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"I asked you to come here, because I want to say goodbye."
"That's what I thought, to tell you the truth."
"I wasn't entirely sure you'd show up. We haven't seen each other for a long time."
"Time is subjective. What's a long time?"
"Nine years. It's been nine years. But I was prepared. I thought I might very well end up standing here all by myself. I didn't think you'd come, just because I asked you to. And in writing at that."
"It was the card."
"I had the feeling it was."
"It reminded me of before. I couldn't say No. You knew I'd come if you sent me a card like that. A picture like that. A wedding picture, or whatever it was supposed to be. So stupid and tacky, and black-and-white, too."
"I hoped it would catch your attention."
"I would've come anyway."
"You really mean that?"
"I think so. I'm pretty sure I would've come, even if you hadn't sent me a picture of a black-and-white wedding. After all this time. But why here of all places? Why are we meeting at this intersection? Up here, inside this strange shut-down traffic tower. You and your bizarre places."
"It was convenient for me. I have work to do up here. Just a little bit over the city. Not too high up. I wouldn't have taken the job if it had been. If you're up too high, you see too far."
"You're still afraid."
"Pretty much. Just like before."
"We had to meet on this side, of course"
"This side?"
"On this side of town! It's somehow …"
"Anachronistic?"
"It's as if nothing had happened between then and now. You still live in the past. The city is twice the size it was before, when we were growing up here, on this side. And you haven't budged. You're still here, on this side. And right here, where we're standing, it used to be a kind of hub. It wanted to be one, at any rate, or maybe it had to be one, I don't know... But today?"
"I live in the past."
"You admit it? Just like that?"
"It's a fact."
"It's not exactly something to be proud of."
"When we were given freedom, I started to live in the past. But you knew that already. That's why you went away. You couldn't stand seeing how I insisted on living in the past. You didn't want that for yourself. Besides, it isn't something one can be proud of, now, is it?"
"Well, that's frank at least. Back then, you were full of indignation when I told you so. You were beside yourself."
"I was full of indignation. I didn't want anyone to notice that I lived in the past, that I was behind the times, that I had stayed behind. I wanted… I wanted to revel in this freedom too, I wanted to feel that collective feeling you all radiated; I wanted to feel your hope. I didn't want to be a wallflower, a bore, some die-hard. What you told me back then was hard to take."
"But what I said was true. I said that you lived in the past, that you'd stopped moving forward. I meant it literally. I mean, you refused to budge. You wanted to stay here. You wouldn't even come with us over there once. You refused to take a single step. And you were always so indignant when I tried to talk to you about it."
"I was afraid I'd stop."
"And what's that supposed to mean?"
"I was afraid that if I went over there, if I left these fixed, these magical, these crooked bricks and slabs of concrete and fences surrounding me behind… I thought it would be the end of me."
"Why? You didn't think wolves were waiting for you on the other side, did you? Don't be a fool."
"Wolves? You're being unfair."
"Then why? What was there to be afraid of?"
"You're asking me why? Because the wall that surrounded me was my foothold. I knew I would never get lost. Not really, not ever truly lost. The world stopped somewhere. My world. Back then. I felt safe, safe in a way that no one could begin to really understand, not the others, not you. I hardly even understood it myself. Until we were given freedom and the world suddenly got this dangerous outer boundary. A border that I could trip over, fall over; maybe there was an abyss on the other side of it - who knew what was on the other side of it."
"Are you having one of your five minutes of philosophy again?"
"You've never taken me seriously. That's the problem. "
"…"
"…"
"You're being sentimental."
"Sensitive. I'm being sensitive."
"Fine. And why? Why were you so terrified of everyone who lived on the other side."
"Not the people. It was me. I was afraid of what would happen to me in a world with no restrictions."
"Excuse me, but what are you talking about? You were brought here from a country where there was no freedom of press, where women didn't have the right to vote, where anyone who opposed the government was tortured and you wanted nothing more than to live in a world with restrictions?"
"I must've felt lost."
"Here? With us?"
"I had the wrong picture. I'd imagined things would be different here. I'd been told stories."
"Stories."
"I thought everything would be good here."
"You thought what?"
"I was only a child. How was I supposed to know that a place like that doesn't exist."
"You know better now then. We're only humans here, too. What a disappointment!"
"Yes. Although I wouldn't be so cynical about it. I was disappointed, more than I wanted to admit. I felt lost. More lost than I'd ever felt before in my entire life."
"What a touching story. You should write a script and send it to Hollywood. They could turn it into a B movie. More lost than ever before in my entire life. There's a title for you. Perfect for the dream factory."
"It was through you that things started to change for me. A little bit, at least."
"Through me?"
"That time when we rode our bikes together for the first time. It was winter. It was after sixth period. Don't you remember? We were having a block period in physics during sixth and seventh period, and during the break in the schoolyard you came and stood next to me, and I'll never forget what you said. Without looking at me, you said, "Listen, I know something better than physics. I'll show you where you'll be living from now on. This city is a world in itself, it takes time to discover it. " That was the first thing you said to me."
"I'd forgotten all about that. But it sounds like something I'd have said. I wanted to impress you. You came from the big, wide world. I wanted to get to know you. The others thought you were too chubby and way too quiet, but I thought you had a special face. I don't know exactly what it was. There was something in your face. All I know is that I wanted to spend time with you, I wanted to get the chance to really talk to you. I remember that."
"We set off on our bikes. Don't tell me, you don't remember that either?"
"No, I don't, to tell you the truth."
"Behind that small high-rise apartment complex on the edge of our nice little neighborhood. The so-called "Thermometer Apartment Complex." I remember how the name always amused me. We rode our bikes along the border of the world for hours. At times we got really close to it and through the fence we could see houses and gardens; sometimes only a waterway separated us from the other side. We stopped a few times to rest and leaned against those grayish-beige slabs. And the entire time you were telling me stories. You'd show me the place where you liked to build a fire in the summertime. Or the place where you'd recently thrown rocks over the fence, but had to run away because you caught sight of uniforms and guns. Things like that."
"What a braggart. I was a show-off."
"I liked your stories."
"That was my sole intention."
"And then you told me that the entire city was enclosed, encircled. And that though I could try as hard as I wanted, I would never be able to get lost. "It's a microcosm," you said. It was, back then."
"Those must've been my five minutes of philosophy, I guess."
"And then you wanted to kiss me."
"Naturally!"
"But where I come from, people who love each other don't just do that. Not their first time out together. People take their time before doing things like that. I was insulted and wanted to go."
"That I remember. And that had made me want to kiss you even more. I liked it. I liked that certain something in your face and also your determination. There was no doubt in your mind that things just didn't work that way. I also liked the fact that you thought it was love. That was so…"
" …"
"Don't look at me like that. It was romantic. It really was."
"Love is a serious thing. It wasn't romantic for me, it was serious."
"Oh, let bygones be bygones! Let's talk about something else. We never agree when it comes to love anyway."
"No, never. You're right about that."
"And now you probably want to remind me that that's the way the cookie crumbles."
"Cookie?"
"I'm sorry. We're standing here on Crumb Corner and that made me think of the stupid saying."
"You cab drivers used to call it Crumb Corner, didn't you?"
"Yeah. Crumb Corner. We called it that because of the café on the corner. Who knows, maybe they still call it that today. The intersection looks different, though."
"Yes, life goes on."
"And you're leaving. But you're not just leaving the city, you're leaving the country."
"I want to see new things, do new things."
"Isn't changing everything all at once a bit radical?"
"Radical?"
"For years, you refuse to even set foot on the other side of town, and now you're moving to a completely different country. Can't you do anything in moderation?"
"But during the last few years, the last nine years, so many things have happened."
"What kinds of things? Don't tell me you actually went to the other side?"
"I've been there. Lots of times. I've learned to live with the size of the city, and I've also learned to accept its boundlessness, the terrifying fact that there is no wall. I learned how to discover it. It took a while, but then …"
"Then what?"
"I did what I did before."
"What was that?"
"The same thing I did with you. I got on my bike and set off. I had a brand-new map. I was terrified of getting lost. I was so afraid I wouldn't be able to find my way back home again."
"You always were afraid of lots of things. Almost like a child."
"And I did get lost. I didn't get back until three-thirty on the morning, jittery and totally frantic. I had to take a cab. I chained my bike up somewhere and the cab driver had to give me a slip of paper with the name of the street on it."
"That's the most ridiculous story I've ever heard. You're dramatizing. You're an adult. You're an intelligent, independent adult. You really think I buy your story?"
"I'm lucky that the cab driver gave me that slip of paper. The next day I took the tram and found my bike where I'd locked it up. It was almost as if it had been waiting for me. I unlocked it and rode it back into town. Slower this time. And I felt calmer, oddly enough. I looked at the map every now and again and when I got tired, I rode home. After that day, I didn't get lost very much anymore. For months, I'd go riding around like that every weekend."
"Why do you make your life sound like a play? You ascribe symbolic meaning to just about everything you see and do. You give it too much weight, you make it pregnant with meaning. But it's probably not your fault. Lots of people are like that, I suppose. And now you're leaving for good?"
"No, not exactly. I've rented a small apartment in our old neighborhood. I'll be back now and then."
"But why? Why are you leaving in the first place?"
"I want to discover everything that lies beyond the border. It's like a magnet, it's pulling me toward it. Toward everything behind my own border. The one that only exists in this city, nowhere else in the world."
"At least you're going some place sunny. I wouldn't have been surprised to hear that you'd moved straight into a fog bank… Just to make a statement."
"No, no more fog. I prefer the sun."
"And what about your fears? All those things you're afraid of? Faraway places and such. What about falling into that abyss, or what was it you called it? Has it disappeared?"
"Fear. Yes, I feel fear."
"But?"
"I want to find out if it'll work anyway."
"If what'll work?"
"Making a fresh start. Going where I want, when I want. And when I do it the way I want, if I'll like it. And also…"
"And also what?"
"I want to find out what it feels like to have enough time to say "Goodbye." That's what I want to know. What it's like to leave a place after having had enough time to properly take leave of everything. And also, what it's like to come to a new place, to leave one's glass case, one's safe cell and come to a new place."
"You're philosophizing up a storm today. But, I think I ought to get going now."
"Okay. Take good care of yourself, my friend. And thanks for coming."
"It was my pleasure. Maybe I'll come by and visit you sometime. You sure are one queer bird."
"Alright, then. Goodbye."
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From: Kanzlerinnen schwindelfrei. Über Berlin.
(Female Chancellors free from Giddiness. Stories Set in Berlin.)
Transit Press, Berlin, 2005 |
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