The Visit (Inspired by the play The Visit of the Old Lady by Friedrich Dürrenmatt)

"Stop the train," she said in a cold, indifferent tone. "But ma'am, the trains never stop in Gilen," the conductor responded nervously. "Give him 500 euros," she said to her servant in the same unchanged tone. The servant, as if knowing exactly what was expected of him, handed over the money. Klara stood up, limping ever so slightly, and made her way to the exit. The conductor quietly added, "You should have pulled the brake." With a smile like the Mona Lisa but with eyes brimming with malice, she responded casually, "I never pull the brakes."

After stepping off the train and passing by what looked like a bombed-out ruin that was once the train station, she reached a hill overlooking Gilen, a small town that could be taken in with just one glance. She was finally home. After thirty years of obsessive yearning—home at last! Although she would never call it that. The truth was, Klara had been born here and lived a mischievous, carefree life until the age of fourteen with her parents. But to her, this was no longer home. It was the Abyss—that’s what she called it.

Standing motionless on the hill above the Abyss, she took a deep breath, smiling with joy like a child from Hell. She remembered everything. The forests, from which she would always return scratched, torn, and dirty. The textile factory that dumped dye into the river, turning it blood-red, which had thrilled Klara as she would run into the water, her skirt lifted, kicking her legs as droplets of "blood" flew around her fiery red hair while she laughed gleefully. She remembered all the beauties of old Gilen, and a sick happiness washed over her—not because she had returned or because of how her hometown used to look, but because of how it looked now. Over the years, Gilen had become a sad sight. But not to her. Empty factories, people in rags, trains no longer stopping. Poverty had taken the entire Abyss, and that filled her with immense joy.

As the sun burned behind her, her shadow seemed to cover the entire town, especially the center where Gilen's citizens had gathered today. The news of Klara's return had stirred them, filling them with hope. They, too, were overjoyed—not because the "prodigal daughter" had returned, but because Klara was now a billionaire. For weeks, like coyotes, they had been preparing for her arrival, scheming countless ways to welcome and please her, hoping for some financial gain in return. Today, those coyotes gathered in Klara's shadow, scurrying around like mice.

Klara descended slowly, her servant behind her leading a black panther, followed by two blind men carrying a coffin. Klara was dressed like a billion dollars, though her attire was more suited for a funeral, with a black veil through which her small eyes and an inexplicable smile could be seen. As she walked with a cane in her right hand, barely limping, the murmur of the mice grew quieter and quieter. The journey from joy to terror, it seemed, was only a few hundred meters long. By the time she reached the center of the mouse hole, everyone was silent. And so was she—smiling.

After a long, not just uncomfortable but ominous silence, a sudden sound of a train echoed, causing the citizens to jump and spring into action. Some struggled to unfurl a welcome banner, others sang intermittently a song for the occasion, while the mayor attempted to give a speech in her honor. At a single glance from Klara to her servant, he raised his hand, and they all fell silent as if their tongues had been cut out at once. Klara wasted no time and began the conversation as if it had already been underway: "Excuse me for rudely interrupting, but isn’t that building over there the public toilet my father built?" The mayor nervously confirmed, to which Klara added, "That is true art. A masterpiece!" At her statement, the citizens burst into applause, excitedly repeating after her, "Yes, yes, a true masterpiece!" Klara was pleased with their absurd courtesy and wanted to prolong it. "Thank you, Mr. Mayor, for such a wonderful welcome. Now, I’d like to greet a few of my old friends." She began calling out some of the citizens, as if conducting a roll call. First, she addressed the policeman: "Tell me, my dear, do you still know how to turn a blind eye?" "Of course, ma’am, otherwise I wouldn’t be a policeman." "Well said. I’ll ask you to turn a blind eye to both." Leaving the policeman suitably frightened, she continued to amuse herself: "Oh, Father, you're here too. Tell me, do you still care for those condemned to death?" "Oh no, ma'am, the death penalty has long been abolished." "I'm sure you’ll reinstate it," she said, leaving the priest, after which the entire crowd began to feel chills down their spines. Klara was reveling in her game of pleasure. "Doctor, I’m glad to see you’re still alive. Do you issue death certificates?" "That is my duty, ma'am," the doctor responded confidently. "Then prepare one. In the coming days, you’ll be certifying a death," she said, hugging the coffin held upright by the blind men. The citizens' knees buckled. "Finally, my dear, I didn’t expect you to be here. To be honest, I didn’t expect you anywhere, ever. I remember, darling, how frail and unpleasant you were, eyeing my Alfred." "You mean my husband Alfred?" replied the woman, truly unpleasant, with lips that looked like she had a habit of sucking on lemons and had just finished one, her eyes empty and passionless, and a body bent in a spiral that spoke only of her pettiness. "Yours!" Klara repeated, "Interesting," she added, bursting into laughter, and with her, the citizens laughed as well.

Suddenly, like lightning from a clear sky, she heard a voice that had echoed in her mind for the past thirty years. The sound of a voice that had transformed over the years from a child's to a young man's and now to this voice of a man in his prime. "Ah, Klara has always had a taste for black humor!" she heard from behind her. It was Alfred's voice.

Alfred. Truth be told,he was the real reason for her return. Now humbled, but still a strong man, his large, commanding eyes—which spoke for him without his consent—stood half-smiling, trembling, waiting for Klara to turn toward him. He seemed like a simple, satisfied man, but only Klara knew how much passion for life and love resided in him. And that doesn’t fade with age—perhaps it’s only forgotten. Alfred was endowed with the intelligence of a practical man, but as Klara liked to say, "If you possess above-average intelligence but don’t use it, it’s the same as being stupid." Thus, this intelligent man had made many mistakes in life. He had forgotten to consider the consequences, failed to prioritize… But the price for his poor calculations, though calculations he knew, was paid by Klara. And now, while the two stood a few meters apart, with him eagerly awaiting her gaze, she did not turn. She simply announced to the citizens that the welcome was over, adding, "I want to take a walk alone with Alfred, through the places where we made love. Take the coffin to the hotel."

Without a word, they went to the forest of their youth. Only there did Alfred dare to speak first, whispering, "My Enchantress…" Klara responded with a tone that left no room for emotion, "Yes. And you were my Black Panther." As they walked, they reminisced about the places where they had made love: on moss, mushrooms, in the stream, on a bench... All the while, Alfred tried to draw Klara into emotional closeness, but she spoke of their love as if it were a meal she had just finished. He used all the clichés. "You haven't aged."/ "I've lost a leg."/ "I married another for your sake!"/ "You married her grocer."/ "I’m unhappy with her."/ "There’s time."/ "I never left Gilen; you’ve seen the whole world."/ "I didn’t see it, Alfred. I conquered it."/ At one point, he managed to take her hand and kiss her palm: "The same white, gentle hand," he said. "You’re mistaken, dear, that's a prosthesis." She told him about the train derailment, the plane crash, and other accidents, adding, "Everyone died, but I, Alfred, I don't give up my skin easily." She boasted about how all seven of her husbands had cared for her like a treasure, giving her all their wealth. How their obsession with her untamable red curls had made her a billionaire. And right there, as if cursed, Alfred again made a mistake. He asked for money for the town—for the factories, the railway, the banks—proving he was still the same thoughtless man she had once loved so much she would have killed for. The truth was, Alfred had always loved with all his heart and passion, but… priorities. Klara let out a malevolent laugh and said, "Of course, I’ll help you." Alfred’s eyes, too deaf to notice the malice, heard only her words. She added, "See you tonight at the gala in my honor." and left. He whispered to himself, "My Enchantress."

The gala dinner in Klara’s honor was organized at a run-down hotel, in a traditional way: "how to make a pie out of mud." Everyone awaited Klara’s arrival with unease, whispering about the coffin, the black panther, the blind men, and Klara’s funeral attire. But when the blind men opened the doors, revealing Klara standing there in diamond-encrusted shoes, in a white bear fur coat, with a crown and jewelry worth more than the town of Gilen, everyone fell silent. For the first time, they saw her uncovered face. She was an extraordinarily ugly woman, her face ravaged by the rot of inner evil, something no makeup could conceal—and she didn’t even try.

Seeing the perfect opportunity to avoid any false praise in her honor, Klara immediately got to business: "My dear fellow citizens," she began as she approached them, "in order to contribute to your happiness, I hereby declare that I’m ready to gift Gilen two billion. One for the town, and one to be divided among every family." The citizens jumped up, some onto tables and chairs, others falling off them, hitting the ground in excitement, shouting her name. Her servant raised his hand, and Klara continued, "Under one condition." The citizens stared, not blinking. "I want to buy justice. I’ll give Gilen two billion if someone kills Alfred."

The citizens once again leaped onto tables, chairs, and the ground, but this time in protest. Her servant raised his hand. "I haven’t forgotten anything. Not love, nor betrayal. Alfred, you chose your life, and you forced mine upon me. And here we are now—you are withered, and I am mutilated by the surgeon's knife. Everything can be bought. I’m buying justice for two billion."

And then she slowly reminded them of the past.

Exactly thirty years ago, when Klara was fourteen, Alfred married, but Klara was pregnant. Her servant than had been the judge, and the blind men were the witnesses who testified, falsely claiming that Klara had slept with them, bribed by Alfred with a bottle of brandy to deny his paternity. Klara was exiled from Gilen, her child died, and she became a prostitute, forced by that same court ruling. After marrying a billionaire, she found the blind men and gouged out their eyes, castrated the judge, and now sought justice.

"In the name of the citizens of Gilen," the mayor spoke up, "and in the name of humanity, we reject your offer. Better to remain poor than to stain our hands with blood!" Klara laughed again, now visibly malevolent, and ended the evening with the words, "I’ll wait."

The next morning, Klara resumed her trivial habits. She listened to classical music, savored delicacies, and changed her prosthetic legs in full view of the citizens. She was in no hurry. She had chosen a room with a balcony that had a direct view of Alfred’s grocery shop and the town square so she could enjoy watching the masks fall from the citizens’ faces and witness Alfred’s torment.

It didn’t take more than two or three days before the citizens began flocking to Alfred, ordering groceries like never before. Full-fat milk by the gallon, Belgian chocolates, quality whiskey and champagne, cigarettes, even expensive clothes to hide their pettiness. At that time, yellow shoes were the most popular fashion trend in the world, and Alfred was being swamped with orders for them. Soon, the entire town was walking around with yellow shoes. Everyone was buying on credit, and Alfred was terrified—how were they going to pay? Soon, paranoia took over, and you know what they say: "Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not after you." The citizens even began ordering funeral wreaths, which for Alfred was the last straw.

First, trembling, he ran to the policeman, demanding Klara be arrested, to which the policeman responded that they could only arrest her if she personally really killed him. At that moment, Alfred noticed the policeman was wearing yellow shoes, and his trembling worsened. Unaware of his condition, the policeman warned Alfred to go home, as there was danger in town—the black panther had escaped, and they had to kill it.

Of course, the panther hadn’t escaped. Klara had brought it precisely to instill fear in her "Black Panther," forcing him to anticipate his own death.

In a panic, Alfred ran to the mayor with the same demand but was met not with help, but condemnation. The mayor accused Alfred of perjury, pushing Klara into poverty, and said that morally, he had no right to complain. Alfred listened in shock, but his anxiety only grew when he saw yet another pair of yellow shoes on the mayor. His heart raced, his hands shook, and he sweated profusely. In a final attempt, Alfred went to the priest for help. The priest coldly told him that the source of our sins lies within ourselves and that Alfred must accept his guilt in order for the fear to leave him. Then, the priest grabbed a rifle and left to hunt the panther—also wearing yellow shoes.

Through blurry thoughts, Alfred realized that the only place he might be safe was with Klara. He ran to her, even ready to kill her, but froze when he saw her. She, delighted by his arrival, played a record of the Funeral March. At first, Alfred begged her to stop, to say it was all a joke. Suddenly, a gunshot rang out, to which Klara casually remarked that she hopes his wife had shot her poor panther between the eyes, so it wouldn’t suffer long. This provoked Alfred, who lunged at her, grabbing her throat with both hands. Through clenched teeth, Klara hissed, "What are we, Alfred?" He let go and replied, "Alone." "Yes, and loneliness is like death. I, Alfred, am a graveyard that even the moon fears. But go ahead, try to kill me!"

"I’m not a murderer," Alfred said, broken.

"Ah, my dear, of course you are. You killed me exactly thirty years ago."

Alfred returned to his home, packing a few things in a suitcase, and attempted to flee—anywhere. But soon, he ran into the mayor, the policeman, and the priest, who greeted him with horrifying kindness: "Where are you going?" "Why didn’t you say goodbye?" "Can we escort you?" "There’s no need to fear. “No one is going to kill you." "Are you feeling well?" "Why are you yelling and distrusting us?" "Is it just your imagination that we’re gathering around you?" "The hell is within you." Alfred fainted.

He awoke, tied to a chair in the center of Gilen. The "leaders" sat at a table, while Klara stood in the middle, laughing hysterically. Alfred’s wife wore a white bear fur coat, his son leaned against his new convertible, and his daughter stood beside Klara. The mayor asked the citizens if anyone genuinely wanted to pursue justice, raising their hands, and they all did so effortlessly like accepting a cup of coffee. The mayor turned to Alfred and asked if he respected their decision. He nodded easily as them.

At that moment, Klara’s laughter turned into fury. "Oh no," Klara said. "No! You are murderers! Here’s your money, but you will not enjoy your wealth, you wretches. You’ve already squandered it all at the grocery store. As for the remaining billion for the town, you can’t invest it in your factories, your forests, your roads, or your homes. I’m sorry you’re only learning this now, but everything already belongs to me. I’ve bought it all—Gilen belongs to me, and I dictate the terms. You got the money, but you will not kill Alfred. Not because I no longer wish it—he had a lovely tomb waiting for him with an ocean view—but because I want to punish all of you. You unanimously agreed to kill him for money, and I will be happier knowing that every day, you pass by the man who reminds you of just how pitiful, desperate, and rotten you are!"

"And you, my dear," she said, turning to Alfred, "you’re not worthy of such an easy sentence or death. You might even become some sort of hero. No, live. Live! Live with your beloved in her white bear fur coat, live with your friends who you now know would sell you for a good cigarette."

Klara quietly added, "You are the real hell."

And as her servant opened the door to the limousine, she placed her hand on Alfred’s daughter’s shoulder and, without turning back or pausing, got into the car, never to return again.