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Extract translated by John Minahane

Coffee Grounds

  I’m sitting in the kitchen and waking up. I love good coffee, but every morning the person in my kitchen pours me some sort of instant mix, and although daily I explain that I don’t want such coffee, that I want real coffee, the person keeps pouring the same nesc and persuading me it’s Brazilia Santos. Worse still, that same person sips the instant with the conviction that they’re drinking Brazilia Santos. One can see gratification on the person’s face, probably because digesting coffee like that is not strenuous.
  The entire kitchen is garnished with unwashed cups from morning and afternoon coffees. It’s hard to move among them, and the person has the habit of manually piling them under the table from time to time. Most of them contain the mouldy remnants of instant coffee grounds, which is perhaps a sign of a certain disproportion. The person, however, because of some kind of sulkiness is not willing to wash cups, and so I don’t intend to either.
  Apart from the dirty cups, the impression of the kitchen is spoiled also by the tastelessly sticker-covered fridge. The labels appear in a number of layers; some are scratched and gouged from attempts I’ve made during my time to remove them. When after many attempts I was not able to do that, my nerves wouldn’t let me try any more and I overstuck them with new stickers. That made no difference to the fact that the old ones were still there, but at least they could not be seen.
  I finish drinking my coffee and look at the person. At that moment I decide that from now on I’m going to make my own coffee, and instead of labels I’ll begin to use magnets. When it comes to it, maybe it would be better to get rid of the fridge altogether.
  After breakfast, taking my regular morning outing, I sit on the riverbank and relax, because to this point I’ve been cycling. I savour the countryside and a cigarette and I worry, because I’m sitting on a stone on the edge of the bank and in front of me there’s just water. It’s muddy, it reminds me of the morning’s instant slop. I’m afraid someone’s going to approach from behind and shove me, though the water is shallow and I’m here alone. Well, I may be alone, but I’m sitting unsafely! I’m also worried about the ducks on the other bank. One of them separates from the flock and is coming close to me, which makes me uneasy. The bird has a treacherous look. Under these circumstances I cannot continue to enjoy my stay in the countryside undisturbed. I take the bike and drag it onto the road. Earlier I’d carried it down as far as the water, because I was afraid someone might steal it from me. Quickly I put out my cigarette and sit on the bike. Needless to say, I take the cigarette butt with me: I’m not the kind of ox that would throw it in the water.
  I’m sitting in the train and waiting for it to move. I need to change my shoes, because at work I was going around on high heels for half the day. Putting one hand in the bag, I pull out the runners I was wearing this morning by the water, while with the other hand I untie the bows on my formal slip-ons. I remember the treacherous duck and at this present moment she merely makes me smile. Peripherally I catch sight of somebody’s legs coming through the door. From the shoes I deduce that it is the ticket inspector. Unobtrusively I raise my eyes and though I do not look him right in the face, I am certain he’s looking at me. Equally I am certain that he’s captivated by my sexually attractive ankles in attractive tights. I remember that I can’t stand the word tights. The door closes. The train moves and after a while the ticket inspector appears again. Unconcernedly I hand him my ticket, not looking him in the eye even now. This game of mystery amuses me. I remember one ticket inspector from ages back whom I played it with. He grasped the rules quickly, and after some minutes he struck up a conversation where he used this witty sentence: “This is how I’m positioned on the career ladder – I go round with this punch, here and there I make a little hole...” At that moment I had won and the inspector no longer interested me.
  As I anticipated, my new playing partner sits crossways opposite me, on the lateral seat. For the entire journey I’ll be making an impact on him and I’m convinced that he won’t hold out. Casually I touch my thighs, fleetingly curl my hair on my fingertips, lick my lips, and I’m absolutely sure of the effect of these actions on the ticket inspector. All that time I don’t look at him even once, that’s part of the game, until a moment before alighting from the train, when I’m feeling pleased at how I’ve amused myself, I hurl a fleeting supercilious glance in his direction and I’m quite abashed, suddenly I feel like an idiot, I’ve a lump in my throat that I want to vomit out. The ticket inspector is an unattractive older man; his eyes are sad, and over them he has dioptric glasses with thick lenses. There are two things in the world that move me: grannies selling flower-bunches and powerful dioptrics on old men.
  I’m sitting in the tram and I’m clearly aware that everything is a matter of adjusting the mind. Absence of system creates unclear situations in human existence. Obstacles arise. I have a clear awareness of everything. It occurs to me that considering all the time I spend in transport vehicles, I haven’t seen very much clearly.
  In the tram I’m alone, I look at my ill-defined image in the door; my God, I feel hot, I shouldn’t have brought a jacket, it’s hot, I’ll arrive there and everyone will see that I’m in a jacket! I look at the reflection of my legs. They look worse than at home in the mirror, they look outlandish. It’s those trousers, they’re not at all right, they make me look like... they look like they’re too small for me. My face is shining, I need to put on powder; there’s no other traveller here apart from me, but what if someone gets on at the next stop? All evening I’ll be a bag of nerves, I’d better get off at the next stop, I’ll cross through the road junction, I’ll go home and change.
  At home I look in the hallway mirror: I should put a shirt on, white, yes, bright jeans, braces and a brooch, the old one, and I mustn’t forget to powder myself up. I check the timetable for when the next tram goes. In the doorway I’m still making sure that the travelling suitcase belonging to the person is definitely not to be seen in the hallway.
  I get into the tram, I’m alone, déjà vu, I look in the windows, at my image, for a second the memory of those thick dioptric glasses flashes through my mind. Immediately I suppress it and continue observing myself. It’s better, the shirt is informal and attractive. I’m content with myself, but I shouldn’t go braless, I come across as cheap; hurriedly I get down, rush home, stop in front of the mirror, comb my hair, put on more powder, go to the wardrobe. I can’t find a white bra, I rake through the dirty linen as well, there it is, I pull it out, it’s not dirty, but even so I feel resistant to it, what if there’s some person at hand when I’m undressing, naturally, I’m hoping for that... I’m particular about smelly linen; I choose a clean black bra from the wardrobe. Going through the kitchen I take a quick slug of coffee, I spill some on the white shirt, I curse, I change into a black shirt, the braces don’t go with it, I take them off, I rush to the tram stop.
  If I do that once more, it could happen that I’ll suddenly go crazy. On entering the tram, quite spontaneously I burst into uncontrolled laughter. I remember the duck. I’m not well. It would serve me right if the unknown person for whom I’ve changed three times wasn’t there.
  I’m sitting on the bed. A moment ago I woke up. I feel broken to bits, I notice my clothes flung on the ground, the black shirt among the rest; lying alongside me is a strange person with a lily motif tattooed on the buttock, and that doesn’t strike me as in any way strange, though as late as yesterday I had lying beside me a familiar person who was lilyless. I suppose it’s really original to cover the pure skin with a depiction of the symbol of purity. Involuntarily the fridge comes to mind and I remember that since yesterday I’ve been having second thoughts about my plan to get rid of it. The strange person opens eyes, smiles amiably at me and asks if I couldn’t make them some coffee. It’s just that at this moment I’m not at all sure if I’ve got any coffee at home.