by Mariana Leky
* * *
At seven-fifteen, Martin and I were standing in the train. Martin had not lifted me on the platform. I had dictated my homework to him as fast as possible.
“Go,” Martin said when the train started, leaning his back with his backpack against the train door and closing his eyes. I stood against the facing door and looked outside.
“Wire factory,” Martin said exactly at the moment we passed the wire factory.
“Right,” I said.
“Field, meadow, crazy Hassel’s farmhouse,” he said.
“Right,” I said.
“Pasture,” Martin said. “Forest. Forest. Hunting blind two.”
“Hunting blind one,” I said.
“Sorry,” Martin said, and smiled. “Hunting blind one. Now field again.”
“Perfect,” I said.
I looked outside over Martin’s head. The strand on Martin’s head was still stuck down but it would be standing up again before we got to school.
“Forest, pasture,” Martin recited quickly, because we were approaching the section where the train sped up, the section in which naming everything at exactly the right moment was especially challenging. “Meadow, meadow,” he said.
* * *
Then suddenly the door sprang open.
PART TWO
SOMEONE OUTSIDE
“Please close the door,” Mr. Rödder said.
He knew this wasn’t possible. The door did not close completely because the doorframe had warped and the brown carpet squares that looked like wire-haired dachshund fur were too thick. For the door to close even halfway, you had to lean your entire body weight against it as if you were trying at all costs to prevent someone outside from pushing in. And yet, no one ever wanted to come in here; no one except for Mr. Rödder and me ever wanted to come into the bookstore’s tiny, windowless, musty back room.
Even without the two of us, the room was completely full. Along with a folding table holding a coffee maker, it held old fax machines, discarded cash registers, rolls of crumpled promotional posters, and display stands.
In the midst of all these things lay Alaska. Alaska was old, much older than dogs generally grow to be. It seemed as if he had been allotted several lives and was living them one after the other without dying in between.
Mr. Rödder hated Alaska. He hated it when I had to bring him with me to the bookstore. Alaska was clumsy and shaggy and enormous and gray. He smelled like an unaired truth. Every time I came in through the door with Alaska and countless excuses and apologies, Mr. Rödder reached for the aerosol can next to the cash register without a word and filled the room with Blue Ocean Breeze air freshener, but it wasn’t much help. “It doesn’t work with this wreck of a creature,” Mr. Rödder always said after spraying Alaska and shooing him into the back room. “These living conditions are not at all suitable for the species,” he would say when Alaska lay down between the many broken objects, and he would say it with as much indignation as if he were talking about his own life, not Alaska’s.
Because of Alaska, the tiny back room was filled with the odors of dog and blue ocean breeze from a spray can. Mr. Rödder and I stood close to each other and, as with every time we were both in this room, it was unclear how we had found enough space among the clutter. It always seemed that we hadn’t come in through the door that didn’t close but had been deposited here by some giant hand that had raised the roof and carefully fit us in the room without having to remove anything.
“I have to speak with you about something,” Mr. Rödder said. His breath smelled of the violet pastilles he was constantly sucking because he was afraid of having bad breath. He had even offered Alaska some, but I argued that they weren’t suitable for the species, and Alaska had ignored them. Mr. Rödder’s breath smelled of old funeral decorations and I didn’t dare tell him that this, too, was a kind of bad breath.
“Marlies Klamp came in this morning,” he said. “She complained yet again about your recommendation. She didn’t like the book. It would be very nice if you could develop a better sense of our customers.”
“But I do have a good sense of them,” I objected. “Marlies never likes anything.”
“Then get an even better sense of them,” Mr. Rödder said.
He held his face close to mine. His eyebrows looked like wire-haired dachshund fur. They stuck out in all directions. Mr. Rödder’s eyebrows were in a constant state of agitation.
“Otherwise you won’t pass the trial period,” Mr. Rödder said as if it were a matter of life and death, and I couldn’t believe that it would depend on Marlies, of all people.
* * *
Marlies hardly left her house anymore, and when she did it was only to complain about something. She complained to the shopkeeper about a frozen dinner that didn’t taste good. She complained to the optician that her glasses were always crooked. She complained in the gift shop that they didn’t have any good ideas for presents, and she complained to Mr. Rödder about my recommendations.
I had gone to see her the previous week. “No one’s home,” Marlies had called through the closed door. I went around her house and looked in through the kitchen window. It was dark and I couldn’t see anything. The window was ajar.
“I’ll be quick, Marlies,” I said. “Could you please stop complaining to Mr. Rödder about me? Otherwise I won’t pass the trial period.”
Marlies did not answer.
“What would you like me to recommend?” I asked through the window. I thought of the day Alaska came to us and I had feverishly tried to think of a name, only to come up with the wrong one. Martin knew the right name immediately.
“I’m going to keep complaining,” Marlies had answered. “Deal with it. Now go away.”
* * *
“Fine,” I said to Mr. Rödder. “I’ll get an even better sense of our customers.”
“I very much hope you will,” he said. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth on his toes. He did this often and his rocking made him seem like he wanted to gallop away that instant and knock someone over with his enormous belly. “That will be all.”
“I’ve also got something on my mind,” I said. “I wanted to ask if I could have a few days off next week. Can you believe it? Someone is coming to visit me from Japan.”
“Good Lord,” Mr. Rödder said, as if a visitor from Japan were an attack of rheumatism.
“Just two days,” I said.
Alaska woke up. He raised his head and wagged his tail, knocking over a colony of promotional poster rolls. Mr. Rödder sighed. “That really is a lot to ask,” he said.
“I know, and I’m very sorry.”
The door chimes jingled.
“Customer,” Mr. Rödder said.
“Maybe you could consider it,” I said.
“Customer,” Mr. Rödder repeated.
We struggled through all the broken objects and climbed over Alaska to the door that didn’t shut completely or open fully.
* * *
The optician was standing next to the door, and when he saw us coming he grabbed a book from a stack of new titles and came up to us.
“Good evening,” he said to Mr. Rödder. “I simply must tell you that your colleague always gives me excellent recommendations.”
“I see,” Mr. Rödder said.
“She knows exactly what I want before I do,” the optician said. He was wearing the Employee of the Month badge on his sweater vest.
“It’s okay,” I whispered.
“Aren’t you the optician from Luisa’s village?” Mr. Rödder asked suspiciously. “You two know each other personally, don’t you?”
“Vaguely,” the optician said. “What I wanted to tell you is that your colleague reads me like an open book.”
“We’re closing now,” I said, pushing the optician toward the door.
In the doorway, the optician turned to Mr. Rödder. “No one has ever given me as many exceptional recommendations as she has. And I’ve been given a lo
t of recommendations in my life,” he said, and I pushed him out onto the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” I said outside, “but that wasn’t necessary.”
The optician beamed at me. “Good idea, wasn’t it? I’m sure it worked.”
* * *
That evening I unlocked the door to my apartment, went into the kitchen with Alaska, and hid his evening pill in a ball of liverwurst. The answering machine light was blinking. Its display showed five new messages. The answering machine actually should have been in Mr. Rödder’s back room with all the other broken things. It always showed many more new messages than there actually were. The answering machine regularly hung up on callers after a few seconds, said connections were maintained that weren’t, and repeated three times that a message was done at the end.
“You have forty-seven new messages,” the answering machine announced. The first was from my father. The connection was terrible.
“The connection is terrible,” he said from somewhere far away. The farther away he was, the more his voice echoed, as if he were in an empty room that kept getting bigger.
I could not understand much of what he said and only caught “in touch” and “Alaska.” I didn’t know if he meant the place or the dog because the answering machine cut my father off and announced the next message.
“Werner Palm here,” Palm said. Then he paused as if giving the answering machine a chance to greet him by name. “I just wanted to ask if you were coming this weekend. As always, I wanted to wish you—” Palm said, and the answering machine cut him off.
“God’s merciful blessings,” I said.
“Next message,” the answering machine announced.
“God’s merciful blessings,” Palm said.
“Rödder here.” Mr. Rödder spoke very quickly because he knew the answering machine well. “It’s Monday evening, six fifty-seven. You left the store a few minutes ago. I’d like to let you know that I have decided to grant your request for time off this coming week as a rare exception—” and the answering machine cut him off. Then Frederik said, “It’s me.”
“Frederik,” I said.
“Don’t be alarmed, Luisa,” Frederik said. “I wanted to tell you—” The answering machine cut him off because it did not discriminate—everyone was equal in the eyes of this answering machine—and I was alarmed by Frederik’s request that I not be alarmed. He’s not coming, I thought. He’s about to tell me that he isn’t coming.
“Next message,” the answering machine announced.
“As I was saying, I wanted to tell you there’s been a change in plans.” And the answering machine cut him off and said, “Your connection is maintained,” then announced the next message. And I thought, Frederik’s not coming; the connection has not been maintained. And Frederik said, “I’m coming today. In fact, I’m almost there.”
Then he was silent. The answering machine was silent, too, and did not cut him off. Maybe the answering machine was also blindsided by this message, thrown off its egalitarian disinterest, maybe it had no idea, either, what to do after receiving such a message, and therefore unintentionally did exactly the right thing—in other words, it kept recording.
Alaska and I stared at the blinking light. We stared at Frederik’s silence, and I tried to grasp that Frederik was almost here.
“I was expecting to be cut off,” Frederik finally said. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to let you know sooner. I hope it’s all right with you. See you soon, Luisa.”
“End of message,” the answering machine said quickly, “end of message, end of message.” And then, exceptionally, to be absolutely certain, it repeated a fourth time, “end of message.”
I dialed the number almost everyone I knew dialed in an emergency.
Selma answered after the third ring. It always took a while before the receiver reached her ear. On the other end of the line you heard nothing but a protracted rustling, as if the receiver were a detector that first had to scan Selma’s entire body before it finally reached her ear.
“Hello?” Selma finally said.
“Frederik is coming,” I said.
“I know that.” Selma sighed. “Next week.”
Alaska looked at me. My voice sounded shrill.
“Calm down,” Selma said. “In fact, it’s actually good news.”
“What is?”
“That he’s almost here.”
“What?”
“It’s exactly what you wanted.”
“I don’t remember that it’s exactly what I wanted,” I said, and I heard Selma smile and say, “But I do.”
“What should I do now?” I asked. “And don’t tell me to do exactly what I would do on any other day.”
“But there’s no okapi involved,” Selma said.
“It feels like there is, though.”
“You’re getting mixed up there,” she said. “I’d take a quick shower. You sound like you’re in a sweat.”
The doorbell rang. Alaska stood up.
“The doorbell,” Selma said.
“It’s him,” I said.
“I suspect it is,” Selma said. “Deodorant works, too.”
The doorbell rang again.
“What should I do now?” I asked, and Selma answered, “Open the door, Luisa.”
OPEN THE DOOR
After I had closed my eyes under Selma’s kitchen table on the day Martin was buried and pressed my face against her shirt that was as black as the bow on a funeral wreath, I didn’t open them again for a very long time.
At some point Selma had crawled out from under the table with me in her arms. I held tight to her neck with both arms and she sat down on a chair with me on her lap. I slept.
My parents came, knelt next to Selma and me, and tried to whisper me awake. My mother had the hiccups. She always got the hiccups from crying. Because she was responsible for all the funeral wreaths in the area, she also made the one for Martin’s burial. “Not that one,” she had said at first, “I refuse to make that wreath.” She made it after all, the night before the burial, and until the next morning there was no other sound in the entire village and the surrounding forest aside from my mother’s hiccuping and the rustling of the bow in her hands.
“Luisa,” my mother whispered. “Luisa?”
“Let’s lay her on the sofa,” my father whispered. He carefully tried to loosen my arms from Selma’s neck, but it didn’t work. As soon as my father tried to lift me from Selma’s lap, I just clung to her more tightly, and I was surprisingly powerful in my sleep.
“Let go,” Selma said. “I’ll just sit here. She’ll wake up soon.”
She was wrong. I slept for three days. Selma later claimed it was a hundred years.
Because I wouldn’t let her put me down, Selma carried me for three days without interruption. A sleeping ten-year-old is much heavier than one who is awake, and Selma wondered if Martin could have held me up asleep for even a minute.
As long as I wouldn’t let go, Selma did not trust she would remember to avoid the weak spots in the kitchen and living room floors and started reminding herself out loud. “Don’t step there,” she murmured when she came close to one of the sections marked with red tape, because falling through the floor alone was entirely different from falling through with someone in your arms.
Selma carried me in front of her chest, on her back, over her shoulder. When she had to go to the bathroom, she pulled her stockings and underwear down with one hand and balanced me on her lap. When she was hungry, she tore open a packet of dried soup with her teeth. She soon learned how to unwrap a Mon Chéri candy with one hand. When she went to bed, I lay against her chest or her back, my arms around her neck. For three days, Selma not only kept me on her, she also kept on her funeral-wreath-bow-black shirt; undressing and washing were impossible as long as I wouldn’t let go.
* * *
On the second day, Selma walked through the village to the shop with me on her back. The shopkeeper was also still wearing black. He was sitting
in front of his store, which was closed. DUE TO A BEREAVEMENT, read the sign on the door, as if everyone didn’t know.
“Could you please open for a minute?” Selma asked. The shopkeeper stood up and didn’t seem at all surprised to see me draped over Selma’s shoulder, asleep.
“Do you have dry dog food?”
“Unfortunately not, only canned,” the shopkeeper said.
Selma considered. “How much bologna do you have in stock?”
The shopkeeper went to check. “Nine packs,” he answered.
“I’ll take them all,” Selma said, “and it would be a help if you could open all the packages right now. And then put them in here.” She turned around and the shopkeeper took the bag that hung from Selma’s fingers interlaced under my bottom. He opened the nine packages in silence and laid the stack of bologna slices in the bag.
“Could you take out my wallet?” Selma asked, gesturing with her chin at the pocket in her black skirt.
“It’s on the house,” the shopkeeper said.
* * *
Selma passed the optician’s shop and was mirrored in his display window. I clung to Selma’s back like an imp and the bag dangled below me. The optician didn’t see Selma, or he would have come out right away and tried to carry everything for her. But Selma did see the optician, also in black, in his best suit, which got bigger with each passing year. He was sitting on his stool, his head hidden in the hemisphere of the arc perimeter he had purchased from an eye doctor in the county seat.