An extract from On a Woman's Madness by Astrid Roemer, translated by Lucy Scott

My marriage lasted exactly nine days, making waves in our tiny riverine country and setting me adrift for the rest of my life. 

It started with my extended family, when I knocked on my parents’ door that ninth night to wake them. 

It was raining, heavy and over bearing, and as the roof of our home was fairly flat, the sound of my knuckles rapping on the wood didn’t travel in side: it was, instead, immersed in the beat of the falling rainwater. Dead silence filled the house. 

My hands hurt, more than my head and my stomach, and I was soaked through. And scared, not only of the ominous graveyard nearby that the lightning transformed into an even more nightmarish setting, but also of the city’s overall bleakness when asleep – this city that let itself be vanquished by water. Scared of my mother and father’s house, which was refusing to let me inside on my flight to the odors of talcum powder and brass polish, tobacco and old newspapers, which would get rid of the smell of blood hanging around me. 

I didn’t merely knock again but pounded hard on the door and shouted. As if laughing at me, the water and the wind carried the sound of my pleas back to my ears. 

Pain! Pain! 

Behind me loomed The Other Side. 

Irritated but relieved, I stood, moments later, in the dimly lit kitchen, wondering how long it had been since I’d climbed inside through the swollen window that didn’t fully shut, but the memory faded suddenly against the urge to burrow into my mother, as quickly as I could, as deeply as I could. Warmed by this prospect, I hungrily sought my parents’ room. Solemnly, I laid my hand on the marble door knob, turned, pushed. 

Years later, I’d understand: through that door I passed the threshold into pain. 

When I was young, they said I was a beautiful child. Moi misi, they’d exclaim, those women in their pleated skirts, hugging me so close that my head rested on their bellies. Some of them smelled of fresh fish, but sometimes a putrid smell of rot wafted up my nose. I’d groan and pry myself free. 

Apples. Nothing but apples, light pink with white bottoms that did no more than quench your thirst unless dipped in salt; deep red apples that brought to mind the angry pouts of old dis gruntled aunties but tasted all the sweeter; and colorless ones so delicious that lines of black ants made an endless journey from their nests to the high branches, forcing their way into the cracks. 

The apples turned ripe all at once. Each morning, they lay in the dark backyard by the hundreds, and they kept falling, the whole day through. 

It was mid-May… 

The usual pale blue of the sky was marred daily by shapeless rainclouds that pushed in from the east. Then something in the greenery shook, the wind grew damp, and in no time, there was nothing but water. And apples. Among the shimmering leaves, they hung quivering in tight clusters, those that didn’t fall and burst like firecrackers. 

I was staying at Peetje’s, loaned out by my mother to help alleviate the apple crisis. All day I did nothing but collect apples, rinse away any ants and mud, and heap them in a fairytale pile. An impressive pastime for a six-year-old crazy about anything sweet and colorful. 

Emely, Peetje’s only child, stood in the kitchen stirring an assortment of pots with wooden spoons. 

After a couple of days, she had such a collection of filled jars that even the best-stocked Chinese shop couldn’t compare. I helped take the jars to Uncle Dolfi, who, under a metal leanto, traded in practically everything ordinary people needed in small quantities. He built two extra shelves and stocked them full of apple jam, apple compote, apple cider vine gar…apple this, apple that. 

I got the greatest sense of satisfaction, however, from announcing the customers with their rusted pennies to Peetje, earning myself toys, candy, and colorful shards of broken glass from them for the work. 

Still, I never gave even one apple away in secret. Instead, I helped make Peetje’s purse heavier. Tired from collecting apples, I’d fall asleep in her arms before dusk. 

One night, I woke up when the rain stopped abruptly, leaving a gasping silence. I noticed I was lying on the floor and not in bed. Confused, I stood. Somewhere, a light was on. In the half-dark, I felt my way down stairs to the living room, the kitchen, Peet e’s bed room. Digging my fingers into my pajamas, I was going to the bath room to pee on the cold cement when the door flew open and Emely dashed in. 

It all happened so fast: no lights, me in her cold arms, the shiver of a hostile odor that stitched itself into me like an ugly scar. 

Ssshhh, quiet, hush now,  I was tucked in. That night was the first time I wet the bed. 

Black vultures were circling around the house. On the roof, on the edge of the well, balancing on the fence. Their broad black wings plastered to their bodies, heads drawn back, eyes probing, ravenous. I was sitting on the steps by the back door, aiming yet another half-eaten apple at the garbage can. Although the sun had been giving off its warmth since early morning, the air around the houses was still damp and heavy. My cold feet made me long for home. It was wet all around me and cold. A vulture came toward me and, without much interest, pecked at an apple. 

“Shoo,” yelled Peetje, who’d just come back from the market and was surprised to see the strange visitors. “What are they doing?” 

“I don’t know,” I replied, staring as more birds gathered. Fascinated, Peetje scurried inside and followed the black invasion from behind the shutters of the bay window in the kitchen. I found the birds funny and frightening at the same time; I had never seen them before. It suddenly occurred to me that they were looking for something. But what? 

Peetje was looking too, sniffing and sniffing, deeply furrowing her brow and sighing. 

Hours seemed to go by. As if by instinct, the birds suddenly stirred. Cut throat, they pounced, alighting among some wild malanga shrubs near the toi et and grabbing some hing with their talons. A bundle rolled out: tattered clothes, sheets. Peetje lost all self-control, ran into the yard, and swatted the beasts aside with a stick, away from the bundle laid out in front of her like an open secret. She bent down, prodded it with the stick. Close by, I watched along with the vultures. A hysterical cry, fluttering wings, a familiar odor, incoherent memories: two long, long arms picked up the bloody sheets and dashed into the house. 

“Go fetch Emely from Uncle Dolfi’s, hurry, go,” a mouth gasps, and windows slam shut. The black vultures stare at me raven usly from the malanga bushes. The bundle stinks. I yearn for my mother. 

It might have been the rain, the smell of blood, or something unknown that filled that night and carried me beyond the reach of fear and pain. I imagined Peetje, body laid out for her funeral, face like dried clay, riddled with cracks. 

“She’s gone,” they say cryptically whenever I pout and ask where she is, because May rains are flooding the earth, and there are apples to sell lying everywhere. “Gone!” 

“Where to?” I demand. My mother, sniffling, draws my face to hers: “Peetje won’t be coming over to our house any more.” 

I wait in vain by the gate, getting one sun stroke after another. Nowhere that wide gray skirt in the wind, no vermillion tones of light captured in a wooden crate, nowhere the scent of citrus.