were beautiful enough, uncle would frame the photograph, put it above the fireplace and think of us often.
Room Number 57
Room Number 57 is at the top of a well-lit, small building. Smiling nurses often come into this room. They ask Mum if she needs anything. She tells them to put a chicken drumstick and some green salad into the drip.
I go into Room Number 57 and say:
‘Good day.’
Huddled under the sheet, Mum is lying closest to the window. There is a blue stamp on the sheet.
‘You look as pale as death!’
She stares at me, sits up in bed and pulls a big cosmetic bag from the small bedside table:
‘Sit down.’
I look at her made-up blue eye. The other one is covered with gauze. With a soft brush she puts powder on my face:
‘There, now you are pretty.’
I go home looking pretty and think to myself how the numbers of the room, five and seven, equal twelve, and one plus two equals three.
I’m sure that the number three means something good, according to numerology.
The Brooch
Mum and Dad used to work a lot. Especially Mum. Sometimes Dad would take us to her workplace and she would serve us cups of milk froth. Sometimes we shared her smiles with people who ordered beer or coins for the pinball machine.
Once it was my birthday. I ran into the apartment, threw my school bag on the floor and came across Mum sleeping in the bedroom. It was midday. And sunny. And my birthday! I pulled Mum’s leg, took off her stocking. Pushed my hair into her nose! She mumbled with her eyes still closed:
‘Your present is in the bag.’
In the pocket of the big soft bag I found a brooch. A black and white porcelain face: Half sad, half joyful. I pinned it to my denim jacket and went outside into the street.
One little cloud was urinating.
Grandma (Holds the Strings)
‘I’ll pay for my funeral myself. I want you to dress me that day in the clothes I’ve prepared. It’s all there, in the bag. And the slippers are new. See, the bag is next to the bedside table.’
Next to the bedside table is the bag. Next to the bag is a plastic bucket. Next to the plastic bucket, am I.
‘When I die you must inform my doctor and the priest. I have a necklace too, but I’m afraid the gravediggers will steal it. I just need to save enough for the gravestone; you know, I won’t last much longer.’
‘How long do I need to keep paying for Mass when that happens?’
‘Once a year is enough.’
Grandma does not want to give her organs to anyone. She does not want to be cremated. Her coffin must be suitably solid and impenetrable. Because of all those worms.
Invisible
In kindergarten I was not allowed into the kitchen for the little girls. They cooked air in there, in little pots. I used to draw blue watercolour cars. When we went out into the playground in the afternoons, I secretly listened to the invisible beings who lived in the trees. Then after a time, the other children began to listen to them too. Afterwards we told one another what we had heard. That was how I became visible. It’s a pity I didn’t do that as soon as I came to the kindergarten. Then they would have let me cook in the little pots, too. I would not have been drawing blue watercolour cars, instead I would have mixed sunlight in the bowl with a whisk and afterwards I would have used this, instead of spit, to make cakes out of earth. The cakes made of earth would grow big enough to feed all the hungry black people. The black people would be happy. They would write a letter to Mum, telling her how well she had brought up her daughter.
Shopping
Buy tiramisu for Mum. Do they have tiramisu?
‘Do you have tiramisu?’
It looks very dry.
‘How much does it cost? One piece, please. Thank you. Goodbye.’
It’s a very light cake. Hold it on your hand. It won’t fall. Go to the left. No. The kiosk is to the right. Buy Mum a voucher for her mobile phone. So that she can call you if she wants a piece of cheesecake.
‘One voucher for the mobile phone, please. The cheapest one. Do you have any others? I’ll take the other one.’
Tiramisu is good. Something sweet is good for the nerves. And buy coffee! Cappuccino for Mum. A double macchiato for the lady whose bed is next to hers. That lady loves to talk. She gave Mum a pear because it’s good for digestion. The vending machine gives you change. There isn’t an option for double macchiato. I’ll tell the lady there wasn’t any double macchiato. Did it throw out a spoon? Yes. Put the change in my pocket next to the voucher for the mobile phone, in one hand the macchiato and the cappuccino, in the other hand the tiramisu. It’s on the vending machine. How can you describe the way a hospital smells? It isn’t just the smell of medicine.
He said tumour. And that he doesn’t know the details.
‘Mrs, there wasn’t any double macchiato. Here’s your change. Mum, the froth on the cappuccino isn’t very good. The froth is pretty poor and your chair is squeaking. Here’s the tiramisu as well. Mrs, do you maybe have a spoon, so that Mum can eat her cake?’
The spoon. When Mum has finished eating, I have to wash the spoon. Afterwards the lady will tell Mum she has a very well brought-up daughter. Mum’s happiness will make the tumour smaller. Or not. He said they don’t know if they can get rid of it.
‘Mum, is the tiramisu too dry for you?’
Before he called me into the office, I looked at the linocut. A house with a well, in a frame. Before he called me into the office, I asked myself who was the author of the piece of work hanging in the hospital corridor. Before he called me into the office, I put my hands on the snake in my stomach.
Tumour.
Doctor, don’t look at the floor.
Spells
I sit in the train and journey towards the South. That’s where the woman lives whose fault it is that Mum is in hospital for the third time. The lady who works by day in the bank, and removes spells at night, told me this. She said Mum’s eyes were like buttons in this woman’s hands. I stick my head out of the window while I travel. I’m careful not to hit the overhead transmission line. I’ve been travelling for a long time. My hands are dirty, from the red plush and the folding table. I come out of an unending tunnel and the hills turn into mountains. Brick houses hurry by in the opposite direction. After them, dogs and sheep. After that, I pee in the toilet. I spill urine on the railway tracks. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I practice my introductory speech.
That woman put a spell on our family because she was jealous when Dad married Mum. Maybe her jealousy no longer exists but the spell remains. I tell her everything, and afterwards beg her to leave us alone. This surprises her. She is angry. Her hair is badly dyed. She says I am inventing it all. No, Mrs, I am not inventing anything, I am just imagining.
Thick Ankles
One of our neighbours has always been fat and old. And her children were always old. Grandma sent me to buy bread for that neighbour who lives on the first floor, and salami and frankfurters. It was hard for her to walk, because of her thick ankles. Her apartment smelt of stewed beef. And frankfurters. When she was even older, she accused me of stealing her post. I said:
‘The postman doesn’t leave your pension in the letter box!’
Another woman in our neighbourhood had no teeth, and her