Dust

Dust

Written by: David Cseh

Translated by: David Cseh

         The girl stepped beside her mother.

         They were standing by the duster, in the courtyard, the Sun set below the houses not long ago, a gentle breeze passed between them. There was no one near. Obscure trees, dim benches, and dark streetlamps stood everywhere. The duster tottered dimly as well, it was almost lost in the twilight.

         The girl was squinting - she couldn't see clearly. Her mother's outlines were fuzzy, she was hanging their only carpet on the steel rod. She adjusted it, slid it right then left, shook it a little. Hit it.

         Dust fell, the girl sneezed. It was a long time since they last cleaned the battered carpet.

         "Do you see?"

         Her mother stood before the swaying carpet, shaking her head, hands on her hips.

         "Two weeks in the attic, and look. Filthy."

         She brushed her forefinger across the length of the carpet, then raised it, so they could both see it. The grayness on her finger.

         Her daughter didn't speak. Though she hated the dust.

         The woman sighed. "Come, let's get started."

         She reached for the beater beside one of the duster's poles. Her waist cracked faintly, her back tightened, she closed her eyes. The girl knew why. She hurt all over.

         But she straightened anyway and raised the beater high. She swung.

         Dust spread. The woman glanced behind her shoulder.

         "So, there's the other one. Come on,"
Her daughter picked up the beater's pair off the ground slowly, delicately. Reluctantly. She stepped on the other side of the wall. They hit it together.

         A gray cloud sucked them in. The girl coughed, her mother didn't breathe. They waited for the dust to settle.

         "Don't stop," said the woman.

         So they hit it, beat the gray carpet. They hammered on the shivering wall, the filth covered the girl's clothes, skin, and hair. It got in her nose as well, she sneezed.

         She didn't speak. Though she was angry. This is ash, not dust! The carpet's ashes!

          Her mother stepped around the wall.

         "Now you," she said. "Alone. In time you'll be a woman as well."

         The girl shook her clothes, swept the filth off.

         And nodded. Though she would have run away, far away. Into the twilight.

         She swung hard. Small puffs of dust rolled off the carpet.

         "Harder," said her mother.

         The girl hit again. Twice. Three times. And her mother just stood there, hands behind her crooked back, saying:

         "Harder. It's not done yet."

         The girl didn't speak. Though she was angry. She saw herself bent, gray, wrinkled, and broken. As a beer-serving wife.

         Her father's drunken voice could be heard from their flat's window.

         "Eve! Come up! Now!"

         The wife sighed.

         "Continue. I'll be right back."

         She left. And the girl swung. The carpet turned blue, its holes sneered at her with their thin, ragged teeth. Its ashes clung into her eyelashes.

         "Hey, Mary! What are you doing?"

         Mary, surprised, lowered the beater. And turned around.

         Anne stood there. With her rich mother. With her small, cute schnauzer puppy. She was
smiling.

         The dusting girl looked at her longingly. She imagined her clean clothes on herself, the velvet, the silk. The peasant girl watched the noble, like in her favorite bedtime story.

         "I'm dusting," she answered, and didn't say more. Though she had questions. What is being rich like? How does the puppy behave at home? Does her mother make her work?

         Anne glanced at the tattered carpet.

         "Why? This has holes in it! It's old."

         Mary looked away.

         "We don't have anything else."

         The little schnauzer smelled her dusty clothes cheerfully. Then pulled it's head away. Did it snort? Sneeze?

         "Come, my precious, let's go," said Anne's mother. "Your cousins are waiting."

         The noble girl looked at the duster.

         "Can I try it?"

         The peasant girl's eyes widened.

         "You want to?"

         Anne nodded. Her mother looked at her, frightened.

         "Anne! You'll dirty your clothes! Another time, okay? Come on."

         Her daughter shook her pretty head dejectedly.

         "Alright," she said. "But can I try it later, Mary?"

         Mary nodded, wordlessly. They both smiled.

         Anne, her mother and the little schnauzer hurried away. And Mary watched them, lost in her thoughts. The peasant girl, the nobles.

         Her mother stepped out of the house, and stood beside the carpet.

         "Why did you stop? Come on!"

         The dusty girl looked at her.

         "Anne and her mother were here. We talked a bit."

         The woman with the crooked back growled.

         "Arrogant rich people," she said. "Don't go near them, daughter. They're dangerous rabble."

         Her daughter spoke. Though she didn't want to. Her mother, when she was angry, could be rough. She could slap.

         "They didn't look bad to me."

         The woman's eyes flared, she shook her beater threateningly.

         "Don't talk back! They only care for themselves! Don't meet with any one of them!"

         The dusting girl nodded slowly. Unsure. Carefully.

         Her mother turned to the carpet. "Let's continue."

         The two of them swung at the wall, dust fell, ashes spread across the ground. The cloth groaned painfully. And Mary just beat it, beat it. She wanted the dust to fall, the strings to tear, the patterns to stretch and skew until nothing remained but ashes.

         She saw herself, working. Washing. Cleaning. Cooking. Sweating, rattling, coughing. Bleeding. Her back bending, hands breaking. She will be the same as the carpet. Full of holes and dusty. Old and poor.

         Her mother spoke.

         "Harder. It's not done yet."

         The girl didn't speak. Though she was angry. And dusty.

         She hated the dust.