Behind the Window

The police car was parked on the other side of the street, near the Italian Club. When K. spotted it, she panicked and came rushing over to tell me. I wasn’t surprised; I had seen it through the blinds several hours earlier. I didn’t want to tell her because she was pregnant; I was afraid it might affect her health and the baby’s. But now she had found out for herself.

“Don’t be scared,” I told her, trying to stay calm myself. “They’re just like dogs. They’ll stay there till they give up, then they’ll go away.”

“I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,” she replied fearfully. “One of them is standing by the car. He keeps staring at the window.”

“Don’t worry,” I said. “It’s not that risky. . . . We’re used to it by now.”

In spite of all my efforts, I noticed K.’s expression change. She turned around, obviously not knowing what to do. She may have been looking for something, but I didn’t ask.

“Just relax,” I told her. “Do you need a chair? They’ve been stuck out there for hours. I didn’t want to tell you. Once they’re sure we aren’t at home, they’ll leave. It’s not a problem.”

“I don’t trust them,” she said. “Are they here because of yesterday’s demonstration?”

“Yes,” I replied. “But, even if they arrest some people, they still won’t be able to stop the flood of demonstrations and strikes.”

I could smell onions on K. “Go and finish your cooking,” I said. “Today I want to enjoy a really good lunch.”

“I won’t be able to eat a thing till those vultures leave.”

While K. went into the kitchen, I sat on the edge of the bed thinking. I started pacing slowly around the room, over to the window, then back to the bed.

The six people in the car were all wearing civilian clothes: faded hats and old coats, the kind you find in the flea market, sent over from America on big ships as a token of friendship, along, of course, with other ships full of tons of rotten grain which even animals refuse to eat. The fat one was standing outside the car, a dumb stare on his face as he looked up at the window. I watched as he went back to the car to get a cigarette from his friends inside; they may well have been discussing the best way to arrest me. I was convinced they would only be out to arrest me until such time as workers’ and students’ demonstrations tapered off. Whenever the political situation in the country got worse, they always used to go after people like me. They would arrest two or three hundred people who were already known to have bad reputations and had files on record at the police station. Actually, however, that wasn’t the solution. The demonstrations were continuing without any consultations. Everyone was feeling guilty for not joining us. That is why resistance and demonstrations were still continuing in various cities and quarters. Even the large number of unmarked police cars parked everywhere in the streets could not stop them. The demonstrators were well aware of how to organize themselves.

Getting up from the bed, I went calmly into the kitchen. I found K. sitting there rigid at a small table. She was crying. When she saw me, she quickly wiped her eyes and tried her best to look calm. She was obviously afraid I was going to yell at her. She kept sneaking glances at me.

“Why are you crying?” I asked. “You know they’ll take me away, and then bring me back again.”

“I can’t stand it. You’re going to be a father sometime, but they’ll squash you flat without even bothering about your children or showing any mercy.”

“That’s taking things too far. What happened to the revolutionary ideas you had before we got married?”

“But J., it’s different now. We’re going to have children. I haven’t changed. I’m the same person you knew before. But something’s worrying me, I don’t know what.”

“Not the gallows, at any rate.”

“We’ll go together.”

“Get the meal ready,” I said angrily. “I’m hungry. Don’t be so scared.”

Taking a deep breath she plunged her tiny hands in the water and started washing the dishes with soap powder. The foam was not quite white.

I went back to the other room overlooking the street, but I didn’t glance out the window. I had always felt personally secure when confronting such a situation. Relaxing on the bed, I reached for the ashtray and pack of cigarettes and put them next to me. I started smoking and watched the curls of smoke as they vanished into the air.

“Why don’t I listen to some music,” I thought, “even though it may be for the last time?”

I turned on the phonograph, then heard K. rushing in from the kitchen.

“Are you crazy?” she asked breathlessly, “They’ll hear you.”

“None of your business. Don’t be so scared. Go back to the kitchen.”

“Listen J., one of them could be on the other side of the door. Right now.”

“You’re so stupid.”

“Please, turn it down.”

I did so, drawing deeply on the cigarette. For some reason or other I was smiling. In fact, I kept on smiling; I was feeling a particular and totally inexplicable kind of pleasure. I chuckled to myself. Jumping off the bed, I started pacing around the room again. I felt that the person chuckling inside me was somehow feeling sorry.

I went over to the window. The car was still there, but the man standing outside had disappeared. I decided I needed to do something, so I went back to the bed, lay down, and lit a second cigarette. Ella Fitzgerald’s warm voice filled the room. Now I felt overwhelmed by a kind of happiness that I’d never experienced before in my life. I was convinced they would leave when they got tired. Maybe they hadn’t been given orders to raid my house. But who knows? They might just be waiting for the right opportunity. No one can possibly know what is going on inside those wooden-heads, who can only operate by resorting to secrecy and cunning. I imagined they were behaving exactly the same way with “comrades” in other locations as well.

Once K. had prepared the meal, we ate, but she didn’t feel like eating. Every so often she went over to the window and looked at them, then at me. Even though I kept trying to convince her that it wasn’t a problem, she wasn’t convinced. Instead, she said nothing and simply looked puzzled and diffident.

“Listen K.,” I told her. “Why don’t you go and lie down for a bit? Personally, I’m going to get some sleep.”

But she didn’t follow my suggestion. She kept pacing between the window and bed, looking frightened. Marriage, I now realized, was a real obstacle. This K. here was different from the one I’d known before we had married. That one had been brave and fearless, but now I couldn’t understand her at all. Was it me she was so afraid for?

Standing up, I pushed her into the other room. Closing the door, I warned her not to go into the front room again. I told her I needed to rest. I wasn’t in the least bit worried about those dogs camping out there. K. disappeared. I had no idea what she was doing. I slept for over an hour. When I woke up, I didn’t feel like getting out of bed, so I stayed there and turned on the phonograph again. Once more I listened to Ella Fitzgerald’s voice, which I loved.

I heard a soft knock on the door. I went and opened it, guessing that K. wanted to tell me something. She seemed more relaxed than before.

“I don’t think they’re going to take you away,” she said, calmly, “If they were planning to do that, they would have moved by now.”

“That’s what I told you before. Why were you so scared? Now are you convinced? Go and make some coffee.”

“OK.”

But before she went, she looked out the window.

“Are they still there?”

“Yes, but I’m not afraid.”

“In such situations what’s the point of being afraid? Go and make some coffee.”

I took out a book and tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. My mind was really somewhere far removed. I put the book away and asked for coffee. K. brought out a small tray, put it on the bed, and sat next to me. Then she got into bed with me. Her body felt cold, but gradually it warmed up. I poured the coffee and handed some to K., but she didn’t want any. All she wanted, she said, was to lie down next to me and get warm. The room felt bitterly cold. Actually, it wasn’t all that cold, but her particular sensitivities made her feel that it was. I sat up in bed and reached over to change the record on the phonograph. I lit a cigarette and started avidly sipping the coffee. By now K. had pulled the blanket over her distended belly and was staring at the ceiling. Just then, I had a strange thought: maybe the blanket might suffocate the baby; but I managed to put all such notions out of my mind.

“Listen J.,” K. asked, “how long do you think they’re going to stay there?”

I didn’t try to answer, but kept listening to the music and sipping my coffee. When I’d finished, I stretched out next to her. I wanted to make love, but she was pregnant and touchy. Clearly she wasn’t in the mood. I put my arm over her body; it felt very hot.

There was somebody knocking on the door, softly at first. K.’s senses were on the alert.

“It may be one of your neighbors,” I said. “Don’t open the door.”

“I’m not going to. The neighbors may already understand everything.”

“It doesn’t matter. They do understand everything already.”

The knocks grew louder. I turned the phonograph down. The sun was setting. The knocking became louder still, but after awhile it stopped. Whoever was knocking did not seem very persistent. K. kept trying to appear calm and indifferent, but she was obviously upset. Eventually, I felt her body moving. At last, she got up and went over to the window. As she stood there, I looked at her wonderful, lithe body. She was really gorgeous.

“Are they still there?” I asked.

“They may well be on the other side of the door,” she answered, clearly frightened. “There are fewer of them by the car.”

“Come and lie down,” I said. “Let’s not worry about them.”

K. came back and lay down next to me. She was shivering. The loud knocking started again. After a few seconds’ pause, it started up again.

“Tomorrow you must leave,” K. said. “Until the demonstrations are over.”

I gave her a big hug. The knocking now became even louder. Even so, I still felt relaxed and unafraid. K. snuggled up against me and gave me a hug. I could hear her crying under the blanket. I hugged her again.

“Don’t cry,” I said as I felt the baby’s movements inside her belly. “Don’t be scared. They can’t break the door down. Don’t be afraid.”

Even so, she was still crying and shivering. The baby inside her belly was shivering too. A few minutes later, we heard a car start and leave the street. By now the room was dark, but we couldn’t turn on the light.

“They’re leaving,” K. said, “but they’re bound to be back either in the middle of the night or else at dawn.”