not asking me, really, she’s asking Asperger. A friendly old woman, she looks at me with curiosity, apologizes repeatedly. Asperger used her telephone a few times. I notice that this neighborly familiarity makes me happy, even if it’s not aimed at me. He talks to her about the water getting turned off again, about when the outage is planned. And that not long ago the electricity was out too. That’s when I was still sleeping. I miss every chance of belonging, every bit of fellowship. Her cat slips in behind her, it’s the red one. It rubs itself against their legs, sniffs at the stove, the legs of the chairs, inspects the kitchen, tail lifted. I stoop down to pet it but it dodges, goes to Asperger. “Salo, come here!” “What’s the cat’s name?” I ask, incredulous. “Salo, from Salome, but she only reacts to the first two syllables; if you say the whole name she tunes it out.” “So she’s not called Salome?” The cat leaves the apartment, goes down the stairs. “I have to go too,” says the woman. “I have two fruit loaves in the oven. The children are coming over the holidays. I still have to bake cookies. I’ll bring some up!” she calls from the hallway. “We won’t be here,” I say, but Asperger has already closed the door. “Why do you have to spoil her pleasure? And where do you want to go, anyway?” “I have to get back.” “To where?” “I’m meeting the others in Metz.” “What are you doing there?” “They’re already rehearsing, I’ve told you.” “They can do that without you.” We’re back in the continuous loop we’ve been in for days; he stubbornly repeats the same sentences, I stubbornly give the same answers. ( 98 )
Ukázka elektronické knihy, UID: KOS526125