I arrive early, the class isn’t over yet. I sit in one of the seats near the door. Mario translates aloud from a work by Carlos Astrada. I catch some of the words but it’s hard for me to make sense of them. When he finishes the text, he repeats the last paragraph. Slowly and clearly he reads: Man must always confront the immensity of earthly uncertainty – human evolution, the paths towards self-fulfilment – he must foster the relationship between the temporal plane of existence and the self, the two fusing in the heart of the self, the only constant in the process of human history.
Then he closes the book and says goodbye to everyone till next week. I greet him and once again we’re amazed to see each other and we hug briefly in the middle of the lecture hall full of tall students heading out for lunch.
We eat in a fancy restaurant Mario only goes to on special occasions. He says that we have to talk, that he was thinking about me, that he thinks it’s crazy that I’m here wandering Heidelberg with no plan, no job, no contact with Buenos Aires, avoiding the situation with my ex, and so on and so on.
I turn my food over with my fork as I listen to him. Shanice’s clothes are kind of tight. I want to go back to my room, put on my nightdress, and sleep the rest of the day. Mario now pauses his long speech and looks at me expecting an answer. I ask him if he has a washing machine at his house. He says he does and of course I can use it whenever I want. And we both fall silent for a long while. Now I should say something to reassure him that everything is fine, that I’m just taking some time, that I’ll go back to Buenos Aires and everything will fall into place. I search for the right words and try to convince myself they’re true, I try to appear calm, show him that despite the circumstances I have everything under control.
‘Why did you come to Heidelberg?’ he asks me before I can open my mouth.
I smile. ‘I don’t know, maybe all my life I’ve idealised my childhood here, maybe I remembered this city as a place where time passed in a different way. Here, we hoped that everything would get better so that we could go back, and in the meantime, we were in limbo, far away, happy.’
Mario stares at me silently, and I understand that those same years meant something very different to him. The words he read today in his class are stuck in my head like a catchy song: ‘the immensity of earthly uncertainty’, ‘the temporal plane of existence’. I repeat them solemnly, as if Astrada’s words might somehow explain my directionless wandering, the parenthesis I’ve opened in my life, this suspension of time that’s hard for any responsible adult to understand. Mario laughs and tells me to come back to his house whenever I want. He likes the idea that something he said got me thinking, even in a vague way, and his concern for me seems to evaporate as we order dessert and plan trips to Frankfurt, Mainz, and Berlin.
‘Autumn is coming,’ he says when we leave the restaurant. ‘Do you have some warm clothes?’
‘I have everything, Mario. I have everything.’
II
I take Shanice’s laptop down to the dining hall. I’ve decided to log in to my e-mail and face whatever’s in there. I didn’t want to do it in the solitude of my room, for some reason I feel safer surrounded by people. I open my inbox and everyone is there: family, friends, bosses, co-workers, people I don’t know, notices from the bank, overdue bills, ads. All waiting for a reply, and me on the outside looking in at them with no answers. I’m exhausted by it and I’m about to close the computer when one name jumps out at me from the long list of menacing subject lines. From: Marta Paula Sánchez, Subject: Thanks for the shoes. I open it, it’s a short message that immediately relieves my guilt over not opening any of the others. Marta Paula writes that she received the package her brother sent and she wants to thank me. She also says that she’d like to thank the original owner of the shoes, but she knows that unfortunately she can’t. Miguel Javier told her about Shanice’s suicide and that the Japanese girl had more clothes than all of his sisters put together. She asks me if I know what made her do such a thing, what terrible thoughts she must have had. She tells me that she talked to her co-workers at the hotel and that one of them thinks it must’ve been unrequited love, but that she doesn’t think so. She closes by asking me, when I get the chance, to please write back to her. That she can get online at the hotel where she works, and that when she works the night shift she has lots of time because there are hardly any guests to take care of, that she’s going to be anxiously awaiting my message.
Responding to Marta Paula is a breeze. My fingers would feel so heavy writing any other e-mail but now I hit the keys with the speed of a typist, as if a frenetic voice inside me were dictating the sentences. I tell her I don’t know why Shanice committed suicide, that I don’t think there’s any explanation, that her mother thinks she did it because she didn’t want to turn out like her but that it’s all a mystery. I write that today I wore some of Shanice’s clothes, but that soon hardly any of them will fit me because I’m pregnant. That in the past I’d wanted to have kids, but that now I don’t. That a while back I’d wanted to get pregnant and I’d persuaded my boyfriend, my ex-boyfriend that is, and we’d tried for two years but we couldn’t make it work. And then I don’t know what happened, we started to fight a lot, things got worse and worse and I stopped wanting to have kids. That one night we had a really bad fight, I don’t even remember what it was about, and he told me that he was glad we didn’t have kids, that I’d be a terrible mother and he also said other things that were so horrible I felt like his soul was rotten. That I left our house and wandered the streets and I remembered that I’d been invited to a birthday party by a guy named Leonardo who worked at the real estate agency we’d used to rent our apartment. That day I’d run into him on the subway and out of nowhere he invited me to his birthday. And that night I went to his party after fighting with my boyfriend, and he was happy to see me there alone and I stayed till after everyone else had left, and we started drinking the vodka he got as a gift, and I stayed all night and that maybe I was pregnant with his child, that it’s very likely but I’m not sure. I tell her that I saw a doctor and it seems like everything’s going fine, that he asked me why I’d waited so long to have kids and I should’ve said that I’d tried before but not now, that now just thinking about it makes my whole body tremble, that sometimes it all seems like a joke, a cruel joke that nonetheless makes me laugh, that I’m afraid I’m going to go crazy because all of a sudden I’ll start to feel euphoric, that I’m afraid I might just stay in this city forever and never return to Buenos Aires. I apologise, tell her I don’t know why I’m telling her all this, that her e-mail just asked me about Shanice’s suicide and again I say that I didn’t really know her well enough to be able to explain what happened, that I’d like to know too.
I send the e-mail without re-reading it. I know if I wait another second I’m going to lose my nerve. I don’t know this girl and I shouldn’t be telling her such personal things. I send it right away so that I don’t delete it. I feel the need to tell her everything because even though she’s a stranger I think of her as someone I can trust, and because now I’ll be able to look forward to her response like advice from a friend.
III
Mrs Takahashi appears in the doorway. She came to see me. She’s carrying several packages. She says she was shopping all day and since she was close by she wanted to check up on me. I offer her coffee. I see that her eyes are moist and her mascara has run. I think: one cup of coffee and that’s it, I’ll tell her to go, find some friendly excuse to get rid of her. I bring the coffee out into the lobby and we sit in the same place we talked the first time we met. Mrs Takahashi’s eyes look me up and down and I remember I’m wearing Shanice’s clothes.
‘They’re Shanice’s clothes,’ I say trying to act like it’s no big deal, ‘I think they might be a bit tight.’
Mrs Takahashi doesn’t respond. She looks at something behind me and her expression changes, like she’s possessed by some strange force. I t
urn around. There’s nothing out of the ordinary, just the dining hall and the stairway that leads to the rooms.
‘Are you okay? Mrs Takahashi, are you okay?’ I repeat it several times. She doesn’t respond. She keeps staring at nothing, her small eyes tense and wide.
Suddenly, when I’m about to go and get help she looks at me, smiles, takes a sip of her coffee and says: ‘I’ve never visited Buenos Aires. Do you think I should?’
I tell her that it’s an interesting city, and I wonder if I should get someone, I wonder if she might be dangerous. Now she casually opens the bags and packages one by one to show me the things she bought: an antique ashtray, a small porcelain doll, a silver watch, two dresses, a bottle of perfume.
‘I’m a wandering soul in search of beauty,’ she says like someone reciting a poem. And then she starts to babble in a euphoric trance: ‘I’ve been all around town looking at young men and buying gorgeous objects, I can’t complain. It’s a shame the afternoon got cloudy. Is Buenos Aires very sunny? I used to hate the sun but now I love it. The sun is life and it’s my time for adventures! Daughter’s gone? Well fine. We mothers can also live wherever we like. Have you been to St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice? It’s magnificent, amazing architecture. What should I see in Buenos Aires? I want to dance tango! Daughter’s gone, I can go where I want. It’s our fault for giving her free rein, indulging her every whim. What beautiful clothes you’re wearing! Are they from Argentina?’
‘No, they’re Shanice’s…’
‘Shanice’s?’
‘Yes, they’re the clothes she gave me…’
Mrs Takahashi jumps in her chair as if something suddenly startled her. ‘I should go,’ she says without looking at me and walks hastily to the door. I shout that she’s leaving her things behind but she doesn’t hear me. Through the window I see her get in a taxi. Her new purchases are spread out on the table alongside the empty coffee cups.
I walk over to Frau Wittmann, who has turned on the radio. ‘Mrs Takahashi forgot all these things…’ Frau Wittmann smiles, something they’re saying on the radio is funny to her. ‘Shanice’s mum forgot these things,’ I repeat.
‘Oh, we’ll call her hotel to let her know,’ Frau Wittmann says. ‘What’s the name of her hotel?’ The radio announcer says something funny again and Frau Wittmann chuckles.
‘I don’t know… I don’t remember the name…’
‘Then we can’t call. Don’t worry, she’ll be back to get her things.’
The idea that Mrs Takahashi might be back in a little while makes me nervous. I tell Frau Wittmann that she didn’t seem well, I tell her about her absent gaze and her strange behaviour. Frau Wittmann suddenly seems interested, she’s forgotten about the radio and is nodding enthusiastically as I try to explain.
‘Then we’ll keep her things here in the lobby and when she returns I’ll give them to her myself,’ she says.
I thank her and we talk a little while longer about Shanice, how quickly time passes and about autumn, which is almost here. We gather up the bags and I notice that Frau Wittmann stops to look at the porcelain doll.
‘It’s really beautiful,’ she says. ‘I had one like it in my childhood, in Hungary. Have I ever told you I was born in Hungary?’
‘No, I don’t think you have.’
‘That was a long, long time ago.’
This is the most personal interaction I’ve had with the woman since I’ve been here. As she talks, I look at her watery blue eyes and try to calculate her age. She must be seventy or older. I imagine her childhood during the war, I notice the lines around her eyes, her thin lips, her sharp nose. For a brief instant I think I catch a glimpse of the face she had as a girl, her features round out and the colour rises up from beneath the dusty layers of suffering and joy. Once again the radio announcer says something that amuses her and I take the opportunity to say goodbye.
As I’m going up to my room I hear the phone ring. Frau Wittmann answers and begins speaking horrible Spanish: Sí, aquí ella está. She comes to the stairs to tell me that I have a call from Argentina.
IV
I answer thinking it must be my mother but a strange voice says my name and then begins to explain in a slow shy tone: ‘This is Marta Paula, Miguel Javier’s sister, the one you sent the shoes to. The girls at the hotel and I read your e-mail, and… ya know? We thought about Feli who’s a psychic here in Tucumán, she lives in La Aguadita, ya know? And… we thought of going to ask her about your baby, so you’d know who the dad is and you don’t have to worry. Since I had the residence’s phone number because of Miguel Javier I wanted to call you to let you know, ya know? So you don’t have to worry. I’m going to go to Feli’s tomorrow and then I’ll call you. I’m going to hang up now because I’m calling from work and it’s long distance. Hope you have a nice night and say hello to my brother for me, if he’s around. Oh, don’t tell him anything about Feli because he doesn’t like that sort of thing. He doesn’t believe in anything. Tell him I called to thank you for the package and… ya know? I have to go. We’ll talk later. Bye.’
That night I dream that I go into a theatre, it’s an old theatre, abandoned. Everything is covered in dust and the curtain is closed. I sit in one of the seats near the aisle and I stare at the stage, I know there’s someone behind that curtain, someone waiting to make their appearance. I hear some sounds. I move in my seat and the floor creaks. Then the curtain opens, an old man dressed as a king walks across the stage. He speaks in English and I think he’s reciting Shakespeare. Now the man looks me in the eye and asks if I understand. He asks me in German, and I answer in Spanish. I say that I understand. I clap. I don’t know what to do. The man dressed as a king asks me if I know how to act. ‘I don’t think so,’ I answer. ‘Perfect, I’ll teach you,’ he says. He asks me to come up on stage so we can rehearse the work he’s written. I go up, he gives me a script and a crown to put on my head. The lights blind me. When I look back at the stalls I see that they’re now full of people. I think I see Shanice among them. I play my part the best I can. I think about how far Shanice has travelled to get here. The man leaves me alone on stage for my final monologue. I go off script and improvise a beautiful speech. I speak first in German and then in Japanese. I close with a simulated hara-kiri, an emotional dance that ends in an explosion of prolonged applause. When the applause stops, I descend a little ladder to get off the stage and I look for the way out of the theatre.
Shanice comes over and shyly congratulates me on the performance. I thank her. Then she speaks in Spanish with a Tucumán accent:
‘Ask Feli.’
‘What? About my pregnancy?’
‘No, ask her about my mother… so she can warn you.’
‘Warn me about what?’
‘Warn you that my mother is full of a very dark sadness… and, ya know, that she can get inside you.’
I abruptly wake up with a pain in my chest. I open the curtains. It’s not morning yet. I go to the bathroom, drink some water, and go back to bed. I lie there trying to fall asleep. I touch my belly with both hands and I hear myself speaking in the plural for the first time, speaking not just for me but for us: We have to sleep a little while longer but we’ll try not to have any more bad dreams. We’ll be all right. Tomorrow is a new day and we’re going to feel better.
V
Mario comes by in the afternoon to take me to his friend Joseph’s photography exhibition. On the way there he says: ‘Joseph’s work is really worth seeing. I don’t usually go to this sort of thing but this is really meaningful, important work. You’ll see. A lot of the artists here are bland but this guy is very talented.’
Before we go in he seems nervous, excited, and happy. Inside, he barely pauses in front of the photos, he’s looking around for someone, looking anxiously for his friend Joseph who finally comes over with a glass in his hand and says: ‘I’ve been waiting for you, I was afraid you weren
’t coming!’
They stare at each other for a second and I gather that they are lovers. Or they were in the past. Or they’re about to be. And that Mario is hopelessly besotted. Joseph is about my age. For a moment all the other people around them cease to exist. They break their stare as Joseph moves on to greet other people. But from across the room each one will have the other’s eyes stamped on his back.
Joseph doesn’t have a German face. I read a brief summary of his life and work in the programme they gave me when we arrived: ‘Turks in Germany’ is Joseph Shoeller’s first exhibition. Son of a German father and a Turkish mother, the photographer centres his work on the clash of these two cultures…
A woman’s gravelly voice calls my name from behind. What is Mrs Takahashi doing here? I greet her apprehensively. She says she went by the residence to see me and Miguel Javier told her I was here. She’s wearing a black cocktail dress, but it’s wrinkled, as if she hasn’t slept and has been wearing it since the night before. She stands in front of one of the photos and describes it aloud: ‘A Turkish Family: a father, a mother, a little boy and maybe an uncle. Look at the mother! She’s Turkish! It’s a Turkish mother!’
Mario seems to wake up from his amorous trance and comes to my aid, he asks me quietly who this woman is. I answer: ‘it’s the mother of the girl who committed suicide.’ Mrs Takahashi looks at us, I was certain she didn’t speak Spanish but now I have my doubts, as soon as I said ‘the girl who committed suicide’ she turned around. She comes toward us, she asks Mario if he speaks English, if he understands her, and she tells him that she came here to bury her daughter and has extended her stay a few more days because this city is so wonderful.
The German Room Page 6