Envy

Adelheid Duvanel
Translated by Tyler Schroeder

On the radio, they broadcast the description of my missing sister: wears a rainbow-print coat, green with a red sheen or red with a green sheen—asks every day if someone will build her a castle in the garden behind the house; eventually dragged the broken, rusty iron table out of the bushes and announced that it was her palace—wears small, golden earrings—moves in an oddly jerky fashion whenever she steps onto a tram: holds onto a pole by the door, swallows spasmodically, and acts as if someone stuffed her into a tight pillowcase and sat on her, shamelessly—has declared the entire world a disaster area and is trying to make herself at home there—gnaws lightning-fast on apples, carrots, and bars of soap with her oddly semicircular, curving front teeth.

My sister and I have rented a one-room flat in a house that stands at an intersection; when trucks or buses drive by, the floor of our room trembles. It is four paces wide and five paces long and sloping: for this reason, you can’t leave the door open; after a while it closes itself softly. It maddens me that it has the nerve, unprompted and yet polite, to close off the room; I need the view of the corridor because the room feels claustrophobic and because the heat comes from the corridor, where the coal stove stands. When I asked my sister if the door’s actions bothered her, she answered: it isn’t human. I wavered between pity and envy. One night the long curtains drew themselves apart and my sister got up to close them. She’d barely lain back down in bed when they opened themselves once again. She told me of this occurrence in the morning and I nearly wept because I had never experienced anything like it.

On that Sunday in October, the canopy of light that hung over the city fell short of the ground. My sister and I sat in our room and played a board game; she lost and walked away without saying a word. I looked for her in the cellar and in the attic and finally went into the park that was nearby. I heard shouting and ran in that direction, but then I sat down under a tree wrapped in a red-glowing vine. The wind blew leaves over the high fence. Most of the chairs stood abandoned. Growing ever smaller, a woman pushed a baby carriage toward the open gate. Some of the trees grimaced as if they were being forced to smile underwater, and the night rolled out a black carpet over the grass. From a distance, I noticed a large, rat-like animal running between the trees; when it saw me, it stood up on its hind legs and whistled; I could clearly see golden rings in its ears. When I stood up, the animal darted away.

For a long time I stood there, frozen, and felt the cold that fingered its way over my body. Distant and sticky as the dust that powders grapes and butterflies white, the fog filled every gap and covered the eyes of all the people.

I groped my way home. Everyone claimed to be searching for my sister. A few weeks later, out of envy, I informed the police of what had taken place in the park, because I know that rats are well-suited for various experiments and are of interest to scientists. If they succeed in catching my sister, they will try to make a human out of her.