Trafika Europe 11 - Swiss Delights

My Mother’s Tears

To go by myself. And until I turned thirteen, I would go to the riverbank with my rod, hooks, little lures, a bucket, a pack of butter cookies and a liter of raspberry lemonade that tasted like cough syrup and foamed at the slightest bump. I also had a pair of rubber books, yellow and much too large for me that my mother had consented to buy and thanks to them I was able— although it was forbidden—to wade across the river in the shallowest spot. To get to the river, I had to take the bus that passed behind our building, get off at the first stop, and continue on foot for about twenty minutes. I sat in the front of the bus near the driver, proud of my fishing rod, my boots, of being able to go to the river alone, and occasionally, sheltered from all weakness and flaws, I watched my reflection in one of the bus’ rearview mirrors. Then I would try out different poses, different expressions. I made faces until I found one I decided was the perfect fisherman’s bearing. People smiled at me. Bus drivers have a machine in their hands and they know where they’re going. A peculiar noise, a smell, a flickering light, a passing disturbance, a throb of menace, they observe everything and take note, they’re able to avoid the worst because they have no choice. They are at the same time in the crosshairs and on the lookout. Bus drivers push buttons and the doors open, directions are followed, passengers get on or off, roads are taken, the dispersal of passengers lessens. As for me, I had my fishing rod and I knew where I was going.

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