"This is getting unbearable," Eva thought irritably.
She simply placed the telephone receiver next to the phone on the bright red woven tablecloth and, muttering under her breath, returned from the hallway to the living room to read the day's news. She hadn't turned on the TV yet, and honestly, it wasn't worth it. The dictator decided which programs could air. She had to admit, his taste was awful.
Eva preferred buying yarn, fabric, and books. This was her light, post-work afternoon pastime.
She hadn't listened to the radio in a while either. Occasionally, when the mood struck her, she'd play light music from a vinyl record while reading or sewing.
Earlier, she had already prepared the fabric for a decorative pillow, stitched with red yarn, so that after reading the newspaper she could pass the afternoon somehow until 4:30 p.m., when she had to go to the textile cooperative. Her friend Olga worked there. New goods had arrived at the fabric section today. Olga was an influential figure in their circle of friends. Not only did she set aside fabric under the counter for acquaintances, but she also liked to chat with any employee in the departments before new shipments arrived. Olga's friends didn't have to worry that if a product became popular, they wouldn't get it after long queues.
Eva would also need to visit Olga later.
She wouldn't write her weekly letters and postcards today. However, tomorrow she would have to reply to a few former classmates and her cousin. Tonight, though, she and her husband, Márk, were going to the theater.
She just wished her husband would come home already.
Eva glanced at the clock.
"Twenty more minutes, and he should be here."
Márk worked at the editorial office of the newspaper lying unread in front of her. After work, just like Eva, Márk ate in one of the modest dining rooms. There weren't really ingredients available in the stores for home cooking anyway.
Annoyed, she opened the newspaper. On the front page was the dictator's photo, performing some insignificant "patriotic" deed, exaggerated by the editors.
She immediately turned to the third page. She was interested in youth sports achievements and cultural events. The dictator's latest "patriotic" deeds? Not so much. The first three pages of the newspaper were devoted to that.
For the past two days, some ill-mannered kids had been playing telephone pranks on her.
Yesterday, at the same hour, the phone kept ringing; whenever she picked up, she only heard clicking and buzzing from the other side.
At first, she naively thought her device was broken. She only realized on the third call from the unknown person that the phone was fine. She even checked with the exact time service. The phone worked perfectly, and the faint noise heard during conversations—usually when some bored, curious telephone operator listened in—didn't disrupt the call.
After the fifth call, she still naively assumed the problem was on the other side.
By the eighth call, Eva had decided it must be mischievous kids playing a prank. Once she realized this, she immediately took the opportunity away from them.
Today, she didn't wait for the eighth call with the clicking and buzzing.
She placed the receiver next to the device immediately after the first hint of mischief.
If they kept it up tomorrow, she would do the same—silence the line immediately—until they grew bored of the continuous busy signal.
If nothing changed by the fourth or fifth day, she would go to the telephone exchange to ask for help. After all, it could only be some naughty kids. She didn't want to involve the police right away.
If the operator helped and revealed where the calls were coming from, she would rather speak to the children's parents than involve the police.
Almost satisfied, she began reading the sports news at the wheel table, the perfect height both for reading and for afternoon sewing.
She read the sports news, then checked the cuckoo clock again.
"Fifteen more minutes."
She had just finished reading an art critique. Her husband, Márk, had written it. She heard the key finally turn in the lock.
She set down the newspaper and let her hands fall into her lap. She had almost forgotten about the telephone pranksters. Smiling, she listened to familiar sounds—the little noises as Márk changed from his street shoes into warm, gray plaid wool slippers. The umbrella clicked into its stand. Soon he would go inside to change, then they'd eat the pastry she bought at the confectionery and rest for half an hour. Of course, first he would ask if Eva wanted some pastry, then coax her into the kitchen for tea and conversation.
After the rest, Márk would continue writing his book while Eva announced it was time to get ready for the evening performance.
Márk finished fussing. The telephone receiver clicked. It was back in its place.
"Eva, you left the receiver by the phone again," Márk called into the living room.
There was nothing strange about this. In the afternoons, if people didn't want to be disturbed, they did exactly this.
Yesterday, Márk had put the receiver back in its place too. Fortunately, the telephone pranksters had given up on that tasteless amusement. After Márk came home, not a single call came through again.
Eva hoped today would be the same.
She hadn't told her husband about the telephone pranksters. Bored kids often played pranks on others too. Their parents probably worked the afternoon shift, and they amused themselves with mischief instead of studying.
No sooner had she closed the newspaper than the device rang again.
No, she wouldn't pick it up. Now she would wait for Márk. Perhaps they'd lose interest if a man answered.
She just sat there. Quietly. Waiting. Staring defiantly at the smiling image of the dictator on the newspaper's front page.