Excerpts from
Or
By Solvej Balle
The river is called Oder. It has not been invited but runs in anyway. It fills the space in the cellars, the distance between the shelves. It flows over dried pieces of meat, pale vegetables, apricots in jars. It is floating about in the chairs or is spreading over the floor.
The living have sat up in the beds. They are packing paper and clothes and carry it up a slope. They get water in their shoes, empty them and continue up over the roads.
We live off differences. We cross the lawn and open the door to the house. We have not been invited, but go in anyway. A leaf is floating on the floor. The water has left it in the house.
In the house we find traces of the living. We search in drawers and seek in cupboards. Here we do not miss anything. There are twelve or fourteen of each.
We live off differences. We find supplies in bags and boxes. We cut meat or vegetables. It is not anyone we know. We arrange dishes with other species than ourselves. Bowls with fruits and roots.
We sit in the chairs and sleep in the beds. We reach out across the table and from underneath the blankets. There are some who love each other. There are some who talk in their sleep. It is you or me.
The insects have been there a long time. They are circling in the air above the bodies.They wish to land on the skin or find a way through the clothes.
In the cellars the turn has been taken. The water sinks down below the shelves and settles at the bottom of the house. We fetch pale vegetables, forgotten tins, apricots in jars. I pass you a plate and keep you alive with something yellow or green.
The river is called Oder. It slowly runs back into its bed. It runs out under the streets and down through the grass. It is not our fault. We are packing paper or clothes and sit down on the stairs and wait.
The living have been waiting for a long time. They get up and run down a slope. They are coming closer.They wish to live in the house. Not in the streets. They wish to sleep in the beds. They wish twelve or fourteen of each.
Those who sweep the streets have stood up in profile. They see the living hurrying past on their way to the houses. They sweep across the asphalt or raise a hand for a greeting.
We leave the house through the garden path. We cross the grass and go out through the gate. We walk through leaves and branches, through bags and boxes. The water has left them in the garden.
Translated by Simon Lewis and Solvej Balle
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