual barber, Aranka Westin’s live-in lover, had been kicked out of town, so when the hair grew out over the nape of my neck, I went to the dwarf for a cut.

On that memorable day — I must have thought it was a Thursday — I had been keeping a lookout for Mustafa Mukkerman, the Turkish trucker, who on that day of the week invariably passed along the north-south highway outside the village. I met up with Gábriel Dunka only by chance. Though autumn was nearly over, and the edges of the stream were already rimmed with ice, I found him sitting on the bank, soaking his wounded, purple-blue ankles in the frigid water. He worked with sand; which is to say, he stomped his feet all day long in a crate full of wet sand in the little workshop where he also lived; the repetitive work chafed his ankles. The Sinistra prison, then under construction, had commissioned him to frost sheets of glass destined for the prison windows. Being the Zone’s only dwarf, he alone was suited for the delicate task: the glass didn’t break under his light, bantam frame. Even in the dead of winter Gábriel Dunka loped down to the stream, to holes in the ice, to relieve his swollen ankles.

And there he was, swashing his feet about in the stream when I happened upon him. I hadn’t planned to chat with him for long, but I stayed there for quite a while. I asked whether he’d seen Mustafa Mukkerman parked at the gas station with his meat truck, or if maybe he had already passed by. But neither of us was quite sure it was in fact Thursday. Indeed, some presentiment to the contrary must have come over me, for I decided then and there to have my hair trimmed a bit — and not just the usual haircut such as I’d gotten not long before, for Colonel Puiu Borcan’s funeral.

Snipping away with the scissors behind my ears like a real barber, Gábriel Dunka regaled me with stories. Soon he’d be rich, he announced: some people from the Zone’s natural history collection had been around his place lately expressing interest in his skeleton. They said they’d buy it for good money to put on exhibit someday. In his initial anger he’d sent them packing, but if they were to return — and of course such hucksters could hardly be expected to give up so easily — he wouldn’t turn them down. Not being particularly interested in his affairs, I asked Gábriel Dunka to keep his mind on the glinting scissors instead, as if even then I knew that I was making myself pretty for none other than Elvira Spiridon.

But just at that moment, as I was getting my haircut in Gábriel Dunka’s glass workshop, the mountain infantrymen tracked me down. Without delay they took me to the barracks. Waiting for me in the forest commissioner’s office was Coca Mavrodin: she asked me to leave the village that very day and move to the Baba Rotunda Pass. Under a topographic map of the conservation area, huddled inertly in her greatcoat like a spider in a far corner of its web, she seemed not to have stirred for hours: her eyes, lips, and tongue gave off not even the smallest sparkle of light.

“A road worker lived in the pass,” she began, “named Zoltán Marmorstein or something like that. Who in the hell knows what came over him — he up and left — left, just like that. His cabin is empty and I’d like you to move in.”

“I wouldn’t want to shove him out of his place.”

“Look, this individual won’t return. If you believe what people say, he made a big scene last night — he cut out his own guts.”

“Well, in that case, how could I say no?”

“The road worker’s cabin is an official residence, so you will be required to perform certain duties. Zoltán Marmorstein worked for us as a coroner’s assistant on the side.”

“I’m honored of course that you thought of me. But there’s a thing or two I still got to learn about this line of work.”

“Good, start learning.”

Though she herself had only gone there for the first time in my company, Colonel Coca Mavrodin now suddenly turned around and pointed to the wall map. Tracing a finger along the road that twists and turns its way up to the Baba Rotunda Pass, she pointed out the coal-burning lots scattered over the clearings, and finally, up top, the cabin of the road worker Zoltán Marmorstein. Every single sheep pen, shed, and doghouse had been drawn onto the map, as well as the trails which lay like netting over the pass. I knew the area well.

“And what will I be doing up there?”

“Nothing. You’ll just live there — and not alone.”

At this, the colonel pulled a bundle of photos from a drawer and spread them over her desk. They depicted local women, most of whom I knew from the fruit depot, where they’d shown up one after another with baskets on their backs full of blueberries, blackberries, and bolete mushrooms. I knew all the harvesters.

“Go ahead — choose,” said Coca Mavrodin, pointing at the scattered photos, and then pushing them by turns before me. “Just one for now, naturally.”

Among them was that lovely waxwing, Elvira Spiridon. The tip of her nose, her rounded forehead, and her two big brass earrings sparkling even in a photo. The very woman from the sole of whose foot I’d once removed a thorn.

“Choose, and rest assured that any one of them will be happy to move in with you.” The colonel momentarily covered the photo of Elvira Spiridon. “Yes, even her.”

“Miss Coca,” I said, shaking my head in embarrassment, “you’re too kind. I hardly deserve this. And then, of course, there are other considerations.”

“Don’t worry. I’ve already spoken with her husband. He’ll let her go.”

Although I knew my way around the Baba Rotunda Pass — and the wall map in the forest commissioner’s office had also helped me get oriented — a soldier drove me to the top in a jeep for a brief survey.

The old dirt road — which the Sinistra bus jolted over on its route once a day, carrying mostly bear keepers and mountain infantrymen — followed the drafty watershed up to the top and then back down into the Bukovina hills. On this day the wind, having picked up its pace with the passing of the silent days of autumn, kept whipping clouds across the mountain meadows. At the highest point stood the road worker’s cabin. Covered by water droplets, the house had a protruding, glass-enclosed verandah: from the porch, when the clouds broke, this or that hairpin turn in the road below sparkled of tar. Socks left behind by Zoltán Marmorstein hung on a clothesline tied to one of its crack-filled walls.

Besides what fit in my pockets, back then I owned a tin plate, two sheet-metal mugs, a horse blanket, a couple of socks, a few odd shreds of fabric, some cord, and a bottle of denatured alcohol. I returned to the old water mill and I stuffed all this into a satchel. Flinging it over my shoulder, and waved good-bye to the fruit depot, to all those barrels with their intoxicating aromas. Then I headed off to my new workplace, the morgue, which stood in a dank corner of the barracks.

Still anxious to know what had become of Mustafa Mukkerman — and, in particular, to learn how much taking two people to the southern end of the Balkans amid those rimy hunks of frozen meat would cost — I stopped off along the way at Gábriel Dunka’s place. He told me, however, that I’d be waiting for the Turk in vain that day: Géza Kökény had been by to see him, and in the course of conversation it turned out that it wasn’t Thursday but, at most, Wednesday.

So my first day of work in the Dobrin morgue probably fell on a Wednesday.

It is the duty of a coroner’s assistant to sit in a room with the deceased and keep watch, making sure that the subject does not stir during his shift. There, on the dank concrete table, lay the former road worker, Zoltán Marmorstein, his trousers full of guts. He did not stir. Those drying socks of his were indeed now mine.

Evening came and Colonel Titus Tomoioaga arrived for his shift. Out in the fresh air, taking frequent gulps from my bottle while trudging my way up to the Baba Rotunda Pass, I was filled with an inexplicable delight. Snowflakes were melting on my face and as the flurries began the moon shone through the hurtling clouds.

By the time I reached the top, snow was gusting on all sides of the road worker’s cabin. Just as I was about to swing the flashlight beam over the steps, I noticed that the verandah window was all steamed up: a scarlet fog flickered and flashed repeatedly from the blazing fire light. So Coca Mavrodin had not been kidding. I was no longer alone.

Inside, the three little red windows of the stove door shone brightly, and a pair of brass earrings sparkled amid the flittering light. Elvira Spiridon sat on the edge of the cot, hands in her lap. Before her were her sandals, removed.

“From now on, sir, I’m living with you.”

“Welcome.”

“They said you’re a man of few words — so perhaps I’ll just keep quiet, too.”

“Well, let’s hope you won’t have any reason to complain.”

Two thoroughly stuffed round pillows now lay on Zoltán Marmorstein’s abandoned cot, along with two freshly washed rag-knit throw rugs — rugs that still smelled of the north wind that had arrived sweeping the pass that day. On the table: an old black cooking pot containing potato soup with a mousy bouquet, half of which had, it seemed, been eaten by someone else. Also on the table, the mountain infantry’s favorite drink: a full bottle of blackberry brandy. Pinned atop its cork, a glittering star of sorts: a silvery golden thistle petal.

“It’s from my husband.”

“Your husband’s very kind. I’m sure I’ll get to know him too. But for now all I’d ask — if you please — is that you don’t start crying.”

“My husband is Severin Spiridon — you already know him, sort of.”

“The name doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Well, he got himself into a stupid little mess, and then you came along and helped him. He was ready to give up, but you, sir, came along and breathed life back into him.”

“Ah, that’s right — I remember — and don’t you two have a lovely dappled dog as well?”

“Yes — and our dog hasn’t forgotten you either, sir”

Noticing the sock stir around her ankles, I knelt down before Elvira Spiridon and unwound it — from that delicately veined, hay-scented, warm foot, which I’d already had the good fortune to get to know, in a manner of speaking, what with that certain matter involving a thorn. Now I held that foot once again in my palm.

“Ah,” I mumbled, momentarily distracted, “colonels keep their word, one way or other. And yes, I thought Coca Mavrodin was just pulling my leg. Bless her a thousand times.”

“Yes, it’s the colonel’s wish that I live with you from now on, sir. But if you’ll let me, I’d like to go home now and then.”

“Go whenever you please — you have someone to go home to — just now, please, don’t start crying.”

Uncorking the bottle, I poured some of Severin Spiridon’s gift into two sheet-metal mugs. I found a metal washbasin under the cot, which I filled with water and placed on the stove. Then I tried the potato soup. Hot water started bubbling in all directions, and soon the washbasin overflowed, but meanwhile I’d tasted the brandy: I waved a hand toward Elvira Spiridon to signal that it was time to go ahead, get undressed.

I heard that very singular swishing of clothes mixed with the sound of naked arms and velvety thighs nestling against each another and allowed a long time to pass — with those sounds of water trickling over ribs, and even the sound of skin drying.

But then I chose a vein on Elvira Spiridon’s thigh that, on its ascent, branched out before coming together again. With an index finger I began following its course upward with apparent hesitation.

“You should know,” I said softly, surprised at my own voice, “that I once found a thorn in your foot. I pulled it out with my own teeth.”

“I haven’t forgotten you, sir.”

“Ever since thinking of you, every time you’ve come to mind, I’ve called you something different — a mountain ash berry — a bird — a waxwing.”

“I don’t exactly understand, sir, but I think you’re saying lovely words to me.”

“Yes, and to follow up on what I was saying: I’m going to kiss every last inch of you. Just so you know — so there won’t be any surprises.”

“Just kiss me all over, sir, wherever you want.”

Much later, well past midnight, as I was squatting naked in front of the stove trying to get the fire going again, I started musing on my own affairs. Mustafa Mukkerman came to mind as did, of course, Béla Bundasian, my adopted son, whom I hadn’t seen in four or five years, although he lived nearby, in the off-limits conservation area. Sooner or later, I hoped, I would find him, and perhaps we could leave together for the sunny Balkans. This woman hadn’t moved in with me at the most opportune time, but here she was, panting away beside me. Kneeling, I turned toward the bed and reached under the blanket.

“Was that good, I hope?”

“It wasn’t bad, sir.”

“Maybe all this was meant to happen, but one fine day I may get up and leave this place behind. I’ll tell you a secret: I’ve got another life.”

“I thought so. Did you know Zoltán Marmorstein, sir? He left, too.”

“No, I never had the pleasure.”

“Maybe he’ll return: these are his socks.”

“If he comes, he comes. We’ll welcome him with open arms.”

The blizzard had stopped, and the moonlit peaks shone into the house. In the dead silence the snow began crackling around the house as if Zoltán Marmorstein were approaching with those guts of his weighing down his trousers. Elvira Spiridon slipped out from under the blanket and stepped to the window. For a long time, maybe hours, she just stood there: not unlike those nearby peaks, her shoulders were soft, pink, round. Slipping back in beside me at daybreak, her thighs and her behind were like ice, like glass.

I blew my warm breath everywhere over those frigid limbs, running my nose all along her.

“I haven’t even mentioned your smell yet. This spot here, for example, right here on your neck, I like it a lot. I don’t think I’ve smelled that on anyone.”

“My husband washed me before I left — he spread hazelnut oil all over me.”

“Hazelnuts? I’ve never heard of such a thing. I definitely want to get to know your husband.”

“But you do know him. You once saved his life.”

It had been years since I’d rested naked on a rag rug by a hot stove, and now I was breathing in the titillating scent of hazelnuts. What more could I have wanted? It seemed I’d achieved all I could hope for. Yes, here I was indeed, lolling about with Elvira Spiridon’s velvety behind in my lap. I’d reached the top . . .”

All at once said Elvira Spiridon said, “I don’t know your name yet, sir,” rousing me from my reverie.

“That’s true, but I promise that I’ll tell you soon enough, maybe no later than this evening.”

“Because, then, perhaps I’d sometimes call you by your name.”

“Yes — all I ask is for a bit of patience — that time will soon come. Maybe you won’t believe me, but not long ago I lost my papers, and I urgently need to speak with Colonel Coca Mavrodin about my name. Just now, unfortunately, I cannot say.”

“I only thought that if I could call you by name, I’d get used to you sooner, sir.”

As she sat up beside me on the cot so early that morning, I’d sometimes for fun look out the window from under her armpit or just above her shoulder. A purple mist veiled the valleys, above which only the tops of the spruces were visible: occasionally crows rose up en masse from out of the mist and flew off toward the cliffs of Pop Ivan Mountain. After a while the rising sun poured light over the snowy peaks.

While the cabin aired itself out, we stood before the open window side by side. Our hands touched, slowly pressing against each other until finally they clasped in reconciliation. Cupped between them there no doubt secretly lurked the name of the person whose footprints wound about the cabin walls like bonds of devotion in the snow.

In the clearing opposite the house warm piles of manure sparkled black in the freshly fallen snow A dappled dog sauntered about between them and waxwings fluttered above, warming themselves in the swirling steam. Smoke hovered in a tangled web above the shingles of the nearby farmhouse: at home, after his nocturnal excursion, Severin Spiridon was already puttering about.

The sun was blazing strong. Soon I had to be off to my new workplace. Plainly there was a woman in the house — I found my fatigue jacket hanging on the fence, awash with fresh air; my first thought was that although I was looking upon official, assistant coroner’s garb that there’s not a stubborn odor the wind of the pass can’t blow right out of such old clothes in a single night.