Trafika Europe 12 - French Bon-Bons

The Combinations

‘Yes.’ My voice had a dull mechanical tone to it. A game. Was it? Life , Hájek once said, is a way of learning how to die. And I remember him smiling as he added: But not the only way. I watched Volta scribble something on a piece of paper and than pass it across his desk to me. It was my weekly prescription. ‘See if that helps.’ I took the square of folded paper, unsure why I was holding it. As I left, he didn’t say goodbye. I realised that he never had—an always deferred point of finality. Outside, on the landing, a little girl was waving a red balloon back and forth on a stick. The balloon was the same colour as the girl’s dress. There was no‐one else there—the two I’d heard earlier sharing the joke about the Russian butcher were gone. I paused at the top step and looked back at the girl. She was standing in one spot, swishing the balloon from side to side, in front of her face. ‘It’s an interesting game you’re playing,’ I said. It felt strange saying it. The girl stopped doing what she was doing and tilted her head slightly away from me. ‘It isn’t a game,’ she said, in a highpitched child’s voice. ‘What is it then?’ I asked. ‘I don’t know,’ she said, facing me again, the balloon

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