by Mariana Leky
“He who brings home all of life’s gifts, one by one, will achieve enlightenment,” he said.
I turned and looked at him.
“It was just a joke. Furniture delivery.”
Upstairs he looked at his watch. “I have to go,” he said. “You’ll have to assemble it yourself.” Neither of us knew that I wouldn’t do it for another eight years.
* * *
The airport teemed with carefully concealed truths wanting out at the last minute. Everywhere there were people hugging each other one last time, and I hoped they were hugging because a truth had come to light and proved not to be as terrible and terrifying as they feared. Maybe they were hugging each other as tight as they could to keep a silenced truth from slipping out and spreading an awful stink and a great commotion in the last few meters.
We stood in front of the departure display panel. Frederik put down his suitcase and looked at me.
“I’ll give them back,” he said. “I’ll mail them to you.”
He was talking about one hundred and twenty marks.
* * *
We’d remembered very late that we didn’t have a car anymore and took a taxi.
“Does that enormous, ugly beast have to come?” the driver complained.
And Frederik replied, “Yes, it does. The enormous, ugly beast always has to come with us.”
We sat in the back seat, Alaska between us, half on the seat, half in the footwell. Frederik had said he’d have a lot of thinking to do, and he was thinking now. I watched him.
We kept silent the entire drive. Only at the exit to the airport did Frederik put his arm around me, which mostly meant putting his arm around Alaska.
“Why are you so calm?” he asked.
“I’m so calm because you’re so nervous,” I replied, and it was true. I wasn’t nervous, not yet. I only became nervous once we were standing in the departure hall.
* * *
“No,” I said, “don’t pay me back. You gave me the bookshelf, after all.”
We looked up at the giant display panel when it started to update noisily. The letters clattered over each other and blurred into a white-and-black mass. We and everyone around us waited for the letters to calm down. We looked up, spellbound, as if hoping the display panel were about to reveal what life had in store. The letters slowed and the display panel did, indeed, reveal what life had in store, at least for the next five minutes, in its laconic display panel way.
“Gate Five B,” Frederik read.
* * *
As we crossed the departure hall, Alaska strained at the leash so hard I almost lost my balance.
He pulled toward a man who came running up to us. I squinted. I’d never seen this man before, but I immediately knew who he was.
“Excuse me for addressing you like this,” he said to Frederik, “my name is Dr. Maschke. I’m a psychoanalyst. You’re Buddhist, aren’t you?” He offered Frederik his hand. His leather jacket creaked.
“Yes, I’m Buddhist,” Frederik replied and glanced at me. “At least I think I am.”
“I’m very interested in Buddhism. Do you practice zazen?”
Frederik nodded, and Dr. Maschke couldn’t take his eyes off him. He looked at him as rapturously as Mr. Rödder had looked at the saddlebag.
I stared at Dr. Maschke. He had reddish hair and a short reddish beard. He wore wire-rimmed glasses and was about the same age as my father.
“My name is Maschke,” he said to me, giving my hand a cursory shake. He wanted to turn back to Frederik, but his gaze lingered on my face. “You remind me of someone.”
“Of my father,” I said.
“Unbelievable! You’re Peter’s daughter! You look exactly like him. How nice to meet you.”
Alaska was overjoyed, probably because he had been Dr. Maschke’s idea.
“Alaska was Dr. Maschke’s idea,” I explained to Frederik. “So was the trip around the world.”
“No, the opposite is true,” Dr. Maschke objected. “I repeatedly tried to talk him out of it. I urged him to stay home with you.” He turned back to Frederik. “But tell me … I have a question about Yogācāra Buddhism.”
“But that’s simply not right,” I said indignantly, “it was all your idea.” I realized, as I was speaking, that there wasn’t the slightest proof that Dr. Maschke had sent my father around the world. Selma and I had just assumed it to be the case, and the opposite could well be the case.
“Then shoot,” Frederik said.
Dr. Maschke cleared his throat. “To be more precise, I have a question about the eight vijñānas.”
“What’s going on with Alaska?” I asked, because he was still overjoyed at seeing Dr. Maschke.
“We spent a lovely day together,” Dr. Maschke said, giving Alaska a creaking and absentminded pat on the head. “My question, in fact, is about ālayavijñāna.”
“Storehouse consciousness,” Frederik said.
“Exactly.” Dr. Maschke beamed.
“What do you mean, you had a lovely day together?” I asked.
“Alaska visited me this summer, we spent the entire day together.”
I thought of the day Alaska had disappeared and Frederik had appeared.
“He was with you?”
Frederik looked at me. “So that was Alaska’s adventure. You look pale. Are you all right?”
I was pale because you always change colors when the opposite is suddenly the case. “Why did he run to you, of all people?”
“Because he missed Peter, I assume,” Dr. Maschke said. “And I’m very close to your father. Animals can sense that kind of thing.”
“I’m very close to my father, too,” I retorted.
“Yes, but you know, psychoanalysis brings a different kind of closeness.”
Frederik laid his hand on my back. “Go away,” I thought fervently in Dr. Maschke’s direction.
“Unfortunately, I have to go now,” Frederik said to him.
“But about ālayavijñāna…” Dr.ªMaschke said. “When does your flight leave? Mine’s not for a half an hour yet.”
I elbowed Frederik discreetly in the ribs. He looked at me. “Before my flight I need to instruct Luisa in the noble truths. If you know what I mean.”
Naturally Dr. Maschke knew what he meant. “It’s an honor for me to meet a pro like you. It’s marvelous that you’ve decided to follow this path.”
“Now pull yourself together,” I said, pretending I was talking to Alaska, who was still fawning over Dr. Maschke and pulling hard on his leash in the direction the doctor was disappearing.
We watched him go. “The opposite is true,” I said softly. “I can’t believe it.”
* * *
We ran to security, through which only Frederik could go. Dr. Maschke and storehouse consciousness had stolen a lot of our time. We only had a few minutes left.
“You know what,” Frederik suggested, “when the opposite is true, it may apply in a few other cases as well.”
“For example?”
“Maybe you were made to travel the seven seas.”
“Thanks again for the bookshelf,” I said.
And Frederik replied, “Breathe, Luisa.”
“Where, again?”
“Into your belly.”
“Speaking of which,” I said, pulling a bag out of my purse. I’d packed a lot of peanuts.
“Thanks,” Frederik said.
He rubbed a hand over his head as if he’d forgotten he had no hair.
“I know there are a lot of open questions, Luisa.”
I couldn’t see Frederik’s open questions. Mine lay at my feet like dangerous spots outlined in red. Where do we go from here? was one of them, for example. What do we do now? was another.
“I don’t have any answers right now,” he said. “Unless you’d like to ask me about Yogācāra Buddhism.”
He smiled and took my face in his hands.
“You’re all blurry again, Luisa.”
I wanted to tell him that I
wasn’t remotely made to travel the seven seas, no matter how many opposites were true, but instead was mostly made for him. However, that, too, was outlined in red.
“You have to go now,” I said.
“Yes.”
“Go on.”
“First, you’d have to let go of my hand,” Frederik said, and I let go.
“Now you can,” I said, and Frederik walked through the glass door. It shut behind him before I had a chance to stick my foot in it, which is impossible anyway when you’re made of ninety-nine percent water.
Frederik hurried on, and I tightened my grip on Alaska’s leash because he was pulling on it again. Frederik turned and waved. His face suddenly filled with a look of astonishment. He was looking just over my head as if a storm front had built up behind me. I turned around. Dr. Maschke was standing right behind me.
“He’ll be back,” he announced, as if he were a celebrated scientist revealing a sensational discovery to the world. He said it so solemnly that for a moment I was unsure if he was, in fact, talking about Frederik or someone else for whom a return was anatomically impossible, like my grandfather or Martin.
“Go away,” I said. I’d never said this to anyone and thought of Marlies, who never said anything else from morning to night.
Dr. Maschke gave me a soothing smile.
“Express your anger freely,” he said. “Self-actualization is impossible without experiencing anger.”
“Go away and stop getting on everyone’s nerves with your creaky leather jacket,” I said.
And it worked.
* * *
For 140 marks, Alaska and I took a cab back to town, straight to the bookstore. I paid the driver—it was the most expensive day of my life. I thought of the bailiff who had gone to Farmer Leidig’s house, put seals on everything he owned, and announced: “None of this belongs to you anymore.”
SEE ABOVE
The well-planned Christmas party in the community center took place in the afternoon and without the slightest turbulence. Palm had remained silent almost the entire time despite the many Bible quotations that would have been fitting. The entire afternoon he had only said two words: “To Martin.”
At the end of every Christmas party in the community center, the optician raised his glass. “To Martin,” the entire village said in chorus, and looked up at the wood-paneled ceiling. High above, Martin sat on a cloud in heaven, within earshot of the Lord, waving at us. That was how Palm, who toasted with currant juice instead of wine, had explained it to us.
Afterward, the optician, Palm, and Elsbeth came over to Selma’s. My mother had decorated the entire apartment with wreaths and branches. It smelled like the forest. We’d tried everything, but the Christmas tree would not stand straight. So the optician put on gardening gloves and held it tight. As long as we sang, he gripped the tree just beneath its peak with his arm outstretched, as if he were holding a newly apprehended criminal who was a flight risk.
We sang “Oh How Joyfully.” Palm had requested it and sang, his voice loud and deep, of a world that was lost. My father was on the phone from Bangladesh. The receiver lay next to us on the coffee table and he sang along.
When we had finished singing, blown out the candles, and propped the Christmas tree against the wall, the optician suddenly announced, “I have something to tell you. I can’t keep it to myself any longer.”
Selma had just pulled the roast out of the oven, Elsbeth was carrying six plates to the table, my mother and I, on the couch with Palm, were about to toast each other with Selma’s eggnog. We all froze as if a spell had been cast on us. Now, we thought, he’s finally going to reveal what we’ve always known.
Selma stood rooted to the spot, holding the roast, and looked as if she regretted having stepped clean over the area outlined in red instead of stepping right in the middle of it and sinking through the floor.
The optician went up to Palm, who stared at him, eyes wide.
“Me?” he asked.
“Yes, you.”
Palm stood up. Apparently we could move again.
“Werner Palm,” the optician said, his hands trembling, “I sawed the posts of your hunting blind. I wanted to kill you. I’m terribly sorry.”
Selma exhaled; the whole of her thin body was one exhalation.
“But nothing happened,” Elsbeth quickly interjected. She still had all the plates in her hands. “And that was twelve years ago.”
“Still.” The optician looked at Palm. “I ask for your forgiveness.”
The optician was shaking. We hadn’t known what a heavy burden he had been carrying.
Palm looked up at the optician. He squinted as if trying to decipher him.
“It doesn’t matter,” Palm said. “I even understand.”
Now the optician exhaled. Now the whole of his tall, thin body was one exhalation. Even though it wasn’t allowed, he was about to hug Palm, but Palm raised his hands and said, “I have something to tell you all, too.”
Selma set the Christmas roast on the windowsill.
“That is, I have something to tell you, Selma.”
He clasped his hands behind his back. The rest of us, still anticipating a declaration of love, briefly wondered if love would suddenly be launched at Selma from an entirely unexpected direction, if it were ultimately revealed that Palm secretly loved her, and what Selma would do if Palm declared his love for her. After all, since Martin’s death, Selma had been unable to refuse him anything, except the deer.
I put my eggnog on the coffee table and took my mother’s hand.
“I wanted to murder you, Selma,” Palm said softly, looking at his feet in his Sunday shoes. “For Martin’s death.” He looked up briefly. “Because of your dreams. I thought that would be the end of it and no one else would die.”
We all stared at Selma. We couldn’t tell if she would let it pass or if she would suddenly deny him everything, all her affection and all his explications. It was clear that that’s what Palm expected.
She let it pass.
“You didn’t do it,” she said, and went over to Palm.
“I’d loaded the gun,” he whispered.
Selma wanted to stroke his shoulder, but since that wasn’t possible, she stroked the air a few centimeters above his shoulder.
“It was nice of you not to shoot me.”
“I was so stupid,” Palm said with a sob. “Only God is immortal.”
“The roast is getting cold,” Selma said. “Any more attempted murders, or should we eat?”
“By all means, let’s eat,” my mother said. “By the way, Peter’s still on the line.”
“Oh God,” Selma cried, and ran to the phone.
“I didn’t understand a thing, the connection’s so bad,” my father said. “Are you done singing?”
“Yes,” Selma replied, “everyone’s done singing.”
* * *
Later that evening, I went out for a walk with Alaska and took a piece of the roast, wrapped in tinfoil, to Marlies’s house. Before, she used to join us at least on holidays, but now she refused to come at all.
The night was very clear and very cold.
“Look how beautiful it is here,” I said to Alaska, “a symphony of clarity, cold, and darkness.”
Friedhelm waltzed past, softly singing “Every Year Again.” He tipped his hat and I nodded at him. I wondered if the shot my father had given him for his panic attack twelve years ago was a depot injection that gradually released happiness and satisfaction over the decades.
Because Marlies wouldn’t open the front door anyway, I went right around the house to the kitchen window she always left ajar.
“Happy holidays, Marlies,” I said. “Here’s some of the roast. It’s excellent.”
“I don’t want it. Go away.”
I leaned against the wall next to the window.
“You missed something tonight,” I said. “Palm almost murdered Selma, and the optician almost murdered Palm.”
There was the no
ise of a kitchen chair being pushed back.
“What?” Marlies asked.
“That is, not tonight, but a while back.”
Marlies said nothing.
“Do you remember my visitor from Japan?” I asked. “From a few weeks ago. I haven’t heard a thing.”
Marlies said nothing.
“I’ll have to come to terms with it,” I said. “Oh, and by the way, I passed my trial period. Even though you complained so much.”
“Your recommendations are shit,” Marlies said.
“That’s probably why I haven’t heard a thing from Japan,” I said.
I put the slice of roast on the windowsill. The tinfoil glistened like moonlight reflected in a bowl.
* * *
In January, the optician, Selma, and I drove to the doctor’s office in the county seat. Selma’s joints were becoming increasingly deformed and, in order to verify what everyone could already see, her hands, her feet, and her knees were put in an X-ray machine, one after the other. She had to hold still, which she did with her eyes closed, not opening them even when someone came in now and again to rearrange her limbs for the next image. Selma sat there and looked at the black-and-white afterimage on the inside of her eyelids. She saw Heinrich with a frozen smile, turning to wave one very last time. Meanwhile, the X-ray machine took grayish-white pictures of Selma’s frozen body, and Selma, looking at Heinrich, tried not to twitch when the machine took the images.
The optician and I sat outside the X-ray room.
“A letter from the other end of the world takes time. He’ll be in touch,” the optician was saying when Selma appeared, holding something that looked like a cross between a shoehorn and a fork.
“Look what they gave me,” she said happily.
Lately, it had become difficult for Selma to raise her arm to touch her head, and what she had in her hand was a long-handled comb.
* * *
“Besides, you could write, too,” Selma said later in the optician’s car. And because she was right, I told Mr. Rödder the next day that I was going to tidy up the back room. Mr. Rödder nodded, and I leaned against the door, climbed over all the broken objects, sat down at the folding table, opened a bottle of hazelnut liqueur a customer had given us, drank half a coffee cup’s worth for courage, and wrote Frederik a letter.