“It's
free to die in Poland so I'll go back there,” he said while walking
a disused rail-road track in a largely disused part of a country
largely populated by people no one had any use for. She said his eyes
were dark green when he was sad and bright green when he saw a piano
and almost black and inquisitive when he was dying. “But who
can you ask?” she asked
rhetorically. The dried out little fig tree in the corner stayed
silent as did the umbrella and the worn boots. She
drew a sad face in the dust between the cups, books, bottles and
ashtrays and whistled one of his unwhistleable melodies. “He always
said that his music wouldn't work without the images.”
“Det
er gratis at dø i Polen, så jeg tager tilbage dertil,” sagde han,
mens han gik langs et nedlagt jernbanespor i et en stort set nedlagt
del af et land, der hovedsageligt var befolket af mennesker, ingen
havde brug for. Hun sagde, at hans øjne var mørkegrønne, når han
var ked af det og lysegrønne, når han så et flygel og næsten
sorte og spørgende, da han var ved at dø. ”Men hvem kan man
spørge?” spurgte hun retorisk. Det tørre lille figentræ i
hjørnet forblev tavst, ligesom paraplyen og de udtrådte støvler.
Hun tegnede et trist ansigt i støvet mellem kopperne, bøgerne,
flaskerne og askebægerne og fløjtede én af hans ufløjtelige
melodier. ”Han sagde altid, at hans musik ikke ville fungere uden
billederne.
