Lies

We stand in the fading light, three figures at a bus stop. Two elms guard over us at either side of the shelter. Drizzle is falling lightly. The woman and I stand just under the roof, facing the road. The man stands to.our right, five meters away. Although the structure is without walls the shed seems to protect against the creeping chill. It is good to stand near this woman. The smile from her painted lips radiates pleasure. I return the warmth. Her large dark eyes framed by a wide oval face express a candid sympathy.

She looks over at the man, who grins and waves at us, but does not speak. He is dressed as a jester in tights and a wide satin blue and white striped shirt. Noticing that he wears ballet shoes, I wonder whether his feet are wet. He tilts his head to the side and pokes out his tongue, and the little bell of his peaked hat tinkles weakly.

To my surprise, the woman returns his curious greeting, poking out her tongue and waving back. Just as unexpectedly, she turns to me. "Who are you?" For a moment, taken aback by the direct nature of the question, I am speechless but then give her my name and profession by way of introduction. I keep my voice down so that the man cannot overhear my words. The woman nods as if it were exactly what she had expected. At the same time I feel she is unhappy with the answer. I volunteer more information where I was born, where my parents came from, what they did. She listens attentively, and when I finish she takes my arm in hers. She asks me whether I have a husband, children, and when I tell her that I do not she turns to face me and strokes my cheek with a warm hand. Her touch is as reassuring as the jester is disturbing. She is a little shorter than I, but it is I who feel small, protected by her presence. My attention is drawn to the jester, who now cartwheels along the footpath in front of us, only to stop and stand the same distance away, this time to the left.

I find his presence irritating, but the woman appears not to notice him now. She speaks of her past in a low calm voice, of the civil war that devastated her village in a country bordering on our own. The rest of her family slaughtered, she had to flee the country alone. Since then she has not been able to find a single trace of any of her fellow villagers. She has seen in the news that corpses were buried in a mass grave in the region and that this grave is now being unearthed by a commission of men from other nations.

There is no beauty in her smile now. She places her hands are on my shoulders. Awkwardly, we embrace. I see the man gesturing at us lewdly with garish working of the tongue, amused at our intimacy. It does not bother me in the least now, so pleased am I to be able to return her affection.

At length she steps back. Tears stain her cheeks. She tells me she is employed as a prostitute at the sauna on the outskirts of our village. I invite her to my home for an evening meal.

Her expression suddenly changes to that of fright. Then loathing. Without warning she slaps my face. I step back and she comes at me, strikes again. 1 hear the man laughing as I bring my hands up to protect myself from further blows.

It's time to go, I hear him say.

When I look up I see she has taken his hand. Together they get on the bus. I answer the driver's questioning glance by looking away. The bus departs.

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