Across the way, Judith is rounding the corner of the building. She’s wearing pants and rubber boots and a basket is slung over her arm. Kilian and Ulrich run in front of her, their colorful knitted caps flashing in the dusk. They’re carrying lanterns on long sticks, simple red and blue paper balloons that give off a warm glow. “Come on, Mama! We can hang them on the elderberry bush!” Leonie hides behind the open door of the trunk. Some fucking idyll over there. Since the days have grown shorter, Judith has been taking the boys out to walk with their St. Martin’s lanterns. They walk up Constantinstraße almost every evening, carrying the glowing balls in front of them. Their singing is thin and melodic. They go up the so-called “snake path”: a winding footpath over scrubby ground that leads to the Bopserstraße subway stop. The street sign displays a name no one in the neighborhood actually uses. Through the streets, up and down, you see the lanterns come to town: red, yellow, blue, green, dear St. Martin come and see.
Leonie closes the door to the building and climbs the stairs. She hears music from behind her own door on the third floor—the steady beats of German pop. SWR4, no doubt: Ingrid’s favorite radio station, which mingles with Feli’s squeals, Lisa’s precocious babbling, and Simon’s voice, which sounds like he’s trying to placate them. There are lumps of dirt and leaves on the doormat. The door springs open before she can even turn the key. Lisa and Feli run out, checked aprons over their bellies. “Mama, Mama! Papa’s making pizza with us! Look at everything we’ve cut up.” Leonie walks into the hall, her overnight bag at her side like a dangerous black dog. The apartment smells of onions. Don’t come any closer. Beware: this dog bites. The girls jump on her, step on her feet, chatter non-stop. Feli catches her sleeve, tugs at it, and keeps up a ceaseless refrain of, “Mama, Mama, Feli too, Feli too,” to counter her sister’s torrent of words. “Mama, Papa picked us up early today, earlier than he ever has, and Feli didn’t take her nap! Then we went to the new playground and then home, and Papa played ‘Fruit Garden’ with us and the raven lost and now we’re making pizza. We get to cut up the vegetables, ‘cause this morning we cried so much that Papa said he’d take the afternoon off and now we’re here and now you’re here too!”
Leonie kneels to hug her children. They smell like bell pepper. Their mouths are smeared with red sauce. They’re small and warm, fidgety and already on their way to the kitchen. She twists out of her coat, reaches into the coat closet; the hangers jangle as they hit each other. Simon’s aftershave hangs between the clothes, there’s his scarf, his jacket. Suddenly, she wishes she could call Tobias. She closes her eyes, feels his hands running over her back, then suddenly stopping. She pulls away, winces. “Hey, baby, why are you so jumpy? I’m sorry I didn’t call, but the girls were really all over me. All three of us nearly overslept this morning, and then they made such a fuss about getting dressed that I had to bribe them, otherwise I would have been late. I used the afternoon off as bait. But they were so sweet, and I thought, this just isn’t right. I checked myself out—they can do without me for one day. Gündert was left standing there with his dick in his hand, but whatever. I’ve worked overtime so much, and it’s just not right for a father to see his kids only when they’re asleep.” Simon stands behind Leonie in the open closet door. He’s wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that says LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL in green letters. His face looks young. Leonie thinks of their first meeting in the teachers’ parking lot. He has circles under his eyes and a few more wrinkles, but it’s still the same old Simon, and he seems intent and very awake. She turns and presents her bedraggled appearance: unmade-up face, missing earring. Now he’ll have to ask. What should I do? He strokes her hair, his hands are warm. “You seem pretty pooped. Did you guys really rage last night? I sent Connie an e-card with music and flowers, but only after the kids were tucked in. I couldn’t even watch the game in peace. They kept jabbering and coming out: I’m thirsty, I have to go potty, my tummy hurts, who knows. How do you do it? They don’t act like this when you’re around.” He doesn’t notice, he sees nothing. Suddenly she has to sneeze, she covers her face with her hands. “Uh oh, I hope you didn’t catch something. Do you have Kleenex in your bag?” She hears the latch clicking open, the crackle of the package, then Simon laughs: “The Night Face Up. Is it erotica or something? Wow, and published by Suhrkamp, too. Egghead sex. Will you read me some tonight?” He hands her the tissues and waves the Cortázar. Something hot rises in Leonie’s stomach; she swallows. “Shut up, what do you know about it?” She tears the book from his hand and crosses the hall with staccato steps. The girls are on stools at the kitchen table, cutting something. Leonie walks right past.
The bed is unmade. Felicia’s disheveled Bert doll lies on a mound of blankets, arms wide. It’s a wild landscape of child-size pajamas, Simon’s boxers, a heap of picture books, and a half-full milk bottle. She falls back into the basket chair and wipes her tears. She wants to hit herself, and him too, standing there like a dumb sheep. Why does he have to follow her around like a little puppy dog? He wasn’t around yesterday, he hasn’t been around in general, but now—here he is, standing in front of her. Too much overtime? Don’t make me laugh! All of a sudden it’s no problem, all of a sudden he can just take the afternoon off! Simon takes her by the shoulders, his face now very close to hers. “Leo, what’s wrong? Did something happen?” She looks at him but can’t stop bawling. Little tree, little tree, shake over me, that silver and gold may come down and cover me. What will fall now, oh holy St. Anthony—the other earring maybe? It’s probably stuck in the crack of a hotel bed in Tübingen. “Leo, tell me what’s wrong.” Now she really feels sick. She screams: “What should I do, vomit on your feet to show you how I feel?” And there are so many apples, hanging from the ceiling—they’ll fall down now, one for each of us, and when we eat them we’ll be like God and know good and evil. Who’s the evil one now?
Simon snaps back: “You’re out of your mind! Here I am making an ass of myself, coming home extra early so that you can go to your party, sitting around with the kids, and then you come home and curse me for it. It’s your own fault you have a hangover! And the kids! Do you want them to see you flipping out like this?” Leonie falls on his words like a dog on a bone. “Oh, now you think you know what’s good for the girls? After spending a night and an afternoon alone with them? You’re never here, and now you want to play the good daddy, so concerned about their pedagogical needs. You don’t care about any of us, you don’t give a shit!” She savors the curse words and the volume, she wants to hurt him. “It’s only money that got you here, but you’ll never really make it—you’ll never be anything but white trash from Heslach!” Simon puts his hand up like a traffic cop. “Leo, you must be on your period or something. Stop it!” She can’t stop. His calmness only makes her crazier. Finally he shouts back: “You’re no different! Who is it that wants to drive a Volvo and buy top-of-the line shit at Breuninger’s! Who’s the one who never stops comparing my paycheck to daddy’s? You could stay home if you wanted to, instead of leaving the kids to rot with those stupid Catholics! They don’t teach them anything about real life!”
The bedroom door opens. Lisa and Felicia peek in. They look small in the big white doorframe. Feli has her thumb in her mouth and Lisa is holding her sister’s hand. “Mama, Papi, what . . .” They shrink back when Leonie shrieks, “Can’t we even get five minutes alone? Get out! You don’t need anything in here!” The milk bottle stands within reach. Colorful boats sail over white waves toward a glass horizon. She closes her hand around the neck and flings it in Simon’s direction. The glass clatters and milk runs down the wall. Leonie feels like laughing at him, the way he’s staring at her like a creature from another planet. Yes, he’s never seen her like this. He looks like someone ate his slice of cake. I’m not your cake, but you can bite me! She thinks of Delia from Buenos Aires who fed her Mario deadly sweets. They keep screaming, Heslach versus Feuerbach. The game is tied, and they go into overtime, saying things like, “You can’t even get i
t up any more,” but suddenly Simon isn’t looking at Leonie. Nor at the white shards in the corner. The fleet is scattered to the four winds: red, yellow, blue, green, dear St. Martin come and see. Simon points to the door: “The kids—where are they?”
They rush through the rooms without looking at each other. Leonie’s office pumps clack through the halls. Music drifts from the kitchen, a warm female voice backed by slow strings: Across a thousand dreams, to the edge of time, here we are in paradise. There are three defrosted pizzas on the table: red circles in white dough frames, olive eyes, tomato nose, pepper mouth, bits of cheese on the floor, overturned stools, a slipper. She opens the window and looks out. The Posselts’ old mutt is wandering around on the sidewalk across the street; it sniffs, then stops, tail tucked. There’s no one to be seen, but the streetlights are on. When the love is true you feel no doubt, here we are in paradise. “Are they in their bedroom?” Leonie turns to Simon, who answers immediately: “No, I was just there.” He paws through the children’s coats in the hallway closet with both hands. The wooden animals over the hooks grin smugly. “Their jackets are gone, both of them.” Leonie grabs her coat from the closet. St. Anthony brings back what’s lost, you just have to pray hard. Together they run down the steps to Constantinstraße.
The street lamps hang over the middle of the dark street from their wire trapeze, a garland of glowing white-orange rectangles that get smaller as they get farther away up the hill. The air smells of exhaust and the damp chill of evening. There are more cars on the road now, people are busily parking, turning, circling the block. People Leonie has never seen pull out keys and enter neighboring buildings, their hands full of plastic bags. “Where could they have gone?” Simon is pale, his head whips in every direction. Leonie shrugs. “I don’t know. But probably they went a way they knew. Down the street, to the bakery, to Nâzim’s shop.” Simon grabs her hand. “Nâzim, that’s it! Let’s ask him—he knows everyone in the neighborhood, he knows what they look like, maybe he saw them go by!” Leonie snatches her fingers back as if he were trying to rob her and runs off. The litany of prayers running through her head—let me find them, let them be safe, let them be alive—is interrupted by names associated with tragedy—Dutroux, Tosa-Klause—and images: stuffed animals, bouquets of flowers and tea lights, cardboard signs with “Why?” scrawled in Magic Marker, along with the silent, frighteningly normal-looking faces of the perpetrators. I’ll never eat chocolate again, I’ll never lie, I’ll never fuck, dear God, I’ll never scold them again. She’d screamed at them, yelled in their little faces. Felicia’s downy hair, Lisa’s pout. How will I be able to live if I never see them again? As she runs, she automatically turns her head to the right and stares into the dark abyss of a garage. First stop and look—the cars might not see you. The girls won’t be paying attention tonight.
Nâzim smiles at them when they fling open the door. The glockenspiel jingles wildly. Leonie is in such a hurry that she knocks over a basket. Lemons roll across the floor, glowing yellow between dark green leaves. Nâzim lets out a surprising cry, but she pushes onward, paying no attention to him or to the couple drinking espresso at the high table. She runs into the next room with the crates of drinks and the row of refrigerators full of shimmering glass and bottles, bends to check every corner. Leonie’s hope is so powerful that she thinks she sees their pink jackets and fleecy hats. But there’s no one there, not even by the quietly humming ice cream freezer.
A heavy smell of fruit hangs in the room, like in an orchard. Here everything ripens at the same time—even the lilies bloom in the window, exuding a soapy fragrance. FRUIT OF THE GODS, Leonie reads on one of the wooden crates. Inside, tissue paper enfolds each orange like a treasure. There are pineapples, with green-gold skins notched with diamonds and prickly, cactus-like crowns, peaches, crimson under their silvery fuzz, and grapes that look like polished glass. Next to them, bananas lie in yellow bundles, and gleaming apples are stacked in pyramids of red, yellow, and green.
It’s Simon who’s finally able to speak. He breathes heavily, but he’s the one who asks the question, his sneakers surrounded by lemons, the whispering of the espresso drinkers at his back. Leonie comes back to stand next to him and to hypnotize Nâzim with her eyes: Say yes, say yes! Make him say yes: Yes, I saw them! “Nâzim, we’re looking for our girls, Lisa and Felicia. Have they been here? Or did they walk by?” Nâzim’s brown forehead furrows. He strokes his cheeks and closes his eyes as he thinks. They’re dark and without a hint of comfort: “Oh I’m so sorry, but I haven’t seen any girls. It’s been busy this whole time, but there haven’t been any children. Only little Mattis and his mother, half an hour ago. I’m sorry. What about the police?”
Leonie has heard enough. She turns to leave. Each minute spent here is a minute wasted. She wants to go, she tugs at Simon’s jacket. He crouches to pick up the scattered fruit. Nâzim touches his arm. “You don’t have to do that—just leave it, I’ll take care of it. Should I call the police . . .?”
The glockenspiel on the door jangles again. It must be Lisa and Feli coming in, silent and pale, with a surge of cold street air and dirty shoes, their mouths turned down. It must be their hands holding the crumpled plastic bag. What are they thinking? They’re not allowed to play with plastic bags. She wants to speak, but no sound comes out. And what is Nâzim making such a fuss about? Soon they’ll start to cry—he shouldn’t yell at them like that. He stands with his index finger pointed in accusation: “What do you want here, you little rascal? Don’t come in my store again, understand? Get out of here, you filthy scum!” As Nâzim slowly drops his raised fist and takes a step back, as Simon comes to Leonie and murmurs, “Shit! What the hell is going on?”, and the espresso woman shrieks, Leonie sees a black object in the child’s small fist. It looks ugly. Where could they have gotten it? Probably found it outside, Lisa always has to pick up everything she sees. She’ll read them the riot act as soon as they get home. She hears a soft clanking as the child’s other hand takes a bottle from the bag and puts it on the floor.
“Are you crazy? What are you doing?” Nâzim whispers.
“Where’s the dough, you Turkish pig? Pull it out, chop chop! Or this place is gonna blow, I swear it.” And as Leonie thinks, Your mouths should be washed out with soap for that kind of language, she sees the boy standing in the middle of the shop. The beautiful boy, dirty-blond under his hood. Candy-moocher, fountain dreamer, bag holder. Again, the tear-inducing disappointment. It’s his hand, so tender for a boy’s, that holds the pistol—a black weapon in a dirty hand connected to an arm that disappears into the sleeve of a cheap nylon anorak. The espresso woman and her companion have ducked for cover, murmuring as they do so. Simon grabs Leonie and holds her close. She can feel the tension of his body. He mutters: “What a load of bullshit, god damn it, bullshit!” She reads the words on the bag, sees sneakers, drooping pants, pale face, Nâzim’s raised hand. She and Simon cling to each other. The boy takes another step toward Nâzim and screams: “Pull out the money! Get your chickpea can, you gay ass-fucker, you weakling!” Nâzim trembles. “I only have what’s in the register. I don’t have money in the store. Just the register!” The boy’s eyes are close-set and bright. At this, his delicate brows draw together. He screams, spittle flies: “You’re lying, you pig, you’re lying!” Leonie doesn’t dare to move, and Simon breathes out quickly. There’s a screech from behind them: “Come on, just do what he says! Give him the money!” The boy spins, now holding the weapon with both hands. “Get down on the floor and shut your mouths, or I’ll finish you!” She lies next to Simon, the first in the row. Spooning on the cold, tiled floor. He’s still clutching her arm. Behind her the espresso woman’s coat rustles. Her companion groans as he rolls onto his side. The boy sticks the weapon into Nâzim’s back. The black muzzle bores into the starched white of his shirt. “I’ll open the register, I’ll open it, here!” The metal drawer rattles out. The boy reaches in with one hand, grabs a bundle of bills, and then there’s a clinkin
g as coins fly through the room. “Are you shitting me? Where’s the can? The can with all your cash, pull it out, this is fucking bullshit!” Nâzim’s face contorts; Leonie wants to shake him. Crying, he points to the drawer: “There, that’s everything!” The sneakers stamp. “You’re lying, I know it, Murat told me, give it to me, I need the fucking can!” One hand reaches down for the bottle, fumbles with the top, frantically unscrews it. The top rolls across the tiles, under a rack full of pasta and Italian cookies. “I’ll show you now—I’ll show you all! Don’t move, or I’ll shoot!”
Window washing, Leonie thinks. Frau Kienzle comes to wash the windows. The light blue rags, the yellow chamois, the green bottle of denatured alcohol. The boy shakes the contents of the bottle over the floor, over the fruit baskets and crates. He does it with a light touch, like a housewife spraying laundry to be ironed, moving the bottle in shaky arcs. It gurgles brightly, and single drops catch her hair, her face. Nâzim stands in a puddle, his face frozen in fear. The bottle falls to the floor. Then the boy is only a black shadow behind the beaded curtains that separates the merchandise from the back room. He pulls the trigger. A little flame flickers out of the black mouth of the weapon and licks the tip of a match that the boy is holding up between his thumb and index finger like a tiny flower, glowing yellow edged with blue. Leonie screams and sees Nâzim throwing her scream back to her like an echo, his mouth open wide and arms flung high, she hears Simon and the couple behind her. She feels pee running out of her, warm and wet. The boy sticks the pistol down the front of his cargo pants, pushes the curtain aside, and flings the burning match on the counter.
Shorter Days Page 17