Say You Remember

I’m getting weaker. Something is fading in me, like the dimming of lights or a slow sunset – almost unnoticed – into the gloom. In the morning I’m wrapped in a chill even on the hottest days of the year. My body obeys me out of habit, but nothing is awakened in me. The room, the woman sleeping next to me, the alarm clock, the wardrobe and even the garden outside surround me like fences. I don’t dream much, and when I do dream, my dreams are mixed up with each other, and there’s no reason to take the trouble to interpret them, meaningless remnants of half thoughts, unfocussed longings.

We’re sitting at the breakfast table, and I look at the kitchen curtains that sway lightly in the breeze. Hedva pours tea for herself and looks out at the lawn and at the orchard beyond it. She’s very quiet, and I know she’s sunk in thought. The children are on her mind, I don’t have to ask in order to know. She looks out at the familiar landscape and sees nothing, and I prefer not to think about what she would say or do if she saw everything. Slowly I eat my omelet and go over the newspaper. Like someone putting off the end. Once I remembered every word I read. I used to say, “Did you read the article about…?” and I would quote it word for word without difficulty. No longer. The letters flit past my eyes, join together for a...