Romanian-born German writer Herta Müller took the 2009 Nobel Prize in Literature, beating longstanding favourite Amos Oz. The section Gypsies Bring Luck is an excerpt from the novel The Passport (Serpent’s Tail), translated by Martin Chalmers from the German original Der Mensch ist ein großer Fasan auf der Welt (Rotbuch-Verlag, 1986)
The kitchen cupboard is empty. Windisch’s wife bangs the doors shut. The little Gypsy girl from the next village stands barefoot in the middle of the kitchen, where the table used to stand. She puts the cooking pots into her large sack. She unties her handkerchief. She gives Windisch’s wife twenty-five lei. “I don’t have any more,” she says. The tongue of ribbon sticks out of her plait. “Give me a dress as well,” she says. “Gypsies bring luck.”
Windisch’s wife gives her Amalie’s red dress. “Now go,” she says. The little Gypsy girl points to the teapot. “The teapot too,” she says. “I’ll bring you luck.”
The milkmaid with the blue headscarf pushes the handcart with the pieces of the bed through the gate. The old bedding is tied to her back.
Windisch shows the television to the man with the small hat. He switches it on. The screen hums. The man carries the television out. He puts it on the table on the veranda. Windisch takes the banknotes from his hand.
A horse and cart from the dairy are standing in front of the house. A man and woman are standing by the white patch where the bed used to be. They look at the wardrobe and the dressing table. “The mirror is broken,” says Windisch’s wife. The milkmaid lifts up a chair and looks at the underside of the seat. Her companion taps the table top with his fingers. “The wood is sound,” says Windisch. “You can’t buy furniture like that in the shops any more.”
The room is empty. The cart with the wardrobe goes along the street. The chair legs stick up beside the wardrobe. They rattle like the wheels. The table and dressing table are on the grass outside the house. The milkmaid sits on the grass and follows the cart with her eyes.
The postwoman wraps the curtains in a newspaper. She looks at the refrigerator. “It’s been sold,” says Windisch’s wife. “The tractor man is coming to collect it this evening.”
The hens lie with their heads in the sand. Their feet have been tied together. Skinny Wilma is putting them in the wicker basket. “The cock went blind,” says Windisch’s wife. “I had to kill it.” Skinny Wilma counts the banknotes. Windisch’s wife holds her hand out for them.
The tailor has black braid on the points of his collar. He rolls up the carpet. Windisch’s wife looks at his hands. “You can’t escape fate,” she sighs.
Amalie looks at the apple tree through the window. “I don’t know,” says the tailor. “He never harmed a soul.”
Amalie feels a sob in her throat. She leans her face out of the window. She hears the shot.
Windisch is standing in the yard with the night watchman. “There’s a new miller in the village,” says the night watchman. “A Wallachian with a small hat from a water mill.”
The night watchman hangs some shirts, jackets and trousers over the carrier of the bicycle. He reaches into his pocket. “I said, it’s a present,” says Windisch. Windisch’s wife tugs at her apron. “Take them,” she says, “he’s glad to give them to you. There’s still a pile of old clothes lying around for the Gypsies.” She tugs at her cheek. “‘Gypsies bring luck,” she says.