The Passport Read Online Free PDF

church. He looked like the priest without his hat.
    Each morning dew fell. The boxwood hedge was sprinkled with white. The stump was black.
    The sacristan took the faded roses from the altars and carried them outside behind the church. He passed the stump. The stump was his wife’s wooden arm.
    Charred leaves whirled around. There was no wind. The leaves were weightless. They rose to his knees. They fell before his steps. The leaves crumbled. They were soot.
    The sacristan took the faded roses from the altars and carried them outside the church. He passed the stump. The stump was his wife’s wooden arm.
    A handful of ashes lay on the ground.
    The sacristan put the ashes in a box. He went to the edge of the village. He scraped a hole in the earth with his hands. There was a crooked branch in front of his face. It was a wooden arm. It reached out to him.
    The sacristan buried the box in the hole. He walked along a dusty path into the fields. He could hear the trees from far away. The maize had withered. Leaves broke wherever he went. He felt all the loneliness of the years. His life was transparent. Empty.
    Crows flew over the maize. They settled on the maize stalks. They were made of coal. They were heavy. The maize stalks swayed. The crows flapped.
    When the sacristan was back in the village, he felt his heart hanging naked and stiff between his ribs. The box with the ashes lay beside the hedge.

THE SONG
    The neighbour’s spotted pigs are grunting loudly. They are a herd in the clouds. They pass over the house. The veranda is caught in a web of leaves. Each leaf has a shadow.
    A man’s voice is singing in the sidestreet. The song floats through the leaves. “The village is very large at night,” thinks Windisch, “and its end is everywhere.”
    Windisch knows the song: “Once I travelled to Berlin, the beautiful town to see. Tirihaholala all night long.” When it is so dark, when the leaves have shadows, the veranda grows upwards. It presses up under the stones. On a prop. When it has grown too high, the prop breaks. The veranda falls to the ground. Back to where it was. When day comes, no one sees that the veranda has grown and fallen.
    Windisch feels the pressure on the stones. There’s an empty table in front of him. Terror is standing on the table. The terror is between Windisch’s ribs. Windisch feels the terror hanging like a stone in his jacket pocket.
    The song floats through the apple tree: “Send to me your daughter do, for I wish to fuck her now. Tirihaholala all night long.”
    Windisch pushes a cold hand into his jacket pocket. There is no stone in his jacket pocket. The song is between his fingers. Windisch sings along softly: “Sir, that will not do at all, my daughter dear will not be fucked. Tirihaholala all night long.”
    The clouds trail over the village, because the herd of pigs in the clouds is so large. The pigs are silent. The song is alone in the night: “Mother mine, allow me please, why then do I have a hole. Tirihaholala all night long.”
    The way home is long. The man is walking in the dark. The song has no end. “Oh mother dear, do lend me thine, for mine it is so very small. Tirihaholala all night long.” The song isheavy. The voice is deep. There is a stone in the song. Cold water is running over the stone. “Oh, I cannot lend it you, for your father needs it soon. Tirihaholala all night long.”
    Windisch pulls his hand out of his jacket pocket. He loses the stone. He loses the song.
    “When she walks,” thinks Windisch, “Amalie’s toes point outwards when she puts her feet on the ground.”

THE MILK
    When Amalie was seven years old, Rudi pulled her through the maize. He pulled her to the end of the garden. “The maize is a forest,” he said. Rudi took Amalie into the barn. He said: “The barn is a castle.”
    There was an empty wine-barrel in the barn. Rudi and Amalie crawled into the wine-barrel. “The barrel is your bed,” said Rudi. He put dry burs on