The Dance by the Canal

by Kerstin Hensel

  – It’s a secret!

  – Fine by me.

  Paffrath smooths down the baby hair, puts his hat back on, taps the visor.

  – I’ll come by again tomorrow.

  Kabinett Mühle. When I entered my name was Binka. All I knew was that I was invited, cordially, to this ground-breaking exhibition of work by Leibnitz artists. Go there, Queck said, read what you’ve written. Everyone will be presenting their work. My heart beat right up to my eyelids with pride and fear. I turned the thin, grey pieces of paper with my story written on in pencil in my hands, practised reading aloud in front of the mirror, and twisted a golden hairband into my hair. That was me. An aspiring poet. I forgot what Queck wanted from me the moment I descended the stairs into Kabinett Mühle.

  Throng. Semi-gloom. Strangers laughing. And: Hello! Most people were dressed in creased black fabric, nettle cloth and linen. They had ribbons tied around their foreheads, silver rings and jewellery made from adder stones and mussel shells. They wore their hair long or hedgehog-short, wide baggy shirts and skin-tight trousers, black nail varnish and hand-woven shawls. I felt ashamed in my ordinary corduroy trousers and conservative Dederon blouse. So ashamed that I wanted to leave, but Queck’s goblin voice was breathing down my neck:

  – Last chance, girl.

  Throng. I was shunted around. My performance was to be at nine o’clock.

  – Hello! I greeted people I didn’t know.

  – Hello, who are you?

  – Gabriela von Haßlau.

  – Are you in tonight’s programme?

  I fled to the wall. How was I supposed to survive here, in all this laughter, all this whispering, all this desire to show something new and different? Grope along the wall and act like you belong here. Vodka and cola. Maybe it’ll help. There were things on display everywhere: tables of pottery, bookstalls, art galleries. I admired the charm of it. Music. Four young musicians appeared on the stage built in the middle of the cellar and played jazz. The figures in black danced to jaunty jazz and gloomy blues. I got carried away: I knew the blues, a wonderful distant memory. I shook my arms and legs in time to the music like the others. I slowly started to awaken. Hello! someone called, and I said: Hello! Danced, jumped, I scream! You scream! Everybody likes ice cream! Throng. Now it’s the singer. Tall, hair as red as field poppies.

  – Frau Popiol! I shouted, forcing my way through the ever-growing crowd. Frau Popiol! The blues came over of me like a force. The cellar sang it. Everyone joined hands, spotlight on the red hair. This is your last chance, Gabriela. I’m called Binka. Blues. I’m falling too. Where to? Wherever you want. The blues ended, Frau Popiol disappeared. The guests were welcomed by Samuel the actor. He bounded onto the stage, threw out his arms to catch the applause.

  – Samuel!

  The crowd swallowed me up. Applauded. Great things were expected. Samuel sang and played guitar. The cellar held its breath. Now those were songs. Rousing, strange and intimate, sung ardently. What was I supposed to do with them? I should do something! I looked around for help. Plumes of smoke from Karo cigarettes, expectant faces, every now and then a head craned up. Applause. All for Samuel. I had to speak to him. I fought my way through the audience.

  – Do you remember me?

  – Gabriela! Samuel was in a hurry.

  – Where’s Mother?

  – You haven’t heard?

  – Tell me.

  The crowd absorbed the actor, pulled him into the maelstrom. I scream! You scream! the jazz band sang.

  – And now, the Skunks, the workers’ cabaret of the Leibnitz Industrial Plant!

  The Skunks performed sketches. Everyone sat on the floor in delight, they’d seen them before, knew what to expect. I could hear the sound of slamming doors coming from somewhere. I was dissolving with sweat. You’re on soon. After the next I scream they’ll be listening to you! My mouth was dry with agitation and my eyes burned from the Karo smoke. What did Queck say? I’m sick, I thought for a moment: my brain wasn’t connecting up anything any more, of what had happened, what I wrote and what I was doing now. I’d forgotten, completely, what this was all about. I heard the name Gabriela von Haßlau.

  – Come on, girl.

  It was Frau Popiol who shoved me onto the stage. The cellar fell silent. My teeth chattered as I reached for the thin grey paper in my trouser pocket. The spotlight blasted me in the eyes. Dust, dancing smoke, whirling, swirling bliss. I read what I had written. Quietly at first, as if spoken through cotton wool, then my resounding, defiant voice filled the room. They clapped when I had finished. I stepped into the dark abyss of the audience.

  Throng. I scream. A few people gathered around me: Where did I get these ideas from? Fabulous, how brave I was! Hot, bashful joy. Is this what Queck wanted? Did he hide from me that he knew I was sick? What else did he know? I jazzed my way through my glee. I could barely tell who I was dancing with in the dark cellar, nothing mattered, everything was new and vast. I hoped in vain to find Frau Popiol, and just once from deep within the haze I heard the words: Kurt is dead.

  I jazzed my way into my new life and promised to keep having these ideas and to be brave. I wasn’t sure what I had been courageous about. Can’t buy me love! the band sang. Karo ruled the Kabinett Mühle, another vodka and cola to know life a little better. Dancing. It doesn’t matter where happiness comes from, it has to fall into your arms and make you forget. I breathed into unfamiliar hair. Tight embrace, Can’t buy me love, hands roam over a body, down a strong back concealed by a black creased dress.

  – You read very well, the dancer said.

  – Oh, I said.

  The music cut out. I looked into Katka’s face. How beautiful she’d become! Not really slim, but a miracle of gaiety. We kissed, locked in an embrace. She lifted me into the air – she had the strength of a crane, whirling me around. Suddenly she said:

  – Let’s get out of here.

  – And go where?

  – Wherever you want.

  Hand in hand, we walked through the city. We had years to talk about.

  – I moved out right after school finished, Katka boasted. She had become a painter. Hadn’t I seen her pictures in the Kabinett Mühle? I hadn’t. I felt ashamed not to have paid attention to anything other than myself, to have taken pleasure only in my own happy state.

  – Can’t believe you’ve become a poet! Katka scoffed.

  I started. Now I really was one! A poet. I was happy. Now I knew where I belonged.

  – I had to file and drill iron plates, can you imagine!

  – What did you do?

  We sniggered our way through the city, recounted our scandals and misdeeds, every little experience. We were free and in high spirits.

  – But how do you make a living, Ehlchen?

  We danced by the canal. At night the brewery let its juices flow into it, hops and malt and foam flakes churned, and we were drunk. Somewhere, at mine or at hers or somewhere else, we fell asleep, dog tired.

  I woke up at noon, naked, on an unfamiliar mattress.

  – Katka! There was no one in the flat apart from me. Katka had disappeared. Did I dream it? I wondered, looking down at myself: blue bruises on my chest and legs, the pain almost pleasant. My time had come. But what had I done? And where? I tumbled through the chaos of bedclothes and washing, knotted curtains, misplaced carpets, countless items of clothing belonging to me, or to someone else? I knocked over coffee cups, cold coffee grounds dribbled onto the floor, clinking glasses rolled away from me. I was at home. In my flat. Katka had been here too. I saw the front door standing open, broken open. Fell over my mess, banged my knees. They were standing behind me.

  – Put something on, Queck said.

  Manfred, his driver, looked away grinning. I did what was asked of me. Anything but awakening, I pleaded, trying to clear up.

  – Leave that! yapped Queck.

  I let it all fall to the floor and asked where my friend Katka was. Manfred shut the door behind us. Just as I sat dow
n in the black Volga I felt sick. I threw open the car door, got out, puked up the sour remains of vodka and cola in front of the bonnet. Queck let me sleep leaning against his pot belly. The car pulled away.

  Atze and Noppe stormed the broom cupboard.

  – She’s not kosher! Snobby cunt! Smug bitch!

  They came in through the window, beat me out of my sleep.

  – Made yourself a warm bed in here, and Paul’s already shuffled off and I’m about to do the same.

  Noppe stabs a knife into the detergent canister. The soapy stream hits me in the face.

  – Get out, fucking get out!

  Atze slits open the box of snow grit, throws the sharp dirt everywhere, Fisherman-Kurt and Chicken-Beppo climb in through the window, crack! The broom and the mop snap, ha! I get a thrashing, soap, dust, violent coughing. The rats cleave a way into the barroom.

  – Nice and warm in here!

  More and more of them come. Ha! And all on the house! The beer taps hiss. They stick their muzzles under them, wild stinking animals, and get their fill. Someone lets off the fire extinguisher and sprays foam into the broom cupboard, the vinegar cleaning fluid explodes. Police! Police! The Three Roses plug up my mouth, the bar’s falling apart, it’s cosy here, boys! And even more appear: the overnight guests of the Green Bridge and the Sunday Bridge come in from the once-in-a-century winter, stopping off at mine on the way. One shouts:

  – She’s a Binka!

  They seize me, rip out my hair.

  – She’s not one of us! She’s got a villa, she’s just sounding us out!

  With all my belongings under my arm, I crawl outside through the throng of rampaging tramps. The winter has polished Leibnitz as smooth as ice. Fleeing, I skid onwards through the early morning streets. Police! They’re smashing up the Three Roses!

  Chief Inspector Paffrath leads the operation. Three green police vans. Atze, Noppe and whatever the rest of them are called climb in without putting up a fight.

  Once upon a time there were three roses. Paffrath takes me down to the station too.

  – Why lower yourself to this level, Fräulein von Haßlau?

  – Not my fault.

  – Done your research?

  – What have I done?

  Paffrath doesn’t believe me. He lifts the plastic bag with two fingers, the shelter blanket, my possessions, and he throws them in the corner.

  – But you’re an artist.

  – I’m sick, Chief Inspector.

  – Oh boy, you’re giving me quite a night of it.

  I now own nothing except Paffrath’s chaperonage. Six o’clock, end of shift. In his car he asks:

  – Where should I really take you?

  I don’t know. So tired not a single response comes to mind. He takes me to his place. Ninth floor of a new apartment block. My knees start shaking while I’m still in the passenger seat. Cop! I think. The building smells of cigars and the rubbish chute. We walk down a corridor that’s at least 100 metres long.

  – I always do a little sprint at the start, Paffrath jokes.

  He leads me into his flat. A bulky brown three-piece suite neatly fills the only room. I’m so tired I could collapse.

  – I’ll run you a bath, then sleep, and tomorrow we’ll see.

  Sleeping in a foam forest of conifers, floating deep in dreams. Paffrath wakes me with a shower of cold water.

  – You could drown and not even notice.

  He gives me a towel, his gaze signalling restraint. Wrapped in the towel, I consider what to do with the pile of filthy clothes that I’ve worn for the last few months and that are now lying pitifully in the corner of the bathroom. I’m embarrassed, but Paffrath says briskly:

  – Let’s get rid of those!

  Valiantly biting back disgust, he gathers up the rest of me, carries it 100 metres along the corridor and throws it down the rubbish chute. Comes back, shows me a place on the sofa, beds himself down on a mattress on the floor. The first night without the cold, and the smell of soap. There’s only the hum of pain in my infected fingernail. The Chief Inspector snores in his dreams, loud little puff sounds slip out of his mouth. He turns over onto his side with a grunt. I look at his baby hair, sticking to his head thin and fine, and I fall asleep.

  *

  Drunk from sleep, I climb out of the black Volga.

  – Let’s take a little break, shall we?

  Queck bends his legs, while Manfred suppresses a groan as he stretches the small of his back. We were in the countryside, a forest and a lake. The day was clear and enticing.

  – Breathe it in, Gabriela!

  – Wermsdorf, enthused Queck, the VEB Inland Fishery! They’ve always got something put aside for us. Let’s go and see.

  We walked around the small grey lake and entered a barracks.

  – Our fishermen! Queck introduced a group of men sitting around a table having breakfast. The men, their countenances as cold as fish, followed our entrance sceptically.

  – Breakfast! demanded Queck, and rubbed his thighs in anticipation.

  Without saying a word, the men prepared a table for their guests, fetched plates of smoked fish, eel and carp. Queck asked for Schillerlocken – Schiller, ha-ha, his locks, ha-ha, it’s actually pieces of smoked dog shark, and Oh, the shark has pretty teeth, dear, and can be found in the Wermsdorf Lake.

  The fishermen’s faces remained an icy grey, as if they had to listen to these stupid jokes every day.

  – Time to get to work, one of them said. The rest followed him outside, while Queck and his driver Manfred picked at the Schiller curls. Two fingers lifted the little golden rolls from the plate, the neck bent backwards, the curls dangled, gently swaying over the open mouth, the tongue caught drops of oil, then the lips snapped shut. I bravely drank coffee. Smoked fish would have made me throw up all over again, and anyway, what was I doing here? Queck wiped the grease from his mouth, nudged Manfred with the wink of an eye.

  – Let’s do it, OK?

  Manfred grinned, leaned back in his chair. Queck invited me on a boat trip. Outside, in the fresh air, I felt better. I followed the goblin belly. I had to follow him. After all, who else would know what was wrong with me? Manfred got into the boat first, steadied it. As Queck plopped down onto the deck, it rocked violently. They put me in the middle, Queck sitting opposite me on the wooden bench. Manfred grabbed the oars. We cast off. After the first strokes I awoke. Suddenly I saw who I was sitting in the boat with, knew what had happened the night before, where I’d been, who I’d seen. The game had been called. Manfred steered the boat, Queck squinted against the morning sun. I pressed my hands between my knees. Awakening was awful – this clarity was bringing on a headache, and every second of pain brought me closer to the realization: not that. Now to you, Gabriela. Queck picked a bit of fish out of his teeth. I sat rigidly.

  – We’re waiting for your assignment.

  – Why?

  – We were clear about that.

  – About what?

  – Listen, we’re not here to joke around.

  – Please take me home.

  – What are we supposed to make of that?

  – I can’t do this any more.

  – She can’t do it any more. Were we so wrong about you?

  Queck’s pot belly sank between his spread-out legs. I could see the threads of the grey Malimo trousers so precisely, could see this man in his full nakedness so clearly, that I was filled with horror. I’d already forgotten what he’d said. But Manfred’s oar strokes reminded me: we’re going to make you disappear, like Mother, like Father, like Frau Popiol, like Katka, like…

  – Where’s my friend Katka?

  The question interrupted Queck’s sentence. Queck’s friendliness disappeared.

  – You’ve disappointed us, Gabriela.

  In the middle of the lake Manfred stopped rowing. The boat circled around its axis. Midday sun. Queck’s bald head shone like the skin of a smoked fish. I imagined Schiller locks growing out of his skull.


  – You know what happens if someone betrays our trust.

  – There’s still one more chance.

  – Make it quick! Manfred’s milky face grimaced impatiently. No one’s around.

  I looked for the Wermsdorf fishermen in vain. I was alone with Queck and his driver.

  – One more chance, Queck repeated.

  I was awake like never before. The boat swayed.

  – What are you doing?

  Pot Belly turned pale. The oar slipped out of the driver’s hand.

  – Damn it, watch out!

  Queck’s fingers grabbed at my knees for help. I stood up abruptly, balanced myself. The oar tilted upwards in my hands – the long side met Manfred’s head, the driver tipped out of the boat. Queck cooeed for help. I jumped to the port side. The goblin fell over, his legs wedged between the middle seats. I dragged him out by his shirt collar, the oar circled before his eyes, slipped out my hands, splashed into the lake, where Manfred was drifting motionlessly among the farmed fish. Queck was as heavy as a sack of potatoes. His shrill cries for help irritated me. I jumped into the water, hung onto the edge of the boat, while the fatso rolled starboard and the boat listed and tipped over together with him. I swam away as Pot Belly floundered in the lake, gurgling. Swam with great, peaceful strokes to the bank. No one around. I climbed out of the water and left without looking back.

  Waking up in an unfamiliar room. On a sofa under a clean, cosy blanket. Where am I? And who? Poet, homeless, unemployed. The clock says ten past six in the evening. I’m alone. A note on the table from Paffrath: ‘Wait for me.’ In the kitchen, sausage and bread laid out on a plate. Men’s things draped over the arm of the chair. I should put them on for the time being. But I’ll greet Paffrath with nothing on. Him in his uniform! ‘Naked Woman Welcomes Policeman’. Headline in Mammilia. That’s it! Quite the stunt! I have to bring my story to an end, devise something explosive to get me out of the last hole. Semmelweis-Märrie will have to wash the glasses herself today. Or not at all. Because no one will come. Dosser raid under my authority. They’ll all be locked up, nice and warm. Or maybe released straight away, back into the winter. Rummage through Paffrath’s apartment: men’s socks, cigarettes, old newspapers. And a pad of fine white paper. I sit at the table with this in front of me. Anhaltinian nobility. Fffon Haßlau. Poet. Naked in front of a cop. Who’ll believe it? The readers of Mammilia await the next part of the story. The part about the nobility is good. My father was an eminent doctor. We had that already. It has to end differently, in a completely unexpected way.