Inseparable

by Heldt,Dora

  “It’s not that I’m against female friendships,” Christine tried to explain. “I think you have good friends or companions for different times and stages in your life. But I must be lacking the gene you were talking about. I don’t go the bathroom with Dorothea or Marleen, nor do we tell each other the minute details of our love lives or speak on the phone every day. It’s not like that.”

  A thought flashed across Christine’s mind, and she shut her eyes for a moment. Antje’s voice on the telephone: “It’s me, what are you doing?” Antje in front of the mirror in the bathroom, Christine next to her, using her lipstick; Christine in Antje’s leather jacket, Antje all excited, telling her about Olaf. Richard brought her back to the here and now.

  “Earth to Christine. What are you thinking about?”

  Christine shook the thoughts away. “In my old life I used to have a best friend. At least, that’s what I thought. I told you about Antje, didn’t I? It just brought some memories back, that’s all; let’s change the subject. Are the two dancers still there?”

  She looked out over the sand. Richard looked at Christine thoughtfully. It made him sad that the thought of Antje still caused her pain. He wished he could help her. “They’re gone now. I can’t see them anymore.”

  Christine leaned over to Richard and kissed him. “I thought they were sweet, and hopefully they got the hang of the jive.”

  She looked out to the sea, then reached for her glass and drank down the last of her champagne.

  “Richard, what do you think about a column on dance lessons?”

  “As long as I don’t have to practice with you, I think it sounds great. I’m such an awful dancer that my lessons were a complete humiliation. I fell over during the polonaise.”

  Christine laughed and stroked his cheek.

  “I know how you feel! Shall we have some more champagne? I’m very happy we’re here together, by the way.”

  Richard kissed her hand, his eyes smiling.

  “The Dance Lessons”

  I saw two girls dancing on the beach on Sylt.

  It was a wonderfully warm, romantic evening with a beautiful light, and the perfect stage for great love stories, sunsets, and new beginnings. I felt beautiful, exciting, and young. It was perfect.

  And then I saw the two girls dancing down below me on the beach, or rather, I saw them practicing. As the sun went down behind them, they held hands, counted the steps, and looked young and vulnerable. I watched them for a while and then thought about how thirty years is, in fact, a very long time.

  Nineteen seventy-four was the year I was supposed to take two big steps in my journey toward being a grown-up. I had my confirmation lessons, and in October, my beginner’s dance class began at the Möller Dance School.

  My parents were pleased: they saw classical dance training as essential preparation for life, and hoped I would learn manners and how to act like a lady in the process.

  A few weeks before, they had caught me smoking for the first time. They were worried I was starting to get out of control. But I really only had one problem. Puberty. Everyone can remember what that’s like. Drastically switching between euphoria and depression, always treading that fine line between laughter and tears. And besides that (and this was the real problem) I had fallen in love. The football World Cup was taking place in Germany. My feelings crept up on me slowly and reached their crescendo on the day of the final. It was the seventh of July; Germany played against Holland and won 2:1.

  The object of my desire was Johann Cruyff, the Holland captain. He had such sad eyes, even before the defeat, that I thought he was wonderful and wanted to save him. I read in my brother’s Kicker magazine that Johann Cruyff was an occasional smoker, and that’s the only reason why I started. My parents would never have understood, so I didn’t even try to explain.

  After the game I burst into tears. My parents put it down to puberty. I was crying for Johann.

  I plastered my bedroom walls with photos and posters of the Dutch national team, which made my brother have more respect for me but irritated my parents no end. If only it could have been ABBA or Chris Roberts. And then the smoking incident to top it all off.

  When the registration form arrived from the Möller Dance School, my parents saw it as a sign. Under other circumstances they might have hesitated, but instead they enrolled me immediately. They hoped that, with Möller’s help, I would become normal again.

  I didn’t mind: most of the girls and boys from my school were going there anyway, and if I couldn’t be with Johan Cruyff, then I might as well learn to dance.

  My idea of dance events and balls had been shaped by films like Sissi and Gone with the Wind. Beautiful women with big strong men, skirts that circled across the dance floor with a flourish, big orchestras, string sections, velvet and silk, candles and champagne, enchanted faces, loving looks.

  The reality of the Möller Dance School was very different. Plastic chairs piled up next to the wall, neon strip lights on the ceiling, a drinks machine in one corner and a sound system in the other, giggling girls in ironed jeans and pimply boys who were—and this was the worst thing—almost all shorter than me.

  Instead of flying across the dance floor in a swishing ball gown in the arms of the heroic Johan Cruyff, I found myself stiffly practicing the basics of the foxtrot with Wolfgang. Wolfgang had been held back at school for two years in a row, and so was older and taller than the other boys. He had a haircut like Mireille Matthieu and wore glasses. He never spoke to me or smiled, only moved his legs below the knees and had no sense of rhythm whatsoever. But he was five centimeters taller than me, so we were paired together. We belonged in that room, with its plastic chairs and neon strip lighting.

  There was another girl from my year there, too, Annemarie. Everyone knew an Annemarie. She was medium height, medium blond, average weight, of average intelligence. She wanted to be in on everything, invited all the teenies to her birthday parties, brought tons of sweets with her to school, had the newest editions of Bravo, the best books, the greatest albums. She was always the first one in the ice-cream parlor and would save you a seat, beaming with joy.

  She let you win in all the games and would do any favor for you but never forgot to remind you of it. She was your best friend; at least, that’s what she decided. At that time I was one of her avowed targets. It didn’t matter where I was; Annemarie would be there, too, beaming at me. We called her Sputnik.

  Annemarie had signed up for the course, too, of course, and complained after the first session that there were too many girls and not enough boys. She tried to give Wolfgang a high five, but he didn’t react, and I didn’t understand what she was trying to do, so there was a small scrap on the dance floor. I was unbelievably embarrassed: the others must have thought we were fighting over that dumb sucker.

  Mrs. Möller went into the adjoining room, where her husband was teaching the advanced course. I have no idea what she promised them or how she did it, but she came back with four of the advanced male dancers.

  All of the girls were relieved: the four boys definitely improved the average. Annemarie leaned over to me conspiratorially and whispered that the second one from the left was staring at me. As I looked over, discreetly, my heart skipped a beat.

  He had eyes like Johan Cruyff. And he made the whole room look better. Unfortunately though, he wasn’t looking at me.

  Mrs. Möller decided that the newcomers would be partnered with the girls who hadn’t been paired off in the first round. So Annemarie got “Johan Cruyff Eyes,” and I was still stuck with Wolfgang. Annemarie wasted no time in telling me that my hero was called Micha and that he was incredibly sweet. But that I had a nice one, too, so not to worry. Oh how I hated her.

  Those were the worst Tuesdays of my life. Wolfgang never progressed beyond the basics of the foxtrot. He suffered from sensitive sinuses and made noises like he was snorkeling while he danced. He told me that he had been prescribed nasal douches, and that was the reason why he missed s
ome of the classes. When he was absent I had to practice with other partners, and to my despair, it was always on those very days that Micha-Johan-Cruyff was absent, too. Everything was going wrong.

  The graduation ball in the autumn was a disaster. Wolfgang fell over even as we were walking in and bruised his shoulder. It was a good thing in that I managed to get out of being disgraced during the prize dance, but also meant that I had to sit at my parents’ table most of the evening, which really made me feel like a fifth wheel.

  But then the evening seemed to take a turn for the better. Out of the blue, Micha-Johan-Cruyff appeared in front of me. Finally! I thought and stood up, beaming with happiness. As we started to dance, I told him I wished the Dutch had won. Confused, he looked at me and said: “Have you got a screw loose or something?”

  He kept going until the end of the dance, but avoided looking me in the eyes. After that I realized I could forget about the champagne bar.

  As I watched the two girls on the beach thirty years later, I wondered whether you even have to dance with boys in dance school nowadays. It’s probably much easier than it was back then. Although Micha-Johan-Cruyff could dance very well. Even if he didn’t understand my sensitive female soul. But then, he was young, too.

  The taxi driver found a space directly in front the house. He turned the light on and turned around to Dani. “So, we’re here. That’ll be eighteen fifty.”

  Dani handed him a bill. “There’s twenty, and could I have a receipt please?”

  While the driver wrote it out, she looked up to the windows of her apartment. The lights were on. Her mood sank immediately. Lars must be there. Either that, or burglars. The latter would probably be less annoying; at least they would take off when she came in. Lars wouldn’t.

  The taxi driver gave her the receipt and climbed out to get her small suitcase and laptop bag from the trunk.

  “You’re welcome. Have a nice evening.”

  Dani took out her luggage and went up to the front door. Don’t talk to me about having a nice evening, she thought. Maybe you could take the guy in my apartment with you and get rid of him somewhere. Then maybe I’ll have a nice evening.

  In the elevator she pressed the button for the fifth floor and leaned her forehead against the cool metal wall. She was the personnel manager of a big Berlin software firm. For the last four days she had been leading interviews in Düsseldorf and trying to develop the company’s employee structures. They needed to take on twenty new people, and fifty had been invited to interview, which had made for a very competitive atmosphere. She had spent each evening sitting in the hotel restaurant with the business manager and his assistant, going through the applicants, finishing up with a nightcap in the hotel bar. None of the workdays had ended before midnight.

  The elevator came to a standstill with a slight bump. Dani had realized on the flight how exhausted she was; she wanted a bath, a glass of red wine, some late-night entertainment show on TV, and then an early night. Why on earth had she given Lars her house key, and why hadn’t she just ignored his text yesterday: “Looking forward to seeing you”? It’s your own fault, she thought, taking a deep breath and opening the apartment door.

  He bounded toward her right away.

  “Why didn’t you call me? I would have picked you up from the airport. I tried to call you, but your cell was turned off all afternoon.”

  He took her bag and kissed her. Dani felt her back tense up, and Lars noticed, too. He let her go and looked at her sympathetically.

  “I’m sure you’re beat; I thought you would be. I made a little bite to eat, come on in. I’m glad you’re back. I’ll warm the soup up; maybe you want to take a shower first.”

  “I’m not hungry. I already ate something on the plane.” As Dani saw Lars’s disappointed face, she felt guilty. “But I’d love a glass of red wine; could you open a bottle? I’ll grab a quick shower.”

  Lars beamed at her, and Dani fled into the bathroom.

  Standing under the shower, she turned the temperature up and closed her eyes. They had met six months ago at a computer fair in Munich—at one of the numerous events that always go hand in hand with these fairs. Dani had been standing there in the middle of all the computer people in black suits, all of them important, bigoted, and drunk. Her pumps were rubbing; she was sweating in her close-fitting suit and found the event mind-numbingly dull. Then suddenly, this guy in jeans, jacket, and an open shirt had appeared out of nowhere. No tie, his blond hair was tousled, and he had a dimple when he smiled. “So, pretty lady, would you like to run away with me?”

  The chat-up line had been an awful one, but the guy wasn’t bad, and Dani, who didn’t normally drink alcohol, had already put away two glasses of champagne. An hour later, they were sitting in the bar of Dani’s hotel telling each other silly stories. They were both from Berlin, which—in her drunken state—Dani took to be a sign. That was, admittedly, the sum total of everything they had in common. Lars tested computer games for a magazine; he was thirty-two, making him a decade younger than her, and loved action films and boxing. He gazed at Dani, enraptured. She took him up to her room. She had thrown her last lover out of her life eight months ago, and missed the sex. And Lars smelled good and felt even better. Dani drank a fourth glass of champagne and undressed him. He was an unbelievably good lover. The colleagues at the fair stand told her the next morning that she looked amazing, in spite of how hectic the fair had been. Dani had felt satisfied.

  She rinsed the shampoo from her hair and turned off the shower. While she toweled herself dry, she looked in the mirror. She was very slim, and went jogging every morning. But in spite of that, her body didn’t look thirty years old anymore. Not that it seemed to bother Lars. He worshiped her. And it was starting to drive her around the bend. She was distancing herself from him more and more, but that only seemed to spur him on. He made plans for a life together, but Dani ignored them all. Even that didn’t seem to bother him. On the other hand, he really was an excellent lover. Dani combed her hair and tied it up. Perhaps his attachment to her would start to fade at some point. At least there wasn’t the danger that she would fall head over heels in love with him. That was the most important thing.

  Although, she did sometimes feel sorry for him when he looked at her with those disappointed eyes and drooping shoulders.

  “Well, he can just forget it,” said Dani to herself in the mirror. “After all, I didn’t make him any promises.”

  Her reflection leaned forward to contradict her, saying reproachfully: “But you aren’t ending it either. You’re using him as a lover and to water your plants and do your shopping. You’re a bad person.”

  Dani jumped with a start and stared into the mirror. She must have been working too hard.

  When she came back into the living room in her bathrobe, Lars had lit candles and poured the wine. He sat on the sofa, one arm laid against the backrest, and beamed at her. Dani sat down on the seat opposite and heard her inner voice again: “You’re a bad person.”

  Lars took his arm from the backrest and looked at her.

  “Is something wrong?”

  Dani felt unbelievably tired. She just wanted to sit here, drink wine, and slowly let her head empty itself of thoughts. She didn’t want to get drawn into a discussion and end up feeling bad. But Lars was still staring at her, waiting for an answer.

  “No.” She pulled her feet up onto the chair. “There’s nothing wrong. It was just unbelievably demanding and I’m worn out.” She raised her glass and toasted him. “I’m sorry…about the food, I mean, but thank you for the wine.”

  Lars’s facial expression relaxed at once. “Now you just rest. I’ve gotten your mail; do you want me to bring it to you?” He was already standing up.

  Dani took a deep breath. “Yes, if you like, thank you.”

  It would be better to read the mail than sit there in painful silence, she thought, reaching for the stack of letters Lars handed to her.

  Right on top there was a letter
addressed to her in the name of Füller. She didn’t recognize the handwriting. She turned the letter over. Marleen de Vries: the name reminded her of something, but she couldn’t think what. She ripped the envelope open and started to read. Then she looked up, sat up straight, and started to laugh.

  Hamburg

  Ruth was standing in front of a mirror in a boutique on the Gänsemarkt and twisting around to see herself from behind.

  “It makes me look fat, right? I never normally have such a big ass!”

  Gabi stroked the fabric of a suit hanging on the rack nearby and looked over at Ruth. “Maybe it’s the color.”

  Ruth scowled at her in the mirror. “Nonsense, pink suits me. It’s the pants; they’re cut weirdly.”

  A saleswoman approached, smiling. She handed Ruth a hanger with another pair of pants.

  “This label cuts their sizes very small. Maybe you’d like to try them in another size?”

  Ruth took the hanger and looked for the label.

  “What size are these? Ten, no, that’s too big for me.”

  The saleswoman seemed vexed. “But you have the eight on now, and they’re too small.” She tried to salvage the situation. “Although that’s not to say you can’t carry off figure-hugging styles.”

  “These aren’t figure-hugging, they’re bottom-hugging.”

  Ruth stared in the mirror, by now in a foul mood. The saleswoman fell into an embarrassed silence.

  Gabi was struggling to stop herself from laughing. “You look like a sausage: I’m sure it’s just the color though, because your butt isn’t that fat at all.”

  Ruth looked at her angrily. “Thank you very much. These pants are cut badly, I always wear an eight, and I’ll eat cabbage soup for a month before I go up a size. Or wear skirts with elasticized waists. Besides, I don’t like pink that much anyway. Everyone’s wearing it nowadays.”