The blind side of the heart - By Julia Franck Page 0,149
her hands were dry, cracked and grey with newsprint. The only people with whom she exchanged a word during the day were the woman in the greengrocer’s, the butcher and sometimes the fishwife down on the quay. The grocer didn’t speak to her, or at least only to say what the price of something was, and her greetings and goodbyes went unanswered. On most days she didn’t utter more than three or four sentences. Wilhelm was not particularly talkative in the evenings. If he was at home and didn’t go out again, which recently had been the case only one or two evenings a week, his replies to Helene were monosyllabic.
Helene sat at the table rubbing her eyes. She felt dreadfully tired. She still had to wash Wilhelm’s shirts and put the sheets through the mangle. There were bones for soup in the cool larder cupboard under the windowsill. A little air bubble inside Helene burst. Wind? She hadn’t eaten anything to give her flatulence. Perhaps it was the baby. Was this how it felt when a baby started moving? My child, whispered Helene. She put her hand on her belly. My child, she said, smiling. There was no way out of it now, she was going to have a baby. Perhaps it would be nice to have a child? Helene wondered what the baby would look like. She imagined a little girl with dark hair, hair as dark and eyes as bright as Martha’s, and an inscrutable smile like Leontine’s. Helene stood up, put Wilhelm’s shirts in the big boiler and placed the boiler on the stove. Then she washed carrots, scraped them, and put them in a pan of water with the bones. A bay leaf and a little pepper. Helene peeled the onions, stuck them with a clove and put them in the pan with the bones. She scrubbed the celery, cut it in half and stuffed it in between the carrots and bones. Finally she washed the leek and the parsley root. She mustn’t forget the leek later. She didn’t like a leek to soften in the soup overnight, and then disintegrate next morning as soon as she tried to fish it out.
Wilhelm didn’t come home until Helene was asleep. Next day was Sunday, and when he didn’t mention the baby of his own accord, Helene told him, unasked: It will come at the beginning of November.
What will? Wilhelm was cutting up his bread and jam with a knife and fork, an oddity that Helene had only recently noticed. Did he feel that her hands soiled the bread she cut for him?
Our baby.
Oh, that. Wilhelm chewed noisily; you could hear the sound of his saliva. He munched for a long time, swallowed, and put down the knife and fork.
Another cup of coffee? Helene picked up the coffee pot to pour him more.
Wilhelm did not reply, as he often forgot to do, and she refilled his cup.
Do you know what I think . . . ?
Listen, Alice. You’re expecting a child, all right? If I said yesterday I was glad then I am glad, do you hear? I’m glad you’ll soon have some company.
But . . .
Don’t interrupt me, Alice. That really is a bad habit of yours. We don’t belong together, as you know for yourself. Wilhelm sipped some coffee, put down his cup and took another slice of bread from the basket.
He must mean the two of them as a couple, their marriage, he as husband and she as wife. Something about the coming child seemed to upset him. If Helene had assumed he was glad of it, obviously he was glad of it only for her sake, for the prospect of her having company and not bothering him any more. But he wasn’t pleased about the child for himself. There was neither pleasure nor pride in his face today. Was it the connection with her impure race that he didn’t like? Helene knew he would lose his temper if she suggested that out loud. He didn’t want to talk about it, particularly not to her.
Don’t look at me like that, Alice. You know what I mean. You think you have me in your power? You’re wrong. I could inform on you. But you’re expecting a child, so I won’t.
Helene felt her throat tighten. She knew it was unwise to say anything, but she had to. Because I am expecting a child? I am expecting your child, our child.