THE MADNESS LOCKER

by EDDIE RUSSELL

  It’s 3.45 and I would like to step outside and tour the grounds rather than sit here and wait, but Emma might stop by at any minute. So I replace the magazines on the rack, grab a book off the shelf to look busy and think through my first day in Holland. Emma has taken me under her wing. Is it because she is half German and facing the same harassment as me? Perhaps. Or maybe she can just empathise because her mother faces the same scorn? Even so, she has gone beyond empathy to trust me and invite me to rent a room in her house. But that can also be construed as a financial decision: more housemates, less rent for each to pay. That’s how the four of us - Martin, Johann, Franz and I - ended up together in Leipzig sharing a house.

  If I think back to Emma’s earlier curiosity, which I attributed to romantic interest, I see it now as her sussing me out as a potential housemate, not mate. In that light, her hastily processing my enrolment falls under the same rubric. My ego deflates slightly; yet even if her interest in me is driven by finances it still fulfils my need too: a place to live and being enrolled. I got lucky in that, and in that Emma is half German, otherwise I would be at the mercy of the university dormitory and enrolment bureaucracy.

  A tap on my shoulder. “I expected you to be deeply immersed in a book, not your thoughts.” She points to her watch and then the door.

  It’s 4.30. I stand up and replace the book on the shelf and follow Emma to the lane bordering the library.

  “You know, the welcoming committee from lunch greeted me at the library,” I tell her facetiously as we step outside - my eyes are already scanning the perimeter.

  “What?! They followed you here?” Emma stops and stares incredulously at me.

  “No, I don’t think they followed me. They just happened to be here when I got here.”

  “So what happened?”

  “The same as before, plus some shoving and pushing. But some campus officials stopped it from getting too ugly.”

  “Phew. What’s this about? I have never experienced such antipathy - well, no, there was an incident last week with a German academic. But he provoked it.”

  That statement has just altered my view on why Emma chose to empathise with me. I wrongly assumed that it was because of her mother being German and copping the same abuse as me. But Emma just told me that she has never experienced such antipathy towards Germans before, so that would preclude her and certainly her mother. So why? I am tempted to ask, but I’ll save it for a more personal setting, maybe over dinner.

  We collect my duffel and rucksack from the train station and then hail a taxi, mounting Emma’s bicycle on the back rack and stowing my luggage in the boot. We take a short ten-minute trip from the train station to a street called Kromme Nieuwegracht. As we disembark from the taxi in the fading light I can see that the street is not asphalt, but brick-lined. On either side the houses are also made of red brick, with the front windows facing onto a narrow canal. I immediately like the old-world feeling of the street and houses. I would like to revert to thinking that Emma took a personal interest in me for reasons other than financial ones; this street evokes romance.

  We pay the driver and enter the foyer. The house is dark and silent.

  “Lijsbeth and Jacob are away in Rotterdam. They are visiting his parents. They will be back next week. You will like them. They are very friendly.” She flicks on the light in the living room: spacious, long and narrow. Rugs are strewn about randomly but with tastefully matching colours. There are a few unframed posters on the wall and a large Van Gogh reproduction: the bridge at Arles, I seem to recall. Immediately to my right is a fireplace, with logs bundled next to it and a set of bellows, tongs and a poker. Against the wall opposite is a brownish three-seater leather sofa partially covered by a quilted throw and an assortment of cushions. On either side is a maroon armchair with an antimacassar flung over the headrest. It is a very homely place with a quaint Dutch feel to it, without being overwhelming in its decor or furnishings. A set of stairs ascends directly opposite the fireplace leading to a second storey, which I assume is where the bedrooms are.

  “Let’s leave your things down here for now. I am famished. We will make some dinner, relax, and then I will show you to your room.”

  “All sounds good. How can I help?”

  “Take the vegetables from the basket over there; make up a salad. I will prepare a quick pannenkoeken with cheese and meat.”

  “What is that?”

  “Pancakes. Very easy, very good.”

  Soon we are working side by side like an old married couple; Emma breaking eggs, kneading a flour mix, sprinkling spices, then adding slices of cheese and sausage. I place the salad on the table, add plates and cutlery, then poke around the fridge for beer or white wine. I find both and place them on the table.

  The pancakes smell like home. Except we don’t have them there; but we do have the sausage and spices and we add eggs and have it for breakfast.

  In less than half an hour we are seated at the table and eating ravenously. We stop when the plates are empty and reach for the drinks: Emma for the wine, me for the beer.

  “That was nice; thank you.”

  Emma toasts me. “It’s nice to have someone here. Jac and Beth often go out or away and I am left here all alone.”

  “Is it their place?”

  “No. It’s mine.”

  “Yours?”

  “Well, actually it was my grandparents’ house, but my parents own it now.”

  “So why did you take in a couple?”

  “I didn’t. Beth is a family friend, so I asked her to move in. She met Jac later and asked if he could move in. I agreed. Before I realised the awkwardness of living with a madly-in-love couple.”

  I don’t say anything. But inwardly I am hoping that I can counterbalance - even if it’s just as a companion. Sitting opposite her at the dining table, watching her in the soft light - her tousled golden-brown hair curled at her shoulders, her glinting green-hazel eyes, her luscious full lips and beautiful oval-shaped face - she’s almost irresistible. But I can’t be drawn to act on my emotions so soon. Not without some mutual sign from her. The few things she said earlier today could be construed either way.

  I have been lucky; no sense in acting recklessly and being asked to leave. But I feel that I have been subtly led into a liaison that has kindled my romantic feelings. The street; the welcoming house; preparing dinner together; being told about Jac and Beth as a couple; feeling relaxed and comfortable in each other’s presence. It only feels natural to reach my hand across and place it on top of hers. But if I am wrong, well, it will make living together even more awkward for her and impossible for me.

  “So, Herr Becker, what’s your story?”

  I am tempted to elaborate some fanciful image of myself, other than the dull middle-class boy from Bremen who has just completed pre-med. I feel that I need to be heroic; have some outstanding attributes: wealth, aristocratic lineage. I don’t ordinarily think of myself as someone who’ll spin tales to impress anyone, let alone women. It hasn’t been my focus hitherto. Yet all of a sudden I feel I need to impress Emma.

  Come to think of it, I have never thought of myself as a romantic person either, not even after reading the de rigueur poets of that era: Goethe, Byron, Keats and Shelley. Any feelings that I have, have been dormant and unexplored, largely because I find German women unromantic and sexually unattractive: Rubenesque in proportion, but lacking the voluptuousness of the Flemish painter’s models and the charm and seductiveness of the French.

  It is also my first foray outside of Germany, other than a family trip to Tyrol in Austria. I was still a gangling, awkward teenager then, and any women that I considered attractive felt unattainable. So I caution myself to remain prudent and not be drawn in by Emma’s beauty and allure; it just may be that I am unfamiliar with her type of woman, intoxicated by my first seductive temptress.

  Yet if it is a trap, I am willing to submit to it.

  “You must mean my father?” I reply cheekily. “If you�
��d like to hear his story you will need to wait for him to visit.”

  “Does he intend to visit?”

  “Yes, the family is coming over for Christmas.”

  “To celebrate it here?”

  “Only the tradition, not the religion. What about yours?”

  “My mother is Jewish. So we celebrate like you: the tradition without the religious overtones, out of respect for my father.”

  The lie is drawn out of my mouth, involuntarily: “We are the same.” As soon as I hear myself say it, I regret it. It is my animalistic desire to be attractive to this woman, so I carve out a path of deception to her heart, knowing that it will resonate.

  I get a curious and puzzled look. “You are the same?”

  “My mother is Jewish.” It sounds hollow. I am glad that I am an unconvincing liar.

  Her look transforms into one of bewilderment, followed by incredulous surprise. “You, Jewish? Really?”

  “Half.” I stress it to dampen the lie.

  Emma is silent while she studies me. “I must say, I am very surprised; there’s absolutely nothing Jewish-looking or - sounding about you.”

  It was a stupid miscalculation which may have the opposite effect to what I intended. Now she is suspicious. If there was any intimacy lingering from the dinner and the ambience it has now been dispelled by the fallout from my obvious lie.

  To break the awkward silence I get up and start clearing the table. Emma remains seated, but grabs my hand.

  “I hope you didn’t say that just to please me.”

  I set the plates down. “In the morning, when we were walking to the lunch hall, you asked me, ‘Why Utrecht?’ I couldn’t give a simple answer. But now you know, you can understand why.”

  Emma’s look of bewilderment softens and she stands up and starts clearing the table with me. We wash up and wipe the kitchen clean. The weather is still balmy outside so a warm fire, despite its potential to set the mood, would be superfluous. Tucked in the alcove of the living room is a piano that I failed to notice before. It is covered with a dark purplish paisley cloth and an array of photographs on top: Emma and her parents, and a young man that I presume must be her brother; Emma with her couple friends, Jac and Beth; Emma on holiday in London and Paris - Buckingham Palace and the Eiffel Tower in the background; a pair of elderly people who are most probably the grandparents whose house this was. Scattered between the photographs are little ceramic figurines from the places she has visited. I try to think what I collect. Nothing. My family’s life to this point has been a yo-yo and a struggle to stay afloat. We never lacked for the essentials, but there was never the time and money for life’s little trinkets and luxuries, other than the one trip to Austria, by borrowed car.

  If I think of a luxury, it was art classes for Brigitte and piano lessons for me. I can play, but I don’t play the turgid Germanic music that people expect of me: Schubert, Schumann and Mozart. Although on occasion I will condescend to a sprightly Bach arrangement, but not the Variations or The Well-Tempered Clavier, both of which bore me to death. A disappointment to my parents, especially my mother, who paid for our lessons by toiling at a large clothing factory until her arthritis forced her to quit and take up a clerical position at the school. To their displeasure I have gravitated towards what they call ‘monkey music’: jazz. Ellington, Monk, Peterson, Tatum - they are my heroes. And that’s another thing about the country I have left behind: all the jazz greats are for the most part black, whom the Aryans consider subhuman - Untermensch. So in Leipzig whenever the opportunity came up to play, I lied and said I didn’t play an instrument.

  Here I have a chance to redeem myself. I peek under the paisley cloth and anticipate the inevitable question.

  “Do you play?” Emma is standing close behind me. Intimately close. She is giving me the benefit of the doubt on my supposed Jewishness.

  “So-so. I am a bit rusty.” I am trying to impress by understating.

  Emma moves around me and removes the photographs and figurines, placing them on top of the mantelpiece. She then peels back the cloth, revealing a gleaming Steinway. I have only had a few opportunities to play a piano this elite. Usually it is a poor copy.

  “Please, maestro.” She takes a step back, leaning on the lid.

  I am almost tempted to make some raucous sounds, but I have been trained too well to pretend otherwise. I get comfortable on the bench and with a flourish belt out an opening to a famous Peterson piece, C Jam Blues. I haven’t played in a while so it takes me a little time to build up the rhythmic tempo and get into the improvisation groove. As my confidence swells I stray far from the Peterson motif, artfully crafting my own notes. I am getting carried away, enjoying the music I am making, when I am reminded of Emma’s presence. I quickly glance up and notice the same bewilderment that I witnessed before, only this time it is laced with wonderment at my musical ingenuity, not incredulousness at my Jewish invention. I bring the music back to the Peterson theme and gradually wind down the composition. The notes reverberate around the room for a little longer, then the room settles to a stunned silence.

  “So-so? Becker, you are a phenomenal pianist!”

  I smile sheepishly. “I wouldn’t go so far. Largely self-taught.”

  “I don’t care if you are self-taught; I know any number of places in Utrecht that would love to have you on stage. We have jazz clubs here, but their performers don’t sound half as good as you.” She is gushing. I am glad. I need to remediate my earlier gaffe.

  I remain seated. She leans closer. “You have to play something else.”

  I slow down the fervent pace and set in motion Night Train, also a Peterson piece, swing-like, still jazz-flavoured but more the head-nodding and less foot-tapping variety. This time I play longer. I take the piece out from the core motif, adding my own classical inventiveness to the underlying theme, weaving in and out with flowing dexterity.

  This time when I rest my hands, Emma is beaming. “I don’t think you are self-taught. You have a classical bent. Listen, I am so excited that tomorrow night we are going to visit Club Hot, our best club, and I am sure that Stefan will give you a job.”

  “We shall see. I may sound all right here, but in a club, with an audience and a professional combo, I’ll probably come off as amateurish.”

  “Nonsense. They might be the ones sounding amateurish.”

  I gently close the lid on the keyboard and rise up out of the seat. Emma doesn’t replace the cloth, probably in anticipation of more playing.

  It’s not late but it has been a long day and I feel like settling in; unpacking, showering and getting some sleep. I am glad that it is the weekend tomorrow.

  “Come. Let’s take your bags up. I will show you the room.” Emma takes the cue.

  The stairs creak on the way up, as do our steps on the landing. There are two rooms on the right and a bathroom at the end of the hall. Veering left from the bathroom there appears to be a narrow hallway leading to what I suspect is another room. I presume that it is the smallest of the three and mine, but to my surprise Emma leads me into the first room to my right.

  “This is yours, next to mine. The one around from the bathroom is bigger and more private; that one belongs to Jac and Beth.”

  The switch is next to my head. I flick it and am greeted by a very cosy-looking, cream-coloured room: a free-standing double-door wardrobe, a small couch, a single bed, a desk with drawers and a lamp, and an ornamental rug in the middle. There’s a window next to the desk looking out over the street, obscured by closed shutters. I hear some muffled voices outside and a car go by.

  “You like?”

  “Very much. You didn’t tell me how much?”

  We place my duffel and rucksack on the floor next to the wardrobe. Emma pushes her hair back and looks up at me. “Well, what are you comfortable paying?”

  I recline on the couch. “Well, if there are four of us, then a quarter of all expenses, plus rent. Otherwise half and rent.”

  “It so
unds fair. We can work this out after the weekend. I shop at the market on Saturday; you can come along and pick what you like.”

  She stands there momentarily and then turns to go. “Why don’t you settle in? You know where the shower is. I will see you in the morning.”

  She is nearly out the door when I call her name. She turns instantly, blushing. “Yes, Friedrich?”

  “Thank you for everything.”

  “I am glad you are here.” She waves me a goodnight and shuts the door behind her.

  I remain on the couch, relaxed and in no hurry to unpack or shower before bed. The way Utrecht has turned out for me is the closest I’ve come to a spiritual experience. I don’t believe in the piffle that the Bible spouts: miracles, prayers, and lighting candles to ask God for blessings. My take on my life being charmed is that when I follow my heart, I am on the right track. I didn’t want any part of the German way of life: politics, people, music, culture or education. So I left and chose Utrecht. From the moment I set foot in this town I knew that I made the right decision, and everything that flowed from that came easily, like it was meant to be.

  Obviously there are contrasting elements of my make-up that don’t seem natural, but so what? It is expected of me to play classical music, but it doesn’t thrill me; I am moved to my core when I play jazz. To look at me you wouldn’t see it, but that is a hidden attribute. Certainly, severing that part of me that is indisputably German cannot be achieved without losing something of myself, and perhaps it is a part of me that I am prepared to let go. Yet, I would like to straddle Utrecht and Bremen to keep my parents and sister within me.

  But I have reservations about them coming to Utrecht this soon after I have settled here. There are characteristics that they embody which I don’t want on display in Utrecht; parts of me that I would like to shed. Yet, if they come here it will be like the skin I have shed has been forcibly re-grafted.

  I love my parents and sister. I pause at that thought. Do I? Or did I when I lived in Bremen, in Leipzig? I fear that the parts of me that I want to shed include my ties to them. I inwardly gasp at the realisation that their memory has faded like they have been gone years from my life, yet it has only been twenty-four hours. It is part of the human psyche that I don’t comprehend. We change and the person that we become does not leave room for certain feelings and the people tied to them. We can continue, remembering, but the feelings have evaporated and cannot be reinstated.