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Foreign object
Crossing the line Foreign object, that could as well be a metaphor for a middle aged woman, an interference in the array of young, smooth, elastic, glowing bodies without incontinence pads, halitosis, grey streaks, varicose veins. But this foreign object also falls into the category of aid and appliance, an extra that was once not needed, but now is, to function “normally”. To keep up the smooth elastic glow as far as possible. Or the illusion for oneself, that maybe we only crossed the line partly, there is still time, there is this liminal space ahead of us, on the journey to being “an old woman”, but we have only just started. We can on good days still “pass”. The time where we move without being conscious of our bodies ends all too quickly. This is a shock. Of course some of us hardly ever move this way. And as women most of us are always conscious of our bodies, even as little girls. But for those of us with “normally working” mechanics, the beginning of the end of that era is tough. Timing, graduation and specifics are individual but also collective- irregular ovulation, a dodgy knee, previously unknown smells, hair in odd places, maintenance requiring more time. Vitamin supplements, tachycardia, dry skin, cancer scares. Off to a gentle start, considering. And that dodgy knee has been a problem on and off for a decade, it might be unrelated. Maybe the categories are not well chosen. But unrelated or not, they, this, will come harder and faster now. And it’s a process to realise, there is no way back. This can not be reversed. This will be the rest of our life. This foreign object will be with me for the rest of my life. Most probably it will be in my body when I die, or, if I am lucky and die peacefully in my sleep, in my own bed, it will be sitting not far from my body on the bedside table or maybe, further away, on a shelf in the bathroom. Or maybe it won’t. Maybe I will have decided then to not use it anymore, to let my body have another attempt at building up callous skin to render it unnecessary, and do away with aesthetic considerations once and for all. Is that not the one prospect, in equal parts threat and promise, old age holds for women? That we reach a point where our bodies are not seen any longer and not “counted among women” anymore. This might start early. But the promise part is that we will also reach a point where we don’t care any longer and start to live without shame. We’ll see. For now, they are wrapped in a tissue, beside me on the table, within reach. Like glasses. I don’t always take them out when I write, but this evening, I have. Maybe to be able to contemplate them better, from the outside? And for certain passages I will put them back in to better be able to incorporate “the pinch”. To write from my body, and they are now a part of it. I often do take them out however in the evening in general, nothing to do with the act of writing. When the day is almost done, when it’s time to open the top button or open the belt, or slip into leggings and wooly socks, or whatever your particulars are. I once had a boyfriend who hated this marking of a shift from public to private, he was an artist and probably it signified to him a person who isn’t whole, who lives a division that should not exist. Some take off earrings. Loosen up. Everything that keeps us in the prescribed or expected shape during the day, tucks in loose skin and wobble, straightens hair, covers unsightly sights. When the public part is done. Dirty little secrets- boundaries and culture There might not have been a public part of the day in the traditional sense, but that part where all “other people” are on “the other side” of that divide, and you are the only one on your side. I have two people where this particular boundary is more flexible in regards to “bodily things”. My mother and my son. But obviously I have left the realm of childhood where everything has been visible to my mother long ago, and I have also left the realm where my son had not left our shared universe to sometimes live in his own, inaccessible to me. When he did start to dip in and out, new boundaries were drawn and it changed also how I felt about my body and about which parts to show to him. Still, these two have seen “them”. My foreign object. Nobody else has. Although I can think of people, girlfriends, that will probably see them in the future. These two, my most intimate family, for better and worse, have very rarely, when there was no way around it, seen me taking them in and out. When I was in danger of choking because they had trapped food for example. But usually I avoid it. But they know they exist. They have seen the wrapped tissue, and know what is inside, even though I have not revealed it like a magician taking off a magic blanket in a trick: Tadaaa. But there are other scenarios or machinations they have not seen. They won’t. Nobody will. For now. We can never predict when our mental or physical capacities might fail us or our circumstances change in a way that we have less or no control over who sees what. But for now. I sometimes take them out for example after eating something sticky, like crisps. A lot gets stuck under the plate and in between the parts and I take it out and lick the remnants off. It’s the best way. But that would be in my book too much to share, for both sides. It’s probably already too much to write about, but I will decide later if there is a reason it should stay in this text. People have of course very different boundaries when it comes to that, even within a supposedly shared culture. And then those boundaries may shift as described when phases are entered and exited. A parent leaving the door open when on the toilet when a child is small. Walking naked through the house, sleeping naked. Some do, some don’t. When my son was very small we were at the house of a playground acquaintance with a daughter the same age. The little girl came over to have a look when I changed my son’s nappy on the floor of their living room and her mother said: Don’t look, you naughty girl. She was English. Then we were on holiday once with a German friend of mine and her son and I had come out of the shower to talk to him, he was about 5. And my friend asked me afterwards if I had been naked in front of him, because he had come back to her with eyes as wide as UFOs, as the expression goes. She laughed at that, it wasn’t accusatory. She herself was just never naked in front of him, I had been his first completely naked female body. Another little girl on a sleepover who came into the bathroom with me when I was about to take a shower asked me why my boobs were hanging like this. And I said well, as I got older they kind of went that way, it can happen when we get older. And she said: My grandma is older than you but hers are not like that. Bam! But the point is, she had seen her grandma’s naked boobs and was obviously not told to not talk about or not look at certain body parts. And then, last anecdote for now, I was in hospital once in the 1990s and a Saudi man and his wife were on the same ward. He was a veteran of the gulf war and had fought in the American coalition and for that reason was now in the hospital to be treated by what was apparently considered the best team of doctors in that area internationally. The Americans were paying for his treatment. We were both on that ward for epilepsy. His wife was there to accompany him and she told me all this, naked, in the communal shower. It had come as a surprise to see her there without her black abaya she was covered with at all other times we had met, in the dining room or in the hallway. I had so little experience and knowledge about her culture or other cultures than “mine” that it seems to me in hindsight that I probably had not been entirely sure that she would look like me underneath those layers of cloth, even though I had not consciously thought about it. She had all the parts I had and I envied her thick mane of curls that had also been hidden. But the point is that she was in no way representative of any culture, the same as I am not for mine. On some level, yes. But to choose to have a chat, the two of us, half in half out of the shower, not covering ourselves with a towel even, that was our choice and our boundaries for that moment and that person. Epilepsy..it seems I had forgotten about these times when my body already had lapses of “functioning normally”, even when I was much younger. But they were distinct spans of time, had an onset and an end. In between I had functioned without noticing. Dealing with it- mentors My grandmother kept her teeth in a glass with water beside her bed at night. I now have a different sort of respect for her, or let’s say there is an additional thing that I am impressed by. That set of dentures, a full set, is in my memory massive. I google it: Full dentures. There is a website that advertises” basic dentures” and I take the “basic” as a sign I might find something akin to the monstrosities from the 1970s that she had to endure. A massive foreign object. How could you get your head around it, not only metaphorically, but literally? How to overcome the constant sensation to be about to chole, or puke, or both. The constant trigger of your gag reflex. The sensation of the sheer size, the bulk trapped in your mouth. The sensory innervation of the oral cavity is dense and there is high blood supply. The tongue is the most sensitive organ for our sense of touch. Remember children and the oral phase? The mouth is our first connection to the world, here we have explored and gotten to know our surroundings for the first time. Sensation is intense and cavities or objects feel larger than they are. It is also the gateway to our airways: can we breathe, or do we feel like suffocating. What an essential body location, symbolically and operatively. But the examples on the website depict nothing of the kind. Times have moved on, and I am glad for it. I am afraid I am not made off the same stern stuff that my grandmother was. Both of them actually. Even though my other one kept most of her own teeth until the end, she was known to swallow tubes and endure the surgical removal of gallstones without anesthetic. Repeatedly. The one with the teeth in the glass also wore a catheter, had it removed and replaced on a regular basis, without complaint. I can count the swallowing of a tube for a gastroscopy, several dilations and curettages, and a tattoo. Without anesthetics, yes, but not always by choice, and even then not with their stoicism and quiet resolve. Not that it should be a requirement to be able to suffer quietly. It shouldn’t. But maybe it is? Am I allowed to be in pain and finding this hard? Am I allowed to reject the foreign object? Allowed to take my time and go back and forth in accepting it. Cry, be angry, desperate. Find the balance between rejection and tolerance. Or am I supposed to keep quiet about it. Suffer in silence, the price for a smile with full teeth. For passing. The dentures on the website are contoured and shaped and polished to individual fit, the roof as thin as possible. Young women in identical uniforms and ponytails craft and shape and the woman who at the end of the process “confidently” smiles into a mirror is older than me, but not very old. There are no old women, not even in an ad for full dentures! On the one hand, it could encourage me, maybe there are actually way more women around my age who have dentures already? Or maybe it just means the threatening part of that prospect mentioned earlier on is indeed true, there will come a time we will not be counted among women anymore. But I also have another thought, in fairness. Maybe the water in the glass and the years that have passed, are distorting my memory. Maybe our sets are not that different. And maybe we are weak, and tough, both. A few months ago I visited the Sigmund Freud museum in Vienna. Freud had cancer of the palate, but there is also speculation that the deterioration of these parts was due to cocaine abuse. He was also a heavy smoker. Following a maxillectomy he had to wear a prosthesis in his mouth for the rest of his life, which he called “his monster”. Partly endearing, partly beholden in loathing. Dealing with it- me They are part of my body, but at the same time a foreign object. I sometimes dream about them. About realising I have forgotten to put them in, and now I am somewhere, not necessarily at the literal speaker’s desk, but somewhere in the “public part” of the day. That actually does happen in waking life. That I have really forgotten to put them in and then cannot eat or smile. Or at least I shouldn’t. Or do it in a careful, specific way. I wonder about them, what would happen if someone hits me in the face. Or if I fall with the bike. Or in a car accident. Would they break and slice me, or choke me, would I choke on them? Are they a danger to me? Other times I feel they are the main support keeping my head from falling apart, my bones from crumbling. It’s a love/hate relationship. They stand for strength and power, and the ability to defend yourself. But also for hunting and killing and tearing flesh off your prey. They stand for life. Once you lose them, you’re destined for death. (Of course we are always destined for death, but that’s when you know.) I have been a dental nurse, I know dentin is the hardest tissue in the body. So, the hardest part of me has been removed. There is the historical image of old people, toothless, only sipping soup, losing weight, getting smaller, dying. I went through that phase and I hadn’t expected it. My few original ones left had needed to come out for a while, I had been pushing it back. Why did they have to come out? A history of bulimia and neglect, smoking heavily, and the good old hereditary disposition. It runs in the family, addiction, neglect, genes. I had thought to have made peace with it, as much as possible. With the aesthetic aspect, and the sensory. These were the areas I concentrated on, and of course also the : “Now, already, at your age?” But I still didn’t make the connection. I still couldn’t foresee how disempowered and weak I would feel. The days after the extractions were like an illness, I could barely get out of bed. I had had extractions before, but this was different. I felt small, brittle, like a leaf in the wind. “Handle with care, could break at the slightest pressure”. For a long time I was “without”. Healing. Vulnerable. Couldn’t eat. I lost 7 kilos. If I had been that old person a century ago, I might have died. That sounds overly dramatic. But you get the point. Getting used to this is hard work, and everytime I think: oh, I got that now, the next thing comes along I hadn’t foreseen. A bit like parenting. You don’t know how to handle it, there is no precedent, and you don’t have the time to sit down and think it through. I need to eat, I need to speak, I even need to smile sometimes, so deal with it. I had been without teeth in some places for a long time, so my face muscles were not used to them being there and needed to adjust. Some of them have lain dormant for years- you know when you go running after you haven’t run since you were a child? Or climbing over stones and roots? And it’s not just the face, the muscles connect to shoulders and back...but it is also great in a way. Like meeting a long lost acquaintance again. That is the good part, that’s why I want to dwell on it for a while and embellish it. Long lost acquaintance? Ha. I was doing fine without those muscles. But it beats the nausea after a few hours outside with the monster in my mouth, especially after physical exertion, like a gentle bike ride home from work. The feeling of having to rip them out of my head just in time before being sick. The retching, the exhaustion. It beats the bloody mouth from biting my inner cheeks constantly for weeks. I still do sometimes, after almost a year. The allergy symptoms, itchy ears and throat, a burning sensation in my mouth. Heat. Need to get them out. NOW. Apparently some people do develop an allergy against them, against some or other component of the resin. It turned out that my allergy is against the concept as such. But I wanted to put this in in case someone with the same problem reads it: do go and get it checked out, maybe you are allergic in a non- psychosomatic way. Although there is probably no divide: psychosomatic: “relating to the interaction of mind and body.”, “caused or aggravated by a mental factor such as internal conflict or stress”. Internal conflict, that goes a long way, metaphorically, and inside my body. Sometimes they come off when I eat certain foods. Just recently I had raw carrots after years without and the whole muscle pain started over. A painful neck and jaw for days. Sometimes I sniff at them when I take them out before going to bed. A sweet smell of saliva and coffee, a smell that reminds me of nursing homes, old people’s breath. Milky coffee and rusks to dunk in. When you rinse the cup there is always rusk mush at the bottom. The best is yet to come I did my dental nurse training in Ireland. Here I also saw for the first time how teeth are a marker of class. Who can afford the dentist and who can’t, and how basic basic insurance can be. Extraction as the treatment of choice, also for me. A quote attributed by Miguel de Cervantes- maybe he had tooth trouble, too- is obviously cherished by the profession and can be found on many a practice website: “Every tooth in a man’s head is more valuable than a diamond.” One of the hygienists in the practice I trained also worked for an implantologist- the price of a full set of implants was 45.ooo euro. For those of us with basic insurance it’s keeping on fighting windmills. One of my bosses told me how a full set of dentures used to be a popular present for a 21st birthday, half a century ago. Bad nutrition and care used to let rot in early. Imagine, 21. That brings me to one of my future challenges. “The Kissing Problem”. At least I have done some kissing without worrying about plastic parts. And I haven’t given up on the idea that I will kiss someone in the future. But how? Wait until I can take them out, secretly, in the dark? Put them back in before it gets light? I am thinking of hiring someone to try it. Like a call boy, just for that part. Asking a friend, but it’s too sensitive still. Or a drunken one night stand? In my mind the kissing will be the hardest part. But thinking about it also proves that I still expect it to happen, I still count myself among those on that side of the divide. I haven’t made the leap yet. The leap does not mean to pass over to a presumed other side, but to understand there is no line to cross, that we are all always here, fluid, crossing, on a human spectrum. Kissing is the hardest part yet to imagine because it will cross into the intimate knowledge of this body and the foreign objects attached, embedded, in it. Each body is a foreign object for the other person, but we expect it still to feel a certain way. Even if we have grown up seeing and knowing loads of different bodies intimately, the artificial leg of a war veteran grandfather, the aunt with MS, a friend in a wheelchair. But still we expect. Hard in certain places, soft in others. Trained by media and porn we translate images into sensations, images to feelings, expectations of touch. Inference of feeling from image. And then, the snake, it is not wet or slippery, but dry and coarse. Probably there exists a fetishism around dentures, but fetish is “other”, a foreign object solidified, cut out, detached, sanitized- even in its possible messiness. But I can’t detach, the other person cannot detach. Or I don’t want to detach. I want to be whole… Is that the problematic phantasy? Will it feel like running your tongue over a plastic cup? Will it feel to me- secondary and less important consideration it seems right now- as if two foreign objects filling my mouth, a plastic barrier and what it bars? It covers the main part of my sensitive nerve endings where they matter for kissing. Matter to me. Have mattered so far. I wish I could ask someone. My mother hasn’t done it, we touched on the subject. The “plate” coincided for her with other life and physical changes that led to an abandoning of “kissing like that”. We didn’t go into it further. It was impossible to shake off that teenage discomfort at discussing or even imagining these “things” with a parent. I wonder briefly, is that a cultural thing too. Who could I ask then? Maybe there is an internet forum. Half woman/ half….what? Not fully human anymore? Not all “flesh and blood”. What is natural, what is on the human spectrum? Crossing from barely visible, if one doesn’t look too closely, from “passing as” into exposure, vulnerability. This is how I feel. For the rest of my life. The first day of the rest of your life Our first anniversary is coming up. And I recently found the perfect song to celebrate. That footage of Woodstock, Richie Havens singing and improvising, allegedly for hours. It’s well known. The other day I saw it, it was cut in between scenes at the beginning of a documentary I was watching. It was a Saturday evening, end of the day, my monster sitting beside me wrapped in tissue. I had poured myself a glass of wine and briefly debated if it was time already, what it might mean or not mean if I took them out now or later, same as I might previously have negotiated drinking the wine. And then, as it was the weekend, and I had been kind of productive that day, the verdict had been: hell, why not. I was first watching in that not entirely focussed way when you still get settled in, rearranging cushions and the wine glass exactly within reach, can you hear anything from the kid’s room, one last glance on the screen of the phone. Thus, I wasn’t sure the first time and had to stop the film and go back. Of course I knew the song, of course I had seen parts of this performance on screen before, the long orang kaftan thingy he is wearing, the guitar. But this time I noticed something for the first time: he has no upper teeth! I am looking at the tissue ball beside the screen and back to Richie. Stop the film, go back. It’s a short sequence, I go back several times. Can not straight away believe it. The camera is very close to him, coming up from below, almost into his open mouth. A dark pink ridge, no upper teeth. Of course I google it. The usual rows of “people also ask”: “Did Richie Havens have teeth?” A blog titled “Richie Havens’ teeth”. There seems to be division on the point if he had dentures that he took out for singing because he thought he sounded better without them, or if he hated or feared dentists so much that he didn’t acquire them until later in life. Or never. I can relate to both. I also take mine out sometimes before an important phone call. And I haven’t really been back to the dentist since getting them adjusted. Some post- trauma thing. I couldn’t find anything on why he had no teeth at that age, he was born 1941, 28 in 1969. Probably the usual reasons, it doesn’t matter. Well, what does matter, is that he is a man and that this was more than 50 years ago. There was, at least in some places, a different spirit of the times. There were no selfies, filters and photoshop. Writing from a woman’s body, that was Audre Lorde and Adrienne Rich. But you could have picked an old woman out of the array straight away, just by hairdo and attire that made her invisible. Beauty ideals were surely young, able bodied and slim then, too, but didn’t apply yet to all stages of life - most Mrs Robinsons really crossed a line and disappeared. The good old bad old days. One last google, “women ageing teeth”. Some research papers with bizarre titles, instagram : “Lovely old woman”- can it be more asexual? Some commonplace wisdom: women smile more than men- did you know?? “How fixing your teeth can fix your face”- wow. Of course it’s a woman’s face that needs fixing. Women need to steer the line between being authentic and being old- “how to age gracefully”. Either a lovely old graceful woman, authentic, asexual and without a claim to representation, participation, the space to be flesh, blood and all other materials that might be needed, plastic, metal, not always neatly tucked in. One research paper suggests teeth act as “Human Ornament Displays Signalling Mate Quality”, akin to ornament displays in the animal word. Adult teeth record environmental and traumatic events, as well as the effects of disease and ageing. Teeth are therefore a rich source of information about individuals and their histories. This is who I am. Richie Havens’ famous song at Woodstock is called “Freedom”, and in that performance he mixes it with riffs of “Motherless child”. What a combination, what a perfect reflection of my mixed bag of feelings towards my foreign object, towards ageing, towards life. It’s allowed to be corny on anniversaries, isn’t it? “Sometimes I feel like I’m almost gone”. “Clap your hands, yeah.” My monster in a tissue ball. Of course it will be all downhill from here. But I want to end with a few lines from that blogger, nothing to do with teeth, I hope he doesn’t mind: “What was remarkable about that particular performance was that Richie Havens could not stop playing once the song was “over.” We see him go off stage still strumming his guitar, still playing his music long after it was formally “finished.” Formally finished. Who decides that anyway?
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 Tribute to Lucia Berlin It’s a pity it’s raining. Summer is coming to an end just when I found a spot where I think I could endure a few more weeks. Maybe a few more weeks is all I need.
The roof at the end of the brick steps leading up the hanging garden behind the house. It’s not exactly a new discovery, I used to spend a lot of time there as a child. A flat roof entirely covered with greyish blue tar paper, I loved the rough feel underneath my bare feet and the palms of my hands, still do. Now it is also loaded with that childhood nostalgia, a golden brown feeling, sun filled and like honey dripping off a knife, musty in secret spots and with dry dust tickling in the nose and the back of the throat.I put a padded deck chair cover on it and roll up my cardigan as a cushion. Like a game or a dare I lie from time to time directly on the tar paper, it’s hot in the middle of the day, like sand on a mediterranean beach, and it leaves a pattern like cellulitis on the backside of the body. I lie completely still and let the heat seep into me until it becomes unbearable.I used to have a lot of games like this, see how long I could stand some discomfort. I usually went for slow building torture, gradual heat or cold, or pain. Nothing short and spectacular, like a cigarette burn, or a jump into a freezing lake. Something where you get acquainted with the sensation slowly, get to know it in all its dimensions and you can trace the facets of your reaction and your responses, to all the new twists and turns, and it’s like a dialogue where you start to appreciate the opponent and think: oh, smart move. It’s like respecting each other’s intelligence. In the corner of the roof where there is some shadow from the chimney rising up, still sits a big black blob of hardened tarmac. The neighbours girl and I had found it one day beside some roadworks a few streets away. The workers had gone somewhere for their break and had left some spilled tarmac for paving the road, it was still warm and looked deliciously viscous. We couldn’t resist. We scraped off a whole large blob, as big as a child’s head, carried it home and put it on the roof. Then we sat beside it and observed its transformation, how its wet lacquered shine dulled while it hardened and at the end something like a fine white chalk dust seemed to cover it. We poked with sticks at it, made patterns on its surface and smoothed them over again, savoring the satisfaction of the seamless surface. It took several days to dry completely and we came back to look at it ever so often. Our parents weren’t pleased for some reason, maybe our hands had been full of tar and hard to clean, but memories on this part are hazy. I brought a book but for now I just lie flat on my back, forearm across my face to block out the sun. On the grassy slope beside the roof is a big bush and birds, yellow tits, fly in and out. How different birds fly, I never really noticed before, you have the birds of prey hovering for long minutes motionless in the sky, or flocks of grackles doing tiny jumps with their bodies bent back and then lifting off, with rather cumbersome but also forceful flaps. The tits flapping their wings sounds like spoke cards on a kid’s bicycle. It takes me a while to come up with that comparison, I have been lying there observing three tits flying in and out of the bush, and the faint echo tugging at my brain, I know that sound. I never used spoke cards. Maybe I should have. I have a brief moment of regret, it would have been even cooler. But we loved to race down the steep roads of the city, my friend, not the neighbours girl, on the back rack, my legs working like pistons. Once my brakes wouldn’t catch, we were still far away, only half way down the road, just passing the magic moment of highest speed, when pedalling more strongly doesn’t make a difference anymore, the movement overtakes itself and you can keep still and just enjoy the terrifying descent. An old lady was crossing the road at the end, where it flattened out again, I could see her, we were the only people out for miles it seemed. High noon, everyone else was inside for lunch and a nap. My friend on the back was oblivious still, my back hiding what was in front of us. The lady made her way slowly across, one small elaborate move after the other, stopping briefly to catch her breath in between. And we were flying toward her, like a bullet train, and I had realised with a fleeting, detached terror, that I could not work my brakes. Later I would see that the brake pads had worn off completely. We were advancing steadily at breakneck speed, never had we achieved such a speed before, we were running on tracks, impossible to swerve and divert disaster. It was as if the old lady and my bike were connected through a rubber band and would snap back together, there was no other way. On that roof I am just atop of what is going on in the house below, I can observe without taking part, hiding. Looking up the sky opened wide, beyond clothes lines and electricity lines, chimneys, wooden posts, tree tops. Afterwards I pushed the bike home, as the brakes were not catching I had to twist the handlebar from side to side all the time, to keep it from veering off. My friend and I had just looked at each other, unable to find words, and she had gone one way, towards their house, and I the other way. I left the bike in the cellar and went up to my room. I couldn’t stay there. I went into the sitting room, then the bathroom. There I looked at myself in the mirror. I was recently tall enough to see myself in it, above the sink. Then I turned around, opened the apartment door and walked out, and a few steps down the stairs. From below I could hear my father’s voice talking to someone at the cellar door. I screamed. And screamed. And ran back into the apartment, my father behind me now, grabbing me, turning me around, holding me at arms lengths, asking what’s wrong, panic in his voice, but I kept screaming and screaming, and then I tucked myself into his chest, cheek pressed against the buttons of his work coat, until my screams turned into sobs and then stopped. I didn’t cycle again for years.  Als sie nachhause kommen, sitzt Lucinda in der Küche und ist völlig aufgelöst. Ihre Haare haben sich aus dem Knoten gelöst, ihr Kleid ist zerknittert und über ihren Brüsten sind feuchte Flecke, sie muss geweint haben, sie hat die Arme um sich geschlungen und zittert leicht und starrt mit großen Augen in den Raum.
Vor ihr leigen ihre Zigaretten und im Aschenbecher sammeln sich halbgerauchte Kippen. „Lucinda?“ sagt Margie. Sie geht einen Schritt auf sie zu in den Raum hinein und sagt noch einmal ihren Namen. „Lauf nach oben, sieh nach, was passiert ist.“ Sagt Margie zu Kristian, der hinter ihr in der Tür steht. Als er sich umdrehen will, steht Lucinda auf und hält sich am Tisch fest. „Es ist nichts passiert.“ Sie hebt den Kopf und sieht Margie an und fängt wieder an zu weinen. „Er soll weggehen“ sagt sie und Margie sieht über die Schulter zu Kristian. Er zuckt die Achseln und dreht sich um. Margie geht zu Lucinda und legt die Arme um sie. „Ich hab solche Angst.“ Sagt Lucinda und weint immer stärker. Sie presst sich an Margie und zieht sie mit sich hinunter auf den Boden. „Ist ja gut.“ sagt Marge auf Deutsch. „Ist ja gut.“ Sie weiß, dass sich Ruhe von einem Körper auf den anderen übertragen kann, genau wie Angst und sie stellt sich vor, wie ihr Herz, das nur durch Haut, Fett und Knochenplatten von Lucindas Herz getrennt ist, sein Impulse ausschickt und schließlich das andere Herz zwingt, sich seinem Rhythmus anzupassen. Sie hofft, dass ihr Herz das Stärkere sein wird. Sie knien auf dem Boden, bis der Kampf für diesen Tag vorbei ist. 12 Margie dreht ihr Haar im Nacken zusammen wie eine Flamencotänzerin und sieht sich im Spiegel in die Augen. Kristian sitzt mit den Jungs auf der Veranda und raucht einen Joint. Sie sind genau über ihr, das Zimmer liegt unter der Veranda, und sie kann durch das gekippte Fenster hören, wie sie sich unterhalten und lachen und von Zeit zu Zeit wehen auch Fetzen von Musik mit hinein, sie haben das Radio mit nach draußen genommen. Sie sieht zur Decke, als könnte sie durch sie hindurch sehen, sie schluckt und atmet und beides ist laut in ihrem Kopf zu hören, dann sieht sie wieder in die Augen im Spiegel. Sie nimmt die Flasche mit Lucindas Nagellack aus der Schürze und öffnet sie. Sie bemalt nur die Nägel der linken Hand und spreizt die Finger vor ihrem Gesicht. Sie stellt sich vor, wie Mrs Paulin morgen ihr Handgelenk packen wird, wie sie ihr in die Augen sehen wird. „Na…Püppchen“ wird sie sagen, auf Deutsch, und noch fester zufassen, wenn Margie sich ihr entziehen will. Langsam wird es dunkler im Zimmer und Margie muss die Stehlampe neben der Kommode anmachen. Sie hat alle Dosen und Pinsel vor sich aufgebaut, alles ist bereit für das Ritual. Seit die hier ist, hat sie sich nicht mehr geschminkt und sie ist überrascht von der Wirkung, von dem fremden Gesicht. Sie zündet sich eine Zigarette an und bläst den Rauch aus, ihrem exotischen scharfkantigen Gesicht entgegen. „Margie?“ fragt sie, aber schon während sie es sagt, weiß sie, dass das nicht Margie ist. Sie hört, wie Kristians Lachen über ihr in Worte übergeht und wieder in Lachen, ein Lachen, bei dem sie jedes Mal ein wenig den Kopf einzieht, und sie denkt wie so oft, wie seltsam sich diese Sprache anhört, wenn er sie spricht. Sie zündet sich eine neue Zigarette an und wischt mit der Hand hart über ihren Mund, dann über ihre Augen und verschmiert die Farbe über ihr Gesicht. Sie hat das schon früher getan, sie weiß, dass Frauen das manchmal tun und sie fragt sich, was dieser Teil des Rituals zu bedeuten hat. Denn es ist ein genauso wichtiger Teil davon wie sie erst jetzt begreift. Sie hat die Wäsche hereingeholt, den Jungs auf der Veranda zugewunken und die Bügelwäsche aussortiert. Ihre und Kristians Sachen hat sie mit nach unten genommen und zusammengelegt. Als sie den Schrank aufgemacht hat, hat sie auch die Sachen, die darin lagen, herausgenommen und noch einmal ordentlich zusammengelegt. Sachen, die seit ihrer Ankunft dort gelegen haben, die sie noch nie getragen hat, weil sie die meiste Zeit ihre Arbeitskleidung oder etwas anderes Praktisches anzieht. Sie nimmt sich Zeit dabei und während sie alles ordentlich faltet, versucht sie sich zu erinnern, für welche Gelegenheiten sie diese Kleider mitgenommen hat, was sie sich vorgestellt hat, das geschehen würde, während sie sie trägt. Häutungen 1 “Ihr Haar hat wirklich eine merkwürdige Farbe.” sagt Lucinda. Sie steht am Fenster am Fuß der Treppe, einen Ellenbogen in die andere Hand gestützt, sie raucht und schnippt die Asche durch den Spalt des Fensters vor ihr. “Eine merkwürdige Farbe.” sagt sie noch einmal. Sie sagt es zu sich selbst, obwohl sie weiß, dass Margie hinter ihr steht. Von den Schatten unter der Treppe, da wo Margie steht, kann man die verfilzten Büsche mit den lila Blüten und das Mädchen, das sich in sie hineinbückt und sie vorsichtig mit den Händen teilt, nicht sehen, aber sie weiß trotzdem, wen Lucinda meint. Lucinda klopft mit den Fingern, in denen sie die Zigarette hält, leicht an die Scheibe und winkt mit den Fingerspitzen. Sie schiebt das Fenster so hoch, dass sie ihren Oberkörper hindurchzwängen kann, und als sie sich in das Licht hinauslehnt, sieht Margie die hellen Haare auf ihren braunen Armen und das Gelb ihres Kleides aufleuchten. Claire kommt zum Fenster gerannt, Lucinda zieht ihr Gesicht zu sich und küsst sie auf den lachenden beerenverschmierten Mund. Dann lässt sie los und Claire läuft zurück in die Büsche und Sträucher. “Margie! Warum kommt denn niemand! Komm her! Margie!” Mrs Paulin schreit von oben, “Margie, Margie, Margie, Margie!” Sie singt es fast, und dann ohne Pause und schrill wie ein Kind, ein Baby; eine alte Frau, die ein Kind nachmacht: MaadschieMaadschieMaaadschiiiiii, bis sie Luft holen muss. 2 “Hilf mir mit dem Essen.” sagt Lucinda. Es gibt zwei Küchen, die gegenüber der Treppe, in der sie jetzt stehen und den Tisch gedeckt haben, an dem sie die Mahlzeiten einnehmen, und eine große, altmodische im Keller, wo Lucinda in riesigen Töpfen und Pfannen das Essen für alle auf der Farm kocht und wo sie an dem ebenfalls riesigen Holztisch sitzt und raucht und mit in die Hand gestützten Kopf in ihr Notizbuch schreibt. Margie steigt hinter Lucinda die Treppe in den Keller hinunter, wo es nicht viel kühler ist als oben. An der Außentür der großen Küche steht schon einer der Männer, um den Topf mit dem Essen für die Arbeiter und die anderen Helfer abzuholen, die an einem langen Tisch in einem der Nebengebäude essen. Die Einheimischen und die anderen Arbeiter schlafen in getrennten Baracken, aber sie essen gemeinsam. Dann tragen Lucinda und Margie die kleineren Töpfe und Schüsseln für die Leute im Haus nach oben. Margie und Kristian nehmen die Mahlzeiten mit der Familie und den anderen im Haus ein, sie wohnen auch im Haus, sie sind privilegiert. Sie sind ein Teil des inneren Kerns der Farm, und ein Teil von etwas sein ist etwas, das Margie immer gewollt hat. Lucinda spricht mit dem Arzt, der heute zur Farm herausgekommen ist, um nach Mrs Paulin zu sehen, und zum Essen geblieben ist. Margie hört nicht richtig zu und da sich ihr Englisch nicht verbessert hat, seit sie hier ist, fällt es ihr leicht, die Worte nur als Geräusche wahrzunehmen, sobald sie in ihrer Konzentration nur ein wenig nachlässt. Sie weiß sowieso was der Arzt sagt, sie sieht Mrs Paulin jeden Tag. Claire und Zoe reden darüber, dass sie nach dem Essen Tennis spielen wollen und Kristian plant mit den beiden Jungen, die ihm bei der Arbeit helfen, den Nachmittag. ‘Gibst du mir mal das Gemüse rüber?” sagt Margie. Kristian will, dass sie vor den anderen Englisch miteinander reden. Als er es ihr erklärt hat, hat sie nichts gesagt, aber eigentlich findet sie es albern und vergisst es oft. Er sieht sie vorwurfsvoll an, als er ihr die Schale mit dem verkochten farblosen Gemüse hinhält. “Denk dran die Matratzen vom Dachboden zu holen.” sagt Lucinda zu ihm und er dreht das Gesicht in die andere Richtung. 3 “Hören Sie auf, Sie machen das ganze Haus irre.” sagt Margie auf Deutsch, als sie am Bett vorbei zum Fenster geht. Mrs Paulins Bett ist groß und alt und aus dunklem Holz, mit gedrechselten Bettpfosten, um die Perlenketten und Tüllschals in Pastellfarben hängen, die Margie sich nicht an Mrs Paulin vorstellen kann . Mrs Paulins Kopf versinkt fast in den dicken weißen Federkopfkissen, er liegt genau in der Mitte eines gelben Flecks, den Margie trotz aller Anstrengungen nicht schafft, herauszuwaschen. “Mach das Fenster zu, ich frier mir den Arsch ab.” “Nein” draußen sucht Claire wieder nach einem Tennisball in den Büschen, Zoe ist nicht zu sehen. “Mach das Fenster zu” “Es stinkt” “Nach dir. Nach dir und deiner Pflaume.” “Außerdem ist es heiß.” “Ich bin alt. Alte Leute frieren.” Claire hat den Ball gefunden und schwenkt ihn triumphierend über dem Kopf. Margie dreht sich weg und sieht zum Bett, Mrs Paulin greift mit ihren braunverschmierten Händen in die Luft, als wollte sie Margie umarmen und küssen. “Ich werde Sie jetzt waschen.” “Ich bin sauber.” Margie nimmt die Waschschüssel von der Kommode gegenüber dem Bett, eine alte aus Emaille mit abgeplatzten dunklen Stellen auf dem Boden, und geht zum Waschbecken neben der Tür. “Ihre Finger sind schmutzig, ich werde sie waschen.” “Warum sollen meine Finger schmutzig sein? Was ist mit meinen Fingern?” Sie sehen sich im Spiegel an, während Wasser in die Schüssel läuft, sie sehen sich in die Augen. “Es ist Scheiße dran” Als sie sich mit der Schüssel umdreht, sieht sie Kristian vor der Tür stehen, er hat die Matratzen vom Boden geholt und starrt aus dem dunklen Flur ins Zimmer. Er mag es nicht, wenn sie so mit Mrs Paulin spricht, er versteht es nicht und er hat Angst, dass sie beide rausgeschmissen werden. Er weiß auch nicht, dass Mrs Paulin Deutsch versteht, Margie hat es ihm nicht gesagt, sie weiß nicht genau warum. Sie starrt zurück. “Möchten Sie noch etwas trinken?” sagt sie, ohne den Blick von ihm abzuwenden. Du ju wont samssink tu drink? 4 « Sag Lu zu mir. » sagt Lucinda und zündet sich eine Zigarette an. Sie bläst den Rauch zur Decke und wedelt ihn mit der Hand weg, während sie sich nach hinten zurück auf die Bank fallen lässt. Sie sitzen um den großen Holztisch in der Kellerküche, Lucinda hat ein Glas Wein vor sich stehen und einen Arm um Claire gelegt, die neben ihr mit hochgezogenen Beinen auf der Bank hockt und den Kopf an Lucindas Schulter lehnt, vor Müdigkeit fallen ihr fast die Augen zu. Margie sitzt auf einem Stuhl gegenüber und Kristian steht in der Tür und raucht und beobachtet den Abendhimmel. Immer wieder sieht er auf Lucindas dunklen Haarknoten neben den wirren Locken von Claire und dann zu Margie. Er hat seit einer halben Stunde nichts gesagt und Margie kann die Spannung spüren, die von ihm ausgeht. Er ist unzufrieden mit dem Abend, sie sieht es an seinen schroffen Bewegungen und dem umherschweifenden Blick, er steht in der Tür, als würde er auf etwas warten, das sich dort draußen ereignen wird und raucht eine Zigarette nach der anderen. Lucinda scheint nichts zu bemerken, sie hat sich immer mehr in Erregung geredet, ihre Augen glänzen und ihr Gesicht ist noch dunkler, sie treibt sich selbst an, Margie ist nur ihr Publikum. Vielleicht ist Claire der Auslöser des Ganzen, und Kristian scheint sie vergessen zu haben. „Ich muss hier weg, ich werde verrückt hier.“ sagt sie gerade. „Ich weiß gar nicht, wie du den alten Drachen aushälst.“ Margie zuckt mit den Schultern. Sie würde gern Lucindas Aufmerksamkeit auf Kristian lenken, sie weiß, dass er eifersüchtig auf sie ist, aber Lucinda sieht sie an und ignoriert alles andere, so dass Margie schließlich sagt, dass sie müde ist und ins Bett gehen wird. „Was? Doch nicht jetzt?“ Lucinda ist wütend. „Ich verschwinde auch.“ sagt Claire und löst sich aus der Umarmung, streckt sich und gähnt. Lucinda zieht an ihrer Zigarette und dreht sich abrupt zur Tür, sie hat ihn doch nicht vergessen, und zeigt mit der Zigarette auf Kristian. „Und du? Willst du auch abhauen?“ Margie zieht ihr Nachthemd an und kämmt ihre Haare. Kristian ist bei Lucinda in der Küche geblieben und Margie denkt, dass es ist, als hätte Lucinda alles inszeniert. Sie weiß, dass Lucinda nicht wirklich etwas für Kristian empfindet, aber vielleicht wird sie aus Langeweile mit ihm schlafen. Margie ist nicht sicher, ob sie Angst hat, ihn zu verlieren oder ob sie nicht will, dass er verletzt wird. Sie legt sich hin und ist schon eingeschlafen, als Kristian wenig später in ihr gemeinsames Zimmer kommt. In ihrem Traum gehen sie an einer langen Reihe von Jungen vorbei, sie berührt ihre weiß geschminkten Gesichter und sie zerfließen unter ihren Händen. 5 Als Anika aufwacht, hat sie Kopfschmerzen und ihr ganzer Körper fühlt sich heiß und schwer an, wie ein großer Stein, der den ganzen Tag in Sonne gelegen hat, wie etwas Kompaktes aus einem Stück, ohne Hohlräume und flüssiges weiches Innenleben. Wie mit Zement ausgegossen, massiv. In Deutschland ist sie oft völlig verkrampft aufgewacht, wenn das Zimmer über Nacht ausgekühlt war, sie hat sich ganz klein zusammengerollt und ihre Haut war kalt und ihre Muskeln haben den ganzen Tag vom Zusammenziehen geschmerzt, aber sie kann sich nicht erinnern, wie sich das angefühlt hat, hier scheint ihre Haut nie kalt zu werden. Margie heißt eigentlich Annika, aber die Frauen im Haus nennen sie Margie. Lucinda hat damit angefangen, schon am Tag als sie angekommen ist. Lucinda hat es beschlossen. Sie hat vor ihr gestanden wie aus einem Film aus den 40er Jahren, mit ihren langen braunen Armen und Beinen, dem gelben geblümten Kleid, das sie meistens anhat und ihrem Haarknoten, und an einer Zigarette gezogen. Sie hat sie durch den Rauch von oben bis unten gemustert, mit zusammengekniffenen Augen. „Annika. Aha.“ Dann hat sie ihr unter das Kinn gegriffen und ihr „Schätzchen“-Lächeln, ihr „Nenn mich Lu“-Lächeln mit den hochgezogenen Augenbrauen gelächelt. „Wir werden dich Margie nennen.“ „My name is Anika.“ hat sie gesagt, aber jetzt denkt sie, dass es sich vielleicht schon da nicht mehr angehört hat, als wär es wahr. Sie bleibt noch eine Weile mit geschlossenen Augen liegen, Kristian ist schon draußen, er hat schon die Eier hereingeholt und gefrühstückt und ist schon auf dem Weg zu den Feldern oder irgendwoanders hin, um etwas zu reparieren oder zu besorgen, oder was immer er heute tun muss, als sie aufsteht. Heute soll sie Claire zeigen, wie sie Mrs Paulin versorgt, wenigstens die notwendigsten Dinge, damit Anika und Kristian am Sonntag einen Ausflug machen können und die denkt kurz darüber nach. Dann steht sie auf und wäscht sich und sucht ihre Sachen zusammen, um sich anzuziehen. Mit den Kleidern in der Hand stellt sie sich vor den Spiegel der Kommode, es ist fast die gleiche Kommode, die auch bei Mrs Paulin im Zimmer steht. Sie hat zugenommen, obwohl sie hier arbeitet, und wieder raucht. Ihre Brüste und Schenkel sehen schwer und fest aus, unnachgiebig. Sie zieht abgeschnittene Jeans an und ein weites T-Shirt und steckt ihre Haare fest. Dann bindet sie sich die geblümte Schürze um und fährt mit den Händen an ihren Hüften entlang. Früher hat sie weiße Kittel bei der Arbeit getragen, aber das Gefühl ist dasselbe. 6 Obwohl es schon Abend ist und das Zimmer im Keller liegt, ist es noch hell genug, ohne das Licht einzuschalten. Margie hat versucht, einen Brief an ihre Mutter zu schreiben, aber nach ein paar Sätzen hat sie aufgehört und die Photos und Briefe in der Kiste angesehen, in der sie auch den letzten Brief ihrer Mutter aufbewahrt, auf den sie antworten wollte. Liebe Anika, wie geht es euch. Photos von ihr und Kristian und ihren Eltern im Garten und um den Wohnzimmertisch zu Weihnachten, die ihr Vater endlich entwickelt hat und die ihre Mutter ihr geschickt hat. Der Tag im Garten ist schon so lange her, lange bevor Kristian weggegangen ist, dass man schon ahnt, wie seltsam die Kleidung der Leute wirken wird, wenn man das Bild in zwei, drei Jahren ansieht. Und die warmen Pullover und bleichen Gesichter trotz Kerzenlicht auf dem Weihnachtsbild lassen es wie aus einer Reportage über ein fremdes Land mit fremden Bräuchen erscheinen, alle haben rote Augen vom Blitzlicht. Sie hat eine Postkarte von einem Jungen gelesen, an den sie seit Jahren nicht gedacht hat, „Du müsstest hier sein“ hat er geschrieben, von irgendeinem Campingplatz an der Ostsee. Und einen der Briefe von Kristian, den, in dem er ihr mitgeteilt hat, dass er weggehen wird, als sie schon in die neue Wohnung gezogen war. „Ich werde immer an dich denken. Du wirst immer bei mir sein.“ liest Margie und hebt den Kopf. Kristian sitzt in der Mitte des Zimmers auf einem Stuhl, er hat sein T-Shirt ausgezogen und wartet darauf, dass Margie ihm die Haare schneidet. „Fängst du an?“ sagt er, als er merkt, dass sie ihn ansieht. Als sie fertig ist, kämmt sie sein Haar mit den Fingern und sieht über ihn hinweg zu dem Fenster, das auf die Verandafront der Farm hinausgeht, zur Straße. Sie beugt sich nach unten und legt ihren Kopf auf seine Schulter und ihre Arme auf seine, die ein bischen dunkler sind als ihre, weil er den ganzen Tag draußen ist und sie im Haus arbeitet, aber nicht viel, und das Handtuch, das sie ihm um die Schulter gelegt hat, fällt auf den Boden. „Gibst du mir den Spiegel?“ sagt er und sie atmet sein Haar und seinen Atem und schließt die Augen. Er versucht, sich aus ihrer Umarmung loszumachen und bewegt sich hin und her, er versucht, den Kopf nach hinten zu drehen. „Hey, gibst du mir den Spiegel? Margie?“ „Wer ist Margie?“ sagt Margie. Später liegen sie auf dem Bett und rauchen. Kristian liegt auf dem Rücken und sieht dem Rauch nach, der zur Decke steigt. Margie hat sich auf einen Arm gestützt und sieht ihn an, sein Gesicht, sein Haar, das sich auf dem Bett mit ihrem vermischt, in ihr Haar übergeht. Früher hat sie fast so dunkles Haar wie Lucinda gehabt, aber jetzt ist die Farbe herausgewachsen und von der Sonne gebleicht, und sie sehen immer mehr aus wie Geschwister. Zwei Wesen aus Lehm oder hellem Ton, von Kopf bis Fuß in einer Farbe, ein sandiges Braun, bald wird auch sein Haar so lang sein wie ihres, und dann wird man sie nicht mehr unterscheiden können, zwei glatte Körper, eben und ohne Zerklüftungen, wie eine Wüste oder Steppe. 7 Es ist noch Zeit, bis sie Mrs Paulin für die Nacht fertig machen muss, und Margie läuft über den Hof, klettert über den Zaun und geht in der endlich tiefer stehenden Abendsonne bis zum Geländer der stillgelegten Ziegelfabrik in der Nähe der Farm. Hier ist alles von den filzigen Büschen mit den lila Blüten überwuchert, bis an die Überreste der rötlichen Steinmauern, und die wenigen Flecken nackter Erde dazwischen sehen verbrannt aus. Von einem der Gebäude ist eine komplette Wand stehen geblieben, wie eine Attrappe in einer Westernstadt, sogar Teile des Daches liegen noch auf der Mauer und ein Blechrohr hängt schief in verrosteten Metallklammern, ein teil der Regenrinne, auch wenn Margie sich nicht vorstellen kann, dass es hier jemals geregnet haben soll. Keins der Häuser ist noch vollständig, man kann nirgendwo hinein gehen und im Dunkeln nach draußen in die Hitze sehen. Mars Paulin hat ihr erzählt, dass die Menschen aus der Umgebung gekommen sind, als die Fabrik geschlossen wurde, und die Mauern eingerissen haben und die Steine und die Ziegel mitgenommen haben. Im Schatten des rostigen Skeletts einer Wellblechhütte wächst Eisenkraut und Margie kniet sich eine Weile zu den scharfkantigen Blüten, kleine explodierende Sonnen. Dann wandert sie langsam den Weg zurück bis zur Ziegelmauer an der Straße, die gegenüber der Farm liegt und setzt sich, um eine zu rauchen. Aus der Richtung der Farm, die am nächsten liegt, sieht sie ganz klein ein Auto und die Staubwolke, die es aufwirbelt, auf das Haus zukommen. Als sie ihre Zigarette fast zu Ende geraucht hat, hält das Auto am Straßenrand vor ihr und Pat springt heraus, ein Freund von Kristian, den er kennen gelernt hat, bevor sie hierhergekommen ist. Er arbeitet auf der nächsten Farm, wo er dasselbe macht, wie Kristian hier. „Hey, Anika.“ sagt Pat, und es hört sich gar nicht fremd an, es klingt, als wäre es immer noch ihr Name und das überrascht sie, so dass sie einen Augenblick gar nicht reagiert. Dann lächelt sie schnell, und winkt mit der Hand und der Zigarette. „Wo ist Kris?“ sagt er. Das ist Kristians neuer Name. Eigentlich ist es nur due ganz normale Abkürzung für seinen Namen, aber früher hat ihn niemand so genannt und Margie hat sich immer noch nicht daran gewöhnt. Sie selbst wäre niemals auf die Idee gekommen, seinen Namen abzukürzen, es ist fast wie eine Entweihung. Kris, mit dem Namen ist er ein ganz anderer Mensch. Auf dem Weg zum Haus dreht sich Pat noch einmal um und geht ein paar Schritte rückwärts. „Seit wann rauchst du?“ Margie zuckt mit den Schultern. „Eigentlich schon immer.“ Und das ist wahr, sie hat nur für kurze Zeit aufgehört, bevor sie hierhergekommen ist und hat hier nach ein paar Wochen wieder angefangen. Aber weil Pat nicht zu ihrem alten Leben gehört, weiß er nichts davon. Als er zurückkommt, sitzt Margie immer noch auf der Ziegelmauer und er geht zu ihr hinüber und zieht seinen Tabak aus der Hosentasche. Er dreht eine Zigarette und hält sie ihr hin. Dann dreht er noch eine. „Pass auf“ sagt er, wirft die Zigarette in die Luft und fängt sie mit dem Mund wieder auf. „Hast du Lust mal was zu unternehmen, wenn du frei hast?“ sagt er. „Wir könnten ins Kino gehen oder irgendwas.“ Er wirft die Zigarette in den Sand und geht rückwärts auf den Jeep zu. „Ich ruf dich an.“ sagt er und steigt ein und winkt dabei. Als er gewendet hat und wieder an ihr vorbeifährt, winkt er nochmal. Margie drückt ihre Zigarette auf der Mauer aus und steht auf. Als sie über den Hof zum Haus geht, fragt sie sich, ob Kristian Pat gesagt hat, dass er mit ihr ausgehen soll. Ob er will, dass Pat mit ihr schläft. Als sie das erste Mal mit Kristian geschlafen hat, hat er sich danach aufs Bett fallen lassen und die Arme ausgebreitet: „Ich könnte die ganze Zeit mit dir ficken. Nicht atmen, nur ficken.“ Bei der Erinnerung muss sie lächeln. „Ich hab noch nie eine Freundin gehabt, die so gut aussieht.“ Das ist auch etwas, das er gesagt hat, aber seitdem ist er ein bisschen mehr herumgekommen. 8 Margie und Kristian schlafen miteinander. Es ist so heiß im Zimmer, dass ihre Haare ihr in nassen Strähnen ins Gesicht hängen und ihre Haut aneinanderklebt, obwohl ihre Bewegungen ruhig und gleichmäßig sind. Sie tun es stumm und ernst, wie immer seit längerer Zeit schon. „It feels so good.“sagt Kristian, kaum hörbar und wie um auszuprobieren, wie es klingt. Margie öffnet die Augen und hört auf, sich zu bewegen. Sie sieht auf sein Lehmhaar hinunter, auf sein Lehmgesicht, seinen Lehmkörper und Arme. Sie sieht ihre Hand auf seiner Brust und krümmt ihre Finger, um etwas zu unterdrücken, einen Schlag, ein Geräusch, irgendwas. Er öffnet die Augen. „Hey, was ist los mit dir?“ sagt er überrascht und ein bisschen ärgerlich. 9 „Was ist denn schon wieder?“ sagt er. „Nichts.“ sagt Margie und ordnet die kleinen Figuren auf dem regal unter dem Fenster. Sie wollte hierher kommen, das muss er ihr nicht sagen, sie hat darum gebettelt, kommen zu dürfen. Sie ist nicht sicher, ob er das bemerkt hat, aber sie weiß es. Er hat den Vorschlag gemacht, und sie hat erst nach einigem Zögern zugestimmt, aber in Wirklichkeit hat sie gebettelt. Nachdem er weg war, hat sie in der neuen Wohnung gesessen, mit seinen Möbeln um sich herum und seinem Geschirr, sogar seine Bettwäsche war noch aufgezogen um im Wäschekorb hat sie immer noch Pullover von ihm gefunden, sie hat seine Socken getragen. Er hat ihr alles dagelassen, weil sie nichts eigenes gehabt hatte und er in seinem neuen Leben nichts davon brauchte. Alles, was er in seinem neuen Leben nicht mehr brauchte, befand sich in der Wohnung, sie war zurückgeblieben unter Dingen, die ein anderer nicht mehr brauchte. Sie hatte sich fremd gefühlt in der Umgebung, die so sehr der glich, die für wie es ihr jetzt schien, eine lange Zeit die Kulisse ihres Lebens gewesen war. Sie ist zwischen dem Bett und dem Tisch und den Stühlen umhergewandert und hat sich darüber gewundert, dass die Orte, an denen sie lebt, so aussehen wie dieser Ort. Sie hat sich gefragt, ob sie irgendwann einmal eine andere Vorstellung davon gehabt hat, wie es sein würde, oder nicht. Es hatte sich nicht falsch angefühlt, da zu sein, wo sie war, nur so, als ob sie einfach aus dem Bild treten könnte, und nichts davon wäre in ihr. Sie kann sich kaum an Bilder aus dieser Zeit erinnern, obwohl sie weiter einkaufen und arbeiten und ins Kino gegangen ist und ihre Eltern besucht hat, von hier ist es, als hätte sie die ganze Zeit in der Wohnung gesessen, in die Luft gestarrt und geraucht, die völlige Geräuschlosigkeit nur von den Briefen unterbrochen, die sie ihm in regelmäßigen Abständen geschrieben hat, bis er ihr die Anweisungen und die Reiseroute geschickt hat und wo er sie abholen würde. Dieses Bild scheint alles zu sein, was es aus der Vergangenheit ohne ihn gibt. Sie glaubt, dass er es bereut, sie hierher geholt zu haben, aber sie kann jetzt nicht zurück gehen. Sie ist auch nicht sicher, ob es Heimweh ist, was sie jetzt spürt, denn diese Wohnung ist ja kein Heim gewesen. 10 „Für sowas haben wir kein Geld ausgegeben.“ sagt Mrs Paulin und zerrt an Claires Rock. „wir haben die Farm hochgebracht, nur wir beide, und ich konnte genauso viele Bäume fällen wie mein Mann.“ Claire lacht und steckt das Bettlaken unter Mrs Paulin fest. „Ich hab 20 am Tag geschafft.“ Margie schüttet das Wasser aus der Waschschüssel ins Waschbecken und beobachtet Claire und Mrs Paulin im Spiegel, Mrs Paulin ist aufgekratzt, weil sie sie zu zweit gewaschen haben und die tägliche Routine unterbrochen ist, Claire hat sie mit ihrer Fröhlichkeit für sie eingenommen und für einen Moment fühlt Margie sich ausgeschlossen, aber eigentlich ist sie erleichtert, dass alles problemlos verlaufen ist. Während Claire Mrs Paulin mit dem Frühstück hilft, räumt sie das Zimmer von Lucinda auf , das gleich nebenan liegt. Sie legt die Kleider zusammen und macht das Bett, die Kleider fühlen sich weich und fremd an und das Bett ist noch warm und riecht nach Lucindas Parfum. Die Flasche steht zusammen mit anderen und mit Nagellack und Make- up -Döschen auf dem Schrank unter dem Spiegel. Margie öffnet eine der Schubladen mit Lucindas Unterwäsche, durch die offene Tür kann sie Mrs Paulin und Claire hören, Mrs Paulin redet und Claire lacht. „Du kannst meine Muskeln fühlen!“ sagt Mrs Paulin. Margie steht auf und nimmt eine der Nagellackfläschchen und steckt sie in ihre Schürzentasche, dann schließt sie die Schublade und geht in das nächste Zimmer, das aufgeräumt werden muss. 11 Heute werden Margie und Kristian einen Ausflug machen, etwas, das sie schon lange nicht mehr getan haben. In den Wochen nach Margies Ankunft sind sie viel unterwegs gewesen, Kristian war stolz auf seine neue Welt und hat sie herumgeführt, als wäre er irgendwie mitverantwortlich dafür, dass alles so ist wie es ist. Er hat sie mit einem der Arbeiter und dem Jeep vom Flughafen abgeholt und sie waren sich lächelnd entgegen gelaufen und die Anspannung war von ihr abgefallen, die Befürchtung, zu merken, dass sie einen Fehler gemacht hat und an seiner Erleichterung hat sie gesehen, dass er dieselben Gedanken und Befürchtungen gehabt hatte. „Du fährst Auto?“ hat sie als erstes gesagt, „Du hast doch gar keinen Führerschein.“ „Das interessiert hier niemanden.“. hat er gesagt und als sie seine Stimme nach so langer Zeit wieder gehört hat, hat sie tatsächlich geweint. Erst nach ein paar Wochen hat sie sich eingestanden, dass dies kein Neuanfang für sie beide ist. Er hat die Schwierigkeiten, die sie durchmacht, schon hinter sich und sie fühlt sich allein gelassen. Er merkt, dass er angefangen hat, ein Leben zu führen, in dem sie keine Rolle spielt und nun dringt sie in dieses Leben ein, und er muss Platz für sie schaffen. Wenn er ihre Briefe gelesen hat, hat er sich gewünscht, sie hier zu haben und sich ausgemalt, wie es sein würde, aber nun muss er feststellen, dass sie vielleicht nicht hierher passt und er weiß nicht, ob er sein Leben überhaupt wieder auf diese Weise mit ihrem verknüpfen will. Sie ist auf ihn angewiesen und er fühlt sich bedrängt und Margie hat gemerkt, dass er sich in der Zeit, die er mit Menschen verbracht hat, die ihn nie vorher gesehen haben, verändert hat. Sie stellt fest, dass es nicht so einfach ist, so zu tun, als wäre dies auch das Leben, das sie sich wünscht, wie sie in den Briefen vorgegeben hat. An machen Tagen kann sie die Sonne nicht ertragen und würde vor Erschöpfung am liebsten heulen, die Insekten zerren an ihren Nerven, das unbequeme Leben und dass sie sich beim Fernsehen so konzentrieren muss, aber Kristian scheint all das wunderbar zu finden und Margie beißt die Zähne zusammen und lächelt. Sie wollen sich eine Steinwüst im Norden ansehen und Höhlen, der Bruder oder Onkel von einem der einheimischen Arbeiter wird sie hinbringen, das hat Kristian organisiert. Margie hat Brote geschmiert und eine Tasche gepackt, die jetzt unter dem Beifahrersitz des Jeeps steht und sie und Kristian sitzen sich auf den Bänken der Ladefläche gegenüber. Es ist noch früh, keiner von den anderen ist wach und als sie hinter Kristian auf den Wagen gestiegen ist und sich zum Haus umgedreht hat, das sie jetzt durch die Staubwolke des Jeeps immer kleiner werden sieht, ist es Margie fast vorgekommen, als würden sie eine Flucht antreten, deren Ziel noch unbekannt ist, und als würde es eine lange Reise werden. Die Wüste ist überwältigend und unirdisch, ein Planet aus roten Steinen wie zerschlagenes Tongeschirr, als wäre ein gewaltiges Gebirge zusammengestürzt und aus seinen Scherben wachsen niedrige Bäume mit silbrigweißer Rinde, deren Äste sich über den Boden ausbreiten wie Wurzeln. Mittlerweile ist es Mittag, der Fahrer ist im Wagen geblieben und Margie und Kristian wandern am Rand der Wüste entlang, die wie eine riesige Feuerstelle glüht, bis zu den Höhlen, die Lavaströme vor langer Zeit zurückgelassen haben, und die viel größer sind, als Margie es sich vorgestellt hat. Hier sind die Steine, die den Boden des Inneren bedecken, dunkler und matter, sie schlucken das Licht wie Samt. Der Gang ist weit und so hoch, dass Margie sich ganz verloren vorkommt, es ist wie der Eingang zu einer gigantischen fremden Stadt, die irgendwo weit innen verborgen liegt. Es ist anstrengend, über die Felsenstücke am Boden zu klettern und sie kehren bald um, ohne besonders weit vorgedrungen zu sein. Im Schatten eines Steinvorsprungs neben den Höhlen essen sie die Brote, die Margie gemacht hat, und danach liegen sie in der stillen Hitze nebeneinander, ohne sich zu berühren, doch Margie kann Kristians Körper mit ihrem Körper spüren. Der Fleck im Schatten wird zum Zentrum der Ebene, wie der tiefste Punkt eines riesigen Sees und die Wüste der Grund, der an den Rändern zum Ufer ansteigt, wie die Wände eines Gefäßes, soweit entfernt, dass es von hier nicht zu erkennen ist und alles flach wirkt und ihr ist ein bisschen schwindelig. Sie stellt sich das Land von oben vor, sie sieht die leuchtende Wüste und je weiter sie sich von der Mitte entfernt, verändern sich die Farben des Gesteins und des Bodens, die Berge in der Ferne sind blau und orange. Sie sind zerklüftet und schroff, aber ihre Oberfläche ist glatt wie Glas, vom Wind, der unablässig über sie weht. Margie horcht in sich hinein, in die glatten blauen und orangenen Lavasteintunnel und Gänge, ob sie die Stadt vermisst, oder auch nur einen Ort mit mehr Menschen, ob sie die Menschen vermisst. Bevor sie hierhergekommen ist, hat sie nie darüber nachgedacht, wie anders es hier sein würde, andere Geräusche, andere Farben und Gerüche, eine andere Stille. In ihren Träumen hört sie manchmal die Geräusche der Stadt, in der sie aufgewachsen ist, sie sind in ihr gespeichert, aber sie vermisst sie nicht. Margie spürt, wie die Hitze in ihren Körper eindringt, sie strömt wie flüssiges Metall durch die Höhlen und Tunnel und sickert in den glatten Stein, bis es keinen Ort in ihr gibt, an dem es je wieder kalt sein wird. Sie fragt sich, ob sie eine Wahrheit aussprechen würde, indem sie mit Pat schläft, und ob es etwas ändert, wenn Kristian will, dass sie es tut. Sie fährt mit der Handfläche über den Boden, Sand und kleine Steine bleiben an ihrer schweißfeuchten Haut kleben, bis zu Kristians Hand, und er nimmt sie. Als sie nachhause kommen, sitzt Lucinda in der Küche und ist völlig aufgelöst. Ihre Haare haben sich aus dem Knoten gelöst, ihr Kleid ist zerknittert und über ihren Brüsten sind feuchte Flecke, sie muss geweint haben, sie hat die Arme um sich geschlungen und zittert leicht und starrt mit großen Augen in den Raum. Vor ihr leigen ihre Zigaretten und im Aschenbecher sammeln sich halbgerauchte Kippen. „Lucinda?“ sagt Margie. Sie geht einen Schritt auf sie zu in den Raum hinein und sagt noch einmal ihren Namen. „Lauf nach oben, sieh nach, was passiert ist.“ Sagt Margie zu Kristian, der hinter ihr in der Tür steht. Als er sich umdrehen will, steht Lucinda auf und hält sich am Tisch fest. „Es ist nichts passiert.“ Sie hebt den Kopf und sieht Margie an und fängt wieder an zu weinen. „Er soll weggehen“ sagt sie und Margie sieht über die Schulter zu Kristian. Er zuckt die Achseln und dreht sich um. Margie geht zu Lucinda und legt die Arme um sie. „Ich hab solche Angst.“ Sagt Lucinda und weint immer stärker. Sie presst sich an Margie und zieht sie mit sich hinunter auf den Boden. „Ist ja gut.“ sagt Marge auf Deutsch. „Ist ja gut.“ Sie weiß, dass sich Ruhe von einem Körper auf den anderen übertragen kann, genau wie Angst und sie stellt sich vor, wie ihr Herz, das nur durch Haut, Fett und Knochenplatten von Lucindas Herz getrennt ist, sein Impulse ausschickt und schließlich das andere Herz zwingt, sich seinem Rhythmus anzupassen. Sie hofft, dass ihr Herz das Stärkere sein wird. Sie knien auf dem Boden, bis der Kampf für diesen Tag vorbei ist. 12 Margie dreht ihr Haar im Nacken zusammen wie eine Flamencotänzerin und sieht sich im Spiegel in die Augen. Kristian sitzt mit den Jungs auf der Veranda und raucht einen Joint. Sie sind genau über ihr, das Zimmer liegt unter der Veranda, und sie kann durch das gekippte Fenster hören, wie sie sich unterhalten und lachen und von Zeit zu Zeit wehen auch Fetzen von Musik mit hinein, sie haben das Radio mit nach draußen genommen. Sie sieht zur Decke, als könnte sie durch sie hindurch sehen, sie schluckt und atmet und beides ist laut in ihrem Kopf zu hören, dann sieht sie wieder in die Augen im Spiegel. Sie nimmt die Flasche mit Lucindas Nagellack aus der Schürze und öffnet sie. Sie bemalt nur die Nägel der linken Hand und spreizt die Finger vor ihrem Gesicht. Sie stellt sich vor, wie Mrs Paulin morgen ihr Handgelenk packen wird, wie sie ihr in die Augen sehen wird. „Na…Püppchen“ wird sie sagen, auf Deutsch, und noch fester zufassen, wenn Margie sich ihr entziehen will. Langsam wird es dunkler im Zimmer und Margie muss die Stehlampe neben der Kommode anmachen. Sie hat alle Dosen und Pinsel vor sich aufgebaut, alles ist bereit für das Ritual. Seit die hier ist, hat sie sich nicht mehr geschminkt und sie ist überrascht von der Wirkung, von dem fremden Gesicht. Sie zündet sich eine Zigarette an und bläst den Rauch aus, ihrem exotischen scharfkantigen Gesicht entgegen. „Margie?“ fragt sie, aber schon während sie es sagt, weiß sie, dass das nicht Margie ist. Sie hört, wie Kristians Lachen über ihr in Worte übergeht und wieder in Lachen, ein Lachen, bei dem sie jedes Mal ein wenig den Kopf einzieht, und sie denkt wie so oft, wie seltsam sich diese Sprache anhört, wenn er sie spricht. Sie zündet sich eine neue Zigarette an und wischt mit der Hand hart über ihren Mund, dann über ihre Augen und verschmiert die Farbe über ihr Gesicht. Sie hat das schon früher getan, sie weiß, dass Frauen das manchmal tun und sie fragt sich, was dieser Teil des Rituals zu bedeuten hat. Denn es ist ein genauso wichtiger Teil davon wie sie erst jetzt begreift. Sie hat die Wäsche hereingeholt, den Jungs auf der Veranda zugewunken und die Bügelwäsche aussortiert. Ihre und Kristians Sachen hat sie mit nach unten genommen und zusammengelegt. Als sie den Schrank aufgemacht hat, hat sie auch die Sachen, die darin lagen, herausgenommen und noch einmal ordentlich zusammengelegt. Sachen, die seit ihrer Ankunft dort gelegen haben, die sie noch nie getragen hat, weil sie die meiste Zeit ihre Arbeitskleidung oder etwas anderes Praktisches anzieht. Sie nimmt sich Zeit dabei und während sie alles ordentlich faltet, versucht sie sich zu erinnern, für welche Gelegenheiten sie diese Kleider mitgenommen hat, was sie sich vorgestellt hat, das geschehen würde, während sie sie trägt. 13 Seit ein paar Tagen geht es Mrs Paulin schlechter und Margie muss auch nachts oft nach ihr sehen. Margie ist sich ziemlich sicher, dass sie einen kleinen Schlagfanfall gehabt hat und eigentlich warten alle nur darauf, dass etwas passiert. Heute Nacht ist es soweit, als Margie das Licht anmacht, sieht sie, dass Mrs Paulin bewusstlos ist, sie liegt halb auf dem Boden und halb auf dem Sessel neben dem Bett, ihr Gesicht ist schlaff und das Gebiss ist herausgerutscht. Überall ist Kot, sie hat es geschafft, sich selbst und einen Teil des Zimmers damit zu beschmieren, bevor sie umgefallen ist. Margie hebt sie auf und legt sie aufs Bett. Sie fühlt den Puls und ruft nach Lucinda. Dann nimmt sie die Waschschüssel und lässt Wasser einlaufen. Lucinda kommt gleichzeitig mit Claire ins Zimmer, die sofort anfängt, zu weinen. „Ruf den Arzt an.“ sagt Margie, Sie muss ins Krankenhaus.“ Margie wäscht Mrs Paulin vorsichtig und legt eine saubere Decke über sie. Als sie mit dem schmutzigen Laken aus dem Zimmer tritt, hört sie schon den Hubschrauber. Sie führt den Arzt und die Sanitäter zu Mrs Paulins Zimmer und die Männer legen Mrs Paulin auf eine Tragbahre. Margie drückt sich an die Wand, einer der Sanitäter lächelt sie flüchtig an, als sie mit Mrs Paulin das Zimmer verlassen, er hat rotes Haar und seine Haut schimmert grünlich im Nachttischlampenlicht. Weil sie einmal wach ist, beschließt Margie, gleich das Zimmer zu putzen. Sie geht in die Küche, um heißes Wasser und Lappen zu holen. Während sie wartet, dass das Wasser heiß wird, hört sie Lucindas Stimme aus dem Wohnzimmer. Sie sitzt neben Claire auf dem Sofa, drückt Claires Kopf an ihre Brust und küsst immer wieder ihr Haar und ihre Schläfe zwischen ihren gemurmelten Worten. Als Margie an der offenen Tür vorbeigeht, hebt Lucinda den Kopf. „Du fährt morgen ins Krankenhaus.“ Sagt sie. „Ja.“ sagt Margie. Als sie zurück ins Zimmer kommt, ist es immer noch dunkel. Kristian liegt mit offenen Augen im Bett, er hat kein Licht angemacht, und raucht. Sie legt sich neben ihn und macht die Augen zu. „Wie geht es dir?“ sagt er. „Gut.“ sagt Margie. „Wird sie sterben?“ „Ich weiß es nicht.“ 14 Die Luft ist noch farblos und dunstig, als Margie losfährt, das Krankenhaus ist nicht in der kleinen Stadt in der Nähe der Farm, sondern in einer richtigen Stadt, fast 200 km entfernt, was hier weit ist, weil es keine Autobahn gibt, manchmal nicht mal eine Straße. Es ist die Stadt, in der Margie mit dem Flugzeug angekommen ist, das war das einzige Mal, dass sie dort gewesen ist. Sie wird dort bleiben, und erst am nächsten Tag wieder zurückfahren, damit sie nicht in der Nacht allein unterwegs sein muss. Sie ist nervös, sie ist hier noch nie allein irgendwo gewesen und sie stellt sich alles mögliche vor, das passieren könnte, dass irgendetwas mit dem Auto nicht stimmt, wenn sie meilenweit von der nächsten Tankstelle entfernt ist, dass sie den Weg trotz Lucindas Beschreibung nicht findet, dass sie überfallen und vergewaltigt wird. Aber sie ist die einzige, die fahren kann, Lucinda und Kristian müssen sich um die Farm kümmern, und Margies Job ist es, sich um Mrs Paulin zu kümmern. Kristian hat ihr alle Knöpfe und Hebel im Jeep erklärt und über welche Macken sie sich nicht wundern soll, sie hat zu allem „Ja, ist gut.“ gesagt und hat dann die Tasche mit den Sachen für Mrs Paulin und Lucindas Karte auf den Beifahrersitz gestellt und ist dann schnell eingestiegen und losgefahren, weil das Herumstehen auf dem Hof sie nur noch nervöser gemacht hat. Kristian hat die Autotür zugeschlagen und nochmal mit der flachen Hand draufgehauen, zum Abschied. Sie hat die Hand gehoben, um zu winken und hat im Rückspiegel Lucinda in der Vordertür stehen sehen. Margie zündet sich eine Zigarette an und dreht das Radio laut, damit es die Jeepgeräusche auf der sandigen Straße übertönt. Das ausgebleichte Gras und die filzigen Büsche ziehen an ihr vorbei, die Überlandleitungen und in großen Abständen verwachsene schmale Bäume mit weißer Rinde. Weit vor ihr sind die Konturen der Berge im Dunst zu erkennen, und wenn sie in den Rückspiegel schaut, sieht sie die Spur aus Staub, die sie hinterlässt. Nach einer Weile hat sie sich an den Wagen und das Fahren gewöhnt und ein Teil der Anspannung fällt von ihr ab. Sie kommt durch die kleine Stadt, eigentlich ein Dorf nach ihren Maßstäben. Einstöckige helle Häuser, die meisten Straßen sind ungepflastert, bis auf die Hauptstraße, wo bunte Schilder an den Hausfronten hängen, und an alte amerikanische Filme erinnern und wo auch das Kino ist, in das Pat mit ihr gehen will. Als sie die Stadt hinter sich lässt, fällt auch die Farm von ihr ab, und Lucinda und Kristian, wie ein Gewicht, das man schon solange trägt, dass man es nicht mehr bemerkt. Die Landschaft ändert sich, je näher sie den Bergen kommt und der Stadt, die am Fuß der Berge liegt, es sind dieselben Farben, nur wirken sie jetzt, als hätte man eine Staubschicht von ihnen heruntergeblasen. Als Margie durch die Vororte der Stadt kommt, die wie alle Vororte jeder Stadt sind, die sie kennt, kehrt ihre Nervosität zurück. Sie überlegt, auf einem Parkplatz anzuhalten, und noch einmal in Ruhe Lucindas Zeichnung anzusehen, aber jedes Mal, wenn einer in Sicht kommt, zögert sie zu lange und ist schon daran vorbei, wenn sie sich entschließt. Also fährt sie einfach, es ist ein bisschen wie mit geschlossenen Augen zu rennen, sie hat das Radio abgeschaltet und raucht, und die Ausfahrten, das Abbiegen, passiert so schnell, dass sie nicht zum Nachdenken oder Angst haben kommt. Sie spricht die ganze Zeit beruhigend mit sich selbst, kommentiert ihre Bewegungen und den Weg, den sie nimmt und plötzlich sieht sie ein großes flaches Gebäude im Stil der 60er Jahre, „Northern Province State Hospital“ steht über dem Eingang und sie ist da, ohne sagen zu können, wie sie dorthin gekommen ist. Sie parkt auf dem Besucherparkplatz und bleibt einen Moment sitzen, um ihre Zigarette aufzurauchen und ihre Gedanken zu sortieren, aber dann ist sie zu unruhig dafür und steigt aus. Mrs Paulin liegt im Überwachungszimmer mit zwei anderen alten Frauen, aber im Gegensatz zu den beiden ist sie bis auf den Tropf, der Flüssigkeit in ihren Körper leitet, nicht an irgendwelche Maschinen angeschlossen. Der Arzt hat Margie erklärt, dass sie einen Schlaganfall gehabt hat und noch ein paar Tage zur Beobachtung in diesem Zimmer bleibt, und dann auf die normale Station verlegt wird. Sie ist schon wieder bei Bewusstsein gewesen, aber ihr Hirn hat Schaden genommen und sie wird eine Weile im Krankenhaus bleiben müssen, und wieder lernen, zu sprechen. Das ist das, was Margie verstanden hat, der Arzt war jung, nicht viel älter als sie selbst, denkt Margie, und zappelig, er hat in schnell und in unvollständigen Sätzen gesprochen. Margie ist es wie eine Fortsetzung der Fahrt vorgekommen, als würde sie durch eine Menschenmenge und Lärm getrieben werden, eine plötzliche Überbeanpruchung der Sinne, aber so schnell, dass keine Zeit zur Beunruhigung bleibt. Sein Gesicht und seine Haare hatten farblos gewirkt, genau wie seine Augen, und Margie war von dem Gespräch ein bisschen schwindelig geworden. Zum Abschied hat er sie vage angelächelt und ihre Hand solange in seiner gehalten, dass sie von einem Fuß auf den anderen getreten ist du nervös gelacht hat, was ihn und sie selbst erschreckt hat. Sie steht einen Moment vor dem Bett und sieht auf Mrs Paulin hinunter, dann packt sie die Tasche aus, sie legt die Nachthemden in den Schrank und hängt den Bademantel auf. Als sie die Hausschuhe ins untere Fach stellt, fällt ihr ein, das Mrs Paulin in ein paar Tagen in ein anderes Zimmer verlegt wird und bis dahin die Sachen gar nicht brauchen wird und sie legt alles in die Tasche zurück und stellt nur die Blumen, die sie im Blumenladen des Krankenhauses gekauft hat, auf den Nachtschrank. Die Tasche stellt sie in den Schrank. Dann setzt sie sich neben das Bett und nimmt Mrs Paulins Hand. „Mrs Paulin, ich bin’s, Margie.“ sagt sie noch einmal. Das gleiche hat sie schon beim ersten Mal gesagt, als sie ins Zimmer gekommen ist, bevor sie mit dem Arzt gesprochen hat und die Blumen gekauft hat. Sie streichelt Mrs Paulins Hand und öffnet den Mund, aber es fällt ihr nichts ein, das sie sagen möchte. Sie weiß, dass sie etwas sagen muss, das verlangt sie von sich selbst, und schließlich erzählt sie von der Fahrt und macht sich über ihre Angst lustig. Sie bestellt Grüße von Lucinda und Kristian und Claire und allen anderen auf der Farm und sagt, dass sie am nächsten Morgen nochmal wiederkommen wird. Im Wagen merkt sie, wie müde sie doch ist, aber vielleicht haben auch das Reden und das Krankenhaus sie müde gemacht. Margie nimmt ein Zimmer in einem Motel in der Nähe des Zentrums, mit Palmen auf den Vorhängen und einer Decke aus beige und rosa Satin auf dem Bett. Sie hat gedacht, dass sie den Abend und das Alleinsein ausnutzen würde, Lucinda hat ihr genug Geld mitgegeben, aber jetzt ist sie zu müde und isst nur ein Sandwich aus dem Cafe, das zum Motel gehört und geht ins Bett. Das Gefühl, ein Gewicht los zu sein, hat nicht angehalten. Nach zwei Stunden wacht sie auf und duscht und geht dann zum Münzfernsprecher am Motelempfang, um auf der Farm anzurufen. Lucinda ist dran, und Margie berichtet, was der Arzt gesagt hat und dass sie morgen noch einmal ins Krankenhaus fahren wird. „Willst du Kristian sprechen?“ fragt Lucinda und gibt, ohne die Antwort abzuwarten, den Hörer weiter. „Na, alles klar?“ sagt er und Margie ist plötzlich ganz aufgeregt. Als sie aufgelegt hat, steht sie noch eine Weile in der Telefonkabine und schaut auf die eingeritzten Namen und Sprüche and er Wand.  Ein Sommer nach dem Krieg
Ich lege meine Hand auf die Handfläche im Spiegel, deine Finger waren schmal und lang, Jungenhände, muskulös und warm, man konnte sehen, dass sie immer warm wären, nie feucht, wie gemacht zum Zigaretten drehen, mit den Fingern schnippen, an einem Ast hängen, einen Takt auf den Tisch klopfen- warm und braun sogar im Winter, glatt und jungenhaft gedankenlos, mit kleinen hellen Narben, sichere Hände, die Hände eines Jungen, der freihändig mit dem Fahrrad nachhause gefahren ist und nun in der Haustür steht, in der Sonne, ein Marmeladenbrot in der Hand, ein makelloser Junge, ein ECHTER Junge. Dein Haar sieht fremd aus mit meinem Gesicht darunter, es scheint alles Licht auf sich zu ziehen und im Raum zu schweben, meine Haut sieht blass aus, die Augen wirken dunkler. Für einen Moment halte ich es nicht aus, ich stürze zusammen, falle ein nach innen, so schnell, so alles mit sich reißend, dass ich nicht einmal dazu komme, die Fäuste zu ballen. Ich habe die Vorhänge zugezogen und durch den dicken Stoff dringt nur wenig Mittagslicht, in dem das Zimmer grünlich glimmt, wie Schimmel. Ich ziehe die Hand zurück und lehne mich an die Wand, schließe die Augen. Die Luft summt, die Wand ist kalt, und dicht an meinem Gesicht ist der Geruch eines Zimmers, das nie geheizt wird. Ich spüre die Kälte wie Wasser auf der Haut bei Fieber und mein Magen zieht sich zusammen. An meinem nackten Rücken und unter den Handflächen kann ich den rauen Putz unter der dünnen Tapete fühlen. Wenn ich die Augen halb öffne, werde ich aus den Augenwinkeln im Halbdunkel des Spiegels ein blondes Mädchen sehen können, die Haare vor das Gesicht gezogen, ein heller Unterrock, du. Ich habe mir einen Haufen schmutziger Wäsche unter die Brust geschoben und liege auf dem Boden, auf den kratzigen Teppichfliesen, die so dünn und verschlissen sind, dass ich genauso gut auf Beton liegen könnte. An meinen Fingern hängt der Geruch von Tabak und Schweiß, mein ganzer Körper ist schmutzig und stinkt, wenn ich meine Kopfhaut kratze, bleiben Dreckränder unter den Nägeln zurück. Das Zimmer stinkt auch, ich habe seit Tagen nicht gelüftet, es ist dämmrig, die Vorhänge sind zugezogen, Kleider liegen in schmutzigen, klammen Haufen herum , volle Aschenbecher, es riecht nach Keller, nach feuchter Erde, meine Füße sind eisig, meine Schenkel und Kniekehlen klebrig. Ich muss aufstehen, ich muss Holz holen und den Badeofen anheizen, ich muss aufstehen und einen Rock und eine Bluse von einem der Haufen nehmen und sie anziehen. Der Weg ist ganz zugewachsen, Äste mit braungesprenkelten Blättern hängen von beiden Seiten herunter, bis zu den Knien wachsen Gras und Brennnesseln, wilde Blumen und Hagebuttensträucher. Zum Fluss hin verschwinden die höheren Bäume und man steht bis zum Bauch in riesigen Blättern wilden Rhabarbers, auf denen noch der Regen liegt, Dunst steigt auf, überall ist Feuchtigkeit, man kann das Wasser schon hören, die Blätter streifen die nackten Arme und Beine und dann liegt das Boot hinter der Biegung, wo der Pfad in einem breiten Stück festgetretener Erde endet, und das Mädchen auf dem Dach des Bootes. Staubige Fußsohlen, zerkratzte Knöchel, unter denen Schlamm in einem bröckligen Rand getrocknet ist, ein Frotteeschlüpfer, ein Muskel zuckt an der Leiste, wo die Adern bläulich durch die Haut scheinen, heller Flaum auf den Armen, die gerade neben dem Körper liegen, das Haar zum Trocknen auf der Teerpappe ausgebreitet. Das Mädchen bist du. Im Flur stehe ich vor der Haustür, durch das kleine Fenster an der Seite fällt eine Lichtpfütze auf die Dielen, ich stelle einen Fuß hinein. Hinter der Tür, nur Zentimeter entfernt von da, wo ich stehe, ist mein Vater, er redet mit einem der anderen Männer aus der Werkstatt, in den Momenten, wo keiner etwas sagt, kann ich hören, wie er mit dem Fuß den Sand auf den Holzstufen hin und her schiebt und die kleinen Steine, die dabei gegen die Tür fallen. Ich versuche mich zu konzentrieren, die Energie für den Impuls zu sammeln, mich umzudrehen und wegzugehen, und schließlich gelingt es und ich gehe durch die Hintertür nach draußen. Hinter dem Haus ist der Schuppen, von Blättern und Büschen zugewachsen, hier ist es kühl, alles ist dunkles Grün und schwarze nasse Schatten, auch das Holz des Schuppens ist dunkel und feucht, als ich die Stirn daran lehne. Ich bleibe solange dort stehen, bis die Feierabendgeräusche der Männer aufhören, dann gehe ich um das Haus herum und nehme etwas von dem Holz, das an der Wand in der Sonne aufgestapelt liegt. Der Platz vor dem Haus und der Werkstatt daneben ist leer und staubig in der Hitze, keine Schatten. Nur in wenigen der Pfützen steht noch Wasser, von den anderen sind nur lehmige Vertiefungen mit Rändern aus Kies geblieben. Der Platz sieht riesig aus, vorn die Straße und auf der rechten Seite die anderen Fabrikgebäude scheinen sehr weit entfernt zu sein. Ich vergrabe meine Zehen in den warmen Staub und halte mein Gesicht in die Sonne, in die Stille, die wie ein Ton ist, der am Körper vibriert. Ich setze einen Fuß vor den anderen, als würde ich auf einem Geländer balancieren, langsam, Sand quillt bei jedem Schritt zwischen meinen Zehen hoch, ich zähle mit, ich bin schon bei über fünfzig und die Straße scheint nicht näher gekommen zu sein, mein Vater ruft was mit dem Badewasser ist, ”Ich komme” rufe ich, obwohl ich nicht glaube, dass ich mich jetzt umdrehen kann. Du. Du wirst in einer nur aus den Augenwinkeln wahrgenommenen Spiegelung im Fenster eines vorbeifahrenden Busses sein, du wirst da sein, wenn ich auf dem Bauch in der Sonne liege, das Haar über Augen und Armen, zwischen den Lichtreflexen auf der Oberfläche des Flusses, in der flüchtigen Verwirrung in den Augen der Männer. Ich reiße die Augen auf, sie sind verklebt und brechen auf wie eine schorfige Wunde, einmal, zweimal, und stelle die Füße auf den Boden. Ich habe einen öligen Schweißfilm auf dem Gesicht und einen Speichelfleck auf der Matratze hinterlassen, meine Beine sind heiß und verkrampft. In der Küche wasche ich mein Gesicht und die Achseln, ohne den BH auszuziehen. Es ist immer noch heiß, als ich aus der Tür trete, meine Mutter sitzt auf der Bank vor dem Haus. Ich gehe über den Sandplatz und klettere die Böschung zur Straße hinauf. Ich stehe im Dunkeln auf der Straße und sehe zum Tanzhaus hinauf, auf der Terrasse stehen Bänke und Tische mit Windlichtern und darüber sind Papierlampions an Wäscheleinen aufgehängt, durch die Fenster dahinter fällt orangenes Licht. Die Jungen sitzen neben den Mädchen auf den Bänken und halten sie and den Händen und einige von ihnen denken an dich. Ein paar von den Männern sind da, drinnen and der Theke sitzen sie und rauchen und trinken und reden, hinter ihnen wird getanzt. Er steht neben der offenen Tür an die Hauswand gelehnt, er redet mit einem der Jungen aus der Werkstatt und lacht, sein Haar fällt ihm in die Stirn. Er zieht an seiner Zigarette und lässt den Blick über die Terrasse zur Straße wandern, dann sieht er mich und ruft mich und ich gehe zu ihm. Sie haben die Ärmel ihrer vom Tanzen verschwitzten Hemden bis über die Ellenbogen aufgekrempelt, sie sind ein bisschen betrunken und ich kann die Wärme ihrer Körper spüren, sie reden und lachen und ich habe das Gefühl, als würde sich alles weit über meinem Kopf abspielen, als sähe ich wie ein Kind nach oben zu ihren Gesichtern auf, wie ein Kind, unsichtbar. Als er mit mir tanzt, sehe ich den fremden Jungen an der Tür zu den Toilettenräumen, einige von den Mädchen stehen dort und beobachten die Tänzer, erhitzt in ihren selbstgenähten Partykleidern. Er lächelt über sie hinweg und will weiter an ihnen vorbei nach draußen gehen. Eine von ihnen rutscht vor den Türspalt, es ist nur eine kurze Bewegung, es ist eng dort, und legt ihm die Arme um den Hals und küsst ihn auf den Mund. Dann tritt sie einen Schritt zurück, sieht ihn von unten an, lächelt vage mit feuchtglänzendem Speichel auf den Lippen, die Hände weiter auf seinen Schultern. Er sagt etwas zu ihr, sie lächelt wieder unbestimmt in den Toilettenraum hinter ihm. Zwei der Männer schieben Sich an ihnen vorbei und so werden sie getrennt und der fremde Junge geht über die Tanzfläche zur Theke. Danach bringt er mich nachhause, es ist ein weiter Weg und er redet nicht viel, er ist erschöpft und von der Nacht erregt zugleich. Vor dem Haus küsst er mein Gesicht und meinen Hals, seine Hände liegen schwer auf meiner Brust und meinem Rücken, ich halte den Atem an. Ich sehe ihm nach, wie er den Platz überquert, noch einmal zurückschaut und winkt und als ich mich umdrehe, steht der fremde Junge bei den Bäumen vor dem Weg zum Fluss. Er sieht mich an und geht dann in den Wald hinein, wird von den Schatten verschluckt. Bevor ich in mein Zimmer gehe, stelle ich mich vor den Spiegel, der bei der Spüle in der Küche steht, ich beuge mich hinunter, ich erwarte mein Gesicht zu sehen, wie ein bleicher Mond geheimnisvoll schimmernd, von diesem fremdartigen betrunkenen Zauber, mit großen, dunkel umschatteten Augen, aber zwischen von Feuchtigkeit waren Haarsträhnen befindet sich ein Loch. Als hielte jemand eine Perücke über einer Faust. Ich denke an dich, wie du mit offenen Augen daliegst, ohne dir bewusst zu sein, dass du wach bist, und wie es deinen Körper nach hinten reißt, wenn du begreifst. Wie der Schmerz deinen Mund mit Speichel füllt, an dem du dich verschluckst, als du gurgelnd nach Luft schnappst, dein krampfhaftes Schlucken, um nicht husten zu müssen, die Tränen treten dir in die Augen und durch sie hindurch erkennst du sein Gesicht. Wie sein Mund offen steht und der Speichel, der sich in den Mundwinkeln gesammelt hat, sein heißer, schaler Atem. Dass du die Arme noch tagelang nicht ohne Schmerzen bewegen können wirst, und wie es noch schlimmer ist mit zurückgebogenem Kopf und du also dein Gesicht an seinen Hals und seine eingespeichelte Wange schmiegst, wie du versuchst, flach zu atmen, wie du heulst vor Wut. Ich spüre deine heißen giftigen Tränen in mir, wütend, hemmungslos, und fühle einen wilden Stolz. Ich sah euch, es war Nacht und der Fluss ein schwarzes Band, funkelnd im Mondlicht, er stand zwischen den Büschen am Ufer und sah dich an, wie du reglos auf dem Boot standst gegen einen wilden Himmel ohne Sterne, während unaufhörlich der Wind durch das Gras und die Blätter strich. Ich fühlte seinen Puls im Gaumen pochen. Es war, als würde sein Inneres nach unten sinken, nach unten gezogen werden, ganz leicht und flüssig und ein Druck entstand, der leere Raum war noch mit der Erinnerung an das gefüllt, was eben noch an seiner Stelle gewesen war. Er fühlte sich hohl und als ob Finger die Wände dieses Hohlraums abtasteten, durch das Vakuum führen, auf der Suche nach etwas, erst langsam und zuversichtlich, dann immer schneller und beunruhigter. Sie steht ganz still, ihr Haar, ihr Körper ist wie stumpfes Silber in diesem Licht. Schweiß rinnt an seinen Rippen entlang bis zum Gürtel, lange steht er da, bis er zum Boot geht, zu ihr geht und seine Hände auf ihre kalten Schultern legt. Er streichelt mit den Fingerspitzen ihre Arme, mit seiner Zunge ihre Schultern, ihren Hals, er zittert wie im Krampf, sein Mund an ihrem Ohr, seine Stimme ist wie ein Hauch, wie etwas, das man in einem langen dunklen Gang hören würde, wie Wind, und die Worte haben keine Bedeutung. Nach seiner Flucht steht er im Schatten vor dem Haus, der Himmel ist jetzt dunkler, ich sehe aus dem Fenster auf ihn hinunter. Als ich neben ihn trete, wirft er seinen Körper gegen meinen und lässt sich an mir herunterstürzen, auch sein Weinen ist ein Krampf, der sich in meinen Körper fortpflanzt, ohne Worte, ohne Laut. Ich kann durch ein Loch in den Wolken in den Himmel sehen, hinter denen irgendwo der Mond verborgen ist, der ihre ausgerissenen Ränder hell macht. Die Wolken verdichten sich um das Stück Himmel, schieben sich zusammen, aber es scheint, als würde sich das Bild nicht verändern, sondern im Ganzen in die Dunkelheit dahinter gesogen werden, immer schneller. Mir ist schwindlig und leicht, als würde ich mitgezogen, in der Mitte meines Körper, in die Nacht. Ich kann alles vor mir sehen, die Böschung zur Straße, den Sandplatz, das Haus, die Bäume dahinter, die Lagerhäuser und Fabrikgebäude, die Wand des Lagerschuppens und den Schatten, den er wirft, das Sprossenfenster mit dem abblätternden Lack und das blasse Holz darunter, die schmutzigen Scheiben, der seitliche Blick durch das staubige Glas, wenn man sich in dem Schatten gegen die Wand pressen würde, das Halbdunkel dahinter, der Boden aus Holz mit Sand darüber; wieder die Straße und an der Seite die langen flachen Baracken aus hellem Beton mit kleinen dunklen Fenstern, der Hof dahinter, das Gras, das aus den Bodenspalten wächst, die Bänke vor den Baracken und die Frauen, die darauf in der Sonne sitzen und warten. Ich kann alles sehen und auch der Geruch von Sägespänen und Staub und feuchtem Holz ist da und diese Stille wie vor einem Gewitter, besonders die Stille. Ich kann alles vor mir sehen, weil es wirklich da ist. Ich könnte nicht genau sagen, was nicht wirklich da ist. Ich kann sehen, wie du auf dem Bootsdach liegst, in deinem Haar und auf deinem Körper ist noch der nasse Sand, und das Mädchen, das ich bin, kniet neben dir und berührt das Blut aus deinem Mund. Aber das ist natürlich nicht wahr. Die Stille liegt über allem, ich sage, der Fluss rauscht, die Musik dringt aus dem Tanzhaus, ich lausche den Stimmen der Männer, die Feierabend machen und nachhause gehen, aber hören kann ich es nicht. Die Menschen sind unbestimmt, ihre Gesichter sind nur Gesichter, wie die von Fremden, ich sehe sein dunkles Haar, aber auch das Haar des fremden Jungen ist dunkel, und ihre Gesichter sind wie Bilder von Gesichtern, wie Modelle, um zu zeigen, was zu einem Gesicht gehört, für jemanden, der noch nie ein Gesicht gesehen hat, der nicht weiß, was ein Gesicht ist, sie haben Gesichter von Jungen und dein Gesicht ist ein Mädchengesicht. Die Frauen warten, wie ich. Blaue Akelei, gelb ist Hahnentritt, Schlüsselblumen, Fingerhut, einmal kam ein Mann aus ihrem Boot, und einmal zwei Soldaten, ich hab es selbst gesehen, Himmelsschlüssel, Löwenzahn, ich renne durch die Wiesen, Buschwindrosen, Margeriten, Tränendes Herz. Die Männer sitzen auf den gestapelten Baumstämmen vor dem Sägewerk, sie haben Mittagspause, ein paar von den Männern aus der Werkstatt sind herübergekommen, auch mein Vater, ich bringe ihm das Essen. Einige der Mädchen sind auch da, in ihren Kittelkleidern für jeden Tag mit schmalen runden Krägen und aufgesetzten Taschen am Rock, sie bringen Suppe in Blechbehältern, sie lächeln, einige der Männer lächeln zurück. Ihre ausgebleichten Arbeitsjacken sind voller Holzstaub, auch ihre Stiefel, manche tragen Mützen, ihre Hände sind Schwarz von Schmutz und Schmiere, sie rauchen selbstgedrehte Zigaretten und werfen die Kippen in eine Regentonne, weil so viel trockenes Holz und Sägespäne herumliegen. Danach gehe ich mit den Mädchen zum Dorf, es ist heiß und Schweiß läuft an meinen Beinen herunter, meine Bluse klebt am Rücken, Staub liegt wie ein Gewicht auf Gesicht und Armen, die Riemen meiner Einkaufstasche sind nass und unbiegsam. Als wir an den Baracken vorbeigehen, die so hell und ohne Schatten in der Sonne stehen, dass ich die Augen zusammenkneife, hören die Mädchen auf zu reden. Die Frauen sitzen auf den Bänken in der Hitze und lehnen ihre Köpfe and die Wand, manche haben ihre Schuhe ausgezogen und die Beine angezogen auf den Bänken, einige krümmen ihre nackten Zehen im trockenen gelben Gras, sie rauchen die Filterzigaretten der Soldaten. Auch auf ihren Gesichtern liegt Schweiß und ihre Lippen und ihre Haut werden salzig schmecken, später, wenn die Männer nach der Arbeit stehen bleiben und mit ihnen in die Baracken gehen, die ich mir kühl und dämmrig vorstelle, mit schmucklosen Wänden und gestreiften Matratzen auf schmalen Eisenbetten. Im Hof sind Wäscheleinen zwischen rostigen Metallpfosten gespannt, ein Stück weiter kommen die Steingebäude, in denen früher die Munitionsfabrik war, mit hohen Fenstern mit Scheiben aus Milchglas und dann die Kaserne mit den fremden Soldaten, einige sitzen im Hof und rauchen, sie sehen aus wie die Männer, sie winken und die Mädchen winken zurück. Ich werde durch den Wald zurückgehen, ich werde die Schuhe ausziehen und über die kühlen trockenen Fichtennadeln laufen, braun und unter den Fußsohlen knisternd, durch die Muster aus Licht, die durch die Blätter auf den Boden fallen. Von einigen Bäumen löst sich die Rinde und darunter sind die Spuren von Käfern wie eine Runenschrift, eine Geschichte, die man mit den Fingern erfühlen muss, sie wiederholen sich auf der Innenseite der Rinde wie die Gussform für ein Relief. Ich knie mich hin und fahre mit den Händen über die langen Büschel Waldgras, das weich und fein ist, ohne scharfe Kanten, runde Halme, glänzend wie glattes sauberes Haar. Hinter der Anhöhe ist eine Lichtung, der tote Wald. Eine Ansammlung von rindenlosen ausgebleichten Stämmen ohne Zweige, wie Kreuze auf einem Soldatenfriedhof. Zwei der Stämme sind hoch oben wo man sie nicht erreichen kann mit einer Metallstange verbunden, man hat sie vielleicht angebracht, um sie zu stützen, als die Bäume noch nicht tot waren, aber ich denke an dies als den Ort, an dem man die Verräter erschossen hat. Ich bin hinter dir, du rennst den Berg hinunter, Steine und totes Holz schneiden mir in die Füße, die Dornen der Sträucher reißen meine Wangen und Arme auf, aus ,meinem Zopf haben sich Strähnen gelöst und kleben in meinem Gesicht, dein Haar sieht dunkler aus und schwer vom Schweiß, deine Haut ist feucht und rot. Du läufst in den Fluss, oben, wo er nicht tief ist und klar über flache Steine fließt, die in einem gelben Braun leuchten wie frisches Harz. Der Saum deines Kleides ist feucht vom hochspritzenden Wasser, dass so kalt ist, dass meine Füße taub werden. Du stürzt und fällst, immer wieder, stürzt und reißt dir an den Kieseln die Handflächen auf, unten am Gelenk, und die Schienbeine, als du ohne Anzuhalten auf Händen und Knien weiter rutschst, durch das Wasser stolpernd auf die Füße kommst ist Blut an deinem Kleid, das jetzt vorne ganz nass ist, es läuft an deinen Armen entlang, als hättest du dir die Pulsadern aufgeschnitten, von hinten sehe ich deine Kniekehlen. Dein Gesicht ist verzerrt und wüst, dein Mund steht offen, als du keuchend Atem holst. Ich versuche mein Gesicht auf diese Weise zu verziehen, aber es bleibt starr, ich kann es nicht bewegen, es ist taub wie meine Beine und ich spüre nicht, wie ich mit den Fingern meinen Mund auseinanderziehe. Der Junge ist eingeschlafen mit dem Kopf in deinem Schoss, deine Finger teilen sein Haar, ziehen Linien über seine Kopfhaut, das Haar ist wie das Fell eines kleinen Tieres oder die feinen Fäden verblühten Löwenzahns wenn man die Hand vorsichtig darum schließt, nicht wie Menschenhaar. Du starrst and die Decke der Bootskabine, der Schweiß ist auf deiner Haut getrocknet und wenn sein Atem gegen deine nackten Beine trifft, stellen sich die kleinen Härchen auf den deinen Armen und im Nacken auf. Eine Fliege läuft über deinen Fuß und deine Wade, aber du bewegst dich nicht, du sitzt, bis es ganz dunkel in der Kabine geworden ist. Wenn er fortgegangen ist, nimmst du den Brief aus dem Kästchen, dass du unter einem losen Bodenbrett aufbewahrst, einer der Soldaten hat ihn vergessen, in dem Umschlag ist ein Photo, eine junge Frau steht bis zu den Knien im Gras vor einem hohen Gestrüpp, in einem dunklen Rock und gemusterter Bluse, es scheint ein sonnenloser Tag zu sein. Der Brief ist in einer Sprache geschrieben, die du nicht kennst. Du liest ihn laut, die fremden Worte klingen geheimnisvoll und tröstlich…du sprichst sie wie ein Gebet oder eine Zauberformel und lässt dich vom unbekannten Klang deiner eigenen Stimme gefangen nehmen. Flüsternd wiederholst du die letzten Worte, den letzten Satz, die Beschwörung von Knochen und Fleisch, alle Knochen, alles Fleisch, ihre Haut, ihre Zähne, ihr Haar, der Druck ihrer Körper auf deinem Körper, ihrer Zähne gegen deine Zähne. Die Licht- und Narbenspuren auf seinem Gesicht, während er schlägt, während er lächelt. Ich weiß, dass es die Frauen sind, ich erkenne ihren Geruch durch das Geräusch von Stöcken, die über das hohe Gras und die Rhabarberblätter gezogen werden, mit kurzen scharfen Bewegungen wie beim Mähen mit einer Sense, ein sirrendes zischendes Geräusch mit flachen Schlägen dazwischen, sie sind wie ein Insektenschwarm. Plötzlich sind die Hände in deinem Gesicht, in deinem Haar, sie reiben Sand in dein Haar, in deine Augen, stopfen Sand in deinen Mund und reiben die Wangenhaut gegen die Zähne bis Blut kommt. Dein Kleid hängt in Fetzen über den zerbissenen Brustwarzen, der wundgeriebenen Haut, du blutest aus vielen kleinen Wunden und aus deiner Nase läuft Blut und Schleim. Er kann sich nicht abwenden, sein Körper hält ihn fest und in seinem Magen sammelt sich ein Schwindelgefühl, es steigt höher und läuft wie eine kühle Flüssigkeit in seine Arme und er greift nach den Büschen neben sich, seine Beine sind wie Glas. Er hält die Augen geschlossen, aber auf seinem Gesicht sieht man die Angst als wäre sie unter der Haut und würde sich dort zappelnd bewegen, Unsicherheit, was ihn erwarten könnte, das Bemühen, der Wunsch, es irgendwie zu überstehen, egal was und wie es sein wird und der Wunsch fühlt sich fremd an in mir. Ein Ringen um Konzentration und Kontrolle, als würde er von den Geräuschen und LichtSchattenLicht überflutet, als würde er fallen und alles geht so schnell, sein Mund sucht Halt und flieht zugleich, er weiß, es wird nicht ewig dauern, er kann es aushalten, er kann es überstehen, er muss nur ruhig bleiben. Er atmet schnell und starrt ins Leere, er weiß für einen Augenblick nicht, wie seine Gesichtsmuskeln funktionieren, welchen Ausdruck er benutzen soll, er ist wie ein Kind, er fühlt sich überfordert, ueberreizt.es ist so anstrengend und dann ist es vorbei und er ist erleichtert. Dann bemerkt er, dass ich hinter ihm stehe und er dreht sich um. Ich bin dankbar, als er mich nicht berührt. Ich stehe im Schlafzimmer meiner Eltern, ich will die Betten neu beziehen, die schmutzigen Laken und Bezüge liegen schon auf einem Haufen neben der Tür, die Frischen halte ich an die Brust gedrückt, die Matratzen riechen modrig und nach Crème, die sich auf der Haut zersetzt hat, über dem Kopfende des Bettes an der Wand hängt der gekreuzigte Christus. Unten vor dem Buero stehen die Männer in einer Reihe und warten auf ihre Lohntüten, ich kann sie durch das offene Fenster hören. Mein Mund ist seltsam gefühllos und ich drücke ihn mit den Fingern zusammen, die noch gefalteten Laken fallen auseinander und zu Boden, ich kann sie nicht festhalten, ich mache ein paar Schritte rückwärts zum geöffneten Schrank hinter mir, ich drehe mich um und presse mein Gesicht in die Kleider meiner Mutter. Der Ort ist reglos, es ist Zeit für das Abendessen oder kurz danach, ich habe eine Strickjacke angezogen, die Wolle kratzt auf meinen sonnenverbrannten Schultern. Die Straße ist noch nicht gepflastert und ich höre den Sand unter meinen Füßen, ein leises Knirschen, die Häuser sind klein und mit hölzernen Fassaden, mit niedrigen Türen und Fenstern, die Wintertüren sind ausgehängt, vor einigen stehen Blumenkübel aus Blech, um sie herum buntbemalte Steine, dann kreischt irgendwo eine Säge, Hammerschlagen, als würde es von den Wänden eines leeren Raumes zurückgeworfen, ich habe das Haus hinter mir gelassen, als er aus der Tür tritt und meinen Namen ruft, vielleicht werde ich nicht stehenbleiben, aber wahrscheinlich doch.  There once was a man whose wife treated him like a servant. The man had in fact been her employee before they got married, he had been her chauffeur. Back then the man had been slim and quite handsome, his face had had clear features, a bit like cut from wood.
The woman- his wife now- had thought he looked quite manly, and that this was at least something. She owned a company and had been married before. The company was a chocolate manufacturing company she had inherited from her father. She had two children from that first marriage, a boy and a girl. The man did not know what had become of her husband, he was never talked about by the woman or the children. The man did never ask or think about it and when he did, he presumed the husband had died. Maybe he had been much older than the woman. They rode in the car together every day. He drove the woman to her office in the company building and to meetings. Sometimes he drove her to a bigger city further away where she stayed in a hotel for a conference. The man had a room, too, but on a different floor. The man also drove the children without their mother and he kept a hand- puppet in the glove box for them. It was a Punch with a red pointy hat with a little bell at the pointy end, a big red pointy nose and a golden and blue shirt. He had brown hair and blue eyes painted onto his head. The man was good at playing Punch. He could make very odd but funny noises without moving his lips much. The children always laughed. When they were small, and he picked them up from school, he sometimes slid down the seat when the school gates opened for the children to come out and held the Punch up, so he could be seen from the window, as if it had been him who had been driving the car. One evening when he drove her home after a board meeting of her company the woman had stayed in the passenger seat after he had stopped the car in front of her house. Then she had turned her face towards him. She had touched her hair that was backcombed into a beehive- her style was a bit dated, as she had spent her youth at a time when beehives had been in fashion. She was older than the man. She had looked him up and down and then asked him to come into the house with her for a nightcap. It had rather been an order than a question. In the first years of their marriage the man had joked about this sometimes and thought about it fondly. The woman had never laughed about it with him and she did not think fondly of that evening. Now the years had passed, and the woman’s children were almost ready to leave the house. The man had become fatter and fatter and now he looked like a giant in a long black coat he was always wearing. His face had lost its contours and his hands were paws with fingers like sausages. He and his wife had never had other children. “I have children” the wife had said. Otherwise she did not talk to her husband much at all. At the breakfast table she read the paper and barely looked at him. She slept in another bedroom and not in the bed they had shared in the first years of their marriage. But what made the man really angry – but which he never showed- was how she treated him when other people were around. She still ordered him around like a servant. He had to ask her for pocket money. One day the woman had told him he was driving around too much and spending her money, and she would not give him anymore for the rest of the week. When he wanted to protest, she just walked out of the room and closed the door. She didn’t bang the door, and she didn’t run out of the room. She was cold and collected as it was her way. The man stood in the middle of the room and felt nauseous with anger. He looked through the door of the adjacent bathroom. There was the sink at the other side of the room and a glass shelf above it. Sometimes when he washed his shaving foam off in that sink, and brought his face very low towards the tap, the man peered upwards through the glass. From below he could see all the things that lay on the shelf. The bottom of the stand of his shaving brush, made from badger hair. The bottom of a mug. A single razor blade. A toothbrush. Some white stains like dried saltwater. He sometimes felt like a little boy doing this and he thought of children. Other children. It felt strange, being a man and a child at the same time, but there was more. There was also the razor blade. That was also in his mind. It was a bit like in a dream, these moments. The running water from the tap, ice-cold against the man’s cheeks, but in a way he didn’t really feel. The child’s view from below, the sun coming in from the window high up on the other wall. And the children. Little girls, the man thought, they were probably little girls. And then he would usually feel a pain in his cheek from the cold water, or his wife would call that he should not waste the water she was paying for. That razor blade lay on the glass shelf, attached to a shaving knife and now the man was thinking about it. He had been thinking about it even before the moment when outside a cloud moved and suddenly a sunbeam fell into the bathroom and just caught the tip of its blade. The man walked straight into the bathroom and grabbed the knife. Then he jogged out to the car. He drove around in the car and the shaving knife and the Punch hand-puppet were lying in the glove box beside him. It was not the first time the man had taken the knife. The Punch puppet was still in the glove box from the time the children of his wife had been smaller, and recently the man had taken it out sometimes when he stopped the car and sat in it in a car park or beside a small road that was leading into the forest. He had put his big fat hand in it and wiggled its arms like he used to. He had nodded its head with the red pointed cap and the little bell had jingled. And he had made the very odd but funny noises. And he had thought of children. Girl children. And his wife. And he had had that feeling as if in a dream. He drove out of the city and onto a country road. He had taken that road before. There was a petrol station behind one of the binds, and on the other side of the road, a bit further from it and almost hidden from the trees, was a small house. A doll house. The man had seen a girl playing in the tiny house with a doll. And he had also seen her hopping and skipping across the meadow and disappearing into the forest. He passed the doll house and there was no girl. The man parked the car at the edge of the forest. He got out and followed a little path into the forest and up a hill. Then he climbed down the slope on the other side. There was a stream at its edge, with rocks in it. The girl often used the rocks to cross the water. Now she had knelt down beside a boulder and was singing to herself. She played a game with a princess and a fox. Sometimes she played a game with a wizard. She looked in the other direction. When she turned around she saw the man beside a tree. He was tall and broad, like a giant. The girl had to put her head back to see his face. His black coat was like a cloak. The man smiled. The girl’s eyes widened but then she smiled, too. The man held out one arm in front of his body, the edge of his coat in his hand. His coat was now like a curtain. Above the curtain appeared Punch. The Punch made very odd but funny noises. “Are you a wizard?” whispered the girl.  Our lives by lists.
Born in the 70s, somewhere in the industrialised West, the girl in primary school makes a list of what Barbie needs. Once she has the horse, she will need a special brush for its mane and tail. Barbie and the horse both have white plastic hair. Small plastic flowers and jewelry to decorate them. Breeches, riding boots, the black velvety hat. A real horse is on the list as well, though most of us don’t even have Barbie. We make the lists regardless. It’s the future we believe in. Shoes, accessories, and outfits for the doll; tiny objects and additions for the many areas of her realm: the stable, the bedroom, the kitchen, the office, the car. Ken is only an add on yet, we never ask to borrow him off the girlfriend who has all the dolls, he is a stopgap when all Barbies and horses, the stable and the kitchen, have already been lent to others. Christmas lists in all seasons. Dear Santa, I’ve been a really good girl. (Being good is still enough.) Then the lists start to change, around the time we start highschool. Go back to your girlhood diary with the tiny lock and key and the red hearts on a white shiny plastic cover. We loved plastic. It’s the 80s now. Go back to that diary and won’t you also find those lists of healthy snacks, your rationed daily food intake, maybe in a weekly schedule. Wednesday, breakfast: One apple. One slice of toast. No butter.A spoonful of jam. 150 calories. Beside those, a catalogue of exercises, with number of repetitions, and time of the day. 20 sit-ups before breakfast 20 jumping' jacks, 30 push-ups, after school one hour run three times a week Calorie consumption 350. Do homework straight after school. Study extra Spanish, 10 minutes a day, and 10 minutes of French, that’s not much, fits every schedule. We are the first just -10 -minutes- a- day generation, 10 minutes of this, 10 minutes of that, the lists fill up We’ve seen them in our girlfriend’s rooms, in a diary left open accidentally. We don’t show them to each other, but we know and don't need to ask: “oh, what’s this”, and we know the embarrassment and spare each other. These lists are hard work now, and we are always one step behind and starting tomorrow. 10 minutes of that, the lists fill up We’ve seen them in our girlfriend’s rooms, in a diary left open accidentally. We don’t show them to each other, but we know and don't need to ask: “oh, what’s this”, and we know the embarrassment and spare each other. These lists are hard work now, and we are always one step behind and starting tomorrow. (Being good? Not good enough anymore.) It’s the future we believe in. It’s the future we invest in. School’s been out forever for a while now. Something hasn't fallen into place, something, something, what could it be. Learn a new language? Spend a summer in Sweden? Do an Erasmus abroad? A trip around the world? Write a book? Try a new hobby? Stay single for a year? Change course of study? Take a year out, just work in a bar? (Being good? Being thin? Being special.) There is an edge of weariness now, but it’s the future we believe in. It’s the future we control. The 90s went in a blur, now that we look back. And then, a new century. Guest lists Gift lists Babynames It’s the future we believe in. A chart, formula intake, how many full diapers, and the colour. The temperature in the morning and after the evening feed. Slept 3 hours Monday, 4 hours after the night feed on Tuesday. Nipple cream, almond oil, put on everytime after shower. Postnatal reduction exercises, in the morning,just 10 minutes a day 10 minutes pelvic floor exercises 20 minutes gentle run with the pram Pilates? Household accounts book In goings, outgoings Mortgage repayments bills to pay first to do lists, school appointments, doctors appointments, vaccinations, new shoes for the younger one, NCT, smear test iron tablets food supplements only smoke the one after dinner glass of wine just on Fridays take thebike to work more often A spa weekend? plan in a regular date night with your husband plan a regular girls night out Get a new haircut, get some colour? Maybe try the tanning salon after all? Got to bed earlier. Go for a walk before bed. be grateful for what you have be mindful Don’t plan the whole day leave blank spaces restrict your screen use Enjoy the little things (Is being “good enough” really enough?) It’s the future we fear. What is added, what disappears? The chart appears again, half a decade later, now it’s our mother writing it, and we remember and feel a chill. sick husband’s fluid intake and urinary excretion, in ml. Temperature in the morning, blood in urine, tick yes, or no. Blood glucose level Blood pressure, pulse Now we see it for what it is. A survival tool, a strategy to not lose control. It’s the future we fear. Our lives, a constant state of emergency, from the Barbie days. Another new decade. It’s the future we...  One of the first days back after the summer holidays. Our son’s friend and our son’s friend’s mother are crossing the bridge opposite our house on their way to the school.
In the boutique window on the corner the airy summer dresses are being taken down and exchanged for wool and substance. Her eyes rest, for a moment, on the headless naked mannequins, the colour of this year’s season, burnt umber. I wave, she waves back. We haven’t seen him or her that much during the holidays, but now every day again they pass the house. In autumn his father’s features start to emerge from the boy’s face, something different in the jawline, the proportions, vague lines have settled into sharpness and distinction. His arms become more muscular. He still sometimes grabs her hand, absentmindedly, then remembers and lets go, torn between not wanting to hurt her feelings and not wanting to need her. Basketball trainings and tournaments, making lunches for the team to take on away games. The boys’ last year together. First talk about dates, secret smoking, the school disco. A few words between us mothers at the pick- up wait. A cancer scare, an elderly parent falling ill. The shop windows have Christmas decoration now. December cold has frozen the water that in November drenched the rotting planks of wood, the fallen branches, filled them like sponges and pushed it inside out, it has transformed the wooden debris into caterpillars sprouting icy hairs like sheets of bristles, translucent white. Today she crosses the bridge alone, we wave hello. Down in the frozen river a group of ducks floats on the water, motionless and still, they seem to be frozen, too, or sleeping. One comes loose, adrift. Without own movement, one cannot make out a stroke of its webbed foot in the darkness beneath. It just calmly detaches and drifts away. I see my own reflection mirrored in her face, eruciform shapes, some caterpillars are cannibalistic, like time- and that expression, not often used now, crosses my mind: “ the one who sleeps forgets his hunger.”  Document 1: Newspaper article
“The prevalence of nitrogen and hydrogen indicate an origin in interstellar space.” Your mother read those lines out loud. Looked at you, eyes wide, a mime of joyful excitement, mouth open, aliens might have brought it! In a space ship! You gave no reaction but seemed to sense that this was about the stone in your hand, and you clutched it even tighter in your tiny fist. You would not let go. From that day on it is your constant companion. “Isotope studies have yielded further clues…” her voice faded, she read on silently, lips moving without sound. You turned around and looked out the window, your tiny back shut us out. A cloud moved and summer sunlight came crashing through the window, setting your golden curls on fire. One foot resting on tiptoes, a chubby calf, nappy bum, spine, golden hair. All there, all complete, smooth surface, unmarked. Isotopes, potassium, sodium, finally tuned balances. “Pea- sized. Large porous aggregates of many tiny black crystals. The toughest natural diamond”. Document 2: Health Service Questionnaire “doesn’t smile or laugh and seems like an “earnest child” Your mother ticks that box, almost inaudibly letting go of breath. “moves objects repeatedly in front if the face” Tick. “touches or palpitates objects for a long time” We look at each other and she smiles, audibly. I smile, audibly, too. You come down the stairs, we listen to your footsteps, the doors need to be always open and no skirting visible. Skirting cannot be traversed, not even with your black stone in your hand. No spaceship carrying you from one world to the next. You enter the room and walk towards me, not looking at me, stopping beside the chair, your head at the height half up my upper arm, your golden hair electrostatic and aligning itself towards my skin. You tilt your head slightly and it rests against my arm for a brief moment and I dare not to breathe. Document 3: Care facility check list I hope no one will ever try to prise open your hand and take your stone, because muscles need to be moved and dead skin removed and smells held in check. I hope no one will ever try make you cross over skirting boards or take off the covers in your room, pieces of wallpaper, painted in the same greenish colour of the wall, that your mother and I carefully pasted over them. “special dietary requirements” “problematic behaviour” “favourite toy” I hope no one will ever make you eat a plain roll with your right hand. Or a roll with raisins in it, no matter which hand. I hope someone will see you standing at this room’s window, sills and frame painted greenish, just as a precaution. And see you looking outside, sunlight crashing through the window when a cloud moves, and setting your golden hair on fire. I hope you will move the stone, the black diamond, in front of your face in that light. The smooth impenetrable surface, unmarked. The isotopes, the aggregated crystals, calf, bum, spine. Your spaceship to another world. I hope we will continue to move through the same interstellar space, and meet from time to time, cosmic debris.  What if his face appeared now at the window
as it had then like a kobold jumping out from behind a tree, yelling “Gotcha!” an icy lightning ball entering my body and shooting down into my innards leaving burning circles on my cheekbones indistinguishable from the blusher I have just applied puckered lips one eye on the creature in the mirror emerging in a flurry of colour (-I used EVERYTHING and in spades-) the other on the row of doors behind me as I continue the conversation with Millie in one of the cubicles the clown face of a teenage girl caught in the act. The act of what? we sneak the tools in our schoolbags in the morning, leaving the house as children, running for the bus, transformation in the toilets, the quintessential girlhood experience And now, what would this act be called? Squeezing the skin of my stomach The other hand scaling The dead weight of a breast I cast a sideways glance to the window his curls longer than it is the fashion face pressed against the glass strained from the effort of holding on to the window sill Boo! Ha! Look at this! I am on either side of time, in the washroom of that school painting a face for adventure, the promise and here, in the semi-dark trying to fend off the demons of time did he fall down in the end, with a laugh, or jump? and that feeling of dread pooling in my stomach trying to recall what the clown girl felt just before the washroom doors opened onto the circus ring Summer after the war I place my hand on the palm in the mirror, your fingers were long and slender, muscular and warm, one could see they would always be warm, never damp, made for rolling cigarettes, snapping fingers, hanging from trees, tapping a beat on the table- warm and tanned even in winter, smooth and boyish and careless, with little pale scars, confident hands, the hands of a boy who has cycled home without holding on to the handle bar and who now stands leaning against the front door in the sun, a jam sandwich in his hand. Your hair looks alien with my face below, it seems to absorb all the light and float, my skin seems pale, the eyes darker. For an instant I can’t bear it, I collapse, insides tumbling, so quickly, sweeping everything away, I don’t even have time to clench my fists. I have closed the curtains and only little light is seeping through the thick fabric, tingeing the room in a green glow like mildew. I pull my hand back and lean against the wall, eyes closed. The air is humming, the wall is cold and close to my face is the smell of a room that never gets heated. I feel the cold like water on skin hot from fever and my stomach tightens. Against my bare back and underneath my palms I feel the thin wallpaper and the rough plaster underneath it. When I half open my eyes I will see a blonde girl in the semidarkness of the mirror, strands of hair drawn before the face, a light coloured vest, you. I am lying on the floor, a pile of dirty laundry as cushion underneath my chest, on the coarse carpet tiles, so thin and worn that I could as well be lying on concrete. The smell of tobacco and sweat clings to my fingertips, my whole body seems dirty, when I scratch my scalp black rims remain underneath the nails. The room has a smell as well, I haven’t opened the windows for days, the curtains are closed and the light is dim, clothes in dirty clammy piles, overflowing ashtrays, the odour of cellars and moisture, soil. My feet are icy, my legs and the back of my knees sticky. I have to get up, I have to go and fetch wood from the stack in front of the house and fire the furnace in the bathroom, I have to get up and take a skirt and a blouse from one of the piles and put them on. The path is overgrown, branches with brown spotted leaves hang down from either side, grass and nettles are growing knee high, wild flowers and dog rose. Towards the river the higher trees disappear and make way to giant leaves of wild rhubarb still wet from rain, mist is rising, dampness everywhere, the sound of water in the near distance, leaves touching the naked arms and legs and then there is the boat behind the bend where the path ends in a wide plot of firm soil, and the girl on the boat’s roof. Dusty soles, scratched ankles, underneath them mud has dried and left a crumbly rim, terry cloth knickers, a muscle twitching at the groin where the veins are showing bluish through the skin, fine and lucid hair on the arms straight on either side of the body, the hair spread out to dry on the tar board. The girl is you. In the corridor I linger in front of the door, through the small window at the side a puddle of light falls on the floorboard, I place one foot inside it. Behind the door, only centimetres from where I stand, is my father. He talks with one of the other men from the factory, in the moments when no one is talking I can hear him pushing the sand on the wooden steps around with his feet and the small stones being knocked against the door. I try to concentrate, to gather the energy for the impulse to turn around and go away, and eventually I succeed and I walk out through the back door. Behind the house is the shed, grown over with leaves and bushes, it is cooler here, all dark green and wet shadows, the wood of the shed is dark, too, and damp when I lean my forehead against it. I stay like this until the men’s noises finishing off for the day cease, then I walk around to the front of the house and take some of the wood that is stacked there against the wall in the sun. The square in front of the house and the factory beside it is empty and dusty in the heat, no shadows. Only in few of the puddles water is left, all that remains of others are cavities with edges of grit. The space seems vast, a deserted plain, the road ahead and to the right the other factory buildings are very far away. I dig my toes into the warm dust and turn my face to the sun, to the silence that is like a tone vibrating against my body. I put one foot in front of the other as if balancing on a banister, slowly, sand spilling over and between my toes with every step, I’m counting, I’m already passed fifty and the road doesn’t seem to have come any closer, my father calls, what is it with the hot water, coming, I call back, although I don’t think I will be able to turn around. You will be there, in a reflection in the window of a passing bus, only noticed in the corner of an eye, you will be there when I lie in the sun on my stomach, hair across eyes and arms, there between the flares of light on the surface of the river, in the fleeting bewilderment in the eyes of the men. I open my eyes wide, they are sticky and tear like a scabby wound, once, twice, and put my feet on the ground. There is a layer of oily sweat on my face and a spot of saliva on the mattress; my legs are hot and cramped. In the kitchen I wash my face and armpits without taking of the bra. It is still hot when I step out the door; my mother sits on the bench in front of the house. I walk across the dusty square and climb up the talus to the road. I’m standing in the dark on the street looking up to the dance hall, there are benches and tables on the patio in front with candles in little glass bowls and paper lanterns hanging from a clothesline, orange light is falling through the windows behind. The boys are sitting beside the girls on the benches and holding their hands and some of them are thinking of you. A few of the men are there, they are sitting at the bar inside, smoking and drinking and talking, behind them people are dancing. He is leaning against the wall beside the open door, he is talking to one of the boys from the factory and laughs, his hair falling over his eyes. He draws at his cigarette and lets his gaze wander across the patio and to the street, then he sees me and calls for me and I go to him. They have rolled up the sleeves of their shirts up over the elbows, sweaty from dancing, they are a bit drunk and I can feel the warmth radiating from their bodies, they talk and laugh and I have a sense as if everything happens high above my head, as if I was a child looking up to their faces, like a child, invisible. When he is dancing with me I see the new boy at the door to the toilets, a few of the girls are standing there and watching the dancers, flushed in their hand sewn party dresses. He smiles at a point over their heads and wants to pass them by and further, outside. One of them slides across the clearance, it is crowded there and it is only a quick motion, and she puts her arms around his neck and kisses him on the mouth. Then she takes a step back, looks up at him through her eyelashes, smiles vaguely with lips shiny and moist with saliva, her hands still on his shoulders. He says something and she smiles again a hazy smile towards the bathrooms behind him. Two of the men push past them and so they are separated and the new boy walks across the dance floor to the bar. Afterwards he walks me home, it is a long way and he doesn’t talk much, he is exhausted and at the same time exhilarated by the night. In front of the door he kisses my face and my neck, his hands are heavy on my breasts and my back, I hold my breath. I watch how he walks across the square and looks back one more time and waves his hand, and when I turn around the new boy stands by the trees at the path to the river. He looks at me and then walks into the woods, swallowed by the shadows. Before I go into my room I stand in front of the mirror beside the kitchen sink, I bow down, I expect to see my face, shimmering like a pale moon and with that mystifying drunken spell, with wide and darkly shadowed eyes, but between the strands of damp and ruffled hair is a hole. As if someone was holding a wig across a fist. I think of you, the way you lie with eyes open, not conscious about being awake, and the way your body is ripped backwards when you realise. The way your mouth fills up with saliva and you choke on it when you’re trying to catch your breath, your convulsive swallowing in order not to cough , tears well in your eyes and looking through them you recognise his face. The way his mouth hangs open and the saliva gathering in the corners of his mouth and his hot and stale breath. That you won’t be able to move your arms without pain for days and the way it is even worse with your head tilted backwards and so you press your face against his throat and clammy cheek, the way you try to breathe flatly, your angry howl. I feel your hot and poisonous tears inside me, furious, shameless, and feel a bitter pride. I saw you, it was night and the stream a black ribbon, sparkling in the moonlight, he was standing by the bushes at the shore and looked at you standing on the boat, unmoving against a wild sky without stars, while incessantly the wind was sweeping through the leaves and grass. I felt the blood pulsing in his throat. It was as if his insides sank, were pulled down, easily and fluently and a pressure rose and the empty space was still filled with the memory of what had just been there. He felt hollow and if fingers were examining the walls of this hollow space inside him, running through the vacuum, in search of something, slowly and confident at first, then becoming ever quicker and alarmed. She is standing still; her hair and body are like dull silver in this light. Sweat trickles down his ribs down to the belt, he stands there for a long time before he walks up to the boat, up to her and puts his hands on her cold shoulders. He touches her arms with his fingertips, her shoulders with his tongue, her throat, he trembles like in spasm his mouth against her ear, his voice is like a breeze, like something echoing in a long and dark corridor, and the words have no meaning. . After his escape he stands in the shadows in front of the house, the sky is darker now, I watch him from my window, looking down. When I step beside him he throws his body against me and lets himself crash down my body, his crying too is like a spasm, spreading into my body, without words, without sound. Through a hole in the clouds I can see into the sky, somewhere behind them the moon tinges their frayed edges with light. The clouds are gathered around that piece of sky, pushing closer together, but it seems as if the picture doesn’t change but is pulled into the darkness behind it, as a whole, faster and faster. I feel light-headed and ethereal as if I was being pulled away as well, from the centre of my body, into the night. I can see everything before me, the talus leading up to the road, the sand on the square, the house, the trees behind it, the storehouses and factory buildings, the wall of the shed and its shadow, the lattice windows with chipped paint coming away in flakes and the pale wood underneath it, the sooty glass, the view through the grime when you are standing in the shadow, pressed against the wall, the semidarkness behind it, the wooden floor with a layer of sand. Again the road and to the side the long and flat barracks, pale concrete and dark little windows, the yard, the grass growing through the cracks in the ground, the benches in front of the barracks and the women sitting on them, in the sun, waiting. I can see everything and there is also the smell of sawdust and grime and damp wood, and the silence like the silence before a thunderstorm, especially the silence. I can see everything before me because it is really there. I wouldn’t be able to say what is not really there. I can see you lying on the roof of the boat, the wet sand still in your hair and your skin, and the girl that is me is kneeling beside you and touches the blood coming out of your mouth. But of course that isn’t true. The silence is lingering above everything, I say, the stream is rushing, the music is wafting from the dancehall, I listen to the voices of the men preparing to go home after their shift, but I don’t hear it. The people are undefined, vague, their faces those of strangers, I can see his dark hair, but also the hair of the new boy is dark, and their faces are like facsimiles of a face, generic, as if to show what a face is to someone who has never seen one. They have boy faces and your face is the face of a girl. The women are waiting, like me. Blue columbine, yellow is clover, primroses, foxglove, one day there was a man coming from her boat, and the other time two soldiers, I saw it with my own two eyes, cowslip, dandelion, I’m running through the meadows, anemones, marguerites, bleeding heart. The men are sitting on the stacks of wood in front of the saw mill, they are on their lunch break, a few of the men from the factory have come over, my father as well, I’m bringing his food. Some of the girls are there for the same reason, dressed in their button-through dresses for every day, with small round collars and fitted pockets on the skirts. They bring soup in thermos flasks, they smile, some of the men smile back. Their faded work jackets are full of sawdust, their boots as well, some are wearing caps, their hands are black from grease and soil, they are smoking roll-ups and throw the butts into a rain barrel. Afterwards I walk back to the village with the girls, it is hot and sweat trickles down my legs, my blouse is sticking to my back. Dust clings to my face and arms like a weight, the straps of my bag are sticky and rigid. When we pass the shacks, so glaring and shadeless in the sun that I pinch my eyes close against the sight, the girls stop talking. The women sit in the heat on the benches, their heads leaning against the wall, some have taken off their shoes and pulled up their legs, some are curling their naked toes in the dried out yellow grass, they are smoking the filter tipped cigarettes from the soldiers. Dust is covering their faces as well and their lips and skin will taste of salt, later, when the men stop on their way from work and go with them into the barracks that I imagine cool and dusky with bare walls and striped mattresses on narrow iron beds. In the yard clothes lines are spanned between rusty metal poles, further down are the stone buildings that had been the munitions factory, with high windows, panes of frosted glass, and still further the barracks with the foreign soldiers, some of them smoking in the yard, they look the same as the men, they wave and the girls wave back. I will go back through the woods, I will take off my shoes and walk across the cool and dry spruce needles, brown and crackling underneath the naked soles, through the patterns of light that are falling through the leaves onto the ground. The bark is peeling off some of the trees and underneath beetle traces are visible like a runic scripture, a story to be captured with ones fingertips, they are repeated on the inside of the bark like a casting mould. I kneel down and run my hand over the clusters of long forest grass, which is soft and smooth, without sharp edges; round blades, shiny like straight, clean hair. Behind the hill is a clearing, the dead wood. Faded tree trunks without bark or branches, like crosses on soldiers’ graves. Two of the trees are connected with a metal bar, high up where it can’t be reached, maybe it was put there to support them before they were dead, but I think of this as the place where the traitors where shot. I am behind you, you are running down the hill, rocks and dead wood slicing my feet, the thorny bushes tear the skin on my arms and cheeks, my braid has come undone and strands of hair are sticking to my face, your hair seems darker and heavy from sweat, your skin is damp and red. You walk into the stream, at the top, where it is not deep and running luminously across shallow rocks, glowing in a yellow brown like fresh resin. The seam of your dress is damp from spraying water, so cold that my feet go numb. You stumble and fall, again and again, stumble and the gravel tears the palms of your hands, at the wrist, and the shins, when you slide forward without stopping, on hands and knees. When you’re getting on your feet again there is blood on your dress that is now all wet at the front, it runs down your arms as if you had slashed your wrists, from behind I see the back of your knees. Your face is contorted and wild, your mouth open as you catch your breath, gasping. I try to wrench my face the same way, but it remains fixed, I can’t move it, it’s numb like my legs and I don’t feel my fingers pulling at my mouth. The boy has fallen asleep with his head in your lap, your fingers are parting his hair, drawing lines across his scalp, the hair is like the fur of a small animal or the smooth filaments of withered dandelion when you close your hand carefully around it, not like human hair. You’re staring at the ceiling of the boat cabin, sweat has dried on your skin and when his breath hits your naked legs the fine hair on your arms and your neck stand up. A fly makes its way across your foot and your calf but you’re not moving, you keep still until it is entirely dark in the cabin. After he has left you take out the letter from the little box you keep underneath a loose floorboard, one of the soldiers has left it behind. There’s a photo in the envelope, a young woman standing in pasture up to her knees in front of high growing brushwood, she’s wearing a dark coloured skirt and a patterned blouse, it seems a sunless day. The letter is written in a language you don’t understand. You’re reading it out loud, the strange words ring mysterious and comforting, and you speak them like a prayer or a magic formula and let yourself be captivated by the unfamiliar sound of your own voice. Whispering you repeat the last words, the last sentence, the evocation of bones and flesh, all bones, all flesh, their skin and teeth, their hair, the weight of their bodies against your body, their teeth against your teeth. The traces of light and scars on his face, while he breaks, while he smiles. I know it’s the women, I recognise their scent through the sound of sticks being pulled across the high grass and rhubarb leaves, with abrupt and cutting movements like a scythe, a whizzing noise, flat blows in between, they are like a swarm of insects. All of a sudden the hands are in your face, in your hair, they are rubbing sand into your hair, into your eyes, stuffing sand into your mouth and grinding the skin inside your cheeks against your teeth until blood is drawn. Your dress hangs in rags around the bitten nipples, the sore, broken skin, blood from countless tiny wounds, and blood and mucus running from your nose. He can’t turn away, his body keeps him tied to the spot and a sensation like vertigo builds up in his stomach, it rises and runs like a cool fluid into his arms and he reaches for the bushes beside him, his legs like glass. He keeps his eyes half shut, but on his face the fear is visible as if fluttering beneath the skin, uncertainty of what might await him, the wish to somehow make it through no matter how and what it will be and the wish feels alien inside me. A struggle for control and concentration as if he was flooded by sounds and light shadow and light again, as if falling and everything happens so fast, he knows it won’t last, he can make it, he just has to stay calm. He breathes quickly and stares into space, for a moment he doesn’t know how to work the muscles in his face and which expression to put on, he is like a child, overwrought, it is so exhausting and then it is over and he is relieved. Then he notices me standing behind him and he turns around. I’m grateful when he doesn’t touch me. I’m in my parents’ bedroom, about to change the sheets, the used covers are already in a pile beside the door, I hold the fresh ones pressed against my chest. The mattresses have an odour of mustiness and acrid cream, above the bed on the wall hangs the crucified Jesus. Downstairs in front of the office the men are waiting in line for their pay packets, I can hear them through the open window. My mouth feels strangely numb and I press it with my fingers, the still folded sheets fall apart and onto the floor, I can’t hold on to them, I make a few steps backwards, towards the open wardrobe behind me, I turn around and press my face into my mothers clothes. The place is motionless, it’s dinner time or shortly after, I have put on a cardigan, the wool scratching my sunburnt shoulders. The road isn’t yet paved and I hear the sand underneath my feet, the soft crunching, the houses are narrow and with wooden fronts, with low doorways and windows, the winter doors are unhinged, tin coated flower buckets in front of some of the houses, around them painted stones. Then somewhere the screeching of a saw, hammer blows as if thrown back by the walls of an empty room. I have left the house behind me when he steps out the door and calls my name. Maybe I won’t stop, but probably I will.  Without compass
Similes, first time I hear that word- well, it’s obviously somewhat familiar, similar to similar, ha. Still, I look it up on Wikipedia, to be sure to be sure, as they say. It might be a false friend, or something like that. Or one of those words that you look up again and again, because the exact meaning just doesn’t stick in your head. Or something you have been using for years and always with a slightly different meaning than it actually has, as you find out when you look it up in the dictionary. Like “standoffish”, I always thought that meant “abrasive”. Or you pronounce them wrongly, another option. Conservative was one of those for me, I said conservative instead, for years and years, sorry, v, but no one even noticed. Or bothered to tell me. Christmas, another one, this time in writing- spelt it wrongly, for ever. The h after the t rather than the c. At some point I noticed and found it hadn’t actually carved itself that deeply into my brain furrows. I would have thought something would be “hardwired” after years of usage, with the synapses, neuronal connections, and all that, creating memories. I hear this a lot these days when people talk about a venture that has failed. At least it was an experience, you created a memory. Is this a new strategy that helps coping with disappointment or change? I had a book as a child about a mouse that only collected colours when all other mice collected food for the winter. The other mice tell her off for being lazy. But in the end, she is the one saving the day when all food has been used up, all mice sit huddled together losing hope, and then that mouse tells a colourful story, with the colours he collected. He has earned the right to be there, the justification that the others shared their food with her. But the story ends there, we don’t know what will happen when the "lights go out" - all mice die I suppose. That might have been around Christmas, in winter. Christmas with h after c. But now I actually can’t not know. And from time to time I still write it the wrong way, consciously, and half ashamed. It’s somehow a remnant of a time when I was innocent. Just that’s it not, I have to fake it. There are no remains left of that time. What a thought. Can that be true? Similes, again. Like a remnant. White as a sheet, red like a rose, he slept like a log and remained as cool as a cucumber. Like a caged animal. Everything always must be like something else, it seems. We can’t explain it otherwise. But what if you knew no sheets, no cucumbers. Or these things are not the same in your native tongue? And then maybe you confuse them, your tongues, your thoughts, your different selves, the Irish self, the German self, the village self, the city self. White as a wall it is then, or stupid as bread, white as bread and stupid as a wall. Or what if language has left you. In a nursing home I once worked lived a woman with Dementia. She had a single room, she must have had money. She had only one word left. That is not unusual, only one word then for everything- the ultimate simile. Another woman I knew with the same condition, hers was “wonderful”. She shrieked “Wonderful! Wonderful!” when she was scared. But this woman’s word, the woman in the single room. I have forgotten what hers was. Something profane, an everyday object, I think. Like “plate” or “coffee machine”. Can that be true? But she played accordion, she remembered how to do it. Nursing homes. My father died in a nursing home. The funeral was on the 16th of December 2017. I read an article yesterday, that Google stores all the locations you have been at for the last decade. There was a link in the article to check your own location history and I clicked on it. I picked 2017, it was kind of the first option. Only two locations, what a poor record, digitally and personally. But hang on, what a about that day? You can also choose individual days. 16th September 2017. No entry. No dot on the map. Instead the map blurred as if in rotation, as if spinning a globe to pick your next holiday destination at random and came to a halt in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, slightly more to the left, towards Australia. On the right, further away, the Eastern coastline of South America. Once I was in her room, the woman with the one word, we sat at the table. She had played the accordion and looked at me. Then she sat it down, the accordion, looked at me again and then, suddenly, reached out her hand and touched my breast. She scaled it with her hand, briefly. And a tear was running down her cheek. What is the simile to that? The breast felt like. Jelly? Her youth? My youth? A foreign country. Like in “the past is a foreign country”? A stone in my throat? A promise? A memory? A bullet in the head?  Moon shadow An arrangement of organs, preparing itself, hidden from view. To perform the smallest unit of the cycle. Like a perpetuum mobile, like a pumping heart, a pulsating rhythm. The egg has travelled from the almond shaped fingers at the ends of the tubes, through the hollow passageways, to its first destination. It arrives where the hollow container has grown a thick and thicker lining: A marbled sponge, streaked, traversed by veins, and built in vain. This time, many times. The lining thickens, ripens until full and juicy, full to burst. Fecund and fertile, and saturated like dark soil. The veiny web a pulsating trampoline for the egg. Fat, mucous, glistening like a maggot with a shiny glaze. And like a living creature it rolls and pulses, lush and luxuriant, ready to spawn. But it has by now the odour of the rank. Then a contraction, a brief freezing of time. The expulsion starts, the silver lining becomes discard. Turns into fetid bits of dark stained tissue. 2 Contracting and expanding, Contracting and discarding. Shedding blood and drying up. Ebb and flow. The thick walls of the womb like an eel, a muscular band that tightens and relaxes. And inside, a cavern, the interior of a ripe fruit- only a few spasms away from want and need. An echo chamber. Then a gasp for oxygen sets the cycle in motion again.  The father had had an embolism in his brain more than a year ago. It had happened one Sunday after he had been out for a walk and a drink in the local pub. The mother had been visiting her sister that weekend and he hadn’t expected her back until later that evening. He had felt strange and had sat down on the bed. The world had become kind of tilted and then the vision in his left eye went. An unexpected nausea that also felt strangely comforting and welcome had been rising from his chest and had settled in his mouth close to the lips. His left hand felt numb, but also kind of bigger and pulsating. He had rung the ambulance himself before he lost consciousness. He now couldn’t remember any of this and neither the events that had followed. His time in the intensive care unit for example. Only one visitor at a time had been allowed in and so the mother and the daughter had been taking turns. Every time they had passed each other at the thick tight-fitting doors that closed with a swishing sound, the one going in would look at the other inquiringly, as if to ask: what have you done? Is he still alive? He also had trouble recalling his daughter’s age and other details about his former life. Of course, thought the daughter, of course he remembers useless facts, who was prime minister for how long and what year that political event or other had taken place. But he barely remembers my name. The father was not aware of that discrepancy. The mother didn’t want to talk about what he remembered about the daughter or not, it made her feel uncomfortable and she also thought the daughter was going on about it too much. They had other things to deal with than hurt feelings or unresolved childhood issues. Besides, it would be better not to be too outspoken about such things, or anything really. It would look bad if the father should die sooner than expected. Of course, nobody be sure when this would be. The mother and daughter had cared for the father since he had been discharged from hospital after almost 4 months with a prognosis of: “There is nothing more we can do. But he can live like this for another 10 years or even longer. “ Their lives now took place in the room that had previously been the parents’ bedroom and had been converted into a hospital room. The father stayed most of the time in a hospital bed that could be adjusted up and down and took up most of the room. The mother had a fold away camp bed in one corner where she slept on at night. She could not leave the father for longer than 15 minutes as he would get anxious and call her name again, and again. He was fond of his daughter, but she didn’t appear much in his thoughts and he didn’t want anybody near him apart form the mother and his dog. It wasn’t anything personal. The dog was a German shepherd called Prince. The father had owned a succession of dogs throughout his life from boyhood, all called Prince. This last Prince had been devastated when his beloved owner had been taken away for a long time without explanation and he had been out of his mind with joy when he had been brought back on a stretcher and almost toppled over the paramedics that were carrying him up the stairs. He was hugely protective of the father and suspicious of everyone, even the mother. But especially the daughter. When she or the mother prepared the father’s medication he seemed to keep a close eye on them. Sometimes, when the daughter hesitated with a blister pack of tablets in her hand hovering over the little plastic dispenser, thinking: should I dissolve more of the little white ones with the gap in the middle? How long would he be out for the count? Would he wake up again? the dog gave a low growl. Or when the mother drew up a syringe for the nightly injection and thought: I think I read somewhere that injecting air into a vein is deadly but cannot be detected in an autopsy, he bared his teeth and gave a short sharp bark. The mother and daughter shared the burden of care according to their abilities to suffer and endure and according to their loyalty to the father. Neither of them could compete with the dog when it came to that. The mother always kept in calling distance, she tried to do crossword puzzles with him and made him do writing exercises. She cooked his favourite meals and encouraged him to do things with his “good side” and made him exercise his “bad side” and read article after article about how people still had had a complete recovery after brain damage years after the incident. She did not want to let go of the idea that they would have a nice retirement together after a long and hard working- life. The details had to be adjusted a bit, they would have to take a wheelchair taxi when travelling for example and require assistance with certain things. But they could still visit the theatre or meet friends in a wheelchair accessible restaurant. People in wheelchairs could have a normal life. But gradually she had had to come around to the realisation that it wasn’t only about the wheelchair. The father would not travel anywhere anymore and thus neither did she. He couldn’t even concentrate on a TV show, let alone a theatre play, and she neither was able to read a book or follow a film as he was constantly interrupting her with his calls and pain and anxiety. She was trapped. After caring for others her whole life, first her siblings, then her children, then her parents- she had envisaged 3 retirement as at last being able to spend the day how she saw fit. Now she was the father’s slave morning to evening and through the night. But she hadn’t dared to be resentful, not at first. But now, after more than a year, she found herself having certain thoughts that made the dog growl. The daughter did the heavy lifting required to put the father in the wheelchair and shower and she rolled him onto his side to put him onto the bedpan and she cleaned him and the bedpan afterwards. She had taken charge of all correspondence with government agencies. On the phone she was a caring daughter who fought for her father’s treatment. At mealtimes she observed the father, how he clumsily lifted a spoon with pureed food to his lopsided mouth and sucked it in with a sound that made her skin crawl. She wiped his mouth with a hard gesture. “Ouch!” he shrieked. The daughter looked at the mother and said “Sorry”. She sometimes tried to recall fond childhood memories of herself with the father, but it was as if her thoughts turned away and drifted into a foggy haze of light and shadows, of forest sounds and children’s voices. She sometimes heard the father’s voice in her head like it had been before the embolism. And she got angry at all the sentences that had stranded there on her mind’s shore and not one kind one was among them. Did he deserve to be cared for this well by her mother? She didn’t think of herself as caring well for him, she was sure he could feel the spite in her every touch and move. And the dog that was always sitting beside the bed, with that heartbroken gaze, licking the paralysed hand of his master. She had to grit her teeth and turn away with loathing. Also, in her mind, certain thoughts had begun to form.  Only about twenty minutes in do I become aware of the grey hanging file folder on the table
beside him. It is not exceptionally thick but there are a good few pages in it. Notes, maybe medical records from hospitals or GPs. My name is hand written on a white paper slip below a plastic cover. It is part of the register, designed for the slip to be taken in and out. Maybe if a file is digitised, the name can be taken out and replaced with the next patient’s name. Or when someone changes their name. After getting married. Or for another reason. I haven’t gone by the name on the file for almost twenty years. I remember back then I used to often hitchhike to appointments. In summer I enjoyed that journey. To leave early enough to walk to the other side of town, to its boundary on top of a hill. Just after the sign with the crossed out name the road would slope downwards and the landscape opened up to meadows and a lake. This time I have come by car, and walked a few hundred metres through the rain to the house. Waited a few minutes underneath the canopy at the door. Checked my phone. Back then there were no mobile phones, not really. The place was familiar, but not familiar in a revealing way, no feeling of retracing past steps and having an epiphany. I have been here before, yes, but that’s it. I am not slipping into the skin of that girl I was when I was here the last time. He has not changed much. I am now the age he was then, pretty much. I want to ask him how he has been, where he will go on holiday when the season starts next week, what course his daughter is doing at uni, maybe a passing reference to the latest in politics. A conversation with a friend or acquaintance one has not seen for a long time. Also a strangely adult conversation it appears to me now. Nothing I would have contemplated twenty years ago. But he has not been my friend. Borderline. That is probably one of the words written on some of the papers in the file. I was possibly in worse shape then, all in all, but I was young. It seems to me that I had an advantage then that has now completely disappeared. I am still twenty years younger than he is, but it is not an asset now. I am a middle aged woman, the car I came in is a rental car. It is raining. Someone who knows me, used to know me. Knows things. Things that I have forgotten about, I only feel them tapping on my shoulder from behind now, seeing the file. But I haven’t turned around yet. Someone who knows things that nobody else knows about me. For a long long time I have not met anyone I can say that about. I had burnt the bridges. That sounds dramatic, which it wasn’t. It was just leaving and never mentioning certain things again. I wonder about that file. I had made contact three weeks earlier, on a whim. I didn’t know what to do, had to do something, was hoping for a divine intervention of sorts. A sign. People who have no inner compass because they have learnt that there can be trapdoors everywhere and it is only ever a question of when, not if, they rely on signs. And so I had woken up one morning and the idea had just been in my head, I just remembered him. Oh, there was this one. Maybe he is still in the area, maybe he still works in that job. And I had found his website and sent an email. “Hi, I don’t know if you remember me.” But he did. He probably took the file out after and got reacquainted with “the case”. I did not think of any file. I probably would have thought if there ever had been one, it would have been discarded after a few years. Maybe there is a law that it must be kept. But twenty years. And it looks almost new. It has sat in a warm and dry place, not in an attic or a cellar. Maybe if the police came to look for information, years later, when someone was a suspect in a crime. Someone with a history. Or in case of an insurance claim.I don’t really know what I mean by insurance claim, but I want to think of another reason that someone might want to look at the file. Has the right to look at it and therefore it needs to be kept. Maybe it could have been destroyed exactly after twenty years, but I got in touch just days before the time would have been up. And now it has to be kept for another twenty years. Even if there is just the addition of a note: patient got in touch via email. Seemed distressed, but coherent. But there would be more. I am sitting here now. In that room. It is the same room. The same armchair. He might have gotten the file out and sat in that other armchair, just like he does now. Flicking through the papers, stopping here and there to read a paragraph. Pausing to think. But maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe it had come back to him straight away. A special case. Some sort of tragedy. As I said, something is tapping on my shoulder. It might be nothing. Not nothing, obviously, but just ordinary stuff. Anorexia, suicide attempts, drugs, promiscuity. There are surely categories of files, maybe a filing system: teenage delinquency. Marriage problems. Alcohol. Midlife crisis. The classics: Overbearing mother. Daddy issues. He talks about options, fingers tapping on the file. He mentions a clinic that he can recommend, on the outskirts of one of the villages. At the woodland edge. Single rooms, mostly. Anaesthetising comfort. There are other options. I am a person with options again. And part of the people here again. People who live here, spend some time in a clinic and then go back to their lives. Where I have spent the last twenty years doesn’t matter. What I fucked up or might have built is erased and I am reduced to symptoms, a diagnosis maybe, words in a file. At the same time I am being let back into the fold. The community of patients, and that of locals. My old membership card, my old role. Resistance is stirring inside me, but it is also a chance. I am homeless, at the end of the day. Without a winter coat, and the days are getting cold. It’s like walking past a bench and there is one, a coat. Someone has dropped it there and forgotten. A bit wet, the smell is repulsive at first. It is not my size exactly. But of course I will try it on, won’t I. It is cold. He has lost weight, seems taller. The clothes might still be those from twenty years ago, it’s the same style. A lightcoloured shirt underneath a dark blue blazer, fawn slacks. He might be one of those men owning ten pairs of the same shoes and ten similar jackets, so they don’t have to worry about not being able to find the same fit for the next twenty years. Maybe this combination is the last of that batch from twenty years ago. Maybe he is about to change his style, just after this appointment. He taps his fingers on top of the file again. He looks up towards the ceiling as if he is trying to gauge the sounds, listen more closely to discern a certain frequency. I look at him and try to tune in as well, into what he might be listening to. Or waiting for. He senses me looking at him and smiles a smile of being caught out. He says that he should mention that the clinic has a Christian ethos. It might be irritating at first, but they are not in your face about it. And it could be an advantage. I am not used to having a car. In the past weeks I have taken long drives around the area, something I have never done twenty years ago. I didn’t own a car back then either. I have stopped in remote forest car parks and got out and just took deep breaths. Unique scents of local plants transporting me to a childhood spent in the woods. In the villages I have driven slowly, past front gardens, with paths leading up to the front door of small detached houses with wonky DIY extensions. Some of the roads had been my paper round back then, I knew all the names on the postboxes. There are cars in a good few of the front gardens, wheels flat or removed, no number plates. I wonder what future they are kept for. Why am I thinking of them now? I like them sitting there, it speaks to a part of me that likes to hold on beyond the sell by date, beyond freshness and usefulness, caressing the border to decay and putrefaction. Is that a good thing or sick? One has heard of people keeping dead relatives in the house. Mothers not wanting to let go of stillborn babies. Or babies they had shaken too hard because they didn’t stop crying. Will they be used again, assigned a different purpose? The cars. Or will they rot and poison the soil around them? Maybe it is purely a money thing, it might cost too much to have them scrapped professionally. Do the owners sit in those cars, some evenings, smoking a cigarette, hands on the steering wheel- reliving past journeys or planning road trips of the future? Why would it be an advantage? I have to ask, even though the tapping has started to grow more intense and I might know why. I don’t know if it would be an advantage, but I have an idea why he says it. We both listen into the ether again.He hasn’t answered yet, seems to want to find the right way to put it. Very faint there might be the sound of a siren, far away, just touching the edge of our aural field. Maybe just that of mine. Maybe his one doesn’t reach quite as far, being twenty years ahead with the wear and tear of the body and its functions. Regardless of maintenance regimes or neglect. He doesn’t have the build of an athlete, not even a former athlete, a bit withered and shrunken with age. He is a man who has never had to do manual labour for the past twenty years. This office is the place where he must have spent most of his time, listening, talking, reading, writing. His hands are slim and delicate. Maybe his bones have already started to become a bit brittle, as has his hair. Now the siren has become audible. We are holding each other’s gaze. He still hasn’t answered. It might be an ambulance on the way to an emergency. Are there different sounds for different sirens or are they all the same. Ambulances, the emergency doctor, accidents with poison or a forgotten bomb from WWII. Police. They are slightly different in different countries, so I find it hard to tell. His throat is not an old man’s throat yet, like a turkey, with razor burn, but it has started to go that way. I must have stared at it, he touches it with the hand that had sat on the file. The file. The fingers of my own hands are interlocked. I stretch and turn them, it’s a warm up gesture, even if one is not an athlete. It could be a chance, but I am still twenty years younger after all. There are other options. We listen to the siren.  She left the surgery, the note with the specialists name and telephone number on it. Walked
down the stairs without outward hesitation, but with tiny interruptions, like a remote controlled car in the hands of someone who hasn’t mastered the art of applying continuous pressure to the control stick just yet, tiny flutters, or like a delay watching a video when the reception is shaky. Someone was about to leave the toilet halfway between floors and drew the door closer again to let her pass, she continued without acknowledgement to the front door at the bottom of the stairs, opened it, turned left. Walked up the streets to the station, got on the train and off at Central station. Slid into a free space in the crowds of tourists and walked,without determination, but not entirely unconscious of the surroundings, meandering, but with a general direction. She passed by a man and a woman, a tourist couple, mid or late twenties, possibly from the South of Europe. The young woman was walking with her head bowed, wiping tears off her face. Not in a self conscious or angry way, but with slow movements, tired and beat. The man kept a few steps behind her, with a neutral face. Probably something that had happened before. To him and to her, in this relationship, in previous relationships. It was a regular occurrence on holiday trips, especially here, where a lot of tourists came to drink and do drugs. That seemed to exacerbate the sluggishness of the men’s responses to the women’s suggestions to do “something different than smoke joints first thing in the morning.” Or maybe it was a more serious problem with these two. She passed by, a last brief glance onto the woman’s face, the man’s. She quite often saw women in the crowds, alone, or more often with a man, who cried or visibly tried not to cry. She had seen them in other places, on the bus, or on a walk in the park. Women crying. She has been one of them. She might be one again. Maybe soon, today, who would be surprised, and could anyone blame her? But not yet, for now she is walking and another woman is crying. A memory pops up in her head, from a beach in Italy. She had sat behind a tree, one of the very few trees that had a few leaves and provided some shelter and shade from the sun beating down that she wasn’t used to. Her chest and arms had been covered in the rash of an allergic reaction to the heat. She had cried quietly behind the tree, while a few meters in front of her a middle aged Italian man in long trousers and a white vest had sat on a fold out camping chair behind a table on trestles, selling watermelons. The tree was probably his usual spot during the season and he might have seen his share of burnt or allergic tourist girls behind it, crying over their boyfriend’s behaviour. She had been the Dutch girl in Italy, 20 years ago, now that woman, who could very possibly be Italian, had come to her country on a trip and cried. Sometimes, if she sat across one of the crying woman in a bus or train, she had thought of offering a tissue or acknowledging the tears in some other non- intrusive way, with a smile and a nod, something to convey that she has been there, too, and ….but then she hadn’t. Would anyone want to be acknowledged in that situation? She walked on and after a while the crowd started to thin out and there were less people looking like obvious tourists with scarfs and caps with the city’s logo, and more locals, with more determination, and a place to go. She scanned the faces of those approaching, no more tears. “If women knew how ugly they are when they cry they wouldn’t do it that often” Another former boyfriend popping up in her head, a different one, not the one she went to Italy with. She obviously had not thought of hiding behind a tree that time. It seemed to be something that she had had to learn, and she wondered about that now. It seemed so ingrained in her now, like a natural law. Either on the street or behind a tree. Phrased like that it sounds more like the topic is “pissing” she thought, and smiled briefly. Why do you actually want to cry, why do you think of crying, what good will it do? She has walked more than half the way back to her flat, something that she has only ever done once, when for some reason the public transport had been suspended during the night unexpectedly and she hadn’t brought her bike and no money for a taxi. It was a long walk and now she started to feel tired and turned towards the canal that was in this part of the city, almost at the outskirts, more like a river in the countryside. With yellowed ferns and grass growing on the banks and the water a dark brown, almost black. She walked onto a bridge spanning the water, there were still people around, but she was the only one lingering and staring into the water for that moment. She had a familiar impulse to throw something into the water, something essential, her apartment keys or her phone. Like the impulse to take off your skin, transferred onto a thing, to be rid of something forever. Instead she turned away from the water and went a few steps to sit down on a small wooden pier at the canal bank, not far from the bridge. She could reach the water with her finger tips when leaning forward, and on the other side the patch of grass and soil running along the side of the low shore. There were a bunch of dandelions right beside her, with slightly withered heads already, but the stems felt juicy and left a milky white fluid on her fingers when she squeezed them slightly. She almost would have plucked them, unwittingly, but then remembered and stopped. If she wanted to take them, then she would need to take the roots out, too. Take the whole flower, dig a new hole elsewhere and replant it in a new place. This was new, thinking about flowers at all, actually. And not just ripping them out, without a second thought, putting them in a water glass on the kitchen table where they lasted about a day or two. Why bother at all, it wasn’t that she didn’t like flowers, but she had rarely felt the need to “brighten up a room” with a flower, as some people said, mainly her mother, or people like her mother, now that she thought about it. Maybe her life had taken place outside the rooms, or maybe they had been bright enough. Instead of plucking the flowers, she started rubbing the dandelion milk between her fingers and then dug them into the soil around the bunch, deep enough to feel a colder, claylike texture. Then she held her hands in front of her face and looked at the soil underneath her nails. It had started a few weeks ago, with her buying flower boxes and potting soil, for the very first time in her life. The soil came in plastic skins that easily ripped, the smallest size had been 40 l and she had had some difficulties fixing it to her bike and had left a trail of dark crumbs on the way from the garden center. And she had read the instructions and followed everything written on the seed sachets. First she had thought about just planting a few flowers, apparently they needed less care, were quicker to grow, were easier to start off with for someone who had never done this, and who actually had no real interest. But she had decided on vegetables nonetheless, for the seriousness they suggested and necessitated. And had had soil underneath her fingernails at the end of it. For the first time in a long long time, probably since she has been a kid. She will have soil underneath her fingernails in the waiting room. It will help her feel different, as if belonging to the breed of woman or humans that are connected to the soil and nature in a way she fears she is not. In her mind they have an advantage in this situation- they can hang on and at the same time be part of the seasons. They seemed to always have accepted the seasons, as in the song, or the bible, actually, of coursea time to reap, a time to sow. She felt that if she must die, if that is what the doctor will tell her, then she has never experienced the time to reap. And no wonder, if she hasn’t planted. If in all her trials and turmoils and attempts at whatever, she had failed to plant. Never stopped collecting stones and started building. And now, in the panic, she has planted her first seeds, and it is ridiculous, it won’t save her, but maybe it is not even such an uncommon thing for people in this situation to do. A mixture between taking up root after all, being a part, quickly, hastily, impossibly, before the inevitable. And the attempt to atone somehow for not being like this before. To have been a flying seed, letting herself be pushed around by the wind, flying roots. She took off her shoes and dipped her toes into the canal and after a while put the shoes back on and walked the rest of the way to her apartment. After arriving home and a sandwich for dinner, she sat down on the balcony, beside the plants, and smoked a cigarette. She thought she probably shouldn't do that, but she doesn’t want to tempt fate. It’s another facet of the plant behaviour, but even more obvious and contradictory, of course: don’t behave as if you think the worst, or it will happen. She took the note out of her pocket and read the name, Dr. Annika Abbas- Zijlstra. A Dutch girl, who had become a doctor and married a guy with a “ migration background”, it seemed. There had been an Annika Ziljstra in her class. And had she not become a doctor? She dragged at the cigarette and exhaled. Turned it in her hand, towards her and breathed on the embers. Don’t behave as if you think the worst or it will happen. Maybe she should even put out the cigarette butt into the plant soil, like a stretched out middle finger, but that would be one step too far. She couldn’t turn back time and be who she was, and she had to admit that she probably never was that person anyway, not when it counted. The tough girl, who even dared to cry in front of a man, not thinking he should be spared. Dr…..could this be her? Specialist nephrologist. How does she even remember that girl becoming a doctor? Maybe a friend who had stayed in touch with the “old crowd” had mentioned it, she had not seen any of them since they left school. She had actually left before everyone else. School had not been for her, or rather, the people had not been for her. That girl, possibly that doctor woman now, had been nice enough, as far as she could remember, plain and with a bit of an overbite, but not unattractive. Cerebral, but not otherworldly. She smiled to herself, otherworldly, that would rather fit her own description now. How things can change. If that woman was her former classmate, the tables truly had turned. She herself had been all flesh and blood back then, bursting with feelings, with everything, too much for school, too much for work, too much to endure sober. It’s not meant as a compliment, she said out loud and startled herself. Took another drag at the cigarette and smiled a smile that turned out a little bitter. She had looked down on girls like that doctor then. Otherworldly, as in “inhabiting another world”. Away from it all, at the sidelines. No “proper” job, no husband. The children almost grown up and hardly ever at home. She wondered if the doctor had children, but probably. Maybe they are grown up, too, maybe she had managed to finish her studies in good time, marry that North African fellow doctor, or maybe he was local. Or she had met him working on a medicine sans frontiere project in a war zone. They had seen death and realised the worth and brittleness of life, and decided not to waste time and had kids straight away, before becoming a specialist or settling down in a private practice. That had come later, they supported each other and shared the care. She might sometimes travel and speak at conferences. Maybe they were planning to get back to do more humanitarian work now the kids had left home and went their own way. She took a drag again and coughed. She had not looked down on her, she thought, not entirely, there had also been jealousy there. She could imagine the house, the parents. Solid pine furniture, with a honey staining, that was the kitchen, some colours added, and books. Important. The mother would also read books, real books, not just magazines. A hint of something intellectual, even though she would not have phrased it like that then. She would not have phrased a thought like that at all, but had been very particular on wood types and colour schemes and materials, and what they conveyed even though she would not have had words for what that was. Macrame decorations. Candles. Cushions in different colours. Not much plastic. A garden. The girl’s mother very probably a plant person. Not like her grandmother, who supplemented the food they bought from the shops, but already then as a type of hobby. Yes, she thought now, they would have been the avant garde for the now common thing of having something as a hobby, that was only one or two generations ago a necessity and a daily chore. Just part of everyday life. The mother had had this as a hobby because she also had a job in an office or something. Maybe the father was employed by the university. None of them had a job that required them to wear a uniform. This had always been one of her categories in life, that she organised people or work into, jobs with a uniform, people who work in jobs with uniforms, or people who wear a uniform even if they don’t work in a job. Her grandparents, her parents, herself...all wearing uniforms. Generations in uniform. But it wasn’t something she despised, not really. It was, so she thought now, also something to be proud of, to belong. Only the attempt to outgrow it, to try something different, had made her homeless, and disoriented. She had oscillated between uniform and not uniform and ended up not belonging anywhere. She would be sitting in the waiting room, maybe wearing her work suit, to feel better armed, unable to concentrate on one of the magazines there, and clenching her hands in her lap. She would notice the soil under her nails. That woman doctor would be a plant and soil woman for sure, especially after the “third world episode”, a person that would feel the earth with her hands, is connected and fully there. She would have planted vegetables and flowers with her children when they were small. Maybe not made jam out of berries, maybe that was too much. But the seeding and planting. The gratefulness for the earth and its gifts. But not in that annoying way that she made it sound now in her head. In a good way. The soil under her own nails would not give her any advantage, not any armour or protection. She would just recognize it as dirt that seemed odd in combination with her work clothes. And then she would go in and sit in front of the desk, and maybe on the desk would be the framed family photo, maybe all four or five , she expected at least two children, in the traditional clothes of some African country, smiling. And then they would maybe acknowledge each other, that they had known each other, back then. And then she would tell her. She heard the key in the door and stumped out the cigarette in the ashtray on the windowsill. “Mama?” Her eldest daughter’s voice, loud, full of energy, only passing by on a steamroll through the evening. It made her smile, without bitterness this time. “Out here, on the balcony!” Her own voice a little croaky. “I am just going to grab a quick shower, I will have dinner at Doro’s ” Doors banging, radio, the sound of water running. Thursday night, the “little weekend” they had called it, last time you were out on a Thursday, last century. She had talked out loud again and shook her head at it. Annika Ziljstra. She took her phone and sent a text to Marte, a fellow refugee from the small town in which they had spent their childhood and adolescence. She thought that Marte might have sat beside Annika in the chemistry lab for a while, when they had been split up into pairs with other students, students they didn't usually work with. She herself had been paired up with another potential doctor, Eva Leenhouts, who had not been best pleased. Like some other girls in their class, this Eva had been too well behaved and had probably been a little afraid of her as well, to make it too obvious. But she had kept her distance as if she might otherwise catch a smell that was coming off her, or something infectious. A drink in the bar close to the station, where Marte worked. Maybe she would ask her about it, maybe not. The point was in going out, even though she wasn’t sure where it would fit the “don’t behave as if you think the worst” paradigm. She wakes up early the next morning after a fit of alcohol induced deep sleep that had left her motionless for a few hours. The folds and crevices of the duvet and sheets underneath had imprinted a pattern on face and body. Her eyes were swollen. On the face it looked eerily like burns, traversing the eye and cheek. Eerily authentic. On the chest and the side of the stomach it was more like reptile skin. Maybe it is only a matter of interpretation, her body a Rorschach test, what do you see, burns or reptile skin. One might be the precursor of the other, the first stage, then the second, then. What if it stayed like this. It already took much longer now after a night like this for her face to decrease back into the old shape, for wrinkles to smoothen out. A kafkaesk metaphor for transformation, without the stiffness, the fossilisation of the skin. Or was that always the last stage? It was just the process of turning into something new. Something else, unrecognisable from what was before. Don’t hold on, she looked herself in the eyes while speaking to the mirror. Just say goodbye. She stood leaning against the kitchen table with a coffee in her hand, looking out the window. Her daughters hadn’t slept at home it seemed, no crumbs on the table, no used dishes sitting in the sink. She couldn’ make out their bikes among the many outside the entrance to the apartment block which she could see from her spot in the kitchen. The note with the name and phone number was on the table beside her. Of course she would not tell her then, at the first appointment. There were questions to be asked, tests to be run first, the whole point of the specialist referral. Waiting. She still hadn’t even rang for the appointment. With the pack of cigarettes and the lighter in hand she walked through the living room and out on the balcony. There was a snail in the plant box with the radish. One of those with a house, a yellow and greyish spiral shape, still small. The snail’s body was a sandy colour, a bit darker at the frilly edges against the black and brown potting soil. She took the spiral with two fingers, careful not to break the fragile shell. The snail retreated with a slow single contraction. When her daughters were small and had found empty snail shells, they had deliberated like most kids, if snails moved house when they got bigger, or if they swapped with each other. And so they had brought back a book about snails from the library and read up on it. Snails cannot leave their house, the very center coil of the shell is where the snail began its life, and as the snail grows, the shell grows around and around that centre. It can make minor repairs to the shell itself, with a secret of calcium and proteins, like a human body repairs scrapes or even major injuries. She knew, sometimes the most extraordinary repairs took place. But when we find an empty shell, it means, the snail is dead. Snake or snail, another Rohrschach image, she thinks. Takes out her phone, and the note with the name and number. Stands there. Infant simulator
1. Susi has taken the infant simulator with her to bed. 2. She has carried it around with her for more than a week. She is keeping it close to her body most of the time. 3. The infant simulator is a doll that cries when it needs to be fed, burped, rocked, or changed. 4. Susi has taken out the batteries that make the infant simulator cry. 5. The batteries are AA 1.5. There were 4 of them. 6. The infant simulator now simulates a dead infant. 7. Susi keeps the batteries in the drawer beside her bed. 8. Susi has given the infant simulator the name “Samantha”. 9. When Susi and her mother went to the doctor, he typed NAD in the computer file. 10. NAD means “nothing abnormal detected”. It’s what a doctor or midwife writes on a patient’s chart when they find no problem with a pregnant woman. 11. Misoprostol is a medicine with which women can do an abortion themselves. 12. Brand names for Misoprostol in the United States are Cycotec and Misodel. 13. The success rate is 90 %. 14. On the internet Susi has read that women who live in a country with no access to safe abortion services, could try to obtain Cycotec by saying to the pharmacists they need it for a grandmother with severe rheumatoid arthritis. 15. The former Missouri congressman Todd Atkin said when he was asked if he supported abortion in the case of rape: “From what I understand from doctors, that’s really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to shut the whole thing down.” 16. Legitimate, definition: “1. Conforming to the law or to rules. 2. Able to be defended with logic or justification.” 17. The doctor types NAD on Susi’s chart. It can also apply to women who are not pregnant. 18. He lets her keep the infant simulator. “She is called Samantha” says Susi, but only in her head. 19. Susi puts Samantha on her stomach underneath her T-shirt. 20. The T-shirt was made in Bangladesh. The brand name for Misoprostol in Bangladesh is Asotec. 21. Susi is lying on her bed with Samantha underneath her T-shirt and smokes a cigarette. 22. She keeps the cigarettes in the drawer beside the bed, with the infant simulator batteries. 23. Susi’s mother, Valerie, doesn’t like Susi smoking in her room and she doesn’t like Samantha. 24. In the week that Susi has carried the infant simulator around, Valerie has so far stood three times in front of Susi’s closed bedroom door. 25. Valerie thinks of the time when Susi cried and needed to be fed, burped, rocked, or changed. She is too afraid to knock on the door and walks back down the stairs. 26. Susi takes her phone from the bedside table and goes on Facebook. 27. Sometimes Susi posts something completely contrary to how she feels at that moment. 28. It’s a fact that most people act differently online than in real life. 29. A Utah Valley University study from 2011 found that the longer college students surfed Facebook, the worse they felt about their own lives. 30. Some women attempt to have an abortion by placing sharp or dirty objects into the womb or by punching the belly. 31. Susi scrolls down her newsfeed with one hand and holds the cigarette in the other. 32. Susi’s father sits in the living room and smokes a cigarette, too. He listens to Valerie coming down the stairs again. He looks at her when she comes into the living room. Valerie understands that she is not to go up again. 33. The infant simulator . 34. Crying time is electronically measured. 35. Samantha has not cried since Susi has taken out the batteries. 36. Susi has not cried since she has taken out the batteries. 37. Measured crying time is zero. 38. Zero crying time = dead infant. 39. Zero crying time = dead Susi. 40. Zero, dead.  You know that woman they housed in the apartment above yours, a while ago.
You seem to always hear her shower running. She is not young, and on her own. You thought that was maybe unusual, after you passed each other by in the staircase. You wondered if she didn’t have children to live with her. Of course they might be grown- up, but at least one, the youngest, a late addition maybe. There are more apartments for single people though, they divided the bigger flats during the boom, but the rent is the same as a 4- bedroom house used to be. Some people in the building say the ones like her get the rent paid, and it’s not fair. You never really comment, only smile, uncomfortably. You don’t think she is working, but you are not sure. Maybe she is not allowed. She is very quiet, you seldom hear anything up there. You don’t think she has visitors. You had thought once or twice to invite her for a coffee, but then another week passed so quickly again, and now you aren’t really thinking about it anymore. Steps are all you hear, one person’s steps, or the shower. The flush. All the bathrooms are in the same location of the apartments, as a child you used to imagine how a rat could climb up all the way straight to the roof. She sometimes smiles, but other times she seems to forget. You don’t think she is unfriendly, just absent minded. She has probably gone through a lot. She is only in her mid or late forties, you think, but it’s harder to tell the age with people like her. She thinks of herself as an old woman. That is something new, it has started since she came here, to this country. She has no real mirror in the apartment, but there are some mirrored tiles in the bathroom and from a certain angle, she can see the wrinkled skin of her upper thighs. She thinks of herself as weak now, when she cleans the apartment her arms and hands tremble as if her muscles are easily exhausted. She does not have a scale, but she thinks she has lost weight, she never has much appetite. Maybe she has started to disappear, everyday a little more. Sometimes she has the strangest feeling, she thinks she might already have disappeared without noticing, died and gone, and is only still seeing her body. Maybe she is lying in the shower, the water still running. All the time going about her day, not knowing. It is a passing thought, it comes and goes and her heart doesn’t skip a beat. It has come and gone a number of times. She spends a lot of time in the bathroom, in the shower. That’s what you hear every day, steps, and the shower. She would love a bathtub, to lie in the hot water and slowly immerse her hair, flowing out from under her head, then the back of her head, the ears, then all of it. Listen to the quietness, like a sound, like a comforting pressure against the ears. She thinks of herself as preparing for a journey and not knowing if she will have the strength for all the preparations before having no strength left at all. She is putting things in order, she has come accustomed to be always prepared to move, but this, she thinks, is still different. Everyday she tidies the apartment. She sleeps on the couch and folds away the cover and cushion in a big plastic bag, you know these chequered ones, red and blue, they all seem to have those. She places it in the corner of the wardrobe. Before she does this, she opens the window wide and airs the room and the bedsheets. She empties the coffee grounds and fruit peel into the brown bin, and takes it down every day to the bin area. She washes herself and puts on clean underwear. She puts a crochet cover over the top of the couch and straightens it. She never leaves the dishes overnight. When she puts on her nightgown she thinks of the children, who left her body, long ago, in another country. She scales a breast in her hand, uninvolved, it seems to her like an empty vessel, parched and almost translucent. And her arms fragile and brittle, scrawny like a leafless winter twig. 740 w She thinks of this place as contaminated, the whole country. She washes her hands all the time, she knows it’s irrational. She has been in other, dirtier places, here the roads are paved, there are showers and toilets. Inside the apartment it is better, but not always. Even though nobody ever comes in there and it is only her touching the surfaces, she sometimes has the urge to clean it all, and wash all the clothes she has been wearing. You met her in the yard, when she came out of the basement where the washing machines are, a basket with wet laundry in her hands. You had been meaning to say something, like how much nicer the sheets smell when they can be dried in fresh air, and that spring would hopefully be here soon. But then you didn’t say anything, and watched her walking across the yard. You thought one of the bushes beside the gravel path looked as if it was moving, but even without leaves its branches were too many and too close together to make out details. It was like a vibrating hive, shifting shape ever so slightly. And then, when she was close, sparrows flew up and out from the bush, more and still more, there seemed to be hundreds of them, the bush had consisted of sparrows, they had filled all the space between the scrawny twigs and left it now deserted and bare. When you come home from the shops that afternoon, it’s a Saturday, you sit down on the couch and before you switch on the TV you listen to the sounds from upstairs. Steps. Steps and running water. She sits on the toilet. She has hunkered down on the seat, the bathroom is her riverbank, The trees in front of the window are her ancient woodlands. She is naked and weighing her breast in her hand in an uninvolved way. A liquid issues from the right one. Fluid, like milk. She rubs it between her fingers, its viscous and sticks like a cap of wax on her fingertip She licks it. She is her own potion. The shower is her waterfall. She could grow hair, shiny,strong black hair on her shins and back, her armpits She sings And her voice reverberates in the small room Like a long lost sister’s voice, familiar, hers but not quite, a duet, a canon, encompassing her, carrying her. She gets up, turns around and walks through the waterfall. You know that woman they housed in the apartment above yours. You always hear the shower running.  Shelf life
It is one of those houses, says Grace. You’ll never get them clean, no matter how much you crawl around on your knees and scrub. All the corners and the gaps between things that can’t be moved, there are too many of them, no edge fits neatly onto the next, the building work seems to have been done without measuring, the whole structure is like an improvisation, built from the sketch of a house rather than a construction plan. Doors don’t close tightly, crevices and creases everywhere to fill up with sticky dust. And too many things to fit into too little space, cables and boxes, books, toys and papers and no space to put them to clean around them. No space to shift anything around, all surfaces already taken up by something and no chance to hang up more shelves because the walls are a thin layer of plaster that crumbles away from the drill before it quickly hits solid stone. Everything makeshift: before sitting down to eat the table has to be cleared from books and papers and plates with candles and other futile decoration that was meant as an effort to make the place more homely but drowns in the accumulation of things and is only one more item to gather dust, armchairs and toys have to be moved out of the way and chairs to be collected from their corners and put around the extended table. And everything back afterwards. When you’re about to suffocate the only chance you have is to close your eyes, says Grace. Before going to bed at night the coffee table is moved to the side and the couch is pulled out, the blankets and cushions taken out of the plastic bag underneath it. In the tub the clothes rack and the bucket for mopping the floor with the cloth hanging over the rim to dry. Dirty dishes on the stovetop and some of the clean ones forever in the drying rack and in the oven because there is not enough space in the cupboards. The towel-sized yard off the kitchen where the bins are and the stacks of old cardboard and rows of empty bottles. Clotheslines are spanned between the rain gutter and an old ladder, wood bloated from exposure to the rain, and from there to the funnel from the gas heating. Grace says: Your body tells you when you’re ready. She looks at herself as if examining an unknown species, a body. Something disconnected from her, no message coming through. Not ready. She is smoking a cigarette in the yard. In the light falling through the kitchen door the pegs on the clothesline cast a shadow on the wall that looks like a group of birds sitting on a wire, shivering in a breeze. The lights are on behind the kitchen window next door, the house behind the wall with the same narrow kitchen and make-do extension for the bathroom, and now the backdoor opens with the same screeching sound and the grinding of wood over concrete. A metallic clank and the click of a lighter and the clearing of a throat that she recognizes as the man’s who is her neighbor on this side of the house. They smoke quietly. Some evenings one of them says hello and they have a chat over the wall, without seeing each others faces, but that had to be done straight away, not into minutes and minutes of silence. One day he had compared these evening cigarettes and conversations to being in a prison and that the only time of the day you where allowed a word with the guy in the next cell and had laughed. She knows his face though, fragments of his face, from looking at it for a few seconds when they arrive at the door at the same time and quickly looking away again. She has seen him outside on the street, greeted him glancing over her shoulder, key in the door already, and he locking his car and making his way over to the houses. She fantasized about him sometimes, how one afternoon when she is alone in the house, he would come back early from work and they would meet in the yard, maybe hanging the washing, so she would stand with one foot on the ladder and the other on the window sill and be able to see into the yard, and they would talk and he would ask if she wanted to come over for a cup of coffee, he wasn’t used to being at home this time of the day and didn’t know what to do with himself .It was actually something he had said one afternoon when he did have come back early from work and she was hanging the washing in the yard, but without the invitation. He had said it in a way as if he always worked very hard and never had time for himself. It is just a random fantasy, and she hardly ever gets past the point of the coffee invitation, his face nondistinctive, a man. It is the same with the butcher in the supermarket and the college boy who works late shifts and weekends in the corner shop. Her father has been a butcher. They had lived in a flat above the shop and there was always some piece of meat for the shop sitting in a metal dish on the kitchen table, for thawing over night, underneath a chequered tea towel. For years after they had to give up the shop her father still stored things down there instead of the fridge in the kitchen and she always had to go down into the freezing semidarkness to fetch a can of soup or cold cuts for dinner. Empty shelves with a few items arranged in the same distance from each other. Then they had to give up the house as well and moved here. When she comes into the bathroom to wash her hands after smoking, a stale and visceral smell hits her and she inhales deeply. She can feel their presence like hands on her body, like a ceaseless attempt to find the weak spot and enter, and she closes her eyes against the invasion. They are taking showers, they brush their teeth, it is nothing unwashed or sickly, just bodies, human beings. I can’t be close, says Grace. I can’t be there. Her father is stretched out on the couch, eyes fixed on the silent TV. He will soon fall asleep and wake up after a few moments with a start he will try to conceal, it has been like that since she and Grace were kids. He used to nod off in front of the TV after a long day in the butcher’s shop, but now his falling asleep somehow has a different quality; it is like the brother of death, a harbinger. The wind goes right through the house like a drafty corridor, passing the rolled up carpets and towels at the feet of the badly closing doors and the slit for the mail, it is howling down the fireplace and smashes the mailbox lid against the front door with every heavy gust. In the silences between the rapid ticking of the gas meter. She starts to put away the baby’s toys, trying not to get in the way of the TV. In the next room her mother is putting her grandmother to bed. Neither of them says anything, her father and she never talk much, they communicate through different channels, or at least getting messages across, most of the time the same message. It had changed when she was pregnant, as if the pregnancy was a sign that everything would be allright and having the baby would somehow counterbalance all their failures of the past, no loose ends to be tied up, unspoken words could be left unspoken. For a short time her father had seemed to live in a state of unreserved hope that was surprising and somehow embarrassing for her to witness. She had felt irritation and rejection of his wordless euphoria. She had felt the pressure, but there had been no messages. But now all is back the way it was. She wipes the table clean of the spills from the baby’s dinner and puts the chairs back into their corners. Sometimes words are about to escape but they bounce off her mouth forced shut against their flight and are trapped like birds inside a cave, tiny wings fluttering against the walls. After dinner, the washing up and the TV drama, she takes her clothes in the babies room, she places them over the back of the chair, jeans, socks, sweater, bra and then rolls out the mattress beside the cot and lies in the dark. Through the air shaft between the rooms she can hear her grandmother’s heavy breathing and her mother rustling with the sheets. In the other room her father fumbles with his pills and then she hears him swallow and then everything is quiet for a long while. She has the impulse, unbeknown to her in daylight, to take the baby out of the cot and hold him close to her. It is like a pain, for an instant convulsing through her body and distorting her face and then it passes and she falls asleep. She is waiting on the platform, 7 minutes until the next train reads the display, the next 7 minutes of her life will slip away on a deserted tram platform. She heaves the pram off the train and pushes it down the hill towards the part of the city where she has lived all her life, the light is already fading and the traffic is heavier with people returning from work. She passes by the corner shop, the playground and the park, on the benches teenage boys in working clothes are drinking cans of beer in the first hint of spring in the evening air and for a moment she has the familiar sensation that she is about to disappear. Just a subtle shift, a stumble and then a smooth and imperceptible transition. Like Grace. She often thinks she could go down this road at any time and tell from the light and the sounds of the city what day of the week and time of the day it is, like a sunny Saturday just before noon maybe, transparent sky and sharp-edged shadows, always the distant whine of helicopter rotor blades or a circular saw the overtone in the frequency of the quieter than usual city morning, behind which all other sounds taper and soften. But now the pictures that sometimes float up inside her are like from another country, the same street in an era that appears to be much further in the past than the 15 or 20 years that have gone by since she and Grace were teenagers. Between what she sees now and these pictures some sort of event seems to have occurred that divides the times, like a war or the breakdown of a system, and when she passes someone on the street she knows but has lost touch with it is as if they are survivors of whatever happened and have missed their chance to push along with the young, trample over this without sentimentality and make everything new. They recognize each other and then quickly turn away. But nothing has happened, only time has passed. When she comes up to the house the baby has fallen asleep in the pram and she opens the door carefully in the hope nobody will make a noise to wake him up, but the room is empty. Hand at her chest to unbutton her coat, she walks over to the half open door of the room her grandmother and mother sleep in. Her grandmother is asleep and her father is standing with his back to the door, face turned to the window and rigid. He is holding one of his mothers hands in his. For a moment her heart clenches the way it had one night at the sight of the cans of soup and tinned tomatoes neatly placed far apart from each other in the empty shop shelves. A fraction of time among other fractions, barely material for a short story, fragments, rooms, a certain incidence of light and then another angle, close –up, cigarette smoke curling into an evening sky, another street, tears streaming down cheeks on a bus looking out the window at the passing landscape, scraps, cut-outs with no connection to shape a novel, and she wonders if she has been silly not to expect a whole life to be that way. Then she finishes unbuttoning her coat and turns around to the hall, to the kitchen, to preparing dinner.  My mother knew all about food. Its seasons, its price, its preparation.
Combinations, textures, cooking time. How to cut and filet and take apart. When to add salt, when to reduce the heat. There were special spice blends, Sunday roasts and making use of leftovers. Everything was usable for something, giblets, kidneys, my mother made her own breadcrumbs shredding old rolls. There was the concept of “making your favourite dish”, but no “I don’t like that”. “I’m full”. Waste not, want not. My father knew all about music. Music was his companion everywhere. The tapes in the car, his life’s soundtrack. I knew them all by heart. Could sing along with him, proud to speak the same language for once, but also nervous to be out of tune. Music was the only place for emotions other than anger and tedium. Tapping a rhythm, beating a rhythm. Pauses and breaks. About lulling melodies and unpredictable strokes of the gong. Drums and screeching guitars. Knowing when to turn up the volume to drown out all other sounds. How to build up tension to the ear splitting crescendo. The silence after. Food, after the silence. Food “instead of”. Or no food. Food as. Syrup and hard crusts. So, food is tricky for me. It is a tricky thing to have issues with, because it’s part of the everyday. It is a necessity. You can’t withdraw from food. Or you die. And I don’t want to die. So, you play around with it. It takes on meaning, it changes meanings, it’s full of symbolic actions. And substitute actions. It’s full of obsessive compulsion, tiny actions done with a dry mouth. It’s full of trying to gather enough saliva to at least swallow, if not spit. It’s full of accepting transgressions of boundaries because there is no other way. It's like preparing to be raped over and over and over again. And your strategy is to be elsewhere in the meantime, detached, looking down on your body. Oral invasion. But that doesn’t work. Dissociation. You need to come back, you can't be away all the time. Or you’re dead. I don’t want to be dead. It’s like someone spits on you and the saliva, the mucus, you can still feel it on your face, after whipping it off, after washing, scrubbing, tearing your skin off. You can’t undo it, it was there. So it’s full of accepting it, of toning down the sensation to an acceptable level. You can’t take off all your skin. Or you’re dead. I don’t want to be dead. There is a moment, I was in the mortuary with my dead father, I wanted to say goodbye. Alone. I howled. I needed that howl, I wanted to be left alone with him and howl. But she opened the door, mid howl, and the moment was destroyed, kaputt, ruined, smashed, wrecked, broken. When I think about it I see a child, a small girl, being so angry she doesn’t know where to go with her anger and she steps on a doll, a doll, that is broken already, and she stamps and pounds, tears out the legs and arms and kicks her, beats her, because she cannot be repaired. But I can’t go back and undo it. I can’t go back into the mortuary and howl, holding the hand of my dead father. His body was burnt the next day. I had thought about going back, on my own, before the cremation. But I had been so tired from talking to the funeral director, the priest, from choosing a song for the funeral. His last piece of music. That knocked me out. We only get one chance at certain things. When they are done, they are done. You need to tone down the sensation. Keep the howl inside. You can howl when you jump off a highrise, or a cliff. All the way down, in the wind. But then you’re dead. I don’t want to be dead. Food. It’s about negotiating, giving, taking. Waiting. Trying. Waiting again. Abandoning half way. Sometimes negotiations break down. But you can’t be at war the whole time. Then everybody is dead at the end. I don’t want to be dead. I need it, I don't want to need it. I don’t want to need it at all, I don’t want to need it from you. It’s about quantities and counting, portioning and rearranging. It’s about taking some off there and adding something here. It’s about temporality, and it’s about units of time. The units are negotiable, sometimes. What counts for a day, what counts for a week. What is the frame of reference? How far into the future do you go? It’s about a limit that is one day exhausted. It’s about budgeting. Economizing. Maybe your budget is smaller than others. You don’t know what your budget is. Maybe you are already in the overdraft. You could live as if there is no tomorrow. But if there is no tomorrow, I will be dead. I don’t want to be dead. |
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