by Inge Löhnig
When he’d come home with the bunch of roses, he’d said he wanted to patch things up with Bertram. He hadn’t mentioned the argument about the will or the phone call to Caroline about how they could help. If he’d shared all that with her, the evening would have ended very differently.
They’d sat on the sofa in the living room with the G and Ts Albert had mixed, chatting more freely than they’d done in a long time. A dead weight had been lifted from her soul, and the sudden lightness had made her practically giddy. When they went into the bedroom and Albert started struggling with her bra clasp, she giggled like a teenager. Even the way he peeled off his socks had made her laugh until she cried. Probably the second G and T had been too much of a good thing. Oh well. She’d had a lovely night, and woke up more refreshed and rested than she’d felt in weeks.
Then came that dreadful news. Why had Bertram gone to look for the will in the first place? Either way, he still had to wait until it was read. Had he needed to give the tax authorities something in writing to prevent the auction? It was possible. And then he’d found the altered will, and his world had shattered. He must have panicked. Presumably he wasn’t thinking clearly. He must have gone to his father’s apartment only a few minutes after Albert had left. If Albert had still been there, Bertram wouldn’t have been able to look for the will. And then nothing would have happened.
Babs got up. She couldn’t work like this. Anyway, the boys were going on their school trip tomorrow and she had to get things ready. They’d be home in half an hour. The news of Uncle Bertram’s death had hit them harder than Babs expected, yet they’d kept their afternoon commitments, first reading to Mrs Katzameier then going to music lessons and volleyball training. That was probably a positive sign. Still, having a week away was bound to do them good.
Babs went into Noel’s room, taking T-shirts, pullovers and jeans out of the wardrobe. As she pulled some underwear off the shelf, a pocket gaming console fell into her hands. What on earth was this? She and Albert had refused to fulfil Noel’s birthday request for such a device, and for good reason. They didn’t want their children playing games whose content they weren’t able to monitor.
Babs stared at the small console with its reflective screen. Why Noel had hidden it was clear. But where had he got it from? Had he stolen it? Noel didn’t steal. She’d bet her life on that. The boys might push back a bit, they might mess about, but they knew where to draw the line. Or did they?
These gaming consoles were expensive, after all. And Noel wasn’t saving his pocket money. She’d have to get to the bottom of the matter at dinner.
Babs heard Albert coming home. The door fell shut. ‘I’m home,’ he shouted, sounding tense. She put back the console, took a week’s worth of underwear off the shelf and went out to Albert in the kitchen.
‘I’ll be back at work from Monday. I need a distraction.’ He stood up and poured himself a glass of whiskey. At half past five in the afternoon. He looked like a beaten man. Only last Thursday, it struck her, they’d sat there toasting Albert for saving someone’s life.
It was only a week ago that he’d gone down to the practice earlier than usual, as if sensing he was needed. Hardly had he arrived before Mrs Cernovsky, the fourth-floor tenant, came storming into the consulting room. Her husband had collapsed in the bathroom. She’d seen Albert entering the building just as she was standing by the window phoning an ambulance. Albert had sprinted upstairs and resuscitated the man. By the time the paramedics arrived, he’d stabilised the man’s pulse and breathing to the point where he could be transported. After that Albert had gone back to work like any other day, as if nothing had happened. If Mrs Cernovsky hadn’t turned up on their doorstep that evening with a bottle of wine, Babs wouldn’t have known about it. She’d been so proud of him, and now he was sitting here looking so glum. What befell him this week was more than a person could bear. It was sheer nightmare. More so for him than for her.
Although Babs thought Bertram’s suicide was horrifying, there were limits to how sorry she felt about Wolfram. Now his funeral was over, everything would be easier. His time was at an end, the memory of him would fade, and in the not-too-distant future Wolfram would cease to play a role in her life. No longer would he come between her and Albert. She felt almost ashamed at her relief, yet at the same time the old fear began to spread like thickening fog. Would Albert have married her if his father hadn’t insisted? Had he ever really loved her?
He was always content to be lukewarm, she thought suddenly, shocked. He wasn’t a man of grand emotions, dreaming of true love, pursuing his goals with passion and ambition. Even his job he’d accepted as God-given: dutifully and without enthusiasm. He’d never struggled, never championed anything. He’d always obeyed his father’s wishes. And now he had no father to please. What would happen?
Albert withdrew his hand. ‘I’m going to lie down for a few minutes.’
‘Yes, you do that.’ Babs got up. Time to make dinner. She fetched the pre-prepared chicken out of the fridge and put it in the oven. Then she peeled potatoes and made salad. By the time the children arrived, the food was ready.
Noel stuck his head round the door. ‘Can we watch The Simpsons?’
‘We’re about to eat. You can lay the table.’
‘Aww,’ complained Noel, but he and Leon came into the kitchen. Five minutes later Babs and her family were sitting round the table in front of heaped plates. She didn’t have much of an appetite, however, and then she remembered what she’d found in Noel’s wardrobe. For a moment she was tempted to postpone the conversation, she felt so exhausted and run-down – but she knew she was in for a sleepless night if she did. When she was anxious her thoughts often took on monstrous proportions, only shrinking back to normal size at daybreak. Then healthy common sense regained the upper hand over fear. She looked over at Noel, who was gnawing at a chicken leg. He caught her gaze, then looked away.
‘I was going through your things for the school trip.’
He held her gaze for a moment, then reddened.
‘For one thing, you know we have our reasons for not giving you a console, and for another, I’m wondering where you got it from.’
Albert stopped turning over salad leaves and looked up. ‘Did I miss something?’
Babs explained what it was about.
‘So? What’s the problem?’
Noel was as surprised as she was. His jaw literally dropped for a moment. Then he shut his mouth and a grin spread across his face.
‘What’s the problem?’ Again she sounded like Albert’s echo. ‘He disregarded our rules, and he doesn’t have enough money to buy something like that himself.’ She turned to Noel. ‘I’d like to know where you got it.’
‘From Michi. I bought it. It’s an ancient Gameboy.’ He elongated the word ‘ancient’ like chewing gum.
‘How much was it?’
‘Twenty euros.’ Noel gazed down at his plate.
‘Where did you get so much money? And don’t tell me you saved it up.’
‘From Mrs Katzameier.’
‘What? I don’t believe it.’
‘She insisted we take it.’ Noel looked at Leon. ‘It’s true. She practically forced us. It would have been really impolite to refuse.’
Leon nodded. ‘It’s true, Mum.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Albert.
Babs reluctantly explained how they’d swapped roles to take the Latin test, and what punishment she’d meted out.
Albert gripped the knife like a sword. ‘Pretty creative idea.’
Babs thought she must have misheard. Not wanting to open up another battlefront, however, she ignored the remark.
‘Did you accept money too?’ she asked Leon.
He looked abashed. ‘I didn’t buy anything with it, though. I gave it to the old man who’s always looking for bottles in the bins. You said we weren’t allowed to accept anything because doing her shopping and reading to her was supposed to be a punishment, but she wouldn�
��t give up. She just put it in our jacket pockets. We genuinely couldn’t give it back, because we’d have had to tell her it was a punishment. And that would have been really mean.’
A warm wave of pride and affection surged though Babs. Leon was a lovely boy.
‘Exactly,’ crowed Noel. ‘We kept the money so as not to upset her.’
Albert was observing this scene with the keen attention of an entomologist gazing through a microscope.
‘You found a good solution to the dilemma,’ she told Leon. ‘Noel should have followed your example . . .’
Albert slammed his palm against the table, making the glasses jangle. Babs and the children jumped. ‘Are you finished with this fucking inquisition? What kind of ivory tower are you living in?’ he screamed at Babs. ‘Real life is a storm out there, and it’s not remotely fair or just. And you’re sitting there banging on about justice and morality.’
For a moment Babs was speechless. ‘What are you talking about? Just because other people don’t care about truth and honesty, it doesn’t mean the boys should follow their example. They’ve got to learn – ’
‘You can keep the Gameboy, obviously,’ said Albert to Noel, who was following the argument in alarm. ‘And as for you, you idiot, you’re a gormless goody-two-shoes,’ he said, turning to Leon. ‘That old bloke won’t have spent your generous donation on bread and butter, he’ll be loading up on schnapps and beer.’
Leon blinked, and Noel looked as if he might burst into tears at any moment. ‘You can get down now,’ said Babs. ‘We’ll clear the table later.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. Always protecting the kids so nothing upsets their delicate little minds. For fuck’s sake.’ Albert slammed his fist against the table yet again. ‘Parents fight sometimes!’ he shouted after the children as they closed the door behind them.
Babs stared at Albert. Was it the whiskey? What was the matter with him? She felt hurt and humiliated, but she didn’t want to escalate the argument. So she took a deep breath and tried to make her words sound unemotional. ‘I don’t understand you. So far we’ve always been in agreement when it comes to raising the boys.’
Albert’s eyes were cold. ‘No, we haven’t. I just left it to you.’
‘Oh really? So I suppose I was the one who threatened to pull Noel out of the volleyball club, was I? And I’m the one who wants the boys to get straight As and study medicine? I’m the one who wants them to take over the fucking practice?’
‘It’s the fucking practice now, is it? You’ve been living off it pretty well. It’s given you a fancy lifestyle. Other women have to work.’
‘Have to?’ yelled Babs. The rest she bit back. This wouldn’t get them anywhere. It would only end in disaster. ‘I want Noel to give the Gameboy back.’ She heard with relief that her voice sounded calm. ‘If he’s allowed to keep it it’ll make a mockery of the punishment. It’d be like rewarding him for cheating on the Latin test.’
‘Cheating. For goodness’ sake. It doesn’t get much more trivial. It was a prank. Let them have their fun.’
‘Fun! What they did wasn’t right, and there have got to be consequences. I won’t allow my children to become rude and thoughtless people who don’t know the meaning of consideration and helpfulness, and who think the rules only apply to others.’
As she spoke Albert’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your children.’ He pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Your children. It’s true, you did lumber me with them, and if Dad hadn’t insisted . . .’
The kitchen door banged shut behind him, the front door following a few seconds later.
*
For an hour Caroline had been sitting on the sofa, staring at the cover of a fashion magazine that lay on the coffee table in front of her. But she didn’t see the artful beauty of the model’s face. Why hadn’t she got back to Albert immediately, without thinking about the time? Or she could have phoned Bertram directly and told him not to worry, that they’d figure something out together. They could even have ignored Dad’s final will. As far as she was concerned, Bertram could have had the portion that was due to him. Her eyes burned, yet she couldn’t cry. Yes, he’d threatened to kill himself if he lost the house, but she’d always thought it was a stupid, empty phrase. Her mind had been running in circles since Albert had phoned to tell her about Bertram’s suicide. Phoned her! She was too upset, however, to be genuinely annoyed about Albert’s callousness. Every time her mind returned to empty phrase she felt sick. On Tuesday she’d wondered what Bertram might do if he lost his shield, but it had been a purely theoretical thought experiment; she hadn’t believed for a second it would actually happen. Evidently Albert had felt the same, because he hadn’t sounded seriously worried. At least he’d tried to do something, though. If only he’d rung her mobile. He knew she was in Frankfurt. As it was, she’d only got in touch that morning and heard the awful news. On the phone!
Her father’s funeral had washed over her. Fragments of words, music and images had spun around her in a whirl, then suddenly it was all over – her father underground, Bertram on some steel slab.
She felt unwell, her shoulders cramped from sitting too long. Caroline stood up and went to take a shower. The hot water pelted down, but still she couldn’t cry. There was something in her chest, a sticky plug, blocking any outburst of sorrow or despair.
Only once her body was red from the hot water did she climb out of the shower, towel herself dry, slip into jeans and a jumper and go into the kitchen to make a cup of chamomile tea.
Within a few weeks she’d lost nearly all her family. Only Albert was left. Arse-kisser, Bertram had called him, even as a little boy. Albert had always done what Dad wanted, and in return he’d been given praise, an approving gesture or an expensive gift. Caroline had never understood why Albert fell in line like that. Then again, he’d never been the passionate type, the kind who knew what he wanted and was prepared to fight for it. Dad’s expectations signposted him through life. They gave him purchase.
Only once had Albert shown resistance. When he was fifteen or sixteen, he’d fallen in love with a girl he met on the tram. Ayshe. She was dainty and pretty, an exotic creature. Her mother was German, her father Turkish. She went to a comprehensive school. The first time Albert brought her home, Dad had been polite but aloof. That evening he’d explained to Albert that she wasn’t good enough for him. A comprehensive-school girl! What did he want with someone like that? Better to forget all about her, or she’d only drag him down to her level. For the first time Albert tried to fight back. He argued, even called Dad a racist. Two days later Albert suddenly went deaf. Psychosomatic, said the doctor. By the time he’d recovered three months later, the frail bud of young love had withered. Dad had forbidden Ayshe to visit Albert.
Unlike his brother, Bertram had always sought confrontation. In the old days he’d often succeeded in getting Caroline on his side and roping her into his plans. Was that because she’d loved him when they were children? Dad had picked on him constantly. Maybe they’d had that in common, being rejected. God, that unspeakable summer when they’d still lived at the old house in Germering and the football war had broken out between him and Dad. Bertram’s grades at school were slipping, and Dad demanded he give up football. He didn’t forbid it, he didn’t pull Bertram off the team. No, he demanded Bertram be mature enough to make the decision himself. But Bertram kept going to training, and at the weekend he played in the games. Caroline begged Dad to just let him play, but he lost patience and began a nasty power struggle that ended in him locking Bertram in the basement.
Caroline felt even sicker at the memory. Her tea had steeped long enough. She brought the mug into the living room and nestled on the sofa, but when she felt her shoulders tense up again she rose and paced round the room. The plug in her chest was squeezing. If only Marc were here. But her words, albeit unspoken, had hurt him deeply. He’d asked her to leave and called her a taxi. She couldn’t blame him, yet was astonished at the pain it caused her. I’m like Mum, thought
Caroline suddenly. I don’t believe in love any more than she did. She still found it, though, with Peter Brandenbourg. Brandenbourg. Somehow the name sounded familiar. Must be because she’d read it so many times over the last few days.
Last night, sleepless, she’d kept leafing through the letters and diary. She’d guessed right: Peter Brandenbourg had been fifteen years older than Elli, married, the father of a twelve-year-old son and a young daughter. My hands are tied, yet I feel more free than ever before. I’ve found my counterpart in you, we’re pieces of the same whole, he wrote in one of his letters, while in her diary Elli described the magic of the new world he showed her. He came from a family that had produced generations of artists, including painters, musicians, sculptors and dancers.
Caroline went into the bedroom, picked up the diary from the nightstand, lay down on the bed and continued reading from where she’d left off yesterday.
Only Peter differs from the rest of them. He loves numbers like I do, though not in the form of charts and balances, cashflows and accounts. He’s shown me the mathematics of music, the geometry of painting, the structures that underpin choreography. A fascinating world full of passion is opening before me. Not just at exhibitions and concerts, not just at the theatre and the ballet, which I can never have enough of. The body as a medium of expression – he’s given me that, too. All the flesh, the muscles, bones and sinews that make up my body, though they once seemed a burden . . . I’ve learned to speak through them, and what a wonderful language it is. But that’s just one aspect of our love, which wouldn’t be possible without the others. We’re meant for each other, our souls rock with the same rhythm, we understand each other’s glances . . .
Yeah, I can too by now, thought Caroline in an attack of sarcasm. At the same time she was overcome by a wave of pain and longing. Getting to her feet, she took her mobile out of her handbag. No text from Marc. She dialled his number. It was time to apologise. She’d hurt him, even though she hadn’t intended to. But he didn’t pick up, and she didn’t want to leave a message.