Longing for Olga

On the third day of his silence, at five o’clock in the evening, Albert left his apartment with a frame-rattling slam of the door. Elena jumped up, ran to the door and opened it, calling “Where to?” But Albert ran down the steps without turning his head. She hurried back inside and went to the window that overlooked the street, drew the curtains aside and opened the shutters to a sharp downward angle in order to see better. Where’s he going, she asked herself, that crazy husband of hers. With determined steps, arms swinging back and forth, he walked briskly, as if he had decided to take action—who knows what action, he’s so unpredictable, that man!—reached the end of the street, stopped, took a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and removed one. He put it in his mouth and, with jittery fingers lighted it with his lighter. He looked up and down the street as if trying to decide which way to turn, and after a moment retraced his steps. No, he didn’t enter the house. He passed it without looking up at the window and continued walking. Where to? Where to, you inscrutable creature? But he was walking more slowly, with less determination than at first. His old blue jacket, worn-out and threadbare, how many times did I say to him throw it away, put it outside on the fence and somebody, a garbage man, will take it, but no, he wouldn’t part with it, as if...