Read The Melancholy of Resistance for Free Online Page B

She bought the last of a set of sweet little china figurines to complete the collection in her cabinet, but realized all too soon that it was not going to fill the void; she racked her brains, reviewed matters, even asked her neighbour for advice, then, one afternoon (when she happened to be working on the latest piece of ‘Irma’ embroidery in the comfy armchair), while her eyes were resting on the china swans and gypsy girls with guitars and had moved along the rank of tearful little boys to the recumbent young girls, so conducive to daydreaming and feelings of happiness, it suddenly occurred to her what ‘important thing’ was missing. Flowers. She did possess two rubber plants and a sickly asparagus that she had brought over from the house, but these fell some way short of providing a satisfactory object for what she referred to as her newly resurrected ‘maternal instincts’. And since, among her acquaintances, there were many who ‘liked pretty things’, she soon acquired a range of beautiful cuttings and buds and bulbs, so much so that within a few years spent in the company of green-fingered friends such as Dr Provaznyik, Mrs Mádai and, of course, Mrs Mahó, not only were her window-sills densely populated by carefully tended miniature palms, philodendra and mother-in-law’s tongue, but she had to order, first one, then three more flower-stands all at once, from a locksmith’s shop in the Romanian quarter, because eventually there was nowhere else to put the numerous fuchsias, aluminium plants and armies of cacti, in what her feelings told her had become a ‘heart-warmingly homely’ little flat. And could it be that all this—the soft rugs, the gaily coloured curtains, the comfortable furniture, the mirror, the onion-slicer, the clothes-brush, the much-praised flowers, and the sense of calm, security, happiness and content they provided—was really all as wood to the fire, finished and done with?! She felt utterly exhausted. The slip of paper in her left hand slid from her fingers and fell to the floor. She opened her eyes, looked at the clock on the wall above the kitchen door, watched the frisky second hand skip from digit to digit, and though it seemed impossible that any further danger should threaten her, however she yearned for peace her feelings of insecurity persisted; her mind was racing furiously, now this or the other experience assumed major significance, and so—having taken off her coat, pulled off her boots, massaged her heavily swollen feet and tucked them into her warm comfy slippers—she first cast a careful eye up and down the deserted main street from her window (but there was ‘not a soul to be seen, no one prowling in the shadows … only the enormous circus wagon … and that unbearable puffing sound …’), then, to check that everything was there, she went through all her cupboards and wardrobes, and finally interrupted a thorough handwashing, thinking that she had better check all the locks just once more in case she had forgotten the most important one. By this time she had calmed down a little, picked up, read and furiously discarded the note into the kitchen litter-bin (four lines, one under the other, saying ‘Hello, Mama, I called,’ three of them crossed through), then went back into the living room, turned up the heating and, to put an end to all her anxiety, examined each of her plants in turn, for, she reasoned, if she found nothing wrong with them, everything else would fall into place. She had no reason to be disappointed in her obliging neighbour, who, as well as giving the place a daily airing, had been urged to keep a careful eye on her jealously tended flowers: the earth in the pots was nicely damp, and her ‘slightly simple and outspoken but essentially good-hearted and conscientious friend’ had even thought to dust down the leaves of some of the most sensitive palms. ‘Dear Rózsi, so utterly priceless!’ sighed Mrs Plauf, in an excess of sentiment,