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It was past midnight, but still before dawn when Kertész was startled that he had probably fallen asleep, he was lying in his bed, perspiring with fright, his mouth wide open, gasping for breath, he pressed one hand upon his chest that he might settle his thumping heart, on staring at the light cast upon the wall, however, as if he went on dreaming, he could clearly remember just seeing a large, green bird solemnly soaring over their house, yet perfectly silent, then he sat up, felt for his slippers with the toes of his bare feet, and shuffled to the window, the moon shone into the room, Kertész had not drawn the curtains for a long time, for years he had not drawn them, and now, by he light of the full moon, it was much brighter outside, than in the depth of the flat, chilly, white frost had silvered the branches, not snow, rather just shrunken rime, which looked particularly strange as the icy ground about the houses remained black, somewhere from the river or from the other side of the town, a hollow, steady hum could be heard, a faint rumble with a kind of clacking in it, as if it were the empty panting of an enormous machine, that's all about Christmas, said Kertész, and then he said to himself, what time do you make it, still, it is not dawning, as if it was returned, the clock struck two in the kitchen, the tolls were swelling slowly across the standing water of the flat, Kertész put on his bathing-gown, and entered his wife's room, it was the third year, he had lived alone, yet he opened out the door so carefully, so awkwardly as if he was afraid of refusal, for eighteen years, he had not been allowed to lay his hand on this latch after their judicial separation, they had been husband and wife for twelve years, when, after waiting patiently until Kertész hung his coat, took off his shoes, and put down his bag, she told him that she didn't want to be his wife, no argument did he have, he just stared how the hall lamp reflected on the woman's forehead, which was as white and cold as snow, then he ran a hot tub, sat into it, and his voice hidden by the splashing water, he made a long, low cry, according to the agreement, they divided the two-roomed flat, Kertész wasn't allowed to talk to his wife, could only use the right side of the hall and didn't have the right to enter the kitchen, he could take the bathroom and the toilet in the morning, after his wife had left, or in the evening between eight and nine, by night, if he kept listening, he could hear her breathing, sometimes, very carefully, slipping his feet inch by inch, he stole to her door, however, no more did he dare to go on such spying, after he had knocked over a small cabinet which she had intentionally placed on the line of demarcation dividing the flat into two, anyway, that was the time when he got into the habit of not drawing the curtains, at least in his own room, there was a rather long interval after the fourth year when she didn't sleep at home for nights running, each time he just stood in the window for hours, looking at the gaps among the trees opening towards the ground, on a misty, dull Sunday afternoon, at the end of the eighteenth year, as if he heard crying from behind the shut doors, hoarse crying, very like coughing, then the woman's voice could be heard call his name, after many long years passed, so he could cross the threshold again: his former wife was lying on the bed, crippled, there was stench spreading around her, as if the room was filled with angels bound to decay, they didn't get remarried, Kertész took care of her for three years, at the weekends they went for a walk: hand in hand, they came around the block, pacing slowly, looking at the passages among the trees opening towards the sky, by the end of the third year she became so weak that she couldn't leave the house, Kertész dressed her, each day they sat near the open window for an hour, why are you crying again, she asked, but he made no reply, after his wife's death he received the two-roomed flat, he could use the kitchen, the bathroom, he could use the room that formerly belonged to his wife, he moved back the small cabinet to the hall, just exactly where the line of demarcation used to run, by night, very carefully, slipping his feet inch by inch, he stole to her door, and could hear her breathing, he just stood at the door, stooping, and thought, this misses the point, whether there is happiness, so does the question what is happiness, the lack of suffering is that happiness, so even when life has passed, may it still be remembered. (Translated: Kata Pál)
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