While the radio stations were still humming through the speakers, he felt the warm rays of the sun rising slowly outside the window sting the back of his neck. He felt their touch on the untrimmed hair on his neck. He sat motionless, staring at the empty whiteness of the wall. Nails, the only remnants of the removed paintings, distracted him, constantly bringing to mind memories of the evening. The evening when the last of the packages had been transported away on the trucks.
He leaned his bruised elbow on the tabletop, but a searing pain compelled him to lift it immediately. He massaged it and adjusted the bandage. Scratches from the falling painting were still visible around the bandaged wound. He only noticed the cut when he lifted the unfortunate canvases from the wet cobblestones. Fortunately, none of them had gotten wet enough to leave any visible marks. His elbow, skin raw and raw, was a nagging pain, a reminder of its former glory.
The chair was exceptionally uncomfortable, but in the empty room filled only with white walls, there was no other place. He was still staring at the radio, but it was silent. For several days now, he had heard nothing but reports of tanks, planes, and bombs. They were ordered to head south… At least at first, because later it became clear that this direction would lead nowhere. Only at night were the loudspeakers silent, because even the announcers needed a rest. The city remained motionless, as it had been long before everything that was happening now. But as darkness fell, it became as quiet and silent as ever, and this clearly indicated that something was wrong. Hence the idea to remove everything from the apartment after dark. Not only was it safer, but no one would ask unnecessary questions. He would long remember the sleepless nights spent hauling strange objects he had long since forgotten existed.
Today, the last of the items were finally removed. An old Chinese vase, probably worthless now. A dozen or so paintings, along with their suffocating aroma, which had been making him dizzy lately. Added to that was a multitude of other trinkets he'd previously managed without; their absence now made the apartment nothing more than an empty room. So glaringly white that, were it not for the distinct outline of the table, it too would have blended into the walls and vanished without a trace. At least until he realized, in the dark and firsthand, that the room wasn't as empty as his eyes seemed to suggest.
He looked around the room. "There, to the left, was a bed," he thought. She should be lying on it, staring vacantly at the smooth surface of the wall. The suddenly interrupted dream would return to her, closing her eyelids and waiting for her to succumb to it again. If he were awake at this hour, he would want to draw the delicate lines of her shoulders, covered with a network of lines and wrinkles, and thus confront the image with the blandness of the wall. That wall... Tormentingly white. He renamed that color through every possible possibility, waiting for the right one. White... White... White...
The sun peeked through the window more and more boldly, scratching his neck more and more persistently. Each brush brought to mind the news he had heard upon entering the room. He sat down in the chair as if a boulder had suddenly fallen from his heart. He felt an extraordinary lightness he hadn't felt in a long time. Then he noticed that the ceiling of his attic apartment was also white.
The radio was silent, but its angular shape made it impossible to forget its existence. Even before it fell silent, he heard the announcer's voice informing him: that further German army units had occupied a provincial town; about the death of an artist at dawn; about the need to prepare appropriate equipment in case of evacuation; about the fall of some border posts in the east and about the demolished orphanages hit by bombs.
At that moment, the woman should have raised her arm. She would have combed the matted hair that had fallen over her cheeks. She would have pulled up the covers to escape the morning chill of the room. He would have gotten up to light the stove. The crackle of burning wood would reach from below, all the way up here. It would have shattered the silence, drowning out the last, timid bird calls of the year. He would probably look out the window and, somewhere among the tree branches, spot faded feathers with delicate patterns, hiding among the yellowing leaves.
The table vibrated as if the radio were about to turn itself on. News about the Germans, the Russians, the artist, and the city work must be blaring on the airwaves once again. He stroked the dial beneath the frequency dial. The sun beat down, reflecting off the glass, so he pulled his collar up as his neck began to burn from the excessive heat. He wished he had a mirror to look at himself in and see what he looked like. Or, ideally, two, so he could see himself in profile. Or three—then he'd have a view of two profiles. And if he had four, he could also look at himself from behind. It would be a brilliant idea—he wouldn't have to turn around to examine himself from every angle. In an instant, he'd see himself around himself, himself for himself, and himself within himself. He would notice the smallest detail, the twitch of a muscle in the neck or the movement of the left ear.
Although she would probably complain that the sun's rays would reflect from all sides and blind her. He would have a point there. But then again, they could cover the window and put up a lamp. And if the mirrors were tall enough, they could encompass her entire figure, wrapped only in a sheet. She would stand with her back to him, exposing the delicate skin of her back, her slightly raised right shoulder blade and arm. And in the mirror opposite, she would gaze into his wandering eyes. She wouldn't have to turn to face him. Then she could pull the sheet up further to hide her body from him, forcing him to come closer.
He would start shifting in his chair, as he did now. He would try to perceive her slightly splayed feet and bent figure. The creaking of the wooden legs would send shivers down his spine.
He scratched his forearm to soothe the goosebumps raised by the unpleasant sounds. He tried to sit still, but the more he concentrated on remaining still, the less he succeeded. The chair was too old to stop creaking. So was the table, which sagged under the weight of the receiver resting on it. The sun reflected off the metal surface of the frequency dial, and in the distorted image, he could make out the faint outlines of trees in the garden. He wondered if these Soviet tanks were hiding behind or beneath the trees. If they were behind them, the camouflage would only work one way. And hiding beneath their branches meant he risked being crushed if an enemy hit the trunk. Their barrels probably resembled revolvers emerging from behind cover—like in crime movies. He picked up the pistol lying nearby. The polished barrel also reflected the rays.
She would probably tell him to put it away. She wouldn't like its color and shape. The handle would also raise concerns. Its white surface didn't match the silver of the barrel. Simply, aesthetically, it didn't. The weapon was hideous. Only when she pointed it out would he realize how repulsively ugly it was. He would regret buying it. That he'd spent so much money on such a tasteless object. That he simply had it...
The shape of the cylinder wasn't perfect either. The irregularities in the chambers were striking upon closer inspection. Everything about it was so misshapen, irregular, repulsively asymmetrical. An asymmetrical weapon! What bad luck he'd had to stumble upon it. The thought of using it filled him with revulsion. As he held it in his hand, it began to tremble with revulsion. He lowered his hand.
The lower part of the handle struck the tabletop, and the sound that emerged from the rotting wood was like a hammer striking a nearly driven nail. He repeated this action again, to listen to the sound that had long been etched in his memory.
He repeated it again, and then again.
And again.
The monotonous sound of the hammering blended with the echo of the radio news. It was like the sound of hammering in a blacksmith's shop, dozens of hands working on the various metal parts of some machine. The sound became almost melodic, and if he added the background noises, it would probably create some kind of symphony. He felt a strange fascination that something as repulsive as this gun could produce such an eerie sound.
She wouldn't like it. She would tell him to stop banging on the table and order him to put the thing down. He probably wouldn't stop. It was too hypnotic, too reminiscent of old familiar sounds to be given up so easily. He wouldn't stop, despite her persistent urging.
And if he did fall silent, she would rise from the bed. She would sit on the counter beside the radio. Her delicate hands would take the gun from his hands. She would tap her foot lightly on his knee, almost in time with his tapping the table. And if, after all, he didn't give her the gun...
He lifted his head. The ceiling was low, and the red of the blood would have been an interesting silhouette against the white. He wasn't sure, however, if the spread would have been strong enough. Sure, if he put the barrel to his chin, there was a chance it would have happened. But that might not have worked. He'd have been better off putting the muzzle in his mouth... Then, true, a red stain would land on the wall, but that could still be an interesting sight. But there was a window on the other side. You had to turn away to avoid the blood landing on the glass. Turn away from the sun...
She would have said it wasn't worth looking at. She would have continued to tap him with her foot, gently nudging his knees. She would have said he'd better look at her. She would have pushed the gun far away, to the other side of the table. She would have stared at him, still repeating the rhythm he had initiated.
She'd say he had such beautiful hair... Although it was a bit matted from sleep, from sweat... She'd comb it with her fingers, straighten his collar. She'd say something else... Calmly, looking past him. She'd button him up at the neck. Her voice would be soothing. She could repeat the morning news to him... He'd listen to her alto with pleasure. He'd kiss her hands as she told him about the eastern border posts... He'd play with her fingers, lightly bite her thumb, and she'd laugh, interrupting the news of the artist's death. She'd tell him to turn around so she could rub his aching neck. He'd do it, though he'd probably bump his elbow against the radio (as he always did). He'd stare at the rising sun, and she'd caress his earlobes, cheeks, and then his neck, lightly tracing her fingertips over the irritated skin. As she, maintaining a calming rhythm, unbuttoned his collar and placed her hands on his bare shoulders, he would gaze far out the window. No longer at the sun, which heated his cheeks to a redness, but at the distant, bare trees. Three oaks—leafless, leaning over the ground—quivered with their sparse branches, like gallows on a distant citadel. Her fingers would make him forget the sun, and her voice, conveying the latest news he had heard, would allow him to rest... He would close his eyelids, and the darkness beneath them would redden as the rays fell upon his eyes.
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