Excerpts from
if it really were a film
By Dorrit Willumsen
The most annoying of it is that they look at him all the time that way. They talk about him, too. At times as though he were some kind of main character. And at times as though he werenĘt even present. They call him: defendant, boarder, swindler, violent criminal, husband, thief. They roll his days up and spool them back and forth. As though it were a film they weren“t quite satisfied with. And as though there were something or other they wanted to correct.
But that“s not the only thing that makes him nervous. Their movements are there, too. The rustling of clothes, hands, purses, skin. A strangely dusty but nevertheless solemn gathering.
At times they also try to drag words out of him. And at times he really does talk, because otherwise the pauses would be much too long. But he doesn“t like doing it.
If only the judge would stop looking straight at him, at the very least. If only the defense attorney and the prosecutor would stop addressing themselves so cooly and demandingly to him alone. If only he could just sit in a soft, dark auditorium with corduroy-covered chairs and a nice, smooth screen where everything happened.
If it really were a film. - How simple it would be. Because really films are what he likes the most. The snug, protective darkness and the woman who are so beaytiful, so delicate and so moving. And they do everything. Much more than you can imagine. And they don“t mind that he“s watching.They“re never offended. Not even when he talks to them.
Translated by Ann-Marie Rasmussen
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