Inseparable
Page 19
I found that interesting, because my separation was in February, too, also after Carnival, although admittedly the Cleopatra in my case was a Stone Age woman. (Maybe I should give a column about Carnival some serious thought!)
We came to the conclusive agreement that we had never had a breakup in November, nor did we know anyone that had. My friend Karola was also of the opinion that people were much more likely to wait to get their Christmas presents first; after all, what difference did four weeks make?
Then we came to the issue of the dying daylight and the lack of fun. When it comes to daylight I couldn’t help but wonder whether my editor had ever driven through Cuxhaven with a broken headlight on a December evening. Presumably not, because if she had she’d know that it doesn’t get much darker than that. There’s very little light there indeed, much less than in November.
Now, let’s look at the fun aspect. I’ve thought about this one, too. My siblings and I all have birthdays in the first two weeks of November. Whether that particular baby boom is down to Carnival or stove heating, who knows? So for us, November is full of parties. I, perhaps, had the least fun, because my birthday was the last one, so all the balloons were wrinkled by then, stored in the room that had been cleared out especially for all the birthday parties, and the streamers were pretty short. But it wasn’t exactly devoid of fun either.
My friend Karola wasn’t born in November, but she did get married then, so she has lots to celebrate. Besides that, she found out that November is the month when the highest number of dances is held, and she really loves going dancing with her husband Paul.
I really did go to great lengths and effort to be at least a little depressed. I phoned a lot of people. All of them found November depressing but didn’t have time to explain exactly why. Leonie had to go to the sauna with her friend, Luise was off to a birthday party, Maren was getting her new car, and Franziska had a great new apartment and was in the middle of moving.
My friend Karola was sympathetic of my efforts to get to grips with the November topic. She said I was making too much work for myself, and that the only reason November has a bad reputation is because it’s the only time when people actually have time to be depressed. In October the weather is still too nice, in December everyone is thinking about presents and festive lights, in January they’re preoccupied with New Year’s resolutions, and in February it’s time for Carnival again and winter is almost over. So when, if not November?
This explanation is much too easy for me. I can’t and don’t want to let it be that simple. I haven’t slept well for the last five nights; I’m too upset that I’ll be letting my editor down.
As I watch the rain trickle down my windowpanes, turn my heating down a little, and put melancholy music on, I think about the fact that I can’t even write a simple column, that I presumably have never done anything well in my whole life, that my editor will look at me helplessly and say: “I expected more from you.”
As a tear rolls slowly down my cheek, the telephone rings. I don’t have the strength to go and pick it up, and besides, it’s pitch black in my apartment because I haven’t even bothered to turn on the light.
On the answering machine I hear my friend Karola’s voice, saying that between them she and Paul have questioned thirty-two people about the “November Depression.” She says I should brace myself, and that none of them has ever had it. They don’t think anyone would bother reading this column and so I shouldn’t stress myself about it, but just come over to their place: they’re making Grünkohl for dinner and fifteen of the people they’d questioned were coming. And everyone is in a really good mood, and in November, no less.
I switch on the light to change out of my gray pullover and into a red one.
Dear Editor, I’m very sorry that I made such a mess of this column. November is just not my month.
Lübeck
Frauke collapsed back into the chair with a groan and stretched out her legs. She shot Gudrun a look of mock distress.
“You’ve worn me out. I didn’t realize what you meant by power shopping. If I’d known I would have ordered online from Quelle.”
Gudrun put her three bags down by the table and pulled her jacket off. “Don’t make such a big deal. We were only out for three hours.”
“But we did twenty stores.” Frauke turned around to look for a waiter. “And my mouth’s as dry as a bone. I need a coffee right away. Or should we have champagne to celebrate?”
Gudrun laughed. “You really want to make a day of it, don’t you? I thought you couldn’t handle alcohol in the daytime. We don’t want you to have to go to bed afterwards; it’s only four.”
Frauke waved her hand nonchalantly. “I can’t buy a dress like that and then just drink coffee. I want to make this feeling of decadence last a little longer. But I’m not drinking alone. So what do you say?”
Gudrun nodded. She watched Frauke as she ordered two small piccolos of champagne from the waiter, then bent over and arranged her shopping bags, taking a peek into each one.
Gudrun had talked her friend into buying a little black dress. Frauke thought it was too short and tight on her at first, but Gudrun and the saleswoman loved it. She only changed her mind when an older female customer walked past and nodded at her in the mirror.
“Young lady, that dress was made for you. Very feminine, very elegant.”
Frauke had blushed and looked at Gudrun with a mixture of embarrassment and pride.
“But I look so different. Do you really think I can carry something like this off?”
The saleswoman pulled the neckline a little lower. “It looks great. If I had your figure I’d only ever wear things that show off my décolletage.”
Gudrun was impressed. “You really have only lost weight in the right places; you look great. Show of that figure of yours! I’m really envious of your curves. I can forget wearing something like that with my 30A bust.”
Frauke looked at her reflection hesitantly. She felt a little strange, but somehow beautiful, too. And she wanted to feel more confident.
“OK, I’ll take it.”
After that they had bought shoes and lingerie. Gudrun was adamant that a dress like that needed black underwear. Frauke had giggled shyly when Gudrun showed her a mere whisper of a black bra in the lingerie store. She gasped for breath as she saw the price tag.
“Gudrun, I’ve never paid so much money for a bra in my life, that’s insane!”
“Come on, you can’t wear those white mail-order undies with a dress like this. At least try it on.”
Frauke had taken two sets and paid with red cheeks.
The champagne arrived. Frauke shared the first piccolo between the two glasses and raised hers.
“Thank you for your help. That was really fun.”
“It was. And you look amazing. This invitation really has unleashed something in you; it’s like you’re a whole new person. Are you excited?”
Frauke wiped a drop of champagne from the table. “Yes. I don’t really know why, but I haven’t thought about myself as much as I am at the moment in a long while. It’s probably silly, but I really want Christine to recognize me immediately. I looked at the old photos. We were laughing in almost all of them. And then I looked at a few photos from the last few years, and do you know how I look on them?”
“How?”
“I only found two pictures I’m really in. Either I turn away at the last moment or my eyes are closed, or you can only see me from the side. There’s this picture Max took when Jules moved of me standing in the kitchen and unpacking crockery. And then there’s this family photo from two years ago that we did with a professional photographer for the grandmas. And there’s me—Mom—in the middle. Dreadful. It’s like I don’t exist anymore as a person in my own right. I’m always just the mother and wife. And I’m never laughing in the pictures now; I always look stressed. Christine wouldn’t recognize me in any of them. I used to be different.”
She drank down her champagne, the
n picked up the second piccolo and topped up their glasses.
“The bubbly’s going to my head already.” Frauke brushed her hair away from her face, but an unruly curl was sticking out from her head. She giggled softly and looked at Gudrun apologetically. Her eyes were shining. “Mom’s tipsy!”
Gudrun quickly pulled her cell phone from her purse and took a photo of Frauke. “There you go,” she said, looking at the display. “Now here we have a picture with ‘Mom’ laughing and her eyes sparkling.”
She showed Frauke the picture, then put her phone away. “But there’s one thing I don’t understand. Why didn’t you say you were unhappy with yourself? We could have done something about it sooner. I had no idea.”
Frauke started hiccupping and held her hand in front of her mouth. “I didn’t even realize. I just felt so tired and…so boring.” She pulled her bag back onto her lap and rummaged around in it. “And I don’t know why, but I’m finding life exciting again now.” She continued to search in her bag.
“What are you looking for?”
Relieved, Frauke pulled a packet of tablets out.
“Heartburn. I get heartburn when I drink champagne, I forgot that in all the excitement.” She popped a chew tablet into her mouth. “But I don’t care. I’ve got an incredible dress and some amazing lingerie. And I’m tipsy. Gudrun, this really was a great afternoon!”
She washed the tablet down with a sip of champagne and beamed happily at her friend.
Hamburg
Christine opened her eyes for a second, then shut them again immediately. Before she did, she saw a red-painted wall with a pile of clothes in front of it. The bedding was black and white; she could smell fresh coffee and recognized the music that was playing from the night before. Cautiously, she opened her eyes again. She saw her jeans on the floor and her shoes next to them: one upright, one on its side. All the image needed now was an empty bottle of champagne and it would be just like something from a movie, she thought.
She turned her head to the side. There was a half-full bottle of wine on a small table, neatly corked. That was the difference between her and Sarah Jessica Parker. She turned onto her back. At least there was no mirror on the ceiling.
Christine rubbed her eyes. They felt sticky; she hadn’t taken her makeup off. If she looked as bad as she felt, it was going to be a bad start to the day.
Someone was whistling in the kitchen, clattering cups. They sounded very chirpy. Christine sat up carefully and leaned her back against the wall. She had a headache, too. She brushed her hands through her hair, which was sticking up in all directions. Another difference between her and Miss Parker.
At that moment the door opened and Sven came into the room balancing two cups of coffee. Christine tried to look relaxed. As if it were completely normal for her to wake up in a strange bed with her makeup smeared and tousled hair, with a few gaps in her memory of what had happened the night before. Sven put the cups next to the corked wine bottle and sat down on the edge of the bed.
“Good morning. Coffee or wine?”
Christine groaned. “No wine, not ever again. What time is it?”
“It’s just after eight. What time do you have to be at work?”
Christie rubbed her temple. “At noon. Do you have any aspirin by any chance?”
She watched as he went off to find some and remembered that she had actually taken the morning off to have a late morning with Richard. Dani, she thought, I did it, and it will probably make everything even more complicated, but it doesn’t feel as wrong as I thought it would.
Sven came back with a glass of water and some aspirin. Why did men always look so good—and younger—with their hair messy? Maybe it was down to the absence of smeared mascara and lipstick. She took the pill from him and swallowed it.
“What time did we get in last night? And when do you need to get to work?”
Sven stirred his coffee. “At two. I’ve already phoned a colleague and said I’ll be in later today.” He looked at her. Christine feared he was about to ask one of those questions she hated so much in books and films. They usually started with “Was I good?” and ended with “Do you regret it?”
Christine waited. Sven leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “You look beautiful. So young, and so pure.”
Christine thought to herself that she had probably seen too many bad films and read too many bad books. She stroked his cheek. He took her hand and kissed her palm, looking at her thoughtfully, as though he did want to ask her something after all.
They had met up at six the evening before. Christine had, as planned, finished work early. She didn’t want to drive home, look at the freshly made bed and set table, and sit around thinking about Richard. So she took the metro to Altona, to the architectural firm that Sven worked in. Just opposite was one of those American-style coffee shops where you could sit at a bar by the window and look out into the street. Gazing in at the lit-up window of the office, she watched Sven walking through the rooms, talking on the phone, speaking with his colleagues. He was wearing jeans, a black pullover, and a jacket. Christine realized how attractive she found him. When she had phoned him at lunchtime he was in a good mood and immediately agreed to have dinner with her. Christine drank a double espresso and thought about Dani and Richard. Just under an hour later Sven crossed the street and came over to the café. He saw Christine sitting at the window, raised his hand, and smiled. It gave her a warm feeling inside.
They went to a restaurant around the corner. Christine ordered saltimbocca. At the very least, she was being consistent. Sven ordered the same. Through the course of the evening he looked at her searchingly quite a few times, and kept asking her how she was. Christine lied, trying to force Richard out of her mind. Sven made it easy though. He was relaxed, funny, and easy to talk to. Around eleven o’clock she realized she hadn’t thought about Richard for three hours.
Sven paid the bill and fetched Christine’s jacket. As he helped her pull it on, she leaned against him briefly, and he let his hands linger a little longer than necessary on her shoulders.
Christine turned toward him. “Do you want to have another espresso at your place?”
“I’d love to. Should we get a taxi or walk? It’s about twenty minutes.”
“Let’s walk.”
They walked alongside each other, Christine’s arm in his. Sven pulled her hand into his jacket pocket and looked at her.
“Is everything OK?”
Christine nodded. “Yes, everything’s fine.”
Silently, they walked back to his apartment. As they stood in front of the front door and Sven looked for his key, an image came into Christine’s mind of Richard standing at her door and ringing the bell. She forced herself to picture him sitting in a hotel bar with Sabine, then followed Sven into the hallway.
They didn’t drink espresso but had red wine instead. Sven put some music on and sat down next to her. Christine kissed him first.
Now, sitting on the bed, Sven was still looking at her.
“Talk to me,” said Christine.
He smiled and brushed his finger softly across her forehead.
“I’m very happy you stayed the night. I want you to know that. And I hope it wasn’t just down to the wine.”
“No, the wine just quickened the decision, that’s all.”
“Are you sure? It’s just that you were talking in your sleep.”
Christine flinched. She suddenly remembered having dreamed about Richard.
As Christine opened her apartment door, the door opposite was ripped open.
“Where were you? I was worried. Your cell’s turned off; I thought you’d been kidnapped. Oh, did you have a hard night? You look exhausted.” Dorothea looked at her curiously.
“Nonsense, I look young and pure. Come in and make some coffee; I’ll grab a quick shower and then tell you about it.”
“Don’t you have to work?”
“I’ve got the morning off. I’ve got another two hours.”
Dorothea turned the espresso machine on and took the sugar bowl and spoons into the dining room. The table was set. Flowers, wine cooler, candles. Dorothea whistled softly, it looked like there had been a major change of plans here.
“Christine? Can we put the china away?”
“What?” The bathroom door opened a little.
“I asked whether the china can get put away? Or are we having a six-course meal?’
Christine stretched her head out of the door. “Oh…yes, it can. I’d completely forgotten about that.”
Twenty minutes later they were sitting with their coffee in front of them. Dorothea had left the flowers on the table, and Christine pushed the vase aside a little.
“So, I’m listening. Who was supposed to come to dinner?” Dorothea’s eyes were glistening.
Christine wrapped the bathrobe closer around her. “Richard, yesterday evening.”
“And where were you last night?”
“At Sven’s.’
“What?” Dorothea threw her head back and started to laugh. “I don’t believe it. Sven Lehmann? Mathias’s friend we met in the wine bar recently? The one you’ve been to dinner with twice and one handball game with? You spent the night with him? I think I must have missed something.”
Christine stirred her coffee. Round and round.
“Three times. I’ve been to dinner with him three times. And what’s so funny about it? I liked him back when I met him in the summer on Sylt. And yesterday things just happened.”
“Christine!” Dorothea was looking at her as if she were being moronic. “For the last three years I’ve been schlepping guy after guy to see you, and you just ignore them all and only have eyes for Richard. Then you run into your colleague and his friend on Sylt. You go out with him a few times, which was allegedly so harmless that it didn’t even deserve a mention. And then you go off one day, full of the joys of spring about having an evening with Richard, and end up spending the night with Sven. Are you high? Or did I miss something?”