I call home. My mother-in-law answers. Oh, it’s you, she says, I can’t talk right now, we’re making cookies, why don’t you call—
There’s crackling on the line.
Mama?
Hey, little one, is that you? How are you?
Making cookies, bye!
Hello? He had hung up. I call again, after four rings the answering machine clicks on and I hear my own voice saying there’s no one home. I hang up. I think of our last conversation a few days ago.
Me: I love you.
The little little one: Love you too.
Me: Bye!
The little little one: Bye!
Me: Hang up!
The little little one: Hang up!
Me: One, two, three!
The little little one: One, two, three!
Me: And now hang up!
The little little one: Hang up!
And so on. We just couldn’t let go. Until my husband took the receiver and pressed the red button. The last thing I heard was a long, loud scream of protest. And today? Making cookies, bye! I would have liked so much to talk with him longer. He has your eyes. Your big round blue eyes and long black eyelashes. Your calm, wise gaze, which I can feel on me now, even when I close my eyes. In fact, I only feel it properly when I close them. It’s there, it envelops me, so completely, so soothingly and reassuringly, surrounding me like a warm bath. You haven’t looked at me like that for a long time, brother.
I’ve been writing since you left. I thought I’d start every book with you since you’re at my beginning.
Beginning. Beginning again with you. Every book with you. In the beginning was the word. At my beginning, there’s you.
I’m ending this book with you. To finish it. So I can finally go. So I can go back and begin again.
When you were dying—twenty years ago, now!—when I moved in with you, into your hospital room, which I only left when you left this world, my lover betrayed me. On those nights when I lay next to you in a narrow hospital bed just like yours, listening to your breathing, he went to my friend’s place. That’s how I picture it. Maybe she came to him, to our apartment, but that was more than I could imagine and so I never did and I still don’t. Though I actually do. This very second. As soon as you write something down, an image appears, dammit. Petrus and Katrin, Katrin and Petrus. It’s grabbing at me, the image. I catch it and hold onto it tight. That it still gets to me after twenty years! Men can’t manage alone, my grandmother said. I just shook my head. He wasn’t alone! I wasn’t gone, just in the hospital, Petrus often came to visit during the day, he just couldn’t stay there overnight!
So he was alone—at night! my grandmother insisted.
No, Granma, I said, no, I can’t understand and I can’t forgive him.
Then let him go, if you can, she said. She said it as if she didn’t believe I could. How right she was. Although I broke up with him soon after, to this day I haven’t really been able to let Petrus go and the reason, I think, is that he was there when you died, saw you take your last breath, your last cry, your last gasp. You didn’t die at night when Petrus was at Katrin’s, or Katrin with him, no you passed away on a bright spring morning, on a Saturday twenty years ago. I can’t let go of Petrus because I don’t want to let go of you. Because I don’t want you to go.
Hey, assholes, get over here, I’m dying! I don’t think you meant us. But we were the two assholes who heard you call, we were there. Passed away peacefully surrounded by family? No, that’s not how things went. It was violent. You weren’t ready, you wouldn’t accept it, you weren’t nearly that far gone. You fought, you yelled, you cried and screamed. And I held you and screamed I love you back at you, in the Swiss dialect of our childhood, even though there’s no expression for it in our dialect, we’ve only got I like you, and not I love you, and since then I’ve sworn off this completely inadequate, scandalously bumbling dialect. Since then I’ve spoken stage German, a language that doesn’t come from anywhere in particular and is at home everywhere, that isn’t familiar or foreign, with clear alternatives and clear limits, imprecise, indifferent to particularities, but useful in general and effective on the whole.
I never talked with you about what you wanted after. I was too cowardly for that conversation. Our big brother had it with you. He said you told him that every drop of water travels around the world once and you wanted your ashes to be thrown into the lake, our lake, that actually is a river, and from there they would begin the journey. Into the lake and around the world.
I have one more picture with me, next to the one of my sons in the bathtub: the postcard of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers, the postcard Petrus bought for me in Mistail on our first New Year’s Eve twenty years earlier, at the end of our hike through the snow that I ended up doing in my socks because the borrowed boots were so tight I couldn’t walk in them, after which my feet froze to the point where I couldn’t walk without shoes either. Because of a heavy snowfall, we strayed off the path. When we finally reached the church in Mistail, we wanted to sit in the front pew, take a load off our feet, and look at the seven-meter-tall St. Christopher until our feet thawed enough for us to walk home. But the church was closed on that last afternoon of the year.
When I was given that postcard, you were still alive. You had one round of chemotherapy behind you. I’m not going to die that easily, you said. It was your last New Year’s. I’ve been carrying the postcard around with me since the beginning of the year that will soon come to an end, ever since that January evening when I searched for Petrus’s name and learned that he was no longer alive. That he had jumped to his death. That he let himself fall, in a snowstorm, into the void. Almost a year, then, since I’ve been carrying St. Christopher around with me. Until now. Usually it’s the other way around, St. Christopher does the carrying.
He was, legend has it, a giant. His appearance frightened everyone he met. In the Orthodox Church, he’s often depicted with a dog’s head. I particularly like that idea, even if it’s a result of a mistranslation: instead of canaaneus (Canaanite), they’d apparently understood caninus (canine). In any case, there is general agreement that St. Christopher worked, in order to please God, as a ferryman without a ferry. He himself was both boat and harbor, he carried travelers on his enormous shoulders and carried them through the deep, raging water to the other shore. With him, you were in good hands. He’s usually shown with a long walking staff and the Christ child on one shoulder, but rarely in the water because then the most you could see would be his head and shoulder (or possibly just a raised arm, holding the child), not more than that: he’d have no body. And because his appearance was terrifying but also warded off death, Petrus had explained to me, he was understandably always depicted life-sized and in all his splendor so that he could do his work with full power and chase death away, force it back into the beyond, make sure it didn’t seize anyone. At least not anyone who was under St. Christopher’s protection. A journey with St. Christopher would never lead to death. To travel with him meant to stay alive.
Petrus was very tall and it’s easy for me to picture my dog’s head on his shoulders. That’s how I see him now. Mostly gray, his sharp muzzle pointing toward the sky. With an endlessly long torso, a very straight back that seemed almost stiff and to have thousands of vertebrae, and with steeply sloping shoulders that at first glance don’t look capable of bearing anyone, not even a child, especially not one as heavy the Christ child who, after all, bears the weight of the world.
I lifted my little little one onto the shoulder of the dog-headed Petrus-Christopher, my little boy with your eyes, your round blue eyes. I zoom in until the image only shows these eyes looking at me, calm, knowing, steady. I only have eyes for these eyes. Your eyes. Let me be spellbound and carried away by them.
It wasn’t a river, it was a mountain stream and the one who carried you was called Toni. He was our ski instructor. I couldn’t ski well but you could. Nonetheless, year after year we were put in the same c
lass. It was always the same scene, just different hats and jackets every year. You in front, me following. I don’t care about the others. Or about Toni. I hang onto you as onto a locomotive. I don’t pay attention to anything but your track, I don’t try to do anything but follow. Everyone comes down sooner or later, Toni says, the only question is how. I let him talk. It has nothing to do with me. I know how I’ll get down: by hanging onto you. At the start of the annual week of ski school, Toni tries to teach me something. By Wednesday, at the latest, he gives up and ignores me for the rest of the week. He only talks to you, if at all, and that’s fine with me. I feel like he’s addressing me, too, that’s just fine. And you? Every year I become a little more embarrassing for you. It doesn’t escape me, but as long as you don’t shake me off, I’ll hang on. On Friday, Toni announces: Real skiers don’t need lifts, the real ones climb. We already know that. Friday is touring day and on Fridays we always climb on foot, in a row, skis on our right shoulders, supporting ourselves on our poles on the left. Toni in front, you second, then me, staring at the back of your neck. On top, Toni hands around his thermos, the peppermint tea is hot and sweet, here we go, everyone gets three gulps, don’t screw around! And Toni counts out seven three times, then the thermos is empty and we’re off. You plow your way down the slope in big, sweeping curves, the snow is heavy and wet, spring snow, I stick to your heels, you pick up speed, tighten your curves, go faster and faster and speed straight down, and me with you, then you fall. It’s a miracle that I don’t follow you in the decisive moment but veer sharply left and so, luckily, don’t crash right into you. You keep sliding on your stomach, your bindings don’t release, your skis hang rigid and unwieldy on your feet, catch, dig in, and wrench your legs. When you finally come to a stop, you can no longer stand and can no longer walk.
Toni carried you piggyback. You had to hold onto to him yourself because Toni had his hands full, your skis in one hand, both of your poles in the other. No choking, Toni yelled. You grabbed him with both arms, your legs dangled loosely, they wouldn’t obey you anymore. I skied behind Toni, but not the way I followed you. I looked for my own track. We came to a small ravine with a stream at its base, swollen with so much water from the melting snow—it was March—that we couldn’t cross it. Toni carried you over first and when he stood in the middle of the stream with you on his back, you turned your head toward me and I looked into your blue eyes. Then you winked the way I’d only ever seen grown-ups wink, you winked at me.
My two little boys just called. Because they can’t dial any number on their own, I assume my husband helped.
Are you coming? the little little one asked.
When, when are you coming? I heard the big little one call out.
Are you coming? the little little one asked again.
When, when! his big brother yelled.
Yes, I’m coming, I answered, I’m coming now. Now.
The train is too expensive. The ticket here cost as much as I have to spend on groceries each month. Should I try hitchhiking like I used to way back when? In two hours it will be dark. If I stand on the side of the highway with my dog—who would give us a ride? To score, the two of us need daylight. In the dark, people might take us for dirty, lice-ridden, and squalid. In daylight, on the other hand, people see, they can sense that how well-groomed, polite, and entertaining we are. In daylight, everyone would pick us up. But I can’t wait until daybreak. I ask around about ride-sharing possibilities. First he says no, then he says yes, the young man who wants to drive to Hamburg tonight to party. No, I’m not taking any dogs with me, absolutely not. A quarter of an hour later, he has changed his mind: Yeah, OK, then with the dog. We agree to meet at seven at the gas station on Hohlstrasse near the Europa Bridge.
Well, the ride’s taken care of. What do you say to that, brother? I’m going home! The single golden Christmas tree ornament that Simon hung over the kitchen table as a token of the holidays catches my eye. It dangles from the ceiling on a nylon thread, ripped out of context, a ball, round and meaningless. I’ve already bumped it with my head several times when standing up. Now it mirrors my face back at me in black and gold: essentially a mouth, two nostrils, two eyes, two eyebrows, and between them, vertical, a deep wrinkle.
I was twelve when you first noticed it, that furrow in my brow. It was a brilliant winter day, we sat across from each other in the gondola, I was squinting, blinded by the sun and snow. What have you got there? you asked startled.
My surprise at your question wiped away the furrow. You laughed. You looked like a slash just now, you said.
Now the Christmas tree ball throws the furrow back at me, the wrinkle that has eaten its way into my forehead and refuses to leave even when I’m not dazzled or thinking hard.
Did you just say you think it’s good? Was that a comment on my wrinkle—unlikely!—or an answer to the question I almost forgot again?
Silence. I have to give the answer myself.
How about this: I’ll write myself a happy ending right here and now. For us, for my husband Philipp and me, then I’ll go home and play it out. Philipp always says: Make a plan, then it will work. When you know what you want, you can live for it. A happy ending foretold. Now, when it’s nearing the end, I tremble as I write, tremble as if with excitement, wrap myself up in Simon’s quilt, but it doesn’t help, I sit at the kitchen table with fluttering hands, the pen twitches.
Nothing occurs to me. I don’t know how to write a positive ending. I’m afraid that at best I could only manage under the pen name Phyllis Plank, if I went outside myself, if I turned into my husband and could tap into his sense of confidence (an exchange I’d be happy to make for my sense of insecurity). It would be worth a try. I remember a dream in which I found myself with the bottom half of his body. From the navel down, I was him. I looked down at his feet. There was a wild throbbing in my legs, my buttocks, my—oh God!—penis, it flooded through me so powerfully, with such force, such life, that I only had one wish: that I would stay this way. That I would remain as much myself, as him. Amazed and throbbing. Full of wonder and desire. I don’t know why but the first thing I want to do when I get home is take a family picture. With a self-timer, so that we’re all in it. One of us is running, and it’s not me.
I pack the picture of my sons in the bathtub and the St. Christopher card in my bag. I don’t have any other luggage. I close the zipper. I love you, I think at that moment, in dialect.
After your death, I had to leave. Three weeks later, in June, I had to take an entrance exam for the Theater Academy in Salzburg and was actually admitted to it for the winter semester, though how that could have happened was inconceivable since I was in no state to recite lines much less perform. I only had the summer to earn money. I worked in the cafeteria of the Department of Transportation. Petrus didn’t want to hear about my grief or about my upcoming departure. He set off on his own, to visit his brother in Canada. I believe Petrus made a few escape attempts at the time. First with Katrin, then to Canada. He wanted to escape the unhappiness. I’m still amazed that he did follow me to Salzburg after all. I’m amazed that I’m the one who ended our relationship.
My dog pricks up her ears. Simon has come home. He sees me sitting there wrapped in his quilt. He smiles. I snap my notebook shut. I’m going, I say.
As far as I’m concerned, you can stay, he says in his deep voice and it sounds as serious as everything he says. He adds, stay, stay.
I know. Thank you. Will you come visit me in Hamburg?
No, he replies.
I know, I think to myself.
We smile at each other.
I walk to the meeting point through the drifting snow with my dog. Her shaggy black fur is white. Snowflakes fall, depending on their wetness, as fast as a person walks. She pulls, I have to hurry to keep up. Luckily I’ve learned how. This time I’m wearing proper shoes, sturdy boots, not high-heeled pumps like before. These boots are made for walking. I’ve learned how to walk.
PRAISE FOR One Anot
her
Shortlisted for the German Book Prize Winner of the Swiss Book Prize
“A beautiful, charming, funny and philosophical book about the mad gamble of love. Schwitter is a miraculously gifted writer, and it’s pure pleasure to ricochet around in her roomy, vibrant universe.”
—Karen Russell
“... a young wife’s clear-eyed, witty look back on her twelve great loves: an album of memory and desire, of husbands, dogs, meals, debts ... lovers and sons. Written with fervent honesty. Lit deeply from within.”
—Dylan Landis
“A romantic bildungsroman ... refreshingly unsentimental.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Nimble, entertaining, and at the same time unobtrusively profound....”
—Die Presse
“A novel as astute as it is moving, about how one holds onto love by writing a novel about it....Its seriousness is shot through with a fine sense of irony and comedy.”
—Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung
“Monique Schwitter has the gentlest gaze and the hardest kick.”
—Neue Zürcher Zeitung
“Razor-sharp affection....This novel is terrific.”
—Literarische Welt
“One Another comes so easily and appealingly and yet leaves a profound impression. A contemporary love story in the best sense.”
—fm4
“Monique Schwitter recounts these love stories with refreshing confidence and surprisingly high voltage.”
—NDR
“A ronde of gripping intensity.”
—Kronen Zeitung
“One Another ... combines powerful attractions to charm all sorts of critics on the one hand and a large number of readers on the other.”
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