by Greg Baxter
Do you think they will come?
I have no idea.
Did they get back to you?
No, nobody.
He sipped his beer, then lit a cigarette. Then he said, I can’t stay too long, either.
I think I must have sighed, or rolled my eyes, because he said, Sorry, I couldn’t get out of something else.
The door opened and a couple came in, a really handsome guy and a handsome, brown-eyed woman, nicely dressed. I was facing them, but I had to lean to see past Otis’s head. Otis, whose back was facing the door, had to twist to look at them. The couple took a look around. Perhaps they saw too many empty seats, or they didn’t appreciate the reception Otis and I had given them. They turned around and walked out.
We’ll be going back soon, I said.
To the States?
That’s right.
Any word on Miriam?
Nothing yet.
Then how do you know?
It’s a feeling. I get feelings about things.
Are you looking forward to going home?
I wouldn’t say so, no.
Then back to London?
That’s the plan. Except…
Otis leaned forward, waiting for me to finish, and I reckon the only reason he didn’t speak—to say, for example, Except what?—was that I must have looked like I was going to finish. I was trying to. I was really concentrating. The explanation felt entirely within reach, except that it wasn’t, it wasn’t even close.
A little while later, a woman named Ulrika arrived. She was an artist, and she was from a little town in Austria. She had round blue eyes, small shoulders, pretty freckles, and brown hair. She had really big thighs and fat hips, but she was skinny from the waist up. She didn’t seem to have much interest in Otis. She drank whiskey as well, and smoked long thin cigarettes, and talked about herself and her art quite a bit, which was fine with me, because Otis and I hadn’t anything to talk about. She had just been to India and Malaysia. Oh, she said, journalists won’t stop calling her, journalists, journalists, journalists. She did not know how Miriam had died. The last time they spoke was years ago. But you came this evening? I said. Yes, well, I never knew anyone who died, she said, except for the very old or the very sick. She was intrigued, said Otis. When we told her that Miriam had starved, she became really intrigued, and requested that she be allowed to view the apartment. It’s too late, I said, I’ve rearranged everything. Yes, she said, but you’re the brother, your rearrangement will be very interesting. I doubt it, I said. He’s in marketing, said Otis. I finally had a sip of my whiskey. I tried to calculate how much whiskey I could drink before I got sick, and whether that would be sufficient to get drunk. Then another old friend arrived, a nice woman named Anna. She knew that Miriam had died, and she knew how, and she sat very quietly and asked how I was, and she asked how Otis and Ulrika were, and they tried to come up with answers that—it seemed to me—made them sound as though they had been left reasonably broken-hearted by Miriam’s death. Anna was German. She had long blonde hair. When she took off her jacket, and then her cardigan, she had bare arms, and there were large scars on both of them, surgery scars, and I suspected—it turned out I was right—she had been in a crash at some point. She worked in a travel agency—Germans still use travel agents heavily, she said—and she knew Miriam from long ago, when they were both doing evening courses in French. She stopped. Maybe the first course was Italian, she said. They did a few courses. Miriam had a gift for languages—her German was flawless, by the way—but she did not travel. Anna asked what we’d been doing, how long we had been here. Before I could answer, Ulrika started a conversation about hunger, and how, with respect, she felt that starving oneself to death was an insult to the many people who were starving involuntarily across the globe. She said, It is also an insult—forgive me for saying so—to starve herself in a country where Jews were put in ghettos and camps and starved. Otis said, A lot of those Jews were gassed before they starved. I said, Miriam was Jewish. I wanted to see what would happen if Ulrika’s sense of justice and rectitude were confronted with an inconvenience, but I felt a little strange saying it, even just joking about it. That’s absurd, said Ulrika. I said, Whatever, it’s the truth. Are you serious? she asked. Ulrika turned to Anna and said, in German, something like, Were you aware of this, did she tell you? Anna said, shyly, or not shyly, more like a person professing ignorance under interrogation, that she was not aware of it, that Miriam had said nothing of it. Then she thought about it, shook her head, and said, But how would it make a difference? Ulrika said, to everyone, My husband is Israeli, we have a Jewish child. I said, Did you convert? Ulrika said, We are atheists. I said, I wish my dad could hear this. Then another woman came in, the last person who would join us that evening. Her name was Dolores, and she was, to our alarm, deathly thin, much thinner, I thought, than Miriam had been in Cologne. And nobody really knew what to say. She took her jacket off, then her scarf, and she wore a V-neck sweater—her breastbone was bulging out, her collarbones were prominent, and her sleeves, which were supposed to be snug, were loose. She had a wrinkled face and neck, and her eyes were tired and sunken. She smiled, introduced herself—the others didn’t really know her, either—and said, to me, that she was very sorry to hear about Miriam. She was Spanish, and she had a strong Spanish accent. Then she thanked Otis for e-mailing her. Otis said, I e-mailed everybody I had an e-mail address for. I asked her if she wanted a drink, and she declined. It’s terrible news about Miriam, she said. We all quietly agreed. Nobody dared ask if she knew how Miriam had died, because, frankly, it seemed that Dolores would be dead of the same thing in a week. But Ulrika finally thought of a question that was safe to ask that also wasn’t empty. She asked, When was the last time you saw Miriam? Dolores thought back. December, she said. I said, How was she, did you speak with her? Dolores said, She mentioned you.
Me?
She was in hospital for most of last year, but she was discharged in December. She was feeling better. She told me she was feeling better. And she said she was going to stay with you in London for a few months.
I said, I didn’t know she was in hospital. Then I looked around, and it was clear that everybody there knew it, and that being in hospital was something that had been, for years, a regular part of her life. I said, She didn’t get in touch.
Ulrika said, You didn’t call your sister in December?
Luckily I caught myself. I almost said, Why would I call my sister in December?
Otis looked at the time on his phone. I asked him if he had to go. I do, he said. Well, the keys are in your mailbox, I said. He got up, put his coat on, put his gloves on, put his hat on, and as he checked his pockets for his wallet and his keys, he said, I’m sorry more people didn’t come, this is sort of what I was worried about. Well, I said, our dad didn’t even show. Thanks for everything, he said. Likewise, I said. He said good-bye to Ulrika, Anna, and Dolores. Then he said good-bye to the bartender. And he walked out. Anna asked, Where’s he going? I said, Something he couldn’t get out of, apparently. Ulrika said, He works at the hospital at night, as an orderly. Anna said, I thought he was doing his doctorate. He’s still doing that, said Ulrika, plus he sells olives, plus he is a Hausmeister, somewhere in Treptow. That’s a lot, said Anna. He’s got a daughter, she’s eight or nine or something, said Ulrika.
Once Otis had departed, I found myself sitting awkwardly close to Ulrika and awkwardly far away from the others. Ulrika said, How Jewish are you, exactly? I said, I have to go to the bathroom. I did actually have to go. The sip of whiskey I had swallowed was causing indigestion and some nausea. I was shaking. And walking wasn’t easy, my legs felt hollow. But the stall was clean. The walls were chipped, and covered in graffiti, but underneath the disrepair I could see how clean the room was, how spotless. And it was a great relief, a relief so great it made me emotional. I closed the door behind me and sat on the commode, which was also clean and dry. Maybe I was the first person in there all day. I put my
head in my hands. I didn’t think I would get past that night. I thought I would have to eat. I was starving. It didn’t seem that I would ever lose my appetite. There was a part of me prepared to eat the toilet paper in that bathroom. My sense of balance was disturbed, and the objects before my eyes were floating like debris in shallow, choppy water. I was looking at the graffiti in front of me, but my sight was swirling—it made me more nauseous to concentrate. Finally I gave in, I threw up, and then I felt a little better. I sat for a while longer. I checked my phone to see if there was any word from Trish and my father. Then I got up and washed my hands. I washed them for a long time, in cold water, because it cooled me off to run the cold water over my wrists. When I went back out, Anna and Ulrika were having a conversation in German, and Dolores seemed left out, so I sat beside Dolores, thanked her for coming, and asked her if Miriam had said anything else in December, anything at all. But before she could answer, I said, So far as I know, Miriam only came to London once, and she didn’t come to see me. She looked great. She was sort of plump. But she got really sick, and that’s why she called me. The next time I saw her was four or five years later, in Cologne, and she looked…But I couldn’t finish the sentence.
Anna and Ulrika were having a conversation that made Ulrika laugh and Anna smile, and that was how I’d hoped the night would go, though on a larger scale. I could see Dolores didn’t, or wouldn’t, trust me with a single one of Miriam’s secrets—assuming she knew any—because I did not comprehend the problem. I said, In Cologne, she told me that denying her appetite empowered her, but it was in London, when she was sick, that she’d had the opportunity to understand, perhaps, the power of that denial. Dolores listened, but she would not agree or disagree. I said, I haven’t eaten in five days, well, except for some bread. I think I expected her to be a little proud of me, or maybe I wanted her to know that I did, in fact, understand denying hunger—though of course I did not—but she just smiled and looked a little sad, as though nothing could be done, as though no amount of sympathy or concern or analysis could make the world appetizing.
In Cologne, on the night that Miriam came to visit, we went to a few bars before we decided on a place to eat. It was officially still a few days away from Mardi Gras, but the streets were mayhem. Many were blocked, and those that weren’t—at least around our hotel—were being crossed by pedestrians. I saw a lot of people from the conference. They were the soberly dressed ones, with ID badges around their necks. Everyone else was in costume, or at least something sparkly, or a little bit festive. There were several outdoor stages, some were playing folk music, others were playing outdated rock. It was also weirdly nonaggressive. Instead of people arguing or scuffling, they started dancing, or hugging, or singing. It was snowing. I guess people love the snow. We considered a dozen bars, but we couldn’t fit inside any of them. Then we found one that was only mildly overcrowded. The place—I assume everywhere was the same that night—served six beers at a time, little Kölsch beers on a slotted tray. I drank them quickly. Miriam didn’t have anything. People kept shouting in our ears. They shouted Prost! or Sláinte! They wore clown wigs or cowboy hats, and glow-in-the-dark spectacles, or spectacles with hypnotic swirls on them. It wasn’t my scene, and it didn’t suit Miriam, either, though she always shouted Prost! or Sláinte! back to them. I just decided to get drunk. Miriam smoked a lot. She had smoked at least a dozen cigarettes by the time we got to the bar, and bought two more packs in a tabak on the way. I tried not to be judgmental, but I must have given her several judging looks, because she snapped and said, Just because you quit doesn’t mean I have to. I said, I’m sorry, I know, I don’t really care, it’s just that it doesn’t make sense. Cigarettes cost money and they kill you. Some assholes get rich for making poison, then you get sick, and then some even bigger assholes get overpaid for giving you drugs and operations while you die.
She put her hands on her ears until she could see I’d stopped talking, and I decided not to continue giving her a hard time. I was so happy to see her, and I told her I was happy to see her, and she should smoke as many cigarettes as she liked. We ate dinner in a little Lebanese place down a gray, soggy backstreet. Most of the people there looked like regulars. It wasn’t full of shouting. I ordered a big platter of food. Miriam got a glass of wine. To make the evening more comfortable, she ate some bread and hummus. The night finally picked up. This is great food, I said. It’s wonderful, she said. After that we went to a cocktail bar, then we drunkenly wound around the streets, taking it in, before returning to the hotel. The next day, she would travel back to Berlin, and I would fly back to London. The conference had been a waste of time, but the trip had been worth it. We had to stop before crossing a street because a yellow streetcar went by, and I put my arms around her, kissed her hat, and thanked her for coming out. I hadn’t realized how badly I needed to see you, I said.
Dolores didn’t stay too much longer. When she left, Ulrika said, That, too, I find very disconcerting in this country, too much starvation has happened here, I think it makes a wrong statement. Anna went to the bathroom and Ulrika said, I have to go, but perhaps you’d like to come over and have dinner with me and my husband. I said, I have a feeling they’re releasing Miriam’s body tomorrow, and once that happens, we’ll be very busy. She said, My husband is completely open-minded, he’s also an artist. I had a feeling he might be, I said. I could call him now, she said. We’re only distantly Jewish, very distantly, we’re anti-Semitic Jews, I said. She said, Well, that’s sometimes as good as you can get around here. I said, No thanks, really. She said, It’s a pity, anyway, sorry about Miriam, have a nice journey back to the States. Thank you, I said. She stood, and Anna arrived back. Good-bye, everyone, said Ulrika. Good-bye, I said. Good-bye, said Anna. Anna plopped down in her seat. I’m quite tipsy! she exclaimed. Then she looked at me, frowned, and said, Oh, you’re not tipsy at all. She decided to move closer, or I asked her to move closer, because she was far away and she was the only one left. We stuck around for an hour longer. I spoke some German with her, just to get an objective assessment of my language skills. Even though I had done nothing at all to improve my German, except to speak it badly, I felt I was on the verge of fluency. I don’t think that’s German, she said. In the Rhineland, I said, everyone understood me perfectly. Then I told her all the stories from my trip from Walluf to Koblenz. And then we talked a little bit about Miriam.
Anna lived not far from our apartment, so we decided to accompany each other on the underground. It turned out to be my last time on the underground. I thought it might be. The very next morning, Miriam’s body was released, and from that point forward, Trish took care of almost everything, but we had to travel around a lot with her. One of the embassy drivers escorted us—we spent the last two days in Berlin in a black bulletproof Audi. The underground wasn’t busy, and Anna and I got seats beside each other. She was smart, witty, and optimistic. Her accident had left her in a coma for almost six months, then she couldn’t do much for a year after that. Seven years had passed, and only now was she starting to get her energy back. But I am forty-two, she said, so it’s not like there’s a lot of energy available. I asked her what had happened. She said, I don’t really remember. I saw it on CCTV in the courtroom. I was riding my bike and a truck came from my side and hit me. He was traveling very fast. The court decided it was my fault.
Why?
I have no idea. But I got no money from it. I remember being in the hospital and being told that I’d been in a coma for six months, and I remember thinking, At least I’ll get a load of money, I won’t have to work anymore, I can travel. But now I still have to work.
Germans are intrepid travelers, I said.
It’s true, we love to travel, all day I do nothing but talk to Germans about traveling.
The journey was over very quickly, probably because I hoped it would last a long time. We arrived at Rosenthaler Platz, which was a five-minute walk in one direction from Anna’s and a five-minute walk in the other from
my apartment. I have a rooftop terrace, I said, would you like to come see it? If I start going up on rooftop terraces, she said, I’ll never be able to live in my tiny little flat. I said, Well, it’s been nice to meet you. I shook her hand, and she leaned in and kissed me on the cheek. We stayed very close. I put my arms around her back. She put her hands on my shoulders. We looked at each other. I said, Do you want to see something? Okay, she said. I can’t show you in the dark, I said. She thought I was joking.
We stepped inside her apartment, first her, then me, pulled our gloves, coats, and hats off, and she turned on a dim lamp with a copper-colored cloth lampshade. Then I closed the door behind me. Her place was very small, half the size of Miriam’s. But it was clean. It looked like an oriental-themed railroad car. She said, I could get a bigger place in a different part of town, but this is right beside the travel agency. It’s a two-minute cycle. I don’t have to take public transportation. You still cycle? I asked. Of course, she said. She offered me a glass of wine. I declined, but she poured me one anyway. I walked to a glass door overlooking a balcony. It was a little bit hazy, white, and there were no cars on the road, even though it was a main artery—the road out to the big loop and the airport. I really wish I had met you at the beginning, I said. She sat down on her couch and I walked around her little flat, looking at the paintings on the wall, and looking at the books on her shelves. You like India? I asked—because there seemed to be a lot of books about India, and the paintings on the wall seemed possibly Indian. I love India, she said, and Afghanistan, and Pakistan, and Nepal, and China, and Vietnam. I never traveled, I said, I always figure I’ll get some incurable disease, or have to sleep with bugs, or be mauled by wild dogs, or get bitten by a snake. That’s really strange, said Anna. I’m not finished, I said. I’m also afraid of having to eat insects, or monkey brains, or the heads of birds, or drink filthy water, or be kidnapped. I’m afraid I’ll be framed for a crime and end up in jail, I’ll be beaten in jail, I’ll be executed or raped. I’m afraid it’ll be too hot, I hate the heat, I’m afraid I won’t be able to take showers, or find clean bathrooms. I will get diarrhea and there won’t be toilet paper. I’m afraid of riding in buses. I worry that the buses will be full of mice and chickens. I worry I won’t understand how to buy tickets for the bus, and I’ll get stuck in the rain in the jungle. I sat down across from Anna and slapped my legs. That’s pretty messed up, huh? She said, But you traveled to London. London isn’t traveling, I said, at least for Americans it isn’t traveling—it involves flying but it isn’t traveling. She said, One of the things I love most about traveling is the journey to the airport, by taxi or train, going by all the places you know, the bakeries and markets you visit, the buildings, the streets, the landscape out of town, even the clouds, or the color of grass, or dirt, and the shape of the earth, and I have some music with me, or some books, and I think, This is where I am from, I am only going away for a little while. I said, I could never have that conversation with myself, I could never tell myself such a thing. She said, I suppose I’m just being sentimental, banal. I said, No, not at all, that’s not it. My entire life relies on the principle that people really do spontaneously look out the windows of trains.