onions in the adjacent garden; leaning over the fence, the peasants asked how something like that was possible. And the presenter explained that the news had been prerecorded, todayâs technology was advanced enough to solve problems like this, and the peasants responded that they understood the technology very well, but what they wanted to know was how could Saturdayâs news be presented on Friday. How can anyone know the news in advance? Becoming visibly flustered and confused, the presenter asked the peasants about the local soil; was it all right to stuff two seed onions in each of the little holes, or maybe she should put in three? And the peasants said the soil was still good around here, we only put one in each hole.
.   .   .
I thought Iâd better phone ahead, and I already took out a two-forint coin, but it occurred to me that the Krémers might ask me about my mother. How we are, what news from Judit, things like that. I still had to invent all that, I thought. I canât tell them that my motherâs gone crazy, I thought. I simply canât say that to anyone, ever, I thought. One cannot say of oneâs mother that she is mad, I thought, and tried to come up with some story; when it started to rain I took shelter under the eaves of a newsstand. Fromthere I kept watching the passing streetcars but still had no idea what to say if anybody asked me about my mother. When the tenth streetcar went by, I knew Iâd never ever be able to talk to anyone about my mother. Then the vendor stuck his head out the tiny window between the daily news and the crossword puzzles and asked what I wanted, and I said, excuse me, Iâm only waiting for someone, and let me have a Film Theater Music . And when he shoved the journal and the change into my hand, I realized I really had no place to go. To be more exact, I was free to go anywhere, from Kamchatka to Tierra del Fuego, and everywhere, whenever a news vendor scared me, Iâd ask for Film Theater Music . Something like the way conscripted country boys on the front would grab a handful of earth while digging trenches, crumble the soil between their fingers and look at it to determine whether it would be better for wheat or barley.
.   .   .
A fiftyish, barefoot, half-drunken woman, wearing a red jersey dress, stumbled across the roadway. Horns were honking, some drivers were swearing; she spat in their direction and yelled back at them, Iâmahookerrrr. The rain had washed the perm out of her thinning hair, and the raindrops rolled down her finger-thick makeup as on a piece of oilcloth. She held a vodka bottle and her shoes in one hand and a crow in the other. Iâmahookerrrr, she kept saying, even while crossing the road, but not squawking as before, just for herself, with the impassivity of a rosary. She threw the bird on the sidewalk and tried to put on her shoes, but stumbled and leaned against the lamppost. Finally, she sat down on the curb, the crow flapping next to her on the asphalt.
By the time she managed to buckle the shoe straps on her ankles, the bird had expired. The broken wings clung motionless to the wet asphalt, as ifstuck in the tar, and she didnât even notice it until she finished with her shoes. âRebeka is waking up,â she said and picked up the soaked pile of feathers and didnât want to believe that it was all over. Then she tried to pour vodka into the dead birdâs beak; when she wasted all of the booze and had no more doubts, she grabbed the crow by the head and began to knock it against the curb and to scream, Rebeka is flying! Rebeka is flying! and the sidewalk was all bloody because the birdâs head came halfway off the body.
At the streetcar stop a woman quickly covered the eyes of her child, donât look, she said, hideous woman, she said, but the child wanted to see everything, and got a slap in the face and then the mother dragged him to the far
.   .   .
I thought Iâd better phone ahead, and I already took out a two-forint coin, but it occurred to me that the Krémers might ask me about my mother. How we are, what news from Judit, things like that. I still had to invent all that, I thought. I canât tell them that my motherâs gone crazy, I thought. I simply canât say that to anyone, ever, I thought. One cannot say of oneâs mother that she is mad, I thought, and tried to come up with some story; when it started to rain I took shelter under the eaves of a newsstand. Fromthere I kept watching the passing streetcars but still had no idea what to say if anybody asked me about my mother. When the tenth streetcar went by, I knew Iâd never ever be able to talk to anyone about my mother. Then the vendor stuck his head out the tiny window between the daily news and the crossword puzzles and asked what I wanted, and I said, excuse me, Iâm only waiting for someone, and let me have a Film Theater Music . And when he shoved the journal and the change into my hand, I realized I really had no place to go. To be more exact, I was free to go anywhere, from Kamchatka to Tierra del Fuego, and everywhere, whenever a news vendor scared me, Iâd ask for Film Theater Music . Something like the way conscripted country boys on the front would grab a handful of earth while digging trenches, crumble the soil between their fingers and look at it to determine whether it would be better for wheat or barley.
.   .   .
A fiftyish, barefoot, half-drunken woman, wearing a red jersey dress, stumbled across the roadway. Horns were honking, some drivers were swearing; she spat in their direction and yelled back at them, Iâmahookerrrr. The rain had washed the perm out of her thinning hair, and the raindrops rolled down her finger-thick makeup as on a piece of oilcloth. She held a vodka bottle and her shoes in one hand and a crow in the other. Iâmahookerrrr, she kept saying, even while crossing the road, but not squawking as before, just for herself, with the impassivity of a rosary. She threw the bird on the sidewalk and tried to put on her shoes, but stumbled and leaned against the lamppost. Finally, she sat down on the curb, the crow flapping next to her on the asphalt.
By the time she managed to buckle the shoe straps on her ankles, the bird had expired. The broken wings clung motionless to the wet asphalt, as ifstuck in the tar, and she didnât even notice it until she finished with her shoes. âRebeka is waking up,â she said and picked up the soaked pile of feathers and didnât want to believe that it was all over. Then she tried to pour vodka into the dead birdâs beak; when she wasted all of the booze and had no more doubts, she grabbed the crow by the head and began to knock it against the curb and to scream, Rebeka is flying! Rebeka is flying! and the sidewalk was all bloody because the birdâs head came halfway off the body.
At the streetcar stop a woman quickly covered the eyes of her child, donât look, she said, hideous woman, she said, but the child wanted to see everything, and got a slap in the face and then the mother dragged him to the far
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