conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'The Appointment'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Appointment
  I had decided to stay home. I couldn't go to Mulberry Street without visiting Lilli's grave and looking for the shoemaker's. And that could have taken some time. I didn't like visiting Lilli's grave. If it had been just the two of us I could have handled it—but not those red flowers too, right there on her grave. My father-in-law had called them haemanthus. At the market they were called blood lilies. For me, they were the flowers of flesh. Red stems, leaves, blooms, each plant to its very tips was a handful of ragged flesh. Lilli was feeding them, and I would stand at the foot of the grave and put my finger in my mouth to keep my teeth from chattering. After Paul's accident, nothing could induce me to visit any grave on earth. And what was more, I still wanted to keep the Java, even if it was no longer roadworthy.
  Our love had come full circle. We had first met at the flea market, and the motorbike had been there. Paul hadn't been to the flea market since; now he was going there to sell his Java. Paul said:
  Whether or not that was true, I wanted to keep it in the apartment because it was the accident that was nasty, not the Java. And just as nasty as that was the image of Paul sitting there in the dust of the flea market, every bit as battered and bruised as his bike. I said:
  What did turn up again was the old man with the marbled legs. Spic-and-span in his Sunday best, with a breezy straw hat and a silk tie. And Paul sold him the Java and decided that the old man couldn't have been from the secret police, otherwise he wouldn't have offered more than anybody else. I'm not so sure. Late that evening Paul came home from the flea market drunk. He got some sausage out of the fridge and bread from the cupboard. Every time he picked up a piece to eat, he asked:
  If I'm arrested anytime soon... or if you're... His chewed-up food dragged the words down into his throat. After eating, he put the cutlery in the sink and the bread in the drawer and wiped the crumbs from the table:
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The red coffee can was sparkling too much, the sun was making it giddy, the tin must be the one that's daydreaming instead of me.
  But inside I had accepted, as if I had no choice. When he uncovered my eyes, a woman was shaking out two white pillows in the window across the way, and I said:
  I had my doubts. And the very next moment I took four heaping spoonfuls of coffee from the tin and put them in the pot, and Paul said:
  It was a beautiful word to say, because it couldn't be bad. Paul put a jar of apricot marmalade on the table and cut far too many slices of bread.
  In the mornings I usually grab something to eat as I'm heading out the door, so that I can get something in my stomach without actually sitting down to a real breakfast. But this time I remained seated. I told him about my father and the small door of skin, and about the melon and the peach. I left out the woman with the braid. Nor did I mention the fact that the red coffee tin reflected the dream. Nor that I was wary of the tin just as I would be of a stranger. With people to whom I take an immediate dislike, the wariness soon wears off unless I talk about it, that's how it was with Nelu when I started work at the factory. But the reason I'm shy of objects is because I like them. I transfer the thoughts that are against me onto them. Then these thoughts go away, unless I talk about them—just like my wariness of people. Maybe it all collects in your hair.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last four paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: If I do decide to go back to the tower block, I'll put on the blouse that waits and sit in the kitchen. Whenever someone gets out of the elevator, the doors clatter like stones one floor up and one below. And on our floor they sound like iron. When I hear iron, I'll go out into the stairwell. Today Albu will come. The first time I was summoned, he showed me his identity card. I got stuck on his photo instead of reading what somebody who squeezes your fingers when he kisses your hand is called by his mother, his wife. There must have been two or three given names, too late, the identity card had been put away. If Albu thinks I ought to disappear, I will tell him the truth:
  My grandfather painted the horse outside his house, I've been waiting for you here outside the apartment.
  And I'll say the same thing when Paul gets out of the elevator, so that he won't have to start lying right away, until I ask:
  The red Java is glistening with a fresh coat of paint. Quite by accident, just out of boredom, the old man glances at the bush and bends down to Paul's ear. Now Paul stands up and sees me. Why is he buttoning up his shirt.