Sea Air

by Meeringa, Jule

He pronounced my name slowly a few times, but the result sounded more like “Nolo” than “Nele.” I didn’t correct him; it sounded really cute.

  “You see, Nele,” he said, “I’ve decided to do what I enjoy—and so, I play music.”

  “And you make enough to live on?” I threw a skeptical glance at the hat sitting in front of his accordion, which had only a few small coins in it.

  “Mais, oui, it’s enough for everything that I need to stay alive. More than that, one doesn’t really need.”

  He was probably right about that. “But what do you do in the winter, when it’s all cold and wet and windy?”

  “I move south, like the birds. The birds and I—we are vagabonds.” He bit into his baguette and looked toward the church, where a group of children was happily jumping on the steps, playing tag, and laughing freely in the way only children can.

  “Look at these kids. See how they laugh and how free they must feel. It’s a wonderful feeling, but it won’t last much longer. They’ll get bigger and bigger and . . .” Eric gave me a meaningful look. “They’ll get imprisoned a bit more every day, until one day they’ll no longer be free and open—and then their laughter will die.”

  At his words, I felt a chill creep over my body. I pulled my jacket tighter around me, and Eric looked at me more closely. My reaction to his words had not escaped him.

  “Do you want to tell me why you’re so sad?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. “It’s a long story and . . .” I paused. “Actually, it’s not that long,” I said. “Just a little bit complicated, perhaps—maybe not even that.” All of a sudden, I no longer knew what to make of my own story—the story of Mathis and Nele. As I stood next to Eric the vagabond, everything suddenly seemed easy, uncomplicated, and insignificant. But I knew this short time with Eric was only a reprieve. Once I went back home to Germany, everything would fall apart again—unless I could find a solution in the meantime. But it needed to be my solution.

  “If you have time, I’d love to tell you my story,” I said.

  “Vagabonds have all the time in the world.” Eric laughed and jumped up. “But first, we should enjoy the sun and honor it by making a little music. After all, we have to be thankful for every day we have on this beautiful earth.”

  He grabbed his accordion, strapped it around his shoulders, and began to play and sing. His songs were filled with such zest for life that tears rose in my eyes again. I could hardly believe there really were people in the world who succeeded at simply enjoying life—and Eric was one of them.

  Drawn in by his ebullience, a large crowd gathered. Some people clapped, some sang along at the top of their lungs, and others danced happily around Eric as he played. At some point, I saw him signal with his eyes for the juggler to approach me. Before I knew it, the juggler was offering me his hand and pulling me to my feet. Laughing, he spun me in circles, and I followed his lead without thinking. When it was all over, I had no idea how I’d managed not to stumble down the steps while dancing.

  When the juggler finally let me go, I felt breathless and sweaty—and infinitely happy and free. I hugged the juggler first and then threw my arms around Eric’s neck as far as the accordion would let me. The crowd applauded wildly and I beamed at everyone, feeling positively radiant.

  For the next few hours, Eric continued to make music on the steps, and I just sat and listened. I got up only once, briefly, between songs to buy a postcard. I’d promised to write to Paula, and I knew that if there were any chance of her getting it before I returned home, I’d have to send it off that day. By the time Eric finally packed up his stuff, dusk had already fallen, and the temperature was cooling down quickly.

  “Allons,” Eric said. “Let’s go. What would you like to do now?”

  I thought it over. “Is there a nice little restaurant where we can drink red wine and talk a little?”

  “There are hundreds of restaurants exactly like that,” said Eric. “But I’ll show you a really special one.” He started up the stairs and I followed. “Let’s go over to my place first so I can drop off my things and put on a sweater.”

  “No problem.” I was curious to see where and how he lived. We wound our way through the streets, Eric lugging his accordion on his back. Suddenly he turned down a tiny alley and, after a few feet, unlocked a door. In the narrow stairwell, a wooden spiral staircase snaked tightly upward. Eric stopped at the third floor and pulled another key from his pocket. We entered a small, unadorned hallway with four doors. He unlocked the first door on the left.

  “Come.” Eric took me by the hand. “I want to show you something.” He pulled me into a small room furnished with only a worn sofa and a small television, then put his accordion away. At the end of the room was a glass door. Eric opened it and stepped out onto a balcony that at first glance appeared to be quite small. But as we walked around the corner, I realized there was much more to it than I’d realized.

  “Oh!” I gasped. “This is amazing!” I was standing on the most beautiful rooftop terrace I’d ever seen. Everything around me was green and blossoming. Palm trees were planted in huge terra-cotta pots, and there was a colorful freestanding hammock. But best of all was the view: a panorama of the entire city, its lights coming on one by one in the darkness.

  “Eric, this is . . . just fantastic,” I whispered. “Incredible!” I turned to him, but he was gone. I let myself sink back into the hammock and gazed out over the city. In the distance, I saw the profile of the Eiffel Tower. Just as I was about to look elsewhere, its lights flashed on, one after another, until the last one burned at the top. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any better, soft saxophone music began to play behind me. I turned around and there was Eric, his eyes closed as he played a beautiful tune. Spellbound, I closed my eyes, too.

  “Pour toi,” Eric said, when he finally put down the saxophone. “For you, so you won’t be so sad anymore.” I jumped up and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “Thank you!” I whispered in his ear.

  “Now let’s go,” said Eric, rubbing his belly. “I’m hungry.”

  I was hungry, too—famished, actually—but it was difficult to tear myself away from the terrace. I shrugged off my regret and followed Eric back out to the street, where a young woman greeted him with a beaming smile and a couple of light kisses on each cheek. They exchanged a few pleasantries, and I got the feeling that they were neighbors. The woman looked at me, obviously curious.

  “This is Nele, from Germany,” Eric said. “Nele, this is Aurélie.”

  “Hi,” I said and stuck out my hand to her. But she ignored my hand and instead—as if we’d known each other for a long time—hugged me and planted two kisses on each of my cheeks before saying good-bye.

  “You live alone in your apartment?” I asked Eric after she’d gone.

  “I share it with my brother, Dominic. He travels a lot and . . . well, I’m not there most of the time in winter. Sometimes we don’t see each other for months. It works quite well.”

  After we’d walked past a few streets, Eric stopped at a nondescript-looking door and I followed him through it. As my eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, I looked around the small, brightly painted room, which was packed tightly with eight small tables, leaving only a very narrow passage for people to walk through. Each table held a single candle, and there was room for no more than two people at each one.

  “It’s not very big,” Eric said, “but the food is wonderful. Délicieux!”

  Two tables were free, and we chose one close to the counter at the end of the room. Eric ordered from the menu for both of us, and from the first bite, it was clear to me that he’d been right: the food was fantastic. As I struggled with some escargot, Eric put his hand on my arm.

  “I hope you are feeling better than you were this morning?”

  “Much better!” I smiled. It had been a good idea to take time away from my home
town, with all its petty problems, and to go to Paris for a few days. I gulped down some red wine and decided to take Eric’s question as an invitation to talk about my sadness, as he called it.

  At first, I wasn’t sure how to start. But after some initial hesitation and stumbling, I managed at last to tell my whole story. I explained about my vacation with Mathis on the North Sea and our common professional work; I told him about Paula, and about Marco and Ines, Sandra and Christoph, our city and its politicians—and, of course, Steffen. Finally, I shared my frustration and my anger over Mathis’s sudden disappearance and his reappearance from Riga, and I told Eric that Mathis had asked me to come with him.

  “So that’s everything,” I said after a half hour or so. Eric had sat and listened quietly the whole time, not interrupting even once. The only reaction I noticed was that, as time went on, his expression became increasingly pensive, and a deep wrinkle slowly appeared on his forehead. I thought I detected a certain lack of understanding in Eric’s dark eyes. Minutes passed without him saying anything. After a while, I grew nervous and started to trace pictures on the tablecloth with my knife.

  “Et alors?” he asked quietly, after a while. “And then?”

  I looked at him. “What do you mean, and then? Is that all you have to say?”

  Eric smiled almost imperceptibly. “You expected more, perhaps?” I felt a strong desire to yell at him. I had just confessed my whole life story and all my sorrows, and all he could say was “And then?” I felt torn between the urge to cry and the impulse to leave, and then Eric posed a question that made me stop and think.

  “What’s so bad about Mathis wanting to finally live his own life?”

  “What’s so bad about it?” I stared at Eric, dumbfounded. Hadn’t he understood everything I’d just said? I thought about his exact words for a moment, and then said, “Of course he has a right to live his own life. But he just can’t . . .” I hesitated.

  “What? What can’t he do?”

  “He can’t just drop everything,” I said, sounding defiant.

  “You mean, he can’t just walk out and trade your relationship for a life he chooses.”

  “Yes . . . no. I don’t know.” What was with the third degree? I wished he would just tell me what he thought I should do. But Eric wasn’t done asking questions.

  “What about you?” he asked. “Have you thought about making changes in your life?”

  “Me? Of course, but it’s not that easy.”

  “Why not?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? My child, my job, my responsibilities . . .”

  “You can take your child wherever you go, and you can work anywhere. And as far as your other commitments go—is it possible that they aren’t as pressing as you say, and that maybe you’re just using all this as an excuse not to change your life?”

  I was silent. What the hell does he know about my obligations? I thought defiantly.

  “What are you afraid of, Nele?”

  Well, this was getting better and better. “Afraid? I’m not afraid. I’m just . . . confused.”

  “Oh, no, Nele—you are afraid. You’re afraid of the unknown. You know what you’ve got now—but where will you find yourself if you decide to leave the old, well-worn path and go down a new one? You don’t know, and that uncertainty scares you.”

  “But I’ve done so much in my life already,” I said. “I’ve lived in Paris and in the Caribbean. I’ve left behind my life in Germany plenty of times.”

  “Only to return again, every time,” Eric added. “You weren’t consistent, Nele.”

  “But people can’t just take off and do whatever they want.” I knew it was a weak defense—and of course, Eric didn’t accept it.

  “Where does it say that?” he asked.

  “Well, if everybody did that, then—”

  “We’re not talking about everybody, Nele. Most people need a steady job, a house, and a family—in short, they need security, the straight and narrow. Like your Steffen. There are only a few people like us. We are the researchers and the explorers—the ones who are curious. We are the people who want to know—”

  “What’s beyond the horizon?”

  Eric stared at me wide-eyed for a moment. “Yes!” he said after he’d regained his power of speech. He spoke so loudly that the other diners looked around at us. “Exactly! They want to know what’s beyond the horizon. People like us, Nele!”

  “I’m not like you,” I said.

  Eric laughed. “But, Nele, you’re just like me. I knew it the moment I first saw you on the steps of the Sacré Coeur. You’re curious, and you can’t satisfy that curiosity in one dull town. You’re a vagabond, Nele—just like me. And,” he said with a meaningful look, “just like your Mathis.”

  Suddenly my thoughts started to turn and shift. I suspected that Eric was right, but I didn’t want to admit it.

  “But I have more responsibility than Mathis does,” I said. “I just can’t pick up and leave. I’ve thought about running away, but I can’t do it.”

  “If I’ve understood it correctly,” Eric said, “Mathis is anything but irresponsible. In fact, it sounds like he’s spent the last few decades taking on enough responsibility for two people. It’s no wonder that he’s taking off now—I’m surprised it took him this long, but, better late than never. I, for one, wish him bonne chance—good luck. It won’t be easy for him. People are going to beat him up from all sides: his family, his colleagues, his so-called friends . . . and maybe you? Believe me, I’ve been in the same situation, and there was a lot of howling and screaming then, too.” Eric looked pensive for a moment, and then added, “But it’s better for others to scream and shout for a short while than for me to scream and shout for the rest of my life, right?”

  What could I say to that? Eric’s words weren’t at all what I expected—or hoped for.

  “There’s one thing you should consider, Nele.”

  I watched as he furrowed his brow. What was coming now?

  “Think about why Mathis wants to take you to Riga. Is it possible that he sees the same thing I see—that you’re a vagabond, just like us? Maybe he thinks it would be best for you, too, to leave your country before it crushes your spirit, like it nearly destroyed his? You’re still young, Nele—you can do anything you want. But this is Mathis’s last chance. If he doesn’t take it now, it’ll be too late—and he knows that. He may even be trying to save you from making the same mistake.”

  “And why does he want to take me with him—because he pities me? At first, he said he was going alone.”

  “No, Nele,” Eric said. “It’s not because he pities you. It’s because he loves you—so much that he doesn’t want to experience his freedom without you. He knows it’s possible to do this with you, because you think the same way he does.”

  “Then I’d have to start all over again.” I stared at my glass.

  “Et alors?” asked Eric with a wide grin.

  We walked the streets of Paris until the wee hours of the morning, Eric frequently pointing out places I’d never been before. From time to time, we stopped for a drink and talked. He told me his life story, and I told him more and more about mine. As the night wore on, one thing became abundantly clear to me. Eric was right: I was a vagabond.

  Just like Mathis and Eric, I dreamed about traveling to distant lands, meeting new people, and experiencing other cultures. I was happiest when I was traveling to new destinations. This wasn’t a new revelation to me. But I finally understood that it was exactly this aspect of myself that formed the deep bond between Mathis and me. Like him, I craved freedom and longed to escape the confines of my existence—to see what was beyond the horizon.

  The longer I thought about how Mathis had come to his sudden decision to start over, the more I understood. I realized for the first time that, although the failure of our joint business project had been
a bitter pill to swallow, it brought with it the gift of a new chance, granted by fate. What would have actually happened if our project had succeeded? Mathis would have been tied up for years working on it, fighting against his own temperament and becoming increasingly bitter and frustrated each year, until sorrow ate him up. Even our relationship would have failed sooner or later because Mathis would have blamed his love for me for trapping him in a life that wasn’t his. I realized that in this, I had failed Mathis. I had let myself be blinded by the outrage of those who wouldn’t or couldn’t understand his behavior, and instead of asking questions, I’d made their outrage my own.

  Of all people, I should have known better. All Mathis had done was taken the same step I had dreamed of taking for years. Perhaps the anger I’d felt when Mathis disappeared was fueled by my own disappointment—not with him, but with myself. Mathis was the one who had showed me that things could be different, that a person didn’t have to live out a life plan that was set in stone—that we all had choices. But instead of feeling thankful to him and seeing what opportunities were open to me, I’d made a scene. I had sulked and grumbled, and I’d pushed for an explanation that I shouldn’t have needed. What was it he’d said? “I thought that you, at least, would understand my motives—at least a little bit.” He had sounded reproachful, but even more than that, he’d seemed sad. He had been bitterly disappointed in my reaction to his opportunity for escape. He’d hoped for understanding, and I’d given him tired, middle-class expectations. No wonder his first impulse had been to strike out alone—my reaction had convinced him that he didn’t have my support.

  “What are you going to do now?” asked Eric. It was half past six—we’d been talking all night. Street traffic was picking up, and birds were starting to chirp as dawn broke. We stood on the banks of the Seine and watched the water as it rushed by.

  “I’ll go to Mathis and apologize.” I now had the feeling that I was the one who owed him an explanation.

  “And then? Will you go with him?”

  I rested my hands on the railing between the river and us. On the opposite bank, Notre Dame was just beginning to emerge dimly from the morning haze. “I still don’t know.” I shrugged. “You know, understanding Mathis’s decision is one thing. But making the same choice myself . . . I don’t know if I can do it, or—more specifically—if I can do it to my child. Paula loves her friends at her school, and she feels completely happy where we live now. I don’t want to take her home away from her.”