I dismount at the main station, wheel my bike across the station square and look in every direction, but the penguin is nowhere to be seen. Hurry up, I hear him say, your train leaves in five minutes! My hands tremble. It has never taken me so long to lock up my bike and put my dog on a leash. I run through hall and scan the display panel. I check my watch. In three minutes an Intercity Express leaves for Zurich on track fourteen. Zurich? Are you serious?
And then the penguin repeats the question, like Petrus always did: Am I serious? Dead serious!
The train departs. My dog stands on her hind legs and stretches her head to see out the window. Don’t ask me where or why. I stroke her head and then realize that for the next eight hours there will be no opportunity for her to void herself. To relieve herself. To go out. To go “outsies” as they say in Austria, my dog is a native Austrian.
Can you wait that long?
She doesn’t answer. She lies down. I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I smell chlorine.
In the mild gray winter a good twenty years ago, Simon, Petrus, and I were in a love triangle. Although we insisted, outwardly and inwardly, that we were a couple with a friend in common.
Despite the warm, drizzly weather, we were freezing all the time. During the day, when Petrus and I were home reading or studying, we would meet in the kitchen every hour, turn on the oven, which was much more effective than the ancient heater, open the door and hop around in the warm, damp air, telling each other about what we’d just been working on. Then we each returned to our own room and kept working until we felt cold again. There was hardly any snow in the lowlands that year. Over New Year’s Eve, Petrus and I were in the mountains, in his friend-from-university’s parents’ house. There the snow soon reached head height, but Zurich stayed gray. Simon saw in the new year alone in his apartment, drawing. After New Year’s Day, the heating failed and there was no hot water. Simon informed his landlord, a friendly man in his early nineties, who was so hard of hearing it took Simon five tries to make the landlord understand which of his houses he meant. Simon put on the three sweaters he owned, one on top of the other, and decided to shower at the public swimming pool for the time being. We offered him our bathroom, but he said he wouldn’t be comfortable. He often slept in our bed, but the idea of showering at our place made him uncomfortable. Come on. We laughed. But Simon could not be talked out of showering at the pool. Still, he did agree to take us with him. Petrus swam three kilometers freestyle every few days anyway and I, an occasional and sedate breaststroker, hoped for an opportunity to finally improve my technique. I watched the suntanned lifeguard’s dry-land swimming motions carefully. At some point, without interrupting his conversation with his student or even looking at us, he took our money, handed us three keys on wristbands, and pushed a red button. With a slight push, the turnstile spun. On the other side, paths diverged. Simon and Petrus turned left to the men’s changing room. In my clattering pumps, I headed straight for the pictogram with a dress.
Every few nights, Simon slept at our place. The three of us lay in my big bed. At first Simon had slept in Petrus’s narrow bed, then came to us one night, sat perched on the side of the bed, and waited in the dark until we woke up.
The bed over there is too soft, my back hurts.
Be quiet and lie down, Petrus replied, rolled to the middle of the bed and fell back asleep. I didn’t say anything but watched Simon stretch out on our bed. He stared at the ceiling, I stared at him. Petrus lay between us, snoring softly.
A name flits through my mind: Roswitha! That was his sweet’s name. She also slept in our bed. She was always present.
Simon was a loner, but never alone. On him, very discreetly, lived Roswitha: a spotted, gray, fancy rat with a pink snout, pink ears, and pink paws that he called my sweet. Wherever he went, she would go, too. He was her host, he said. That’s why Roswitha was certainly not a pet, but an essential animal. Obviously, Roswitha came to the swimming pool with us, where, even though she was a good swimmer, she was always kept in a locker. The reason had little to do with Simon’s consideration for his fellow swimmers, as we first thought. No, he was worried about Roswitha, worried about her sensitivity to chlorine. He didn’t want to run any risks.
Simon—the word rat may well evoke unsuitable images—was not a punk or a bum. Nor was he a nut-job, or even an animal rights activist. He had taken the rat Roswitha in after an old school friend had died a few months earlier from a heroin overdose that may or may not have been intentional. Simon and Petrus often spoke of this Robert. The most talented of us all, Simon said and Petrus replied: Yes, without a doubt, but that never interested him in the slightest.
When Robert was still alive, Simon was Roswitha’s godfather. He did it as a favor to his friend, even though he thought this was ridiculous. Three things, that’s all, Robert had demanded: You have to celebrate her birthday with her once a year, get her a proper Christmas present, and if anything happens to me, you’ll have her around your neck. In Roswitha’s case, that was meant literally. Simon had given his word, he had no choice. She didn’t seem to mind. In one furious leap, she threw herself at his chest, circled once, and made herself comfortable on the nape of his neck. For all time, it seemed.
I have to call Philipp. I have to tell Philipp I’m going to Zurich! Who’s going to pick up the children. My mobile phone has no reception. Outside, the flat countryside flows into an endless, brownish gray, smeary stripe. On the ass. You can kiss mine, all of you. I’ll take care of it—nothing there! I won’t take care of anything, not of anything or anyone, whether you ask me for money, love, understanding, trust, or concern: Forget it! There’s no more care to be had, so long. Zurich, here I come!
The conductor opens the compartment door and asks for my ticket. I don’t have one.
Where are you headed?
Zurich.
Beautiful city.
I don’t say anything.
No need to look at me like that, I’ve never been there, he says. He pulls out his electronic device. So then, one adult, one dog.
Couldn’t you overlook the dog?
Our floors haven’t been as black as your dog for a long time. So then. On international stretches you pay the children second-class rate for the dog. He calculates. It takes a while. That’s two-hundred-sixty euros eighty-five. Please.
Two-sixty eighty-five? I only want to go to Zurich, that’s all! One way!
Yes, that will be two-sixty eighty-five.
For a few minutes all I can think is: Why did I get on this train?
The penguin speaks up. That’s enough. Lean back and relax. Close your eyes.
I open my eyes wide. Where are you?
Where am I? Here, he says, I’m right here. Shhhh.
The winter his heating failed, Simon had been commissioned by an insurance company to create an amusing bird mascot for their advertising. He was a doctoral student in physics, but earned money as a draftsman. The marketing department of the insurance company called him several times and demanded he submit his sketches.
There are no sketches, Simon admitted to us in his bass voice one evening as we were setting the table. It’s a penguin, I don’t know any more than that. No idea what it’ll look like. He uncorked the wine with a grimace.
Why a penguin of all birds? I asked. Simon sniffed at the cork, glanced up briefly, slightly irritated, and answered in a sepulchral voice: They walk upright and can’t fly. They are the humans among birds. Their vertical aspiration appeals to us. Simon reached into the neck of his sweater, cork in hand. He rummaged around at chest height for a while, then his hand reappeared—without the cork. My pleasure, my sweet, he murmured.
You should come up with a name for the penguin, I suggested, maybe then it will take shape. Petrus had nothing but mockery for my suggestions. Wonderful, the penguin follows his creator’s call! But Simon was completely serious and his voice dropped another half an octave: I already have a name.
I can’t wait to hear this, Petrus scoff
ed. An animal tautogram, perhaps? Like Roswitha the rat!—How about Pius the Penguin! Pee-pee!
Simon smiled. Not bad, but his name isn’t Pius, it’s Petrus.
Forget about it, Petrus said.
No, I won’t. Don’t you walk upright?
Yes.
Can you fly?
Yes.
Puzzled, we look at Petrus, then we reached for our wine glasses, laughed, and drank.
The fact that man cannot fly distressed Petrus as much as it fascinated him. The stubborn, burning desire on the one hand, the awareness of futility on the other. Petrus said: Human creativity can imagine but cannot transform. Only someone whose powers, whose skill, whose capacities far exceed the human can turn man into a creature that can fly, and we call that someone God. As long as man dreams of flight, there is a god. And Petrus’s voice seemed to brighten when he added: Keep an eye out for him, don’t expect him to die anytime soon. I even believe he is immortal! And Simon, who had been listening to him with a smile, rose on to his tiptoes, reached for Petrus’s head with both hands, drew it down, and kissed him solemnly on the forehead. You are the best, he said.
That was all long ago. I wanted to visit Simon when I was in Zurich for work, but he wouldn’t let me in.
Go away, he said through the intercom, leave.
Simon, what’s wrong.
Just leave, he repeated, that’s something you’re good at.
I lean my forehead against the cold, streaky window and look outside. Winter will soon be here. What a rotten, dreary fall it has been! Colorful leaves only fell from the copper beech, and had already turned red in spring, but they’d been swept away long ago. What’s ahead of me? There are days when I see possible creditors everywhere. In every phone call, every passerby, every fleeting glance, every neighbor, every friend. And now? I’d like to have my own apartment. My own mailbox. No one else’s mail, no one else’s problems, no one else’s debts anymore. And my own new neighbors. My own apartment? Thinking about that is a waste of time. We share all our expenses, always have. With two households, they’d skyrocket. Philipp’s salary is just enough to cover his half and a debt repayment plan. If I pulled out, he would never be able to climb down from his pile of debts.
My dog whines. What’s the matter? She shuffles and dances and leans against the compartment door. Do you have to go? Don’t joke around! We have five more hours on the train! She whimpers.
Stop, I say. That’s enough, stop! I turn back to the window.
She lies down with a sigh. She curls into a ball and closes her eyes.
I sigh, too. Close my eyes and press a kiss onto the glass.
They don’t seem to your taste.
Yes they are. I just have to get used to them again.
I dial Philipp’s number. As I count the rings, I see the penguin fly by window. I’ll be right back, it says.
Philipp surprises me again and again. When he hears I’m in a train to Zurich, he’s happy. He’d like to travel now too, he says, and Zurich is always beautiful. He’ll pick up the kids from nursery school, no problem. He’s looking forward to a boys’ night with his two sons. He asks if I wanted to visit my brother in Zurich.
Yes.
Then give him my best.
I will.
And get some rest.
I’ll try.
And don’t forget me.
I won’t.
I wish I could open the window. Even in an emergency, it wouldn’t be possible. This kind of high-speed train, with its sleek abbreviation of its ponderous name, is about as old as my memory, in fact, I believe I remember it first ran on exactly this route from Hamburg to Zurich in early 1992, that is, in the very same drizzly winter during which I shared my bed with Petrus and Simon.
It was a rainy February night. We lay close together, listening to the sound of the rain through the window we’d opened a crack, and looked into the future. That’s what we called it. The three of us stared at the ceiling as if we could read the future on it. We would live together. We would wake up together, eat breakfast, go to the university. We would go swimming together at least every three days. Evenings, we would cook or go out. Go out dancing. To the movies, to art openings, to parties. We’d have friends. We’d constantly meet interesting people. At some point, Petrus, who was lying to my right, turned his head toward Simon, who was lying to my left, and said over me: If anything ever happens to me, take care of her, I’d like you to step in, right? “Her” was me. I lay between the two of them, still staring at the ceiling, but I felt Simon nod. I heard him clear his throat and then he said in his deep voice: Yes, I promise. He reached for his neck and put Roswitha gently in a cardboard box on the night table. He turned to me and gave me a kiss on the cheek. I turned to Petrus and passed the kiss on. Petrus leaned over me and kissed Simon first, then me. We all kissed each other, then touched each other, everywhere (while Roswitha waited in her box since I had made it a condition: no contact with the rat), then we all fell asleep. Yet we never spoke about it. Not to anyone. Certainly not to each other. It was our secret, which we kept even from ourselves.
Petrus and I were usually already asleep when Simon took his Roswitha out of her box and put her back around his neck, where she remained the rest of the night. Not once did she leave his neck without permission or come too close to me. All I ever got was a hint of her scent, a cozy whiff of hay with a slight, sharp, unsettling splash of urine. Roswitha remained monstrous to me. The only experience I’d had with rats before her had occurred a half-year earlier, and was still a blood-soaked memory: Petrus’s brother bitten by a wounded rat in a French sheepfold after he shot an air gun recklessly in the dark of night.
Idiot, Simon had said when we told him the story one evening, what an idiot, unbelievable. I’m sorry for insulting your brother, he turned to Petrus and added, but I can’t think of any other word to describe him.
That’s all right, Petrus said, and smiled so tenderly that I became irritated.
Simon dropped his gaze and stroked Roswitha, my sister in fate, whom he inherited just as he would inherit me if anything happened to Petrus. As my eyes followed Simon’s hand on Roswitha’s fur, I imagined a possible future in which I was that rat. And the idea wasn’t all that bad.
I must have fallen asleep. My dog woke me, she’s thirsty. She laps up mineral water from the hollow of my hand—she briefly shrank back from the prickles but her thirst prevailed.
Outside the window, the Black Forest slides past. Autumn has no effect on it. Yes, I must have fallen asleep, soon we’ll reach Freiburg. I close my eyes and let myself slip back into my dream. Dream? No, it wasn’t a dream, it was a memory.
Over Petrus’s protests, Simon called his mascot—when the bird finally took shape and did, in fact, resemble a penguin, with its elongated, lanky torso and stout abdomen in black tie and tails—Petrus.
Petrus couldn’t believe it. Simon, I told you very clearly, that I don’t want you to do that, he said.
Oh come on, Petrus, it’s just a cartoon character.
You’re jeopardizing our friendship for this laughable mascot!
Keep your shirt on, you’re not the only Petrus in the world. And at some point Simon dropped that attractive phrase, artistic freedom, upon which Petrus asked him to leave our apartment. For two weeks, there was no Simon in our lives. Then one evening, he appeared on the doorstep and promised to give his penguin another name, though he didn’t know which one at the moment and if absolutely necessary it would have no name at all.
I think Petrus was more insulted by the penguin’s appearance than its name. The penguin not only had the same name, it looked like him. Too plump below, too lanky on top, with a stiff back and sloping shoulders, its head in the clouds.
Simon explained his drawing when he was allowed back in our lives. Of course, he didn’t allude to the visual resemblances between Petrus and the penguin. No, he said: Penguins can live up to fifty years, even though their average life expectancy isn’t very high, approxi
mately twenty-five. That’s all the more surprising since it has no natural enemies, only itself.
What do you mean by that, Petrus asked, do penguins all kill themselves midlife?
It seems that way, Simon said, and we tried to figure out how penguins would do that. Our mood was giddy, but Petrus didn’t find any of the suggestions convincing. All that’s left is for them to jump off a snowy peak, he concluded, but for ritual penguin suicide there are hardly enough suitable icebergs.
We went to bed, lay awake and silent, fell asleep at some point, dreamed, at least I did, of the view from the ten-meter diving board, and the next morning we went swimming. The smell of chlorine stuck to us that entire winter. It hung in our hair, on our skin, it was caught in our sheets, sat down at the table with us, wafted out of the refrigerator, out of the medicine cabinet in the bathroom, out of our bags, yes, even from our books.
When I think of our trips to the swimming pool, I can see the lifeguard before me almost more clearly than Petrus or Simon. It’s astonishing how these minor, actually, completely marginal characters are preserved so clearly, so stubbornly, with such sharp contours and vivid colors! This lifeguard with his dark-brown calves covered with blond hairs and his blue-eyed monitoring stare that didn’t miss a thing—unless he was cleaning, which was part of his job, even though he’d rather have hidden that. He would disappear without a sound and reappear just as silently after a time, scold a few children and return to his lookout on the pool edge. Once, while he was mopping the floor, he was puzzled by signs of life from a locker and went to get the master key. Roswitha the rat escaped. He caught her, apparently with a cleaning cloth, and threw her into the bucket, from which he had been kind enough to dump the dirty water first, as he put it. Then he called the police. He wanted to file a report, he told them, and talked about having to notify the health department. It was an outrage that someone would introduce a carrier of bacilli and filth like this rat into the public swimming pool. At the word introduce, we pinched each other in the arm and tried not to laugh. The rat darted this way and that in the red bucket. Its entire body trembled. We stood in a circle around her. It was my first time in the men’s changing room. My pumps left tracks that couldn’t possibly have come from a man’s shoes. Big bulbous spots and under them little round circles. The lifeguard ignored them, as he did me. We waited for the police. The rat spun like a dervish in its plastic bucket. The police were not interested in the rat or in us. The lifeguard forbade us from entering the building ever again.
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