epilogue
phil
I lean over the rails of this incredibly large ship and stare down at its sides covered with broad streaks of rust. Yesterday was stormy and so cold that no one went on deck unless they really had to. Today the air is mild. The sky has no beginning or end, it is turquoise-colored, and the wind riding on the broad back of the ocean carries a sweet smell. Maybe it comes from Nomoneas, from Semisopochnoi or from Tongatapu. For days I’ve had the taste of salt on my lips. From somewhere I feel a tiny glimmer of luck creep into my heart.
I knew I’d made the right decision when I saw Nicholas in the clinic. His parents had seen to it that he had a room to himself. He was asleep as I opened the door and stepped up to his bedside. He actually had on one of those black eye patches reminiscent of pirates or a carnival—something I really wasn’t prepared for. The blanket was thrown loosely over his chest, and his arms were stretched out either side. I tried hard not to look at his hands. I could have woken him, or waited till he awoke. The problem was that I had no idea what to talk about. Everything had already been said between us, or at least what could be expressed. The desire to say goodbye to Nicholas and inform him that I was going to America had arisen purely and simply from the foolish hope that he would ask me to stay. Just one single word from him would have been enough to make me abandon all my plans, just as it had been one single word that had caused me to make them.
As he lay there, it wasn’t by chance that Nicholas reminded me of Zephyr and how, defying all logic, Dianne had loved this boy for years. Loving Nicholas was equally impossible. I saw him in this bed, a white face on a white pillow, the collector of lost things now lost himself, a teller of stories without a story of his own. And suddenly I no longer saw Nicholas, but a blank sheet of paper waiting to be written on. I knew that I would never be the one able to do so, not here and not now. I shut my eyes and see Nicholas running along the red dirt of the cinder track, his concentrated gaze looking straight ahead not in harmony with the world and himself, but on the hunt for it. Perhaps on that very first day at the sports field I should have embraced him, held him close, and prevented him from continuing to run. But what did I know then? And actually, I’m quite sure that Nicholas wouldn’t have let himself be stopped by anything or anyone.
If anything more lasting develops between them, Kat is going to have problems with this attitude of his. She doesn’t like people retreating from her. The fact that I’ve gone will be a shock to her. I can’t let myself to think any more about her. It’s too painful. I already miss her. I wish she’d drop dead, and I love her.
That much I’ve learned: love is a word only to be written in blood-red ink. Love drives you to do the strangest things. It makes you hand out rainbow-colored sweets, it makes you dance through the streets in red shoes, and it lets you hack graves in paradise gardens till your hands bleed. Love causes deep wounds, but in its own particular way it also heals scars, provided you have faith in love and give it time to do so. I won’t touch my scars. I’m bound to get fresh wounds, even before the old ones have healed, and I will inflict wounds on other people. Every one of us carries a knife.
Those are the rules, Paleiko.
The sea is troubled. Small greenish blue waves splash about; they break up in foam in the wake cut by the ship as it moves at full speed through the churned-up sea, and cling together one on top of the other, seemingly reluctant, but in reality following some physical law of nature. Nothing is what it appears to be. Truths are as fragile as the people who have formulated them. The water here is hundreds of feet deep. It looks uninhabited. But somewhere in the unfathomable deep there are grotesquely formed phosphorescent fish swimming about. Gable says it’s miraculous how these phantoms of the deep resist the unbelievable pressure that the ocean exerts on them, truly a miracle. For better or worse he has never lost the capacity to see the world with the eyes of a child.
If I turn my gaze to the left, I look in the direction of America just half a day’s journey away. Finding Number Three on this continent will be as difficult as the hunt for the proverbial needle in the haystack. But I know his name.
What lies ahead of me, what I am enmeshed in, is a search, not an escape.
There is nothing I need fear. And for that reason, regardless of whether I’ve found my father or not, I shall return home sometime. Once enough time has passed. When I come to chant the word like a prayer: Visible, Visible, Visible …
I turn up the neck of my windcheater, stroll along the deck, and turn the heavy metal wheel to open the door of the hold. Behind it work awaits me.
Strange, but I miss Handel.
my thanks
I adore thank-yous. I’ve always harbored a secret dream of being a film director, just in order to win an Oscar and see Tom Cruise or Sean Connery break down in tears during my thank-you speech. And then to comfort them.
I thank:
The Stiftung PreuBische Seehandlung, Berlin, whose generous grant sponsored work on this novel.
Donner and Ackermann, who opened up ears and watches for me, and Almut Gebhard for providing remedial tuition in pharmacology.
Dr. Friedbert Stohner, Ursula Heckel, and Cornelia Beger for their willing and friendly support in editorial and publishing issues.
Klaus Humann and Cordula Duffe, whose great enthusiasm and even greater commitment provided impetus and encouragement.
My family: Hiltrud, Dirk, and Bjorn—you are the center of my world.
about the author
Andreas Steinhöfel is the author of numerous books for children and young adults. He has a degree in English and media studies from Philipps-Universitàt Marburg and works in Germany as a translator, scriptwriter, and reviewer. The Center of the World is his first book for Delacorte Press. It won the prestigious Buxtehuder Bulle Prize for Best Young Adult Novel in Germany and was short-listed for the German Children’s Literature Award.
Table of Contents
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The Center of the World Page 35