Mister Pfister searches for an ashtray. He crawls around the room on all fours and finds a plastic ashtray. The coffee is pitch black; the music will be clear as glass. Mister Pfister has to drink a second beer immediately. He is ill too, he feels ill, tired, exhausted. To listen. To lie down, to listen lying down, and rummaging from his bed among the papers, to find a pencil and write down something, compulsively write something down, namely three words:
Emergency, memory, light.
All of them words that beat their wings, Stella thinks. Maybe it feels as if, by writing them down, they will keep still – Resistance, presence of mind, ward, thirty-seven, Monday, back then. It isn’t as if these were merely ugly words, dull, blunt words. They are words that might be an announcement, an excessive demand. Or just an invitation?
Transitions. Dogs. Despair.
Mister Pfister’s pencil scribbles and scratches across the crumpled paper and breaks. Now and then Mister Pfister is carried along on a wave of self-assurance, of arrogance and glaring confidence. A third beer. There’s also always a third beer, and the atmosphere clinks among all the bottles. Mister Pfister ought to eat something. But before that he has to lie down again; perhaps he’ll fall asleep again, and when he wakes up for the third time, there suddenly, on the floor next to his bed is an alarm clock; it’s already afternoon, high time; the alarm clock ticks deafeningly, each second a detonation. Mister Pfister gets up at once and gets dressed. Trousers, hooded sweater, trainers. He fumbles in the pile of stuff and crud on the kitchen table; a photo slides out of the pile, in it he’s sitting on the edge of a bed in a room at a completely different time; he absolutely has to get rid of this photo; this photo can’t remain in the system for a moment longer; it’s got to go.
Mister Pfister puts the photo in his pocket.
Leaves his house.
Carefully double-locks the door, locks the garden gate.
He walks past the bicycle mechanic’s house. The bicycle mechanic is sitting in front of his door on a folding chair as he does every day; the wheel he’s holding turns, releasing sparks; the sparks fly into the dark, warm day. This bicycle mechanic belongs to Mister Pfister. Everything about the house, the small workshop, the bikes, the golden sparks, the light and the friendliness belong to Mister Pfister; later on he’ll say this to Stella just like that – you were just speaking to my bicycle mechanic, and you’ll be punished for that. Punished. That’s how he’ll say it. He walks along the street past the house with the awning; the awning is drawn up, not that this would interest Mister Pfister, none of it interests Mister Pfister at all. He walks past the silent gardens, and at the end of the street Stella comes around the corner; she’s coming; she’s already there.
Mister Pfister steps out of the way onto the fallow land, the empty lot. He stumbles off towards the right, onto rubble and debris.
Stella gets off her bike. There are two bags hanging from the handlebars. That child is sitting in a child’s seat, pointing here and there. Stella leans the bike against the garden fence, puts the bags down, lifts that child out of the seat and hands her the keys; the child unlocks the gate with a lot of fuss and disappears into the garden. Stella pushes the bike along behind her; comes back to get the bags, and only now, only now, she glances down the street in the direction of Mister Pfister’s house. But Mister Pfister has just stepped to one side; actually he doesn’t give a damn, doesn’t give a damn, whether she sees him or not; that’s not what it’s all about at all, that’s not what it’s about.
A blazing look.
Supper, Friday.
Mister Pfister stands with his hands in his trouser pockets, waiting. Behind him in the shrubbery on the fallow land, the nightingales are beginning to sing.
Lighthouses. Morse code. Quite clearly the arcs are beginning to come together, to close. These and those. Mister Pfister’s feelings vacillate between hate and love, anger and confidence; this is quite normal, it happens to everybody; it really happens to everybody; he can be quite sure on that score.
And then it’s evening.
In Stella’s house, in the many rooms in which she lives and thinks and sleeps and eats and talks with her people, the back door to the garden opens. That child comes walking out.
Well then, let’s go. Let’s go.
And Mister Pfister pushes off and gets going. Towards Stella’s house; he stops at the garden gate, puts a finger on the bell below which on the mailbox is her name, and under her name is his: Mister Pfister; and he presses the bell as hard as he can.
He takes a step back and looks at the house. For the thousandth time. The house is exactly the same house as his. There’s no one in the living room. The dormer window is open, the orange flag is waving from it. The child has gone into hiding. The garden is wild and very luxuriant. Stella’s predilection for mullein, lupines, unmown grass, for shells, stones, the child’s fondness for little sticks and junk.
Mister Pfister listens. He listens a moment longer, stands there another moment among the atmospheric shards, Stella, the bike, the child’s little hat, the little cherry-red dress, the paper bags, the sentences spoken between Stella and this child, words, gestures, handing over the keys, the touching, then he steps forward.
Mister Pfister kicks open the garden gate; for the very first time he simply goes ahead and does that now. The gate yields, opens up, swings on its hinges, and the garden at last becomes large and bright; it was, after all, high time. Mister Pfister takes the photo out of his trouser pocket, the gruesome, wrinkled photo of the bed in the room, back then, and he opens the mailbox and drops the photo into it, as matter-of-factly as if into a fathoms-deep well, how else, for bloody damn sake.
Nobody in sight.
Somewhere water is dripping.
Tomorrow they’ll meet again.
Mister Pfister goes, leaving something behind. He goes to the right or the left, depending, there are no rules, only a few rules; the rules here are made some place else.
*
And Stella turns in her bed and sits up. The entire room smells of forest, of pines and sand. She sits on the edge of her bed, hands between her knees like Dermot on a boulder by the water forty years ago, and she looks out of the open window up into the morning sky. This is not the way she’ll be able to kill Mister Pfister. This image will keep him alive for sure. The thought is onerous and disgusting, and Stella feels compassion and the opposite of compassion, but she can’t get away from the image; it’s her way of defending herself. The pictures come from books she’s read, the memories of people she’s known, and from herself, from Stella alone; it could be that none of all this has anything to do with reality. That Mister Pfister is an entirely different person, possibly someone who isn’t sick or is sick in a different way than she imagines; what actually does the image she has formed of him say about her? It’s possible that Mister Pfister doesn’t touch even a drop of alcohol. That he telephones his girlfriend every evening, sitting erect at a neat desk in a clean room, and that Stella’s image of him is naïve. Stupid. But aren’t they alike then, Stella and Mister Pfister? Isn’t this something that connects them to each other, in spite of everything.
*
Dreams, like the shedding of skins.
Eighteen
Stella takes her bike to the back of the house. She twists off the valve cap, listens to the air escaping, waits a while. Then she closes the valve again, puts the cap on the windowsill and pushes the bike out of the garden.
*
The bicycle mechanic is sitting in the afternoon sun in front of his house on a folding chair next to a little table. He’s drinking tea out of a chipped cup, has just rolled himself a cigarette but not yet lit it. He’s wearing a shirt that’s been mended in many places the old-fashioned way, dirty trousers and sturdy shoes. Next to him, dusty bikes leaning against each other next to the house wall. The picture windowpane is turned green by the large plants clustered behind it.
Would you like a cup of tea.
He’s not at al
l surprised by Stella’s arrival. Points at the bikes leaning against each other; she adds her bike to them. He goes around the corner of the house, comes back with a second chair, and unfolds it next to his own. He says, Actually, it’s nicer to sit out back, but you know that already. Then he disappears into the house.
Stella sits down.
Tobacco, cigarette papers, an ashtray, an address book, a box of matches with a carnation on top, and a book without a dust jacket whose spine Stella can’t decipher, and which she doesn’t have the nerve to turn over, are lying on the little table. She hears the bicycle mechanic walking around inside the house, clattering in the kitchen; it’s odd to know where the kitchen is in his house; it’s also peculiar to sit outside his house, looking out at the familiar yet at the same time different street. The gate is wide open. Dandelions and wild mint grow in the rubble next to the fence. Water for the flowers in plastic bottles. A rusted tank between his property and Mister Pfister’s. The grass around Mister Pfister’s house is dry. His house looks deserted, downright grey.
The bicycle mechanic puts a cup of tea on the little table next to Stella. The tea is clear and golden; this cup too has a crack. The bicycle mechanic sits down on the second chair. They sit next to each other, looking out at the street where a hunchbacked, sharp-eyed child is pushing a scooter past the gate from right to left as if on cue.
I work here just for myself, the bicycle mechanic says. This isn’t an official workshop; I work on my own.
I know, Stella says. I thought as much.
He nods. He says, Your child goes to the Community Kindergarten, and you always disappear into the Community Centre. Do you work in the Community Centre.
I pick up keys there, Stella says. At the office for Home Nursing Care. The office is in the Community Centre, and I pick up the keys to my patients’ homes there. I’m a nurse. I work for Paloma.
They talk a little together. They try to have a conversation, what Mister Pfister had asked for and Stella had refused him. She’s talking with this bicycle mechanic who of course reminds her of Jason – dirty hands, black, lively eyes, a quiet physical tension, and a dangerous politeness; where does that come from, and what does it mean. They talk a little about the belated spring, everything in bloom at the same time, lilac, horse chestnuts, a phenomenon. About winter, which the bicycle mechanic spends in the South because he can’t stand the freezing cold, not coming back until the days get longer again. About the old development; he says that he would leave as soon as the exalted pretensions of the new development cross the street. He speaks slowly, almost sleepily, yet precisely.
There is a time warp here, have you noticed that already? Time has stood still here, and everyone who lives here keeps to himself. I’ve seen you for years, yet this is the first time we’re talking to each other. There are scarcely any changes. This is not an open neighbourhood, but for a while that can be a good thing, a necessary thing maybe.
He looks at Stella thoughtfully. Then he says, Do you dance.
No, Stella says. I never dance.
It feels funny to say that sentence. I never dance. She thinks, Sometimes I dance with Esther, and she has to laugh at that; he laughs too, laughs to himself in a knowing way.
I’m sure you’d be a good tango dancer.
Unlikely, Stella thinks, that certain things will still happen. That I’ll dance at some time or other. And is that too bad, or isn’t it.
She raises her cup and extends her legs. The bicycle mechanic’s wristwatch emits a soft signal tone, four o’clock; he says, I set it once by accident, and I’ve left it like that ever since. It’s certainly not supposed to remind me that it’s the end of the work day. All I can do is ask myself what happened on this day, that’s all.
And what happened today, Stella asks hesitantly.
I repaired a bike. Read one page in a book, watered my plants, you came by, and I made tea for you. Definitely a lot for one day.
*
At some point Stella says it.
I wanted to ask you about Mister Pfister, about your neighbour. I wanted to ask you whether you know him.
She says it, then holds her breath.
Of course I know Mister Pfister, the bicycle mechanic says. He says it without making a face, doesn’t bat an eye. I know pretty much all the people living on this street. Except for you, probably. All of them except for you.
He says, Why do you ask? What do you want to know?
Stella sits up in her chair, exhales, and leans forward. She is filled with regret; she feels reminded of something, almost, something from her childhood, something long forgotten.
She wants to know whether the matter is getting out of hand. But how is the bicycle mechanic concerned in that?
Stella says, The thing is, Mister Pfister wants to talk to me. It’s that he’d like to have a conversation with me.
Yes, and what’s so hard about that? the bicycle mechanic says with a smile, and what is he supposed to say, after all; so of course he asks exactly this stupid and appropriate question.
Yes but I don’t want to, Stella says. I don’t want to have a conversation with him, and he can’t understand that. He simply doesn’t understand; he won’t leave me alone; he is terrorising me. He’s terrorising me. Her voice is trembling audibly.
The bicycle mechanic looks out into the street. Not over towards Mister Pfister’s.
He says, All right, when the sun goes down, we’ll go to the back of the house.
Thank you very much, Stella says.
She waits a while. Then she says, What kind of person is he. Can you tell me something about him, would that be possible.
The bicycle mechanic could say, Why should I of all people tell you about Mister Pfister. He could say, Why me, I’m not getting involved in that. But that isn’t what he does. He comes to Stella’s aid; at least he speaks, doesn’t refuse to give her an answer. In doing so he reveals a little about himself. We do that all the time, Stella thinks, gratefully; we keep revealing ourselves.
The bicycle mechanic says, Mister Pfister comes over to visit me sometimes. He sits there where you’re sitting now. He’s pretty alone. I can imagine quite well that he can’t accept a No, he’s out of practice; he doesn’t have much to do with other people. Maybe it’s always been like that. Could be.
He says, Mister Pfister used to be good-looking – not any more; he takes medications, there are mental problems. He could have had several women, but didn’t. In spite of that he’s very full of himself, that’s obvious. He thinks he’s fine. He has a high opinion of himself; he’s smug and conceited too. When we sit here together, he likes to tell me things. Knows what’s going on. What keeps the world from coming apart; he has his own ideas about what’s going on. Dead sure. Not open to other opinions, you might say. Mister Pfister is not open to other ideas.
He finally lights his cigarette, inhales once, twice, and then looks briefly over at Mister Pfister’s house, not worried, rather as if he wanted to check on something. Then he says, But he’s also touchy. Sensitive, educated; at some point he must have wanted something. If he follows you, he’s probably not doing well. I haven’t seen him for quite a while. It’s been quite a while since he’s come over; who knows what that may mean.
He doesn’t follow me, Stella says. He harasses me; there’s a difference. I’d like him to stop. I can’t stand it any more.
Then you have to tell him that; the bicycle mechanic looks at Stella impassively; he seems to be wondering which side he’d be on if someone were to ask him. It’s obvious he isn’t necessarily Mister Pfister’s friend, but he seems to like him.
Tell him that. If you’ve never spoken to him, then maybe you ought to do it sometime. Tell him, talk to him. One can talk to him; I’m sure one can.
Oh, Stella says. Can one?
This suggestion is the opposite of Jason’s advice. The opposite of Clara’s advice, all the advice in the goddamn miserable network. But Stella senses that she’s going to listen to this suggestion.
What would Jason and Clara say? And what would they say about her even sitting here.
But after all she isn’t sitting here secretly. Jason can walk by the house; Mister Pfister can walk by the house; anybody can.
Let’s move to another spot, the bicycle mechanic says, move into the warm setting sun.
He takes his cup off the table and pours the rest of the tea into the grass with a conclusive or preparatory gesture.
Yes, Stella says. With pleasure.
Could I go through the house? Through the hall and the kitchen, out the back; I’d like to see what your house looks like. Compared to mine.
Of course, the bicycle mechanic says. Of course you can.
He gets up before she does and goes in ahead of her.
Nineteen
These days Esther does everything by herself. When Stella arrives, she’s already sitting in the kitchen. She has dressed herself, straightened her bed, put her medication, glasses, pencils, crossword puzzles and newspaper on the tray of her walker and set off. She has closed the kitchen door, which at other times is left wide open, behind her; Stella assumes this is supposed to mean something, but can’t imagine what. Esther is sitting at the kitchen table and has the radio on very loud. She’s listening to a classical music concert and raises her hand in warning when Stella enters the kitchen. In spite of that Stella starts to unpack her purchases, wash the dishes, sweep up. You have no idea, Esther says; it’s really astonishing that you don’t have the slightest inkling about anything.
She inclines her head to the radio and conducts an invisible orchestra with skilful little gestures. Pa-ti-ta. Pa-ti-ta. Pa-ti – listen, now here they are. The mermaids. Esther shakes her head and gestures as if Stella had said something, then she turns the radio off and bends over the television listings, and with angry strokes checks all the programmes she wants to watch, that she considers worthwhile.
I can take care of myself. Please make me some toast with orange marmalade since you’re sneaking around here anyway, and sweep the room, the dust balls are as big as a child’s head; I wonder where you learned to keep house. You’re pale. You should change your hairstyle. You ought to see more people; I think I’m the only person you have anything to do with.
Where Love Begins Page 10