It almost looks like she’s gnawing on him. She’s straightened her back and puts her arms around him, bends her neck, holding her head at an angle. It’s a very long kiss. All the while he presses her up against the building. The yellow light from the street lamp falls on parts of their faces. He looks so small. The watermelon is so heavy in the plastic bag. I’m about to drop it. He’s opened her jacket, and now he’s kissing her neck. For a moment it seems like she’s looking me in the eye, and then she throws her head back. She doesn’t have a blouse on under her jacket. I get a glimpse of the skin on her stomach. He kisses her breasts. One of my legs is numb. I wiggle the foot but it won’t go away. A young man stops and stares at them. She must’ve noticed because suddenly she closes her jacket. He looks around confused, and again there’s that light reflecting off his glasses. She grabs his arm. The young man, who is now walking away, looks back several times over his shoulder. And they take off, arm in arm, Oranienburgerstrasse, cutting over to the S-Bahn, Hackescher Markt. I get a glimpse of her looking at him smiling, and of him putting his head on her shoulder. Then they’re gone.
My left leg is asleep, there’s a deafening noise around me: the sharp sound of metal and porcelain; high-pitched voices; the music suddenly blasting. It’s unpleasant. I have to pee. I turn around and the room seems overwhelmingly large, everywhere people are laughing and shouting and drinking, people crowding the bar, while the doors constantly open and close. The handle of the plastic bag cuts into my hand. There are some spots in my vision, making everything turn so white that I get dizzy, and when I take a step forward, I’m about to fall or sink. Is it roses? Is it paper? My dress rustles and screeches like chalk on a blackboard; a pervasive smell of wet clothes and damp wax paper cuts my nose. Then, suddenly, the boy in the last row who was always throwing small rocks is here; a rock hits and falls on the floor and it startles me. I reach out to stop myself from falling and grab hold of a man’s shoulder. His face is blurry. He seems to be saying something to me while I cautiously begin to move slowly toward the stairs to the basement.
I look in the mirror. A face. Speckled, wrinkled. My eyes. A blond woman meets my gaze in the mirror. It stinks in here. My mouth, strangely thin. I splash cold water on my face, my blouse gets wet. Then I drop the watermelon. It rolls out of the bag and splits, revealing a burst of red flesh. The blond woman picks it up and hands it to me. She says something. Everything is blurry: a muddy picture, not of this world. But I can tell that I’ve received the watermelon. The woman puts her hand on my arm and says something else. I close my eyes and press the melon to my stomach. Fields of roses once more. Then my wedding bouquet as it is now, hanging in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen at home. I see it clearly through the flickering and snot. It’s sharp and dry. The image disappears. I think about how it might feel to eat dirt.
Suddenly everything becomes completely clear. I throw the watermelon in the trash and wash my hands. I open my purse and pull out a handkerchief. The scent of the tea cake is nauseating. I throw that out as well. Then I take the clip out of my hair, comb it with my fingers, twist it, and put it up again. It’s completely clear that the steel frames he insists on wearing are ugly. He had on a different shirt this morning when I left home. And it’s also clear that his hair hanging down like thin tassels from the top of his head means something particular and important about him, about his lifestyle, about his generation. About us. I’ve never thought about this before. When I at last sit on the toilet and pee, the relief is tremendous. On the way out I throw two coins on the bathroom attendant’s saucer. She looks at me with a wry smile. It seems like she’s spent far too many years down in the dark, where all that’s revealed is a fraction of what there is. I place my yellow tulips before her on the table. Then I walk up and out into the dark.
WOUNDS
On my first day in the city I couldn’t get enough of walking around. As soon as I had checked into the hotel and set my suitcase down in my room—which turned out to be better than expected, spacious, with a large window overlooking the street, a good bed, thick green carpeting, and a comfortable distance between the bed and the bathroom, which neither smelled nor looked dingy—I decided to stay outdoors for the rest of the day. Elated by the quality of the room, but also by the fine weather, I set out for the city’s snaking labyrinth of alleys and narrow passageways and steps. It’s no secret that the city is set on a mountain slope, and I enjoyed these ascents and descents, the way the city constantly changed character depending on the height you viewed it from. The city—bathed in sunlight and a dry haze—reminded me in a moving and visceral way how everything depends on who is doing the observing and where you are observing from, and I thought: This is so incredibly banal, and yet it’s so important.
I bought a red scarf in the bazaar. I looked at the chickens and ducks in small cages awaiting their uncertain fate, most likely to be murdered and roasted, chewed and digested, eventually ending up on the ground or in a porcelain bowl in a completely different state. I drank tea from small decorative glasses. I ate cakes dipped in honey. Then later, at a more refined restaurant, spiced lamb and rice. My hunger was satiated in every way. I climbed the narrow steps, and continued to ascend, while sweat broke out on my back under the thin shirt. I made it all the way up to the enormous mosque that rose in the air in an austere and closed monument, but also as something ethereal and free, and the sight of it made me think of how between the two poles, these two ideals, we seek to unfold our lives. But I have, I thought with a joy verging on euphoria, I have, saying it slowly to myself, united these opposites in an action that has given me both control and freedom. Fascinated to no end by one thing after another: The spicy scent of the flowers and wild herbs growing all over between rocks and asphalt; the men’s dark faces and the whites of their eyes that the irises swim in; glimpses of a bare foot or a hand sticking out of a woman’s concealing garments; the ancient, thick walls of the buildings. Even the conspicuous poverty moved me because it made me aware of something significant: Life unfolds in different ways, but it’s always life; I was in need of such a consolation, partly for personal reasons, because I am not without guilt, but also for the simple reason that those of us who live in extreme wealth fear death and personal decline to an extent that’s in sharp contrast to our proven long life span and the multitude of medical advancements and miracles. Such were the thoughts running through my head while I sat, pleasantly exhausted and filled with new impressions, enjoying a drink in a smaller open square in the shadow of a large acacia tree. No breeze stirred. The dull heat of the afternoon vibrated in the air. A couple of children played with marbles. A man was loading vegetables into a pickup. And even though I felt a little like I was being watched since the people higher up could easily see me without me necessarily being able to see them, I felt entirely free of the troubles that I’d been suffering for a long time.
Back at the hotel I took a cool bath late in the evening, carefully washing the wounds and swellings that I had received over the upper part of my body. I changed the bandages covering the deep gash on my right hand, and then I got dressed. I opened the window and inhaled the scents from the dark night, listening to the cicadas and the exotic sounds from the city, and got a sudden craving for a drink.
The bar was nearly empty, a sleepy waiter was reading the paper and drinking a cup of coffee, a middle-aged woman was sipping her whiskey and smoking a thin cigarette. A young man was sitting at a table lost in thought, staring at the large air conditioner on the ceiling that was humming weakly. I ordered dark rum and sat down at the bar. The woman looked over at me and nodded with a smile, lighting a new cigarette. The waiter poured my rum, put on Frank Sinatra, and began polishing the glasses. The rum was good and strong. And I smiled to myself when Sinatra sang “I did it my way” with his soft, unrelenting voice, and I thought, yes, that’s what I’m doing too, that’s what I’ve done, I’ve taken matters into my own hands, in my own way. There was something comical about it. Th
e whole wretched business. And whether or not the lightly tanned woman with pretty pinned-up hair wearing an elegant short black silk dress had gotten the impression that I had smiled at her, I can’t say for sure, but in any case she struck up a conversation with me. She was English and lived in London, or more precisely, Kensington, and had recently lost her husband. She spoke beautiful English and confided in me that she had traveled here to get a change of scenery and to make a fresh start. I understood, it was the same for me—change of scenery, fresh start—and she smiled, relieved, touching her pearls. I said this is usually why people travel to distant places, and she gave a little nervous laugh and stirred the blue plastic stick around in her glass. Then we sat a while in silence, I finished my drink, but when I got up to go, she grabbed my sleeve and looked at me with clear shiny eyes. “Sometimes my husband was a real bastard to be around. Do you understand? A real bastard.” Then she withdrew her hand shyly, and I thanked her for her pleasant company and left. When I lay down in the spacious bed under the white sheet and felt my heavy naked body completely relax, I suddenly laughed. I chuckled and laughed out loud to myself and couldn’t stop. “Do you understand? A real bastard.”
I spent the whole next day at the hotel. There was a pool in the basement, with an elaborately painted sky on the ceiling so you looked up at white fleecy clouds as you were swimming on your back. There were artificial trees and flowers beautifully arranged in large beds, and the bottom of the pool was decorated with a blue mosaic. It all looked very authentic, even the people lying there as though sunning themselves in lounge chairs around the bar. I stayed a long time in the sauna. I dunked my body down in the cold water right after. Large red splotches spread across my thighs, and my skin received a shock. And that’s exactly what I needed. A shock. The wounds on my stomach and chest became soft and turned white from the water and heat. The gash on my hand swelled up. It was certainly good for the healing process, and I sighed with contentment: soon the traces on my body would disappear like dew in sunshine.
I had a good lunch in the restaurant and drank half a bottle of wine. As I was wiping my mouth, I felt a light touch on my shoulder. It was the Englishwoman. Now wearing a blue suit. I invited her to sit down, and she did so without any hesitation. We ordered coffee. In the daylight I could see her face clearly, the thin lips, greenish eyes, lightly freckled skin with more wrinkles than I had noticed in the dim evening light. She talked about her daughters, one was a nurse and the other a teacher. She showed me a photo of her grandchild, a stout, fair-skinned four-year-old boy. “And you,” she asked, “do you have any family?” “A sister, a brother, and a sea of nieces and nephews,” I answered. She let out a short sparkling laugh. “That sounds delightful,” she said, “a sea of children!” And she threw her arms open wide as if she were about to embrace this sea of children and laughed again. A gold tooth glimmered deep inside her mouth. Then she asked me if I wanted to join her sightseeing in the city, but I declined, saying that I unfortunately had some work to do. Without hiding her disappointment, she asked what kind of work I did, and I got the idea to say that I was writing an article that I needed to finish by the evening. “Oh,” she said, “You’re a journalist?” And I got the idea to say that I was a writer and I was writing a series of travel articles on the Middle East and Turkey. Her eyes opened wide with enthusiasm. “How exciting!” I smiled and did my best to look both flattered and modest. She gathered up her things, wished me luck with my work, and left. But when she reached the door, she turned and came back. “I just realized, I never introduced myself,” she said. “My name is Ellen Parker.” She put out her thin hand and let it rest for a moment in mine, light as a baby bird and cool as the white sheets on my bed. I walked back to my room. The wine had made me drowsy and I slept like a rock for two hours.
The next morning I woke up early and felt uneasy. It was clear that I couldn’t stay any longer in this city. And since I had no desire to meet Ellen Parker again, I left the hotel without having breakfast and wandered around the city for a few hours. Even though it was warm, the air was fresh at that time of the day, and I watched people one after another slowly opening their stalls and stores, I watched the sun slide higher in the sky while the children walked to school with their books in their arms, and the traffic became louder, the heat more intense. The city’s awakening made my brain work faster and more directed, the feelings that had driven me out of bed and onto the street receded, making it possible to get an overview of my situation. On the one hand, I still wanted to rest and store up energy for the long journey home, on the other hand, Ellen Parker was a problem. I had tempted fate with my lies and had a feeling that she would seek me out again and try to force herself on me. I feared that she sensed I was keeping a secret, and that she, without really realizing it, had the urge to reveal it. I feared she had a sense about me.
I sat down on a low wall and looked out over the valley. I thought things over. And decided to make a compromise: I would stay, but only one more day, and I would avoid contact with the Englishwoman.
In the afternoon I returned to the hotel. I asked the young man at the front desk to reserve a plane ticket for me, and went upstairs to my room. The window was half open, the maid had made my bed and brought fresh flowers. As I was changing my clothes, I noticed a white envelope on the dark green carpet. Someone must’ve pushed it under the door. The letter was from Ellen Parker, of course it was. Her handwriting was large and looping. It was a polite invitation to dinner at an “exclusive restaurant” not far from the mosque. I sighed and crumpled up the letter. I sat down on the bed, suddenly too tired to put on my clothes. I lay down and closed my eyes. I began running my hands over my body, a strong desire surged up in me. I lay on my side for a long time watching the thin curtain billowing a bit even though there wasn’t any breeze to speak of. Ellen Parker had green eyes and attractive hands. Strange how this could move me so easily. Maybe it was simply because I hadn’t talked to anyone for more than two minutes in such a long time. I dozed. And woke with a start. The telephone was ringing. My first reaction was to let it ring, but then I remembered the receptionist, maybe there was some information about my ticket, so I answered it. And it was Ellen Parker. “Oh,” she said, “I hope I didn’t wake you.” She wanted to know if I would accept her invitation. I said I couldn’t spare the time to have dinner unfortunately, the work was giving me problems and it was taking longer than expected, and she said that I would need to eat in any case, but we could meet at the hotel restaurant instead to save me the trouble of walking up to the mosque. How did that sound? Eight o’clock? I said that I was thinking about having some food sent up to my room, and she said that that sounded cozy, and would I like to have some company, she would leave as soon as we were finished eating because she understood quite well that I had work to do, of course she understood that I had important things to take care of, and she would in no way disturb me, but it is after all rather boring to eat alone. And that was that. Even worse than I imagined it would be. Ellen Parker, not just in a neutral place, but here—in my room, next to my bed. I immediately put away all my personal belongings. I looked at myself in the mirror. Turning my face so that I could almost see my profile. Then I filled the bathtub. And just as I got into the warm water, the phone rang again. It was the receptionist. The flights were all booked. I asked him to reserve a seat on the next available flight. In four days. Sitting on the edge of a chair, naked and dripping wet, I tried to accept the fact that I wouldn’t be leaving for four days. It wasn’t until I began shivering that I got up and went back to my bath.
I considered walking out. I considered moving to another hotel. But it was likely that I would run into Ellen Parker somewhere, sometime, and the prospect of facing an awkward, and no doubt dramatic situation like that seemed too great. And, in my confusion, I had already reserved the room for four more days when I talked to the receptionist on the phone. The room was expensive. I was depressed and angry. If I had previously found the situation comic
al, it now seemed grotesque, and I wasn’t laughing.
Ellen Parker stood in my doorway in an olive-green dress, smiling. She’d brought a bottle of Chablis. She kissed both my cheeks lightly. Her gold bracelets jingled. I made a show of stashing a stack of papers in the drawer. They were all blank. Then I ordered lentil soup and warm sandwiches from room service. I tried to open the bottle of wine but the cork was too tight. Ellen Parker took the bottle from me, and without any trouble, screwed the bottle opener into the cork and pulled it out. I was stunned. Where did she get all her strength? She smiled and poured the wine into our glasses. We looked at each other and made a toast. “To your work. May it be a success!” she said. We sipped the wine. It was cold and refreshing, like filling the mouth with summer flowers, and suddenly I felt a longing for home. Then a boy came with our food. She sat in the armchair, I, at the desk. We struggled to eat neatly despite the fact that we were both in awkward positions. Finally, I gave up trying to eat my soup with a spoon and instead lifted the bowl up to my mouth to drink. She glanced at me with shining eyes, and then started to crack up. “Oh my god, oh my god!” she kept saying. I also started to laugh even though I really didn’t feel like it. And a moment later, when she slurped her soup, I slapped my thigh and threw my head back in wild laughter, while a deep darkness spread through me. I had completely lost control. And I heard myself shriek with laughter when Ellen Parker spilled soup on her olive-green dress and then drooled from her open mouth when a new convulsion of laughter rolled through her. She put her hand on my knee and, gasping, tried to speak, but it wasn’t possible. She tried to wipe the spot with her napkin, but that also got us going again like delirious children, and soon I was crawling around on the floor trying to keep from laughing, my stomach muscles cramped up and tears streamed down my face. Ellen Parker lay face down on the bed shrieking hysterically and kicking her legs up and down. One shoe was off. At least ten minutes passed before we got hold of ourselves enough to control this fit of laughter; with red cheeks and messy hair, we tried to straighten out our clothes. Ellen Parker picked her shoe up from the floor and turned her back to me and put it on. I got up and filled two glasses with water from the bathroom. We drank greedily and, almost at the same time, set the glasses down in front of us. I sat in the armchair, and she, on the bed. Ellen Parker lowered her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said almost whispering. “I don’t know what came over me.”
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