by Tamara Bach
“Smell,” I said to her. “The way it smells here.” We were in the underground station, there was graffiti all over the walls.
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“Smell it. The smell here.”
“Smells like shit, I know,” she said.
Another time she showed me pictures from her vacation at a riding stable. “Right in the country,” she called it.
But in the underground it smelled like City, like chewing gum and dust and neon. It was a smell you could really get hold of. A smell that hit you in the face and went straight up your nose.
Whereas here everything smells so, so...I don’t know. Sometimes a bit like earth or like rain or shit. But if you don’t think about it, it doesn’t smell like anything at all.
It’s the afternoon. Afternoons are all the same. Go home from school. Eat. Clear the table, wash the dishes. Go up to my room, turn on the radio. Sit at my desk and do homework. Go back downstairs. Make tea. Look out the window, where nothing’s happening but keep looking anyway until the water boils and I pour the tea. Maybe someone will phone and I’ll talk and listen a bit.
In the city it would be different. In the city you can simply sit on the underground and watch the people. City people don’t sit at home hiding out in their little houses with chimneys on top. In the city you can get on the underground, get off, walk around, look at things. And everywhere it’s a little bit different.
Would I be different there, too?
I imagine what I would be like if I lived in the city. I’d have an underground pass so I wouldn’t have to use my bike. I’d have friends who lived in old houses with balconies. I wouldn’t need a map. I’d be out and about all day, I’d see people and do things. Interesting things, other things. Things I’ve never done before.
Instead I sit in this small town at my desk and finish exercise number five. It is half past four. In a few hours or so I’ll be going to bed.
Shit, I’m bored.
No one else is home. The house is completely quiet.
Sometimes it can be really quiet all around, but inside everything starts screaming very loud, and you just want to scream yourself, or kick something or spit or bounce off the walls or something.
Sometimes I feel so big inside that I don’t seem to fit.
I put on some music and turn it right up. I dance a bit. Then I sit by the window and look outside. I lie on my bed. I turn down the music and then I turn it off.
I lie on my bed and listen. It’s an old house and sometimes you can hear the wood creak. The tree in the garden stretches its branches toward my window, scratches on the glass. Maybe it’s cold and it wants me to let it in, like a cat.
At some point I hear my mother open the front door.
“I’m home,” she calls, without expecting an answer. Someone turns on the TV. Dad has late shift. Dennis is in the hall talking on the phone. His voice gets quieter. Then he goes downstairs.
Sometimes you just hear this steady hum, like a neon light or a fridge. It’s never truly quiet, but nothing is really happening, either.
I start thinking about a city and then I think about nothing. Then I turn on my music again and turn it up loud. Damn loud.
***
In the evening our house is even quieter. I stand beside my mother at the sink and dry a pot.
My mum is only pretty now and then. She has a loud laugh and isn’t exactly thin. Since she started going gray she’s been coloring her hair red. I don’t think we look alike but everyone says we do. Once when I was little, I heard some stranger say, “Look, you can see that they are obviously mother and daughter.”
Mum takes the pot out of my hand and puts it in the cupboard. Then she grabs a cloth and wipes the counter. Humming away, swaying lightly to the tuneless music on the radio.
“How was school?”
“Good.”
“Anything happening?”
“No.”
“Did you call Aunt Helene and thank her for the card?”
Shit. “No.”
“Go and call her right now, or she’ll be annoyed again. It won’t take long.”
“I still have homework.”
“Still?” Oh, look, she’s wrinkling up her forehead the way she always does.
“Yes!” Are you deaf?
“It’ll just take five minutes, Miriam.”
I’ll bet entire countries have collapsed in five minutes. I wipe up after her with the tea towel.
“Get moving, Miriam.”
“Okay, okay.”
“The number’s in the book. Under D. For Danz.”
Do I look that dumb? I go to the phone, look up the number and dial.
It’s busy. Ha!
“It’s busy!” I call out in the direction of the kitchen.
“Then try again later.”
I go back to my room, shut the door, sit in my chair by the window and pull my knees up under my chin.
A little later there’s a knock on my door. Without waiting for an answer, suddenly Mum’s standing in my room.
“I thought you said you had homework.”
No, I lied, because I didn’t want to call my aunt to thank her for a stupid card from Tenerife and then listen to her go on for hours about how long it has been, blah, blah, and how much my dear cousin would like to see me, blah, blah.
“I do.”
“Doesn’t look like it.”
“How come you just march in here like that?”
“I knocked,” she says crisply.
“Yeah, right.” I stand up and stare at her.
“I did so, I knocked.”
“But I didn’t say Come in!”
She smirks, folds her arms and gives me this look that makes me so damned furious.
I can feel the anger building up inside me slowly, bubbling up like hot milk. Grrr.
“So, you didn’t say Come in. Hmmm. Right. How about if we just take the door off, and then you can stop worrying about whether I knocked properly or not?”
Arrrrgh!
“Well?”
“But this is my room!” I say, knowing only too well that it’s like shouting at a wall, that my cries will fall on deaf ears, just like the slaves condemned to a lifetime of drudgery. They had no rights, either.
“Yes, but your room is in my house, and I paid for this door.”
You see what I mean? What’s she doing up here, anyway? It’s always like this. If I told Suse and Ines what Mum and I fight about, they wouldn’t believe me. So I don’t tell them.
“So take down the door, then. I don’t care!” I know I’m being ridiculous, but she started it!
“Fine!” She pushes her door open and makes a move to take it off its hinges.
“Want some help with that?”
“No. I want you to go and call Helene!”
Yeah, right. “Now!”
Okay, fine.
Downstairs I pick up the phone and press Redial. It rings a few times before someone picks up.
“Peter Danz.”
“Hello, Peter, it’s Miriam. Is Helene there?” IhateherIhateherIhateher.
“No, Miriam, I’m sorry. Helene just walked out the door about ten minutes ago. Can I give her a message?”
Yes, you can tell her that I’m sick of that bloody word door and that my life is shit and I want to puke. That’s what you can tell her.
“Yes, could you please tell her thank you so much for the card, and give her a big hug from me?” There. Did it.
“Will do. Tell me, Miriam, when are you going to come and visit us? Sandra would love it if you —”
“Yes, it would be great, but I’m so busy right now — with school and everything...” Blah, blah. I can’t hear any sounds coming from upstairs.
“Things going well at school, Miriam?”
“Mmmm.” (Means yes.)
“Good. But call again. And don’t do anything to disgrace the family.”
Ha, ha. Very funny.
And he laug
hs a little, too.
“Okay. Bye.” Hang up. I hate her.
Mum still hasn’t come down, so I stomp upstairs. She’s still standing in my room.
“Do you have to stomp around like that?” she says.
“Now what?” The door is still on its hinges.
“Did you call her?”
“YES!!!” She gives me this suspicious look, as if I might be lying.
“Good. You could at least dust and tidy a little more often.” She rubs her finger along the top of the bookcase. “It’s disgusting in here, Miriam.”
“Doesn’t bother me.” Unlike you. If only she would just leave me alone —
“It will when the mice and cockroaches start moving in.”
I want to tell her to just piss off. But instead I lean lightly against the desk, fold my arms and give her a crooked grin.
“Fine, do what you want, then,” she says. “After all, it’s your room.” Then she leaves and slams the door behind her.
I win.
4
When I open the washroom door at school the next morning, Laura is in there rolling a cigarette.
“Hi,” she says without looking up.
“Hi.”
“You’re the one who sits in the back row, aren’t you?” Laura rolls up the paper, licks the edge, smooths it down.
What does that mean, the one who sits in the back row?
She looks up.
“Yes,” I say.
Laura is sitting right on the sink. I can’t just stand in front of her, so I sit down beside the toilet.
“What’s your name?” She sticks a cigarette between her lips and lights a match.
“Miriam.”
“Miriam.” She inhales deeply, and her throat makes this little crackling sound. “Pretty name.”
The door opens and it’s Suse.
“Hi,” she says when she sees me. “Why are you sitting —” Then she sees Laura. “Oh, hi!” And she shakes Laura’s hand (she shakes her hand!?). “I’m Suse.” She sits down on the toilet and I have to shift over a bit.
Suse pulls a pack of Marlboro Lights out of her bag and lights one. She crosses her legs and rests one arm on her knee with her other elbow on top. She looks perfect. Between drags she achieves the perfect distance between her cigarette and her mouth. Graceful yet relaxed. Perfect.
I’ve never smoked a roll-your-own.
“And how do you like our class so far?” Suse asks Laura, looking at her with interest. A coffee in her other hand would complete the picture.
Why is Suse asking her this? We’re new in the class ourselves.
“It’s okay. All classes are the same, aren’t they?”
Suse nods. Ines comes in.
“Here’s your coffee.” She hands Suse a cup.
“Thanks.”
With Ines in here now it’s really crowded. I have to slide over even closer to Laura. It’s funny.
Laura crushes her butt on the floor and pulls out her pouch of tobacco again.
“You roll your own?” asks Ines.
“Yes. It’s better. There’s a lot of shit in those filters.”
“And you think they’re healthy without them?”
Laura looks up. “No, but it’s cheaper.” She finishes rolling the cigarette and hands it to me.
“Thanks.” Did I ask her for one? I don’t know.
Laura rolls another for herself, then gives us both a light.
It tastes totally different. Like country and hay. Maybe like leather. Mmmmh.
“Which class were you in before?”
“B.”
“Katharina was in there, too, right?”
“Oh, yeah. Katharina was there.” Laura gives her a crooked grin.
I’m feeling a bit dizzy. I don’t usually smoke in the mornings. I’m staring at my cigarette, listening to Suse asking questions, Ines interrupting. I don’t look at them. I hear Laura’s voice beside me — soft, deep, louder than the others, closer.
I focus on the cigarette between my fingers and let Laura’s voice wrap around me like smoke. I let her words seep deep inside me.
What time is it?
Laura used to live in Cologne. Her father still lives there, but she came here three years ago with her mother. Her mother works at home, freelance, Laura says. She has a little sister. She doesn’t have a boyfriend.
She has three small rings in her ear and she’s wearing a silver bracelet that she fiddles with when she talks. Her dark red bag is lying on the floor in front of her. She has a necklace of tiny red beads around her neck. When she smokes, I can hear that crackling inside her throat.
And then the bell goes.
Suse: “I’m just going to smoke one more first.”
Ines: “I’m going to the bathroom.”
Laura and I walk to class together. Take a step, breathe in, take two steps, breathe out. Am I going too fast? Say something. Silence. Breathe. Maybe say something anyway? And then what?
It’s hard. The door’s straight ahead and I can’t do anything except keep going, keep breathing. And I can’t look at her.
I wish I could say something clever. Thanks for the cigarette. No, too lame. I wish I could say something that doesn’t sound too much like I’m only fifteen. Something that sounds like the big city — Cologne, Berlin, Hamburg, New York, Tokyo.
But I can’t think of anything.
“Hey, Miriam.” Laura grins at me. She has her hand on the classroom door. Suddenly she lifts her arms in the air and nudges me with her hip.
“Samba!”
What?!
Laura opens the door and goes to her desk. And she doesn’t look at me any more.
5
I have to go out. I have to do something, right now. My room is too small. It’s afternoon again, and it’s always the same. Too much the same, too small. Not just my room but this whole house, this town. I can’t breathe here any more.
I get on my bike and ride — away from our house, fast, down the streets, away, faster, right out to the country roads. I ride and the cold rips my skin off with its claws. I get a cramp in my side. That’s good. I’m freezing my ass off. That’s good, too, because I can feel it all. I’m not hibernating like the other marmots any more. My heart is beating faster as I pump my way up the hill.
At the chapel I get off my bike. Tomorrow I’m going to be really stiff, but I don’t care.
I look down. There’s our school, our house and everything, but that’s not all, there’s more. All around are fields and forest. And beyond them the world keeps going.
The town looks so small; I’m so far away.
I stay until I get too cold. Then I get on my bike and coast back down the hill.
I’ve never been the new kid. Everyone here knows me. We’ve always all played together, or not. Evelyn was my sandbox friend. Then we made friends with Katrin and when they didn’t like me any more, I played with Christian and Maja. And then I didn’t, but somehow that didn’t matter. Everyone knows me; probably nothing I do would surprise them.
I imagine what it would be like if I were from Mars, and I accidentally landed on this planet in this small town in the middle of nowhere. What would it be like not to know these streets?
I’m pushing my bike now. The trees are bare and a pale winter sun is shining. The sky is shimmering with cold. I’m wearing gloves, a hat, a scarf, layer upon layer...and I’m freezing. The cold is biting my face. I can feel it in my nose, on my cheeks, on my chin. I’m freezing, my face is freezing.
It’s the end of February. I walk along and look at everything around me. I look at the houses. At the old lady who sits by her window staring up at the sky every day. A cat running along the fence. A lost glove that someone has stuck on a fencepost.
There’s my old kindergarten. When I was in a bad mood I would wait there for my brother, clinging to the iron gate, holding onto the bars and swinging the gate back and forth every time someone came to pick up their kid.
I keep walking. There
’s the spot where I fell when we were playing some war game. I was wearing a new pair of shoes that Grandma had bought me the day before — shoes with smooth soles. When we all had to run, I slipped and broke a tooth. And my nose was bleeding.
Sometimes people move here, and they are the new people. They know people we’ve never met, streets we’ve never played in.
Once I sent my penpal in Berlin a few pictures to show her what it looks like here.
When you’re new, no one expects anything from you, no one expects you to be the same as you’ve always been. Because they don’t know you and don’t know what you’re like. You are the new person, so they don’t know that when you were eight you laughed so hard that strawberry milk came out your nose. They don’t know that you didn’t get along with a certain teacher and have hated chemistry ever since. Or the way you looked when you were twelve.
At some point I stopped writing to that penpal.
When I go home now no one will be there. I’ll make something to eat and then eat it and...
Someone is standing at the corner waving at me. When I get closer, I see that it’s Laura and some guy. They’re standing in front of a gumball machine.
“Do you have any change?” she asks me.
I dig a few coins out of my bag.
Laura says a quick thank-you and immediately throws a coin into the machine. Then she turns the handle and out roll a couple of gumballs.
“Shit!” She grabs the balls and sticks them in my hand. Then she puts in more money.
“Laura,” the guy says, “it’s bloody cold out here!”
But Laura is staring at the little trap door like a hypnotized rabbit, as more gumballs roll out.
“Fucking shit! It’s not happening! I want the bloody thing. And now!”
She throws in the rest of the money, but again only gumballs come out.
I’m standing there with a hand full of red, blue and green gumballs. Laura turns the handle again desperately, but nothing happens.
“Are you sure you don’t have any more change?” she asks the guy.
He shakes his head. He’s wearing a necklace just like hers, with little red beads.
“You neither?” she says, turning to me.
“No, sorry.” I’m standing here like an idiot holding these bloody gumballs that probably don’t even taste any good.