The Bridge (10 page)

Exhaustion eased the rage that had consumed her. She was still mad at him for playing with her so cold-heartedly in the basement of the insane asylum, but now what annoyed her was the fact that she had no way of knowing when this dashing about would end. It wasn’t fair for him to be on a bicycle while she jogged along.

She quickened her pace when he turned a corner. What she found when she got there was a side street with an open-air flea market. Both sides of the street were lined with stalls, some covered, some not, and the pavement in between was filled with people. Her son was off the bike and had just joined the throng. She picked up her pace so as not to lose sight of him.

He wandered from stall to stall, browsing idly. Even if he’d wanted to walk faster, he couldn’t because of the bicycle. A wide variety of used goods were on sale, arranged without rhyme or reason: vases, candlesticks, shabby hats, gilded buttons, cracked cigarette holders, garden gloves, inkpots, castanets, paper cutters, corkscrews, phonograph records without jackets, nail clippers, monocle frames, dolls’ clothes, bundles of letters, wooden legs, porcelain chamber pots, old-fashioned radios, rusty hair clippers, harmonicas, monogrammed napkins, batteries, shoe inserts, dental forceps, salt shakers.

She couldn’t resist the temptation for long. She didn’t need any of those old things, but she never stole because she was in need. It was just for the thrill of it. She never kept the things she stole and always left them where their appearance would cause confusion, as she watched surreptitiously and laughed.

They worked like a well-drilled team. He would cause a disturbance as he maneuvered his bicycle to get close to a stall, and she would take advantage of this distraction to steal something. Her fingers were swift and skillful. Even if someone was watching they would have a hard time noticing anything. Because of the help he was inadvertently giving her, she had already forgiven her son what he’d done to her in the madhouse.

First she stole a rather large eight-branched medal with a blue and white ribbon. She almost cried out when she pricked herself on one of the sharp points. Then she took something wrapped in paper. She unwrapped it in her coat pocket, and when she touched the object her faced twisted in disgust. She removed the false teeth, holding them gingerly with two fingers, placed them on the ground next to her foot and crushed them in anger. She shot the seller a piercing look.

She was almost caught in the act when she picked a white pipe off an overcrowded stall. When she pulled it out, the small pile of objects resting on it collapsed. But this didn’t attract the seller’s attention and he didn’t interrupt his conversation with a customer at the other end of the stall. The pipe soon joined the medal in Miss Anita’s pocket.

Another item ended up on the ground. She thought that the pink dice with white spots denoting numbers one to six was made of marble, but when she found out it was plastic, she threw it away in disgust. This seller received a dark look too. How did they have the nerve to sell such junk?

The last little thing she stole was the least valuable, but she liked it the most. As a little girl she’d had something similar, but hadn’t seen one for sale in a long time. Inside the tiny glass snow globe was a house surrounded by a garden in some kind of liquid.

She knew what would happen if she shook the globe. Snow would start to fall on the house. As a little girl she would stare at length at the particles falling slowly on Santa’s sleigh. She wanted to see that again, but would have to move at least a short distance away from the stall.

She put her hand in her pocket but didn’t let go of the snow globe for fear that the medal’s spikes would damage it. She decided to keep it.

She would drop the other two items on the next stall, but not the snow globe. This would be her first real theft, although for some reason her conscience wasn’t bothered. The seller probably didn’t even know he had it in his pile of trinkets.

Nonetheless, as they continued on their way, he spoke to her.

“There will be lots of snow this winter, young lady.” She turned around and looked apprehensively at the short, heavy-set man behind the stall, who was smiling. He was wearing a tasseled orange knit cap. Before she had a chance to reply, he turned to another customer.

The crowd thinned briefly. They were at an intersection that interrupted the two rows of stalls. The flea market continued straight ahead, and a narrow little street went off left and right, its poor lighting emphasized by the deepening night. The young man pushed his bike to the left. As she followed him, she thought for a moment of simply dumping the medal and pipe, but then felt this would be out of place.

The hubbub subsided the farther they got from the flea market. There had been a few people at the beginning of the backstreet, but now they hadn’t encountered anyone for some time. In addition, fewer and fewer of the store and house windows were lit. The low, dilapidated houses of sooty brick that now surrounded them seemed abandoned.

She finally decided to ask him where they were headed. As a mother she had a right to know. But then he stopped before a door that looked just the same as the others. He leaned the bicycle against the wall and knocked three times. No one responded, or at least not that she heard. He, however, concluded after a short wait that he could enter. He left the door ajar.

She hesitated just a moment before entering. If he thought his bicycle was safe there outside, so be it. She had no intention of standing guard anymore. He was gravely mistaken if he expected her to do such things without letup. She was his mother, not his nursemaid.

She found herself in a long and narrow corridor. Somewhere in the distance a bulb with a round metal shade was swinging on a cord, even though there was no draft. The young man was outlined in the dim light. She rushed to catch up with him.

At the end of the corridor were steps leading down. They descended into a small room, also dimly lit. Another shaded light bulb was swinging back and forth. The place smelled of wet coal, although there was nothing but shelves full of empty, dusty bottles and jars along the left-hand wall.

Another door on the opposite wall opened onto a staircase leading up. They ascended cautiously because of the dark. The only light came from somewhere way up high. The wooden steps creaked under their feet as they climbed, holding onto the wobbly handrail.

If she remembered correctly, none of the buildings on the street was more than two floors high. Here, however, they climbed up all of five floors before they reached a small round room at the top bathed in light. Three tin mushroom-lights with short shiny stalks swung in harmony from the ceiling, forming a moving equilateral triangle.

The round table in the middle of the room had a single fat leg firmly fixed to the floor. Two domes of the same wood, resembling humps, rose from the tabletop.

Behind the table was a large barrel. The man standing in it was naked from the waist up, his shoulders, arms and head shiny as though rubbed with oil. The feminine features of his round face were emphasized by the thick braid of bushy red hair that sprouted at the back of his head and disappeared into the barrel.

When the visitors appeared at the door to the little room he gave a resounding clap. The three bright lights suddenly started swinging faster. He pointed at the humps with his right hand as his lips curved into a seductive smile.

The young man went up to the table, then turned towards Miss Anita who had stayed at the entrance. They looked at each other briefly, without a word, and then she headed towards him with slow steps.

When she was standing next to him, he raised his hand in front of her, palm up. She stared at it with a frown, and several long moments passed before she began rummaging through her coat pocket.

She took out the sharp-pointed medal with care and placed it in her son’s hand. But the hand didn’t move. She gave him a long, piercing look, her lips pursed in an angry grimace, before she reached into her pocket once again. The pipe was placed next to the medal in his hand.

The hand, however, was still waiting. Miss Anita started to shake her head. The anger on her face dissolved into a contorted plea. But he was unrelenting. The tips of his fingers even curled several times impatiently, hurrying her up. With glistening eyes she lowered the snow globe into the insatiable hand, but there were no tears.

The three objects quickly passed from one hand into another. The braided head bowed and his smile broadened. His hand disappeared into the barrel for a moment and laid the medal, pipe and snow globe down there.

When his hand re-emerged, he grabbed hold of the round table and gave it a sharp spin. The speed of its rotation transformed the two domes into the illusion of a single peak in the middle of the tabletop. The effect was soon destroyed as it began to slow down. Finally, the table was stationary once again.

Two plump hands with short fingers, palms up, motioned towards the two domes as though they had something to offer. The young man didn’t hesitate a moment. He indicated the one on his right.

With a new bow, the man in the barrel took hold of the brass handle on the top of the dome and picked it up. Protracted giggling filled the little room when there was nothing underneath it. That same moment one of the three lights flickered and went out.

The young man looked at Miss Anita. There was no regret in his eyes. Just as hers had a moment before, his lips pursed in anger. The look she returned was a mixture of reproof and compassion.

He dropped down on his left knee and started to untie the lace on his right, white sneaker. His movements were nervous. He pulled the shoe off his foot half unlaced, stood up and offered it to the bare torso.

He was rewarded with another smile and bow as this wager also disappeared into the barrel. The Bactrian camel briefly became a dromedary and then returned to its initial shape.

The choice this time was preceded by hesitation. The young man’s hand hovered between the two domes, and then he finally pointed his index finger at the right hand one again. This time the giggle seemed to echo from the emptiness underneath it. There was even soft feminine applause as the second light went out. The lighting in the little room was now as dim as in the basement.

The young man started to turn towards Miss Anita, but then changed his mind. He suddenly raised his left foot and yanked off the black sneaker without undoing the laces. The barrel’s maw swallowed the third wager.

The table seemed to spin forever. When it finally stopped, no one moved for a moment. This standstill was shattered by the young man, but not in order to choose a dome. Moving swiftly, he grabbed both handles and pulled them up.

That same moment, the bare-chested man closed his eyes and started to sing as he sank into the barrel. The soprano carved a crystal dirge in the air that changed its timbre when the head sank out of sight. Once it was gone, the two extinguished lights turned back on, illuminating the little room once again. None of the three lights was swinging anymore.

Miss Anita watched wordlessly as the young man placed the wooden domes on the floor and took the black and white sneakers from the table. He patiently loosened the laces and then put them on. When he was finished tying the bows, the voice in the barrel fell silent.

There was a groan from inside, then the cut-off braid flew out and landed on the empty table. Miss Anita reflected that many years were needed to grow hair long enough for a braid like that.

When the young man grabbed her hand she tried to pull it free, but his grip was firm. He led her out of the little room. Although the stairs were shaky, they ran down all five flights, not bothering to hold onto the rail.

They sped through the basement room with several strides. She had just enough time to notice that the light had stopped swinging there too. The other change, however, was considerably more pronounced. Not a single one of the bottles and jars seemed to be intact. Slivers of broken glass covered the floor under the shelves now fronting the right-hand wall.

The light in the long corridor was barely flickering. If the young man hadn’t been leading her, she would have had to advance with caution. They did not go out of the door as soon as they reached it. He knocked three times as before, and then waited. Once again she didn’t hear anything before he finally opened the door and led her outside.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the bicycle waiting for them. The thought that her son had a lucky streak brought a smile to her lips. But her smile disappeared when she saw him jump on the bike. He was gravely mistaken if he thought she was about to rush after him again.

He didn’t leave without her, however. He nodded his head at the fuchsia-colored bar that joined the seat to the handlebars. She looked at him quizzically for a moment, then sat down and grabbed hold of the inner sides of the handlebars. It was a little uncomfortable, but certainly better than running.

They reached the flea market in no time at all. Night had already fallen so there weren’t many people and they could continue without stopping. They did have to ring the bell, though.

Miss Anita’s initial anxiety was replaced by delight. She greatly enjoyed watching people jump aside to let the bicycle pass. This was often accompanied by scolding and curses. Several times she turned around and made faces at them.

They picked up speed dangerously when they left the flea market. There was more honking and screeching of brakes as they coasted down the middle of the street. Miss Anita screamed in reply and thrashed her legs dangling down the sides.