work on the Java. Paul had ridden a motorbike for eleven years and never had an accident, despite the fact that he drank. He knew the streets like the back of his hand and could have found both our factories with his eyes closed. I was all wrapped up, the streetlamps and lighted windows were glittering, the frost bit into our faces, our lips felt like frozen crusts of bread, our cheeks as smooth and cold as porcelain. Sky and street were nothing but snow, we were driving into a great big snowball. I leaned against Paul’s back and pressed my chin against his shoulder to let the snowball flow through my face. The streets are longest, the trees tallest, the sky closest when your eyes are fixed straight ahead. I wanted to go on riding and never stop. I didn’t dareblink. My ears were burning, my fingers, toes. The frost scorched me like an iron, only my eyes and mouth stayed cold. There was no time for luck or good fortune, we had to get there before we froze, and every morning we pulled up to my factory gate at half past six on the dot. Paul let me off. Using one reddish-blue finger to push up his cap, I kissed his porcelain forehead, then pulled the cap back down over his eyebrows. Afterwards he drove off to the engine works on the edge of town. When I saw hoarfrost on his eyebrows, I thought:
Now we are old.
After the business with the first notes, I put Italy out of my mind completely. It took more than linen suits for export to land a Marcello, you needed connections, couriers, and intermediaries, not trouser pockets. Instead of an Italian I landed the Major. My stupidity screamed at me, my self-reproach was sharp as a blow to the ears. I felt I was stuffed with straw. I couldn’t abide myself: that was the only way I could carry on every day, sitting in the office with Nelu, staring at columns and filling them in, until the second notes turned up. But I still liked myself: that was why I could enjoy riding the trams, having my hair cut short, buying new clothes. I also felt sorry for myself: that was why I could make it to Albu’s at precisely the right time. I felt indifferent toward myself too, as though the interrogations were a just punishment for my stupidity. But not for the reasons Albu cited:
Your behavior makes foreigners think all our country-women are whores.
I don’t see how, the notes never made it to Italy.
Thanks to the care shown by your colleagues, he said.
Why whores, anyway—I only wanted one Italian, and I wanted to marry him. Whores want money, not marriage.
The foundation of marriage is love and love alone. Do youeven know what that is. You wanted to sell yourself to the Marcellos like a filthy slut.
Why like a filthy slut, I would have loved him.
It was over, I was back outside, back in the summer brightness, with everyone going about his noisy business. I could hear the straw rustling inside me. Chances are I wouldn’t have loved the Italian, but he would have taken me with him to Italy. I would have tried to love him. If I couldn’t, I would have found somebody else, after all, there’s no shortage of Italians in Italy. There’s always someone you can love if you put your mind to it. But instead of love I wound up with Albu summoning me as often as he pleased. And Nelu keeping a close watch on me at work. I put men completely out of my mind. Then I got caught up in Paul, right when I was on the defensive. I think being on the defensive sharpens my desire, much more than being actively on the lookout for someone. It had to have been that way, that’s why I clung to him so. It’s not that anybody could have transformed my defensiveness into desire, although it’s possible that someone other than Paul might have done so. Weary of life—that’s how I must have felt, without a good hold on things. And then one Sunday I met Paul. I stayed through Monday, and on Tuesday I moved in with him, lugging all my worldly possessions into the leaning tower.
Each morning I found it harder
Now we are old.
After the business with the first notes, I put Italy out of my mind completely. It took more than linen suits for export to land a Marcello, you needed connections, couriers, and intermediaries, not trouser pockets. Instead of an Italian I landed the Major. My stupidity screamed at me, my self-reproach was sharp as a blow to the ears. I felt I was stuffed with straw. I couldn’t abide myself: that was the only way I could carry on every day, sitting in the office with Nelu, staring at columns and filling them in, until the second notes turned up. But I still liked myself: that was why I could enjoy riding the trams, having my hair cut short, buying new clothes. I also felt sorry for myself: that was why I could make it to Albu’s at precisely the right time. I felt indifferent toward myself too, as though the interrogations were a just punishment for my stupidity. But not for the reasons Albu cited:
Your behavior makes foreigners think all our country-women are whores.
I don’t see how, the notes never made it to Italy.
Thanks to the care shown by your colleagues, he said.
Why whores, anyway—I only wanted one Italian, and I wanted to marry him. Whores want money, not marriage.
The foundation of marriage is love and love alone. Do youeven know what that is. You wanted to sell yourself to the Marcellos like a filthy slut.
Why like a filthy slut, I would have loved him.
It was over, I was back outside, back in the summer brightness, with everyone going about his noisy business. I could hear the straw rustling inside me. Chances are I wouldn’t have loved the Italian, but he would have taken me with him to Italy. I would have tried to love him. If I couldn’t, I would have found somebody else, after all, there’s no shortage of Italians in Italy. There’s always someone you can love if you put your mind to it. But instead of love I wound up with Albu summoning me as often as he pleased. And Nelu keeping a close watch on me at work. I put men completely out of my mind. Then I got caught up in Paul, right when I was on the defensive. I think being on the defensive sharpens my desire, much more than being actively on the lookout for someone. It had to have been that way, that’s why I clung to him so. It’s not that anybody could have transformed my defensiveness into desire, although it’s possible that someone other than Paul might have done so. Weary of life—that’s how I must have felt, without a good hold on things. And then one Sunday I met Paul. I stayed through Monday, and on Tuesday I moved in with him, lugging all my worldly possessions into the leaning tower.
Each morning I found it harder
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