by Sofie Cramer
Sven just has to find her.
clara
Feeling morose despite the July sun, Clara stands at the kitchen window and keeps a lookout for Katja’s brand-new Fiat 500.
“We’ll take a test-drive this weekend. To Hamburg. But only if you get nice and dolled up like you used to!” her friend had warned.
The thing is, this Saturday had actually started out quite promising. In the morning Clara had gone on a tear through the shops in Lüneburg’s beautiful Old City for the first time in months and had had a real blast spending money. She’d gotten two pairs of jeans, a flashy top, and a marked-down but still murderously expensive pair of summer shoes that look very elegant and are a fairly big departure from her normal style.
At first Clara had been looking forward to being in a suitable atmosphere to show off her new clothes. But now she would much rather stay home, drink a glass of wine, listen to some nice music, and work on her paintings some more.
But if she cancels on Katja one more time she’s going to have to start looking for a new best friend soon. Even though Katja, by her standards anyway, had had a very rough time dealing with the aftermath of the Robert affair, Clara hadn’t been much help to her. Every time her friend wanted to try to get her mind off Robert by going out to a cocktail bar or to see a movie, the effort foundered in the face of Clara’s unwillingness to be among people. Grief makes you egotistical. But if nothing else, Clara never stops trying to cheer Katja up. After all, Robert actually did leave his wife, or at least he claims he did. But as yet Katja hasn’t deigned to see him more than twice. Instead she decided to buy herself a new car.
“It’s such an exhilarating feeling!” Katja says excitedly when Clara finally climbs into the robin’s-egg-blue Fiat. “You should try treating yourself to something really, really swanky.”
“Already did,” Clara responds proudly and lifts her right foot so that Katja can admire her new shoes.
“Wow! New?” Katja asks.
“Brand new. It’s been eons, but I finally went out and did some real intense shopping.”
“That is a damn good sign, babe. And it’s also high time we had some fun together again. Just you wait, this is going to be a sensational evening!”
“So tell me, what is it you actually plan to do with me?”
“Nothing in particular,” Katja singsongs in such an exaggeratedly casual way that Clara immediately gets suspicious.
“Come on, tell me! You’re cooking something up, I know it. We’re going to a strip club in St. Pauli, is that it?” Clara asks, trying to head off right here at the outset her very worst fear of what a Saturday night might have in store.
But Katja only grins, which makes Clara even more suspicious. “Why do I get the feeling that I’m going to have to do something tonight that I’ve never done before?”
“Well, that’s easy, because you’re about to take this sweet car for a spin as soon as we fill up the tank.”
Clara grins back and is already looking forward to the test-drive. But there’s something else in the works here. Something that makes her feel very uncomfortable.
* * *
• • •
Even though Clara hates to let a warm summer Sunday just slip by like this, it’s already mid-afternoon and she still hasn’t managed to do anything productive. She sits at the table on her little balcony as if in a trance, flipping through a magazine whose contents are of absolutely no interest to her.
Her thoughts keep straying back to last night. How could Katja do that to her? Of course she’d totally meant well. But it just wasn’t the right time. For Clara it felt like it came about three years too early.
It wasn’t an exaggeration to say that until this weekend she had never, not once, seriously entertained the thought of going on a date with another man, to say nothing of getting involved with one. Just the thought of kissing strange lips, lying in a new man’s arms, or smelling a completely unfamiliar body makes Clara shudder. Even if she has enough experience to know that every heartache eases sooner or later, no matter how great, she can’t imagine ever being able to love someone other than Ben for the rest of her life.
And then Katja goes and introduces her to not just one guy but eight at the same time!
When she and Katja walked into the bar on the Binnenalster and her friend led her to a separate room in which five men and three women were already seated, Clara didn’t yet suspect what the actual purpose of this outing was. Only when the moderator handed her a form and she saw the words “Speed Dating 8×8×8” printed at the top did things start to click for her. Never would she have thought that Katja, without her knowledge, would force her to take part in such an event. Before now Clara had taken for granted that she would never have to put herself up on the market like this.
Katja of course thought it was a super idea and just kept winking at her with a big grin on her face every time the men switched to the next table after eight minutes of the most superficial chitchat.
Granted, Clara had actually enjoyed—just the tiniest little bit—receiving nice compliments from this or that guy. But afterward she was plagued with guilt. And when she got back home she couldn’t even bring herself to text Ben. She simply didn’t know how to confess to him that she had gone out looking for a man. And the thing was, none of the candidates had turned out to be nearly as attractive or charming as Ben, not even close. With the exception of the genial moderator Andreas, who always kept up a positive mood and wore a very conspicuous wedding ring, all the guys tended to be more on the pathetic side, longtime loners who hid their desperation behind hectic questions and what were supposed to be confident gestures.
Sure, she and Katja did have a lot of fun. But really the fun only came after this lame event was over, when they got to run through and comment on the performance of each of the male—and female—candidates. Dieter, for example: forty-six, balding, sweaty palms. He’d actually asked Katja and Clara the exact same questions, as if he’d written them all down beforehand and learned them by heart. And Florian, who was actually a strapping young guy in his midtwenties, but who unfortunately tended to spit when he talked. Volker on the other hand barely managed to say a word and maintained eye contact exclusively with her chest.
From the get-go, Clara refused to even consider going on a date and didn’t want to give her email address out either. She just didn’t see any point in going out with a man when she already knew that she would spend the whole evening trying desperately and with great effort not to bring up the things that were most on her mind at the moment. This being the case, she didn’t want to fake any interest and therefore told all the candidates that the only reason she was there in the first place was that she was doing her friend sitting at the next table a favor—and a questionable favor at that.
Clara was a bit afraid that Katja was secretly disappointed by the evening’s meager yield. But Katja wouldn’t be Katja if she didn’t turn a setback into a victory. She immediately set out to get the scoop on this Andreas guy. Clara did have to admit that he was incredibly attractive and totally confident, too. When he was explaining the rules, he demonstrated a subtle sense of humor that definitely lent the event a touch of class. Katja finally ended up asking him straight out if she could also put him on her list of guys who should get her number. But he just smiled and said ambiguously: “Oh, but you’ve got my number already . . .” Katja took this to be a clear invitation to take action.
Clara is positive that over the next couple of weeks her friend is going to make a gigantic fuss over this guy. After all, they were in their prime, Katja said, which meant they should go looking for the best, no matter how much baggage, past or present, might happen to come with it.
Now Clara can’t help but smile at the thought of how much energy her total whack job of a friend has put into trying to get some life back into her in any way possible. Clara loves her for it. And for putting up with
her passivity and fearfulness. And for always coming up with hundreds of ways to have fun and get their minds off things.
But Katja is going to have to accept that she and Clara will never again have the kind of silly conversations about men and relationships that they used to have. How can anything ever be light and cheerful again when there’s this ever-present doubt like a little gnome sitting in Clara’s ear, whispering “Nothing is as it seems,” “You can never trust this peaceful feeling,” and even “Maybe you don’t deserve happiness”?
Clara just doesn’t like herself anymore. Sometimes she wishes someone would just get right up in her face and yell at her, tell her that she should quit wallowing in self-pity already and stop idealizing Ben. But instead of this, not only her grandparents but also her friends, her coworkers, and of course her mother as well are constantly trying to cheer her up. Really though there’s only one thing Clara wants: to be her old self again. She wants to be rid of this stigma that it seems like everyone can spot from ten yards off and that makes her feel like she has something sinister or malign clinging to her.
Clara keeps flipping listlessly through the pages of the magazine until suddenly an ad catches her eye that she remembers seeing last night on a billboard on the way into Hamburg. It’s not particularly well put together in terms of the visuals, but the slogan does bring a little grin to Clara’s face. A hip-looking guy sits relaxing on the couch and enjoying a beer. Above him is the slogan: “You only live once, boys!”
Just as she did yesterday, Clara immediately thinks about how Ben, too, had had only one life, a life that might have been far too short but that he tried harder to enjoy than anyone else she knew.
But what about her? Could it be that when his life ended, hers did, too, just like that? Clara sits up. That can’t be true; she can’t let it be true. No matter what the actual cause of Ben’s death was, he wouldn’t have wanted Clara to remain unhappy on his account. And even if for some reason that is what he wanted, she still has every right to enjoy life as best she could.
Little by little a kind of furious anger rises within her. Anger at life, at her fate, and sometimes at Ben, too. It would be nice if one day she were to meet someone who could deal with her and what she’s been through without being embarrassed or awkward about it, someone who sees only her and isn’t scared off by her history.
Clara goes to the kitchen to get something to drink. Her eye catches the card from the pizza delivery place that’s pinned to the fridge with a magnet. She feels a lump forming in her throat: Almost every Sunday night, Ben had ordered dinner there for the two of them. And suddenly Clara has a huge craving for a real greasy, salty pepperoni pizza with a thick layer of cheese.
She reaches for the phone, places her order, and gives a start when the person on the other end asks if the address is still the same and if the order is for “Runge, Benjamin Runge.”
“No!” Clara responds, instantly aware of how horribly impolite she sounds. “You can cross Runge out. But the address is correct; the delivery is for Sommerfeld.”
When she hangs up, Clara considers for a second whether she should give in to the impulse that the knot in her throat triggers in her. But she doesn’t want to start crying yet again. She doesn’t want to have to put this weekend down as a defeat; rather she wants to summon all her strength and call it progress. And so she heads back out on her now very shady balcony and tries to look forward to her first pizza in almost half a year.
sven
As far as Sven is concerned, his “investigations” in the Lilime case are far from being wrapped up, but thanks to a rough week at work they’ve definitely been forced to take a backseat for the past few days. In that time, Sven has started to wonder if losing himself in this silly fantasy world with Lilime isn’t serving as a convenient excuse for not finding some other way to take control of his life. Somehow he’s gotten stuck in his same old rut, nothing but deadlines and meetings, and he feels more than ready for a vacation. His life of late feels like a corset.
And the thing is, he actually loves his job! He likes to write, and he likes the hectic pace, too, when it comes down to it. He likes his apartment as well; he feels comfortable in it. And even his last visit with his father was surprisingly pleasant and uncomplicated, and left Sven with the feeling that they were slowly starting to grow closer.
Sven goes to the refrigerator to look for something tasty for dinner, trying to head off the gloomy mood he feels coming on. But finding neither frozen pizza nor anything else edible—or at least that he feels like eating—he decides to head back out onto the street.
He grabs a large bag to throw away everything that he knows he’s never going to eat. This tube of tomato paste doesn’t just have a disgusting crust around the cap, it also expired more than a year ago, Sven registers to his astonishment. And he’s better off not looking all too closely at these two jars of marmalade. As far as Sven can remember, they were presents from Fiona’s mother. But he doesn’t even like marmalade—and he definitely doesn’t like this disgusting salad dressing that Fiona loved so much. The bottle is now undoubtedly host to an amazingly diverse array of mold cultures.
It’s high time for my ex-girlfriend to clear out of my apartment for good, he thinks. And today’s a good day for it!
Spirits high, he takes the already half-full bag and casts his gaze around the loft, looking to eliminate any and all mementos from his days with Fiona. There aren’t many left to begin with: a goofy postcard on the dresser, a fruit bowl that he never liked in the first place, a jar of bath salts that is just collecting dust, a few clothes, a few pairs of shoes, a corny gingerbread heart from the Hamburg fair, and finally a few unframed photos in a drawer. The photos he’d like to keep. But everything else he stuffs into the bag without a single pang of regret.
Next he grabs his wallet, his keys, and his phone, and he’s out the door. The night will take him first to the trash bins, then to the gourmet section of the supermarket, and finally to the video store.
clara
The path from the cemetery entrance to Ben’s grave seems interminably long. Clara feels very ill at ease and can’t quite figure out if it’s because she just fundamentally hates being so near to Ben’s dead body or if it’s that her mother insisted on coming with her today.
“How often are you coming here these days?” Karin now asks. Her tone of voice is gentle and subdued, but even still, Clara immediately feels like she’s been put on the defensive. She feels guilty because in the past few weeks she has very rarely found the courage to come here.
“It’s hard for me. This place gives me the creeps.”
“But that’s perfectly all right.” Her mother hesitates, but then links arms with Clara and adds carefully: “This fear of yours probably means that you’ve still got a lot left to work through.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know,” Clara replies. She has to stop herself from immediately snapping at her mother.
“But you know I’m always here for you, honey.” Unasked, her mother continues speaking: “There are so many things we can do to make your pain a little easier to bear. But the most important thing is, you have to let go!”
“I’m perfectly aware of that. But it doesn’t help that you keep harping on it all the time.” Clara tries to stay calm, but inside she’s already lost it.
“I just want to help you. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t share with you my own valuable experiences of dealing with grief?”
Clara shakes her head and decides to just not say anything. What she really wants right now is to be alone. Alone and someplace far away from here.
Again and again, the thought of just taking off pops into her head. Drop everything, run away, and start fresh somewhere else. No doubt her mother would only interpret these thoughts as being indicative of a desire on Clara’s part to flee from her own painful reality. She would give her a long sentimental speech trying to convince her to u
ndergo a holistic therapy regimen and finally align herself with the energy of the universe. She would drag out all her slick self-help books again and list off the addresses of countless experts whom Clara could turn to in confidence for help finding her way back to herself and regaining her inner strength.
During such conversations, Clara would like nothing more than to scream and shout and tell her mother right to her face that maybe she never had any inner strength to begin with and that the reasons for this were no doubt to be found in her childhood. After her father died, Clara felt completely alone in her grief. She almost never saw her mother crying for him. And now, when she just wants to be left alone, Karin thinks she has the right to probe deep down inside her, and all she ends up doing is rubbing more salt in her wounds.
“Oh, these are beautiful!” her mother exclaims when she sees the white bouquet of gerbera and roses that has been left at the base of the headstone. “You didn’t bring these here, did you?”
Again Clara gives a shudder on the inside. At first she wants to respond with a defiant no, but then she says only: “I’m sure they’re from Dorothea or her mother.”
Suddenly Karin pulls a glass figurine from her handbag. Only when Clara looks closer does she see that it’s an angel.
“What are you going to do with that?” she asks in surprise.
“Here, take a closer look!” Karin points at the face of the figurine. “The angel is singing and looks so cheerful. I found it in that cute shop on Schröderstrasse and immediately thought of Ben.”
Clara gives her mother a skeptical look. But Karin just smiles.
“If it’s all right with you, I thought I’d leave it here,” she says finally, then she places the figurine at the base of the headstone next to the flowers and steps back again.