‘Excuse me,’ Hensler was now saying. He took a cigarette from an already open and pretty battered packet. ‘Have you got a light?’
‘No.’
Clumsily, he put the cigarette back. ‘Was that not Emilie? I saw her beside you, but she now seems to have disappeared.’
‘Yes, that was Emilie. Emilie Zbinden. Did you wish to speak to her?’
‘Indeed.’
I became furious. ‘Maybe it’s not the right moment. Her husband has an incurable illness, and her son’s lying in hospital, paralysed down one side, after a bicycle accident.’
‘Oh! Emilie has a family?’
He looked so surprised, I became even more furious. When he’d gone, and Emilie turned up beside me again, I said, ‘Where did you suddenly go?’
Emilie blushed like a peony. ‘Into that shop. I bought terrible glitter wool I’ll never be able to use. Expensive, it was, into the bargain. Is he away?’
‘Why haven’t you told him you’re married?’ I checked she was wearing her ring.
‘Didn’t I tell you: he’s not asked a single question. Instead, he holds endless lectures about budgerigars. In the heat of midday, budgerigars sit in the shade of the leaves in trees and bushes. Protected by the group, some grab forty winks, with their heads under their wings. Others preen each other’s feathers in places they can’t reach themselves.’
‘You observe budgerigars, above Interlaken?’
‘No, but that didn’t stop him sharing his knowledge with me. At least, now I know all there is to know about budgies that can’t fly and still-dependent nestlings.’
‘He’s laid his heart at your feet.’
‘In an irresistible manner.’
Watch – he doesn’t say a word, Kâzim. You try in vain to get him to move his lips. He’s not in the habit of greeting others, so don’t take it personally. Herr Ziegler! Come over here a moment, I’d like to introduce someone to you. – Our new carer. Kâzim. – His first week here. – Exactly, you said it. Even from the way he leads you downstairs, you can sense his openness. Very skilled at getting people to talk. And you? On your way to the Day Room? – Pardon? – I don’t understand that. – You can’t get it off? I don’t know – the pullover really does seem a little tight. – Try taking your arm out. – Slowly. – Not like that. Wait a moment, from the side. – Can you really not get it off? – Your head is too big and the neck too small, I can see that. What are you laughing at, Kâzim? When we should be helping him. – Patience, Herr Ziegler, try … – Why was it necessary to put this pullover on in the first place, Herr Ziegler? What were you thinking of? How come you forced yourself into a pullover without stopping to consider you wouldn’t be able to get it off again? – Cut him out with scissors? You must be crazy, Kâzim. – Whatever you think, Herr Ziegler. I wish you success.
Heavens, and I told you he doesn’t speak much! That’ll teach you to believe what I say about others! But how will he be able to get that pullover off, without damaging himself? Herr Ziegler isn’t the first I’ve seen losing his patience this week. A person I thought was inwardly balanced. On the other hand, a tight pullover would trigger odd feelings in me too. A very tricky one. As for your suggestion, Kâzim, well really! Scissors. Any more of that and I’ll think there’s something sinister about you. Come on, let’s sit down a moment. I’d like to tell you the rest of the Hensler melodrama. Are you sitting comfortably?
After a while, things came to a head. Walter Hensler rushed into the lion’s den. He rang the doorbell and I opened the door. I can remember it as if it happened today.
‘Good afternoon, Herr Zbinden. My name is Walter Hensler,’ he said to introduce himself. ‘I’d like to speak to you.’
‘We’ve met before. I believe. I was just preparing a worksheet on Antarctica, but come on in. May I offer you something? Coffee, tea, water?’
‘Whatever you’re having, thanks.’
Hensler had narrow lips and a mysterious mole on his left cheek. His posture betrayed the fact that in his formative years he’d spent hours getting his swinging extremities under control by straightening his back and walking evenly. He was wearing a beige suit, a tie that didn’t match, well-worn shoes, and had immaculate manners. He stirred the cream and sugar carefully into his coffee, and smiled cautiously.
‘Herr Hensler, do you maybe know why albatrosses migrate with the wind around the Antarctic?’
‘Pardon?’
‘It’s just something I can’t get out of my head. What brings you here? Careful, the coffee’s hot.’
He placed the coffee spoon, gently, down on the saucer. ‘It’s to do with your wife.’
‘I see.’
He avoided my gaze. ‘Emilie. I love her.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m sorry if I’m catching you unawares with this.’
‘Catching? Me?’ I said, a little too loudly. ‘Why would that be? Why shouldn’t you love Emilie. I love her too. She’s the best, most intelligent, most fabulous woman on earth. You can sense that, even after motherhood, she has remained a proper woman. Enchanting, devastating, ravishing. The country must be full of men who love her.’
When Emilie and I first met, half a dozen lecherous gardeners were milling round her, for she’d an easy-going manner everyone loved. All those ardent men – on school boards, in reading groups, in amateur choirs – in whom love flared for my wife! Averting your eyes from her was impossible.
‘You see, Herr Zbinden, I want to put my cards on the table. For me, it’s the only way to prove to myself I’m not a … that I’m respectable.’ Hensler was speaking in muted fashion, as if asking for forbearance. ‘I met Emilie on the bird-watching course. I feel really good when I’m around her.’
‘Are you having an affair?’
‘Emilie and I? Good God, no!’
‘There’s nothing going on between you?’
‘No!’
‘You’ve put your cards on the table, Herr Hensler,’ I said. ‘Thank you for that. But why are you speaking to me about this? You’re speaking to the wrong person, I reckon.’ I forced myself to smile at him, calmly.
Hensler shifted in his seat, less than calmly.
‘Let me tell you something, Herr Hensler. When Emilie comes back, we’ll ask her straight out: might she maybe be falling in love with you? And which of the two of us would she choose?’
Don’t think, Kâzim, that I was taking the matter lightly. Disgruntled, I considered the man, whom Emilie might swap – at any moment – for this touchingly honest, likeable bird-watcher: Lukas Zbinden – reading teaching materials on the sofa, his belt undone to ease the feeling of tightness. His hand beneath his chin, and looking along his face – first, his left cheek, then the right – like in some ridiculous shaving-foam ad. Correcting worksheets, and not making a beeline for her when she comes in the door. His cold feet twitching – always, of course, as she’s about to nod off. I wasn’t a good husband to her. I didn’t drink, it’s true, nor did I flirt around. And yet. When had I last surprised her with a gift? Maybe Emilie was lonely, without me noticing? Despite all the choirs she’d joined; despite her job and charity work; the comfort of our son. Maybe, every time I’d not let her finish what she was saying, she’d ground her teeth and told herself – for the umpteenth time, and over how long a period? – ‘Give him another chance.’ A less patient person would’ve swapped me for someone else long since.
‘Where are you off to, Herr Hensler? Sit down. – There’s someone here for you!’ I called to Emilie as she came in the front door.
‘Good evening, Walter,’ Emilie said, guardedly. ‘What brings you here?’
‘Herr Hensler wants to tell you something, Emilie. On you go – tell her.’
Hensler blinked, anxiously. ‘I’ve nothing to say.’
‘He’d like to tell you that he worships you. We’ve agreed you should choose between us.’
‘Should what?’ asked Emilie.
‘Herr Zbinden, that’s quite absurd!’ Hens
ler – clearly pained – exclaimed.
‘Sit down and join us, Emilie. Would you like a kiss from this person? Yes or no?’
‘Lukas, you’re annoyed.’
‘I’m not annoyed.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, Emilie. It’s surely better I go … ’ Hensler gathered his coat together.
‘You’re going nowhere! You two have things to say to each other. And I’m going to leave you alone. I’m going out to mingle a little. It was a pleasure. Goodbye.’
Outside, with the wind coming straight at me, and my jacket buttoned up to my throat, I immediately let my thoughts distract me. Like some completely inexperienced walker, I was reacting to everything going on inside me. Emilie could leave me. She was a free person. She could leave me whenever she felt like it. Maybe not for a dithery bird-watcher who could talk himself into a flap over budgies. But why always kiss the same lips? She could leave me because she’d answered the questions in a magazine article – How well do you know your husband? – only to discover she’d not had to guess a single answer. She could leave me standing with a completely crushed Markus, whose eyes, red from crying, would constantly remind me of her, and of the fact we’d no longer rear him together, within the proper family unit that, until that moment, I’d regarded as permanent. I thought about many things, not least: how unpleasant handing my son over at weekends would be.
A single large raindrop ran across my jacket. A second splashed over the ground, down at my feet. I went home to see if Emilie had already packed her bags.
They were sitting in the living room, drinking tea. He appeared to be telling her something incredibly pleasant, for Emilie seemed incredibly pleased. Her eyes had a dreamy glaze.
‘You’re back already!’ she said.
‘There’s a storm brewing. But carry on, please carry on. I don’t want to disturb you.’
‘What have you there, in your hands?’
I handed her what I was carrying, wrapped in brown paper.
‘Flowers. Is it a special occasion?’
‘Does there need to be a special occasion? It’s getting late, Herr Hensler.’
‘Yes, of course.’ He rose, in measured fashion. ‘Goodbye, Emilie.’
‘You don’t have to rush off.’ Emilie gave him a wonderful smile. Not at all the type of smile you give to bird-watching-course acquaintances, if you yourself are happily married. ‘Isn’t it raining outside? Wait fifteen minutes and let it ease off. If you wish, you can eat with us.’
‘I don’t think I’d like to,’ he said, with a glance in my direction.
‘Then at least take one of our umbrellas,’ Emilie suggested.
‘That’s absolutely charming of you, but …’
‘Take an umbrella.’ The way she looked at him was friendly and open. ‘Some things in life are given as a gift. You can accept them. It’s allowed.’
‘Thanks a lot, Emilie.’ He actually bowed. ‘And thank you for speaking so frankly.’
He pointed the umbrella down as he would a foil, then headed out, into the raging weather.
When my rival in love had vanished, I took a deep breath and sat down beside Emilie.
‘He’ll keep that umbrella,’ I said.
‘You shouldn’t have thrown him out right away like that.’
‘I didn’t throw him out.’
‘It took a lot for him to come here, you know.’
‘I see.’
‘I’m worried about him.’
‘You’re worried about him! What did you talk about?’
‘Why?’
‘Just curious.’
‘He proposed to me, and I asked for time to think it over,’ Emilie said, sounding like someone about to abandon all the conventions.
‘It’s okay for you to leave me,’ I said, bravely. ‘Markus can spend one week with me, one week with you. He’d be annoyed for two years, but then would understand we’d done the right thing. I’d be very happy.’
‘You wouldn’t be happy.’
‘I’d say: on you go, I won’t stop you. In the morning, I’d bury my love for you. And in the afternoon, I’d go for a two-hour walk. It’s impossible for someone who goes for a walk to feel in any way unhappy. I’d sing as I walked. I’d sing in such a way, dearest, that your heart would break even thinking about it.’
‘Told you. You’d be desperately unhappy.’
‘I’d explore the terrain, find myself some terra firma. A casual affair here, a casual affair there. The women’s clothes dropping as I silver-tongue them. I’d even get to feel younger, with some harmless little woman. Not a lot of brain, but well stacked.’
‘You’re not the type to have affairs, Lukas.’
‘Will you be going out with him?’
‘He does look pretty good.’
‘He has disgusting, piggy eyes.’
‘I like them. There’s a hint of tragedy and mystery about them.’
‘Bet he’s considering writing your name on his wrist with a piece of glass.’
‘Very flattering.’
‘Relationships based only on passion have the lowest chance of surviving.’
‘I’ll take the risk.’
And then a long, intimate kiss: the kind where you struggle for breath, but are unable to move. I can assure you, Kâzim, the cultural gap between a kiss from Valentina and a kiss from Emilie is indescribable. We held each other tight, and the thought came to me, clear as day: that I was in the exact place in the universe where I belonged. Side by side with Emilie. Her hand in mine.
The Walter Hensler story, of course, continued to annoy me. He would phone every few weeks. While Emilie parried his invitations, I thought about ways and means of making it clear to my wife that I wanted to stay with her for a long time still. I decided never again to stuff hankies down the side of the armchair. To replace the loo roll. To put the daily paper away. Maybe Emilie was just as fed up as Frau Wehrli with washing and ironing her husband’s shirts? In future, I’d take them to the laundry. I’d give Emilie a cashmere pullover. Perfume. I’d shower her with flowers. Once, from the bathroom, Emilie shouted, ‘What’s this all about?’
I’d removed the post-it with ‘Like yourself anyhow’ written on it, and replaced it with ‘300,000 men covet my wife’.
‘That’s so I never forget how fortunate I was to get you, Emilie.’
She examined the mirror, then said, ‘Who are your competitors? Names, please.’
A colleague in the staff room at school – Bertram, the English teacher – told me a sure-fire way of getting any wife to melt. ‘Eat nothing, in the evening. You’ll see how that impresses her. If you don’t touch your evening meal, she’ll realise you’re lovesick. Leaving your food untouched on the plate is known, internationally, to be a sign of love.’
‘I don’t know, Bertram.’
‘Just try. At night, when she’s sleeping, you can always creep down and raid the fridge.’
‘What do you think of his method, Kâzim? I can’t tell by your expression. You only very rarely give your thoughts away, don’t you? I imagined how Emilie would notice my lack of appetite, and ask, ‘Lukas, dearest. I see you’re not eating a single thing. Is something wrong?’
‘Yes, Emilie, sweetheart,’ I’d say in reply. ‘It’s nice of you to ask. You know, I’m yearning for you, but don’t know whether perhaps you wish for something better. Are you still happy with me?’
She’d have no option but to melt. – Do you agree, Kâzim?
So, that evening, like a professional hunger artist, I passed on Emilie’s fresh-from-the-garden seasonal salad, her unbeatable spinach savoury cake, and the caramel flan Markus had proudly helped her with, and how should I put it? The fact his caramel flan remained practically untouched offended him so much, he ran away from the table and cried beneath his bedcover like the twelve-year-old child he still was. When she looked over at me, Emilie’s eyes were aflame.
‘I love you, Lukas Zbinden,’ she said.
I jumped, I got such a
fright. When Emilie addressed me by my full name, I’d reason, normally, to tremble.
‘And,’ she continued, ‘you should do everything you can to retain this love.’
From that day onwards – 12th August 1967 – forty-seven-year-old Lukas Zbinden put his shoulder to the wheel. He lent a hand with all the housework: cooking; washing; even scrubbing the floor. He rolled his sleeves up, put an apron on, and fussed around zealously while Emilie sat at the sewing machine, threw her head back and looked out of her workshop, unable to believe what she was seeing.
I kept a list and ordered the different tasks according to urgency. If Emilie asked me to run an errand, I gave this priority. Emilie was soon so convinced the method worked, she no longer bothered asking me to do certain things, but noted on my list herself what she wanted done.
If guests dropped by, I brewed coffee and passed sweet things round, and Emilie explained to the guests how the ‘world’ had suddenly ‘turned upside down’ in this household. For a while, nothing made me happier than managing to get the ring cake out of its mould in one piece.
It’s said that, in a clearing in a forest, there are two deckchairs, reserved for the couple that has never – not for a moment – regretted meeting. To this day, the deckchairs have remained untaken. I mention this story at my granddaughter’s confirmation, with the different generations assembled around the last scraps of our buffet, and Emilie shouts across the hall to me, ‘Our names are on those deckchairs, Lukas!’
Couples whose marriage has lasted fifty years are asked every now and then for the secret of their success. And yet it’s not a closely guarded secret. You know each other really well; know all your strengths and – especially – your weaknesses; you treat your partner with care and respect; you admire and forgive each other. Emilie and I were a couple who had occasion to forgive each other time and time again. I forgave Emilie for not being a town walker. And she forgave me for often getting it wrong when I gave her a present. The cashmere pullover I bought at Schaufelberger’s was two sizes too small; the perfume bought at Loeb was too strong; and it was well known she’d never liked orchids, even if Ryffel had grown them themselves. She forgave me for putting the salad bowl back in the fridge with only a cherry tomato left in it, just to avoid the washing-up. Only once did we really quarrel. She’d gone on a glider pilot course, and not told me beforehand. – Of course, you may ask what we’re doing here! After all, it’s almost your sofa, Herr Imhof! How happy you must be! – An exceptionally comfortable sofa, of the highest … – But that’s not what we’re doing. We’re on our way out, and just stopped for a breather. – You’re making out we’re vandals. And it’s not as if we’re leaving cigarette ash, or eggshells, or anything else, lying here. But we shouldn’t, of course, have taken a seat here, you’re quite right, Herr Imhof. Your sofa is to blame: it’s the magical effect it has on me. It reminds me so much of the sofa on which my brother and I were breast-fed. – You don’t believe me? – For three years now, I’ve been wishing it could be moved to the floor I’m on. – Fixed to the floor, you say? – Get up, please, Kâzim, – it’s time we were moving on. Thank you, Herr Imhof, for not calling the police.
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