One Another

by One Another (retail) (epub)

  Oh, my son says and falls silent.

  We all remain silent for a time. My son falls asleep in the stroller.

  Nine more days, I say. Nathanael nods. Philipp is coming home in nine days. Nathanael throws me a sidelong glance and asks, can we take what you said to Silke as a decision?

  In my mind, I’m always writing him contradictory messages. Please find somewhere to stay. / I’m looking forward to seeing you. / I’m afraid—well, that much I’d never admit. I haven’t sent any of the messages yet. I come to a stop. Oh, look at that. I think that’s an ash.

  Why do you think that? Nathanael can sound very skeptical.

  Because I looked it up in my tree book after our walk yesterday. That’s an ash tree.

  Nathanael studies it for a long time. He circles it twice. He takes hold of the trunk. He strokes the bark with his hands. He leans against it.

  It’s lovely, he says. We should take this one. What do you think? He waits until I look at him, and then winks at me.

  7

  Just poof, out of nowhere

  They say that once you get over the initial shock, things are fine again. For me, it was the opposite. The real, deep horror set in only after a few weeks, but then with such force that I didn’t know what to do other than play dead. I didn’t write a thing, not a single sentence. I listened a lot, listened inside myself, listened to the world outside, but heard nothing, not even Petrus’s voice although I thought of him often. No Come on, keep going! Nothing, not even the annoying knocking. For three whole months.

  In the meantime, summer had come. I was completely unprepared for the heat. In the constant April showers, I’d gotten used to putting on a trench coat before leaving the house. A week ago, or was it two, the heat hit me one morning, and a woman looked at me, shaking her head.

  And otherwise? Philipp came home, he swore, he begged, he was combative and hopeful. I said nothing because I didn’t know what to say.

  Love is not something you choose, dear heart, is the sentence I thought of most frequently during those three months. And the gesture I made most often was to touch my left cheek. Grandmother, heart, Philipp. Suddenly he was there.

  The way I picture it, the director had said, is that you appear back there, just poof, out of nowhere. The forestage inclined sharply downward. In the back, the stage was about two meters high. I can climb up there, I replied, but I’m sorry to say I can’t fly.

  It was our first stage rehearsal. I was part of the team working on the first production under the new management. We’d rehearsed for weeks with a mock-up of the stage set and had had to imagine the ramp. That afternoon we were breaking new ground on two fronts. The opening stage set felt foreign. The theater was completely so. Its history was as celebrated as it was uneven. The best had succeeded, all the others had failed. The theater was renowned for its terrible acoustics and an enormous seating area, the full depths of which you couldn’t sense from the stage. At that moment it was completely empty except for a few seats in the parterre occupied by the directing team. Still, stagehands, prop men, lighting technicians, and make-up artists, even a few ladies and gentlemen from the administration, the management, and the marketing department had crowded into the wings to see what the new team was up to.

  The director cut the next attempt short without giving me a glance by calling out to the stage manager: Could you send someone over here? And a stagehand hurried over in a crouch, even though the ramp was so high, he wouldn’t have been visible to the audience standing up straight. Head ducked, knees deeply bent, he headed toward me swiftly and silently. He reminded me of a cat, so that even today, I still picture a black cat creeping up to me. He knelt on one knee and gestured at me to stand on the other. He put both hands on my hips and stood up, so that I, with arms outspread, ready to embrace the world, appeared to rise weightlessly at the edge of the ramp: I floated. Fantastic, the director shouted, and there was applause from backstage and the wings, yes, even from the fly loft. Quiet please, called the director, unsettled by signs of life from a source she couldn’t see or control, and back to the script! I played the next scene hovering along the edge of the ramp to see what the stagehand was doing. He left as he had come: creeping silently in a crouch.

  While changing clothes after the rehearsal, I looked at myself in my underwear in the mirror, as if I were searching for traces of his hands on my hips. He’d grabbed me forcefully without any shyness. It was both pleasant and embarrassing, especially at the moment when he stood up and my rear end passed in front of his face and hovered above him and I had the feeling he could see right through me from below all the way up to my skull.

  Unfortunately, my levitating entrance was cut as I learned the next day at the beginning of the rehearsal. It doesn’t fit the play, the director said. What would the message be? That your character brings more than what is earthly and tangible? It’s precisely her palpability and earthiness that make her powerful and erotic. Let’s give up this hint of the supernatural and concentrate on the sensuous, right?

  I didn’t see him for days. After one rehearsal I heard the announcement: Tech please come to the stage for alterations. Alterations, please.

  The seats were dark. I slipped into a loge in the second tier and watched. He worked quickly and with great concentration; now and then he paused and made jokes I couldn’t catch. I heard him laugh with his colleagues.

  A few days later, he came up to me in the cafeteria.

  Excuse me, would you happen to have a cigarette?

  No, sorry.

  Then it’s all good.

  Good?

  I only smoke when I’m embarrassed.

  I had to laugh.

  Can I introduce myself: Philipp. My friends call me Philipp.

  Hello, Philipp.

  My enemies, too, by the way.

  Ah, yes.

  At home, they also said Philipp, earlier.

  How about that.

  And I never got myself a nickname. And I didn’t do any military service, so just call me Philipp.

  I will.

  Where’s your dog?

  My dog?

  I’ve seen you with a black dog a couple of times.

  He’s, that is, she’s a girl, I said. At the moment, she’s ... with my boyfriend would have been the right answer, but I said: on vacation.

  On vacation, he repeated.

  On vacation, I repeated. I’ve got to go.

  Thanks for not giving me any cigarettes, he called after me.

  Philipp has taken the children to his mother’s for vacation. She has just finished her first phase of chemotherapy. She’s as bald as Buddha, not fat at all, though, of course not, she hasn’t had any appetite for months and can’t force herself to eat. She prefers wearing orange. It’s full of life, she says, I like this color best. After she was diagnosed with breast cancer in the spring, she had an operation, then several rounds of chemotherapy, and finally radiation daily for several weeks. Every child needs a summer vacation, she says, and we even have a salt-water open-air swimming pool here, it’s like being on the seashore. The children swallow the salt water and take turns getting a fever. The children are homesick. Philipp calls and asks: Who wants to talk to Mama? The big little one talks about a crocodile in his bed. The little little one says: Mama, Grandma, ice cream. Philipp takes the phone from him and tells me that he was standing at her door, ringing the bell. When she didn’t answer, the big little one got completely worked up and Philipp had thought she’d “fallen asleep.” He added: You know what I mean.

  The dog is stretched out under my desk. She has a white face and is sleeping, her mouth open slightly. Her tongue dangles out lifelessly. She twitches, I breathed a sigh of relief. This summer, for the first time, I had her sheared like a sheep. She accepted it without reacting. Her wool fell thickly from both sides, and she climbed from the waves as if peeled, then bounded away, looking years younger. How sweet, people say when I walk her around the block, the same people who’d never paid u
s any attention. What kind of dog is that? they ask. It looks like a fox, they say. Yes, I answer, it’s a black fox. They look at me, astonished, and I say: half. But foxes are red, Mama, everyone knows that, the big little one says on the phone when I tell him about it.

  I sat in the darkened loge again and again. What I liked most was watching a set-change I was already familiar with. From Othello to Mephisto, for example. There were surprisingly many ways to change the stage set from one play to another. After a while, I knew everyone in the crew in silhouette and it wasn’t lost on me that every shift was composed differently. If Philipp wasn’t there, I left immediately. If he was there, I watched every movement of his hands, every one of his glances, the way he moved, his steps upstage and down. He was nimble, agile, and always moved unexpectedly. A black cat. I watched him, followed his every move, tried to predict his next step, got it wrong, guessed again, still wrong. I noted who he stood next to and who he spoke with, who he watched especially closely or often, who he joked around with, whose shoulder or head he patted. When he was too quiet for any length of time, someone always shouted: Philipp, what’s up, everything OK? He’d crack a joke and everyone would laugh. For a few days, he seemed worn out. Sick or unhappy? That was the question I couldn’t answer by looking at him. He seemed listless, lethargic, seemed to creep rather than walk, and didn’t speak to anyone. It lasted only a few days, then it was over, and afterward seemed unreal, even hard to imagine.

  He says the seven-year itch is over. Three days before he left with the children, it was our anniversary. I didn’t get back from a meeting until late. My flight was delayed. I sat around in the Basel Mulhouse airport, the EuroAirport, for four hours. I couldn’t even read. I was annoyed. I kept asking myself why on earth I’d agreed to go to the meeting, which was, of course, as always, so important it was absolutely impossible to reschedule. Go ahead, Philipp had said. It’s enough if you’re home in the evening. When I called to tell him about the delay, he said: Maybe you won’t be that late after all; try to think positively for once at least. I’ll have the babysitter come in any case. As we approached for landing, I wanted to rip off my seatbelt, jump up, run to the door, kick it down, and jump out of the plane. After we landed, I could barely get out of my seat. I slunk to the exit, through the gangway, the terminal, the arrivals hall. I wanted to take a taxi, but that wouldn’t have brought the evening back either. So I sat in the train, changed twice, and walked the last bit. The tears welled up as I climbed the stairs. By the time I put my key in the lock, it was after eleven. I’m sorry, I said. He kissed away a tear. Come on, everything’s fine.

  The nicest thing about the loge was the plush upholstered chair, which I could place as needed to watch Philipp on whichever part of the stage he was working. I took off my shoes and rested my legs on the railing and occasionally fell asleep by the end of the set change. Once the caretaker came to check the light bulbs. He was startled when I said: Don’t be startled. I’m going to have to report this, he teased. I didn’t sit there again.

  I avoided Philipp. If I saw him at the entrance, I’d wait until he was gone. If he was sitting in the cafeteria, I’d turn on my heel. If he was heading my way in the labyrinth of passages below stage, I’d swerve away. Once, he appeared so suddenly right in front of me, I couldn’t escape. He said: My sister read your book. I didn’t dare ask what she thought of it. I said: It’s my first book. I know, he answered. And repeated: My sister read it. And that was a lie, it now occurs to me, that we never spoke about. Now it’s too late. He’d deny it all, as usual.

  In May, summer abruptly followed a cool, windy spring. One of our productions was invited to Vienna. I left my dog with Jakob in Bonn, as I always did when I couldn’t take care of her myself, drove back to Hamburg, and missed my flight. On arriving in Vienna I went straight to the theater. Philipp stood in front of me at the stage entrance.

  Did you have a nice trip?

  I can’t say that. I missed my flight.

  I know, it caused a big commotion, but now you’re here, so relax.

  Who was so worked up?

  Everyone! The people in Hamburg, those in Vienna, the director, the dramaturge, the theater management, everyone.

  I had no idea you were here, too.

  Well, I am. Come, they’re waiting for you.

  He moved silently, agile, lithe, a black cat. It, no, he led me through countless doors and hallways, left, left again, right, down several flights of stairs, back up and straight ahead, until he stopped in front of an iron door.

  Good luck.

  I could use it.

  I’ll keep watch.

  For what?

  To make sure nothing happens.

  After the Vienna premiere there was a party, fittingly, after which the last ones to leave went to a bar, as they always do, and at some point afterward I ended up in a taxi with him.

  When we appeared at breakfast, someone asked in a concerned tone: Did something happen to you?

  Yes, Philipp replied.

  You two look like you were in an accident.

  We were, Philipp said, we ran into a couple of angels.

  We spent four more days in Vienna, played four more shows in the evenings, stayed up four more nights alternately in his hotel room or in mine. Then it was time for my flight home. Philipp had to stay for two more days to break down the set. I suffered through violent and protracted pains in my side that I attributed alternately to my stomach, my kidneys, and my liver.

  I miss the children. I call Philipp’s mother. What did you think? she asks, in this heat they’re in the outdoor pool. Philipp’s got nerves of steel, you know. He lets them run around, jump in the pool, dive under water, I can’t bear to watch.

  How are you doing?

  Oh I’m fine, really.

  Is the chemo tough on you?

  No, though I have to say, I am happy the little ones are here.

  Are you sure it’s not too much for you? You’ve got to take care of yourself.

  No, everything’s perfect.

  That’s his mother. She’s always doing well. There’s no problem, never has been. Every storm will pass, you know. When her husband gambled away his own restaurant business, she found herself a job and one for him, too. No problem, everyone’s got to work, she says. When alcohol destroyed his liver so badly he could no longer work, he stayed at home resting while she worked double shifts as a cook. When she found him in their oldest daughter’s bed one day, she quickly shut the door again. Their daughter left the house soon anyway, she’d had her heart set on becoming a teacher. When her husband died, she passed up the inheritance, no problem, and started all over again, moved into a small apartment with Philipp, there was less to clean that way, signed the younger daughter up for an apprenticeship in a hotel, met some men. Eventually, when none of the men stayed around, it was wonderful, she had her peace and quiet. When Philipp got into trouble at school, trouble with the authorities, trouble with the police: It will all work out, things are never as bad as they seem. When the older daughter had a breakdown and was admitted to a psychiatric clinic: That’s good, she’ll get some rest and will make her peace with the world. That’s important, you know, she says, things never stay the way they are.

  Of course she’d noticed the lump in her breast, she says, but she didn’t worry about it, that’s how it is, it will go away again. When the doctor was auscultating her lungs because of a stubborn cold, his stethoscope bumped against the tumor the size of an egg in her breast. Good lord, he said. Oh, I’ve had that for a long time, she said.

  When do you think they’ll be back from the pool?

  It’s hard to get the little ones out of the water, she replied.

  I’ll try again in the evening, I say, enjoy the peace and quiet. I open the balcony door, the dog curls up under my desk, I close the door. I check how hot it is outside online. The current weather conditions in Hamburg, I can even narrow it down to a particular neighborhood, ninety-three degrees. The dog shakes her he
ad, and I say: We’ll stay indoors. I brush the dog. It, that is, she twitches, the wire brush tickles the skin under her close shorn fur.

  Where’s your dog? he asks.

  My dog?

  Is he away on vacation again?

  What do you mean, on vacation?

  Well, he’s not here in any case, Philipp said when he finally came to my place, forty-nine hours later, straight from the airport.

  She’s in Bonn.

  What’s in Bonn?

  My boyfriend.

  Silence.

  And what do we do now?

  I’ll call Bonn now.

  Good, I’ll go out, I’ll ... go have a beer in the place on the corner.

  Jakob, who learned right then that he was my ex-boyfriend, kept the dog. She’s staying here, he said. When you’ve worked through whatever this is, get in touch. He hung up.

  I called him again but got the answering machine. She’s not a bargaining chip, I said and hung up before starting to cry.

  But that’s exactly what she was, as he assured me the following day. He refused to hand her over. I would see her again only after I dropped that idiot and came back to him.

  The next day—we’d been a couple for a week—we decided to get married. All my life, I’d ruled out marriage for me. If I remember correctly, I said to Philipp: You know, we could get married. And he replied: Good idea. A few hours later, I said: That was a stupid idea. And he replied: I don’t think it is. We drove to the civil registry office the next morning. We’d expected to walk out as husband and wife, but it doesn’t work that quickly, the official lectured us, and that’s a good thing. We could register with her office to get married but would only get an appointed date and time once my native parish had issued a Certificate of No Impediment, and that, she estimated, would take a month.

  She was right to the day. So we had four weeks to order wedding rings and get to know each other a bit.

  Just so I know—after all, I’m about to take your name—were your ancestors Nazis? I asked early in the third week.