He continued beating her. She would tremble uncontrollably, like the trees shedding their leaves.
“I like speaking English,” she said. “I find a lot of poetry in it. Like the phrase he rose from the chair. It’s so nice that he is compared to a rose when he rises.”
It was September. The day he left was the first day that autumn could be felt. He asked her if he could have breakfast at the train station. She laughed. No, it only had terrible food like sausages, and the drunks hang out there all day long. Do drunks hang out at the train stations in other cities, she asked. She couldn’t understand why they were there actually, they never travelled anywhere.
At dusk he walked along the Danube, past the rows of elm trees where lovers would kiss in the shadows. The waters of the river glistened like the eyes of a dead cunt.
Bratislava had obviously died a long time ago, but it felt like it had died a natural death. In any case he preferred this bitter pallor to the so-called health of the west.
He looked out the window of the train for hours. What he was looking for in life was a magical incongruity.
Pierre got out of the train in Prague in order to change to a bus. He walked around the city at sunset. Dark stone statues with golden crowns and wings.
The things which are invisible are what’s golden.
He stepped on the bus to Brussels. It drove away from the darkening city. There was a misty moon rising. The feathery sky of El Greco passed through his reflection.