Decompression (14 page)

And with that he turned around, walked down the gravel path, and carefully closed the garden gate behind him. We watched him cross the sandlot and disappear into the Casa Raya.

“What was that about?” asked Antje.

“I don’t know,” I said.

She shrugged. “Probably Vicks NyQuil plus Nenad’s red wine.”

“That he got from you?”

“How could I know he’d drink it all at one sitting?”

I had to laugh. I was doing fine. I’d done nothing other than stand there, and nevertheless I’d emerged the victor. Or rather, precisely because of that. Everything under control. Antje looked up at me.

“Why did he call you ‘Monstercock’?”

I briefly stroked her hair. We went back inside together.

JOLA’S DIARY, FIFTH DAY

Wednesday, November 16. Evening
.

I’m just wiping something wet off my mouth and looking to see whether it’s blood when my phone rings. It’s Hartmut the Great
.

Me: Hello, Daddy. Him: the usual stream of words, without commas or periods. I sometimes wonder what would happen if he dialed the wrong number. Would he notice? Nobody can ask questions more beautifully without wanting to know the answers. With Hartmut the Great, it’s “How’re you doing, good, glad to hear it,” a single unbroken sentence. At some point I stopped being willing to listen to him in mute silence the whole time, and since then our relationship has been difficult. A fact that has managed to escape his notice, as far as I can tell
.

The old man’s in the corner, massaging his knuckles and shivering. I point to the cell phone at my ear and soundlessly form the name
Hartmut
with my lips
.

Hartmut talks about all the trouble he’s having with his new project, railing against West German Broadcasting, the North Rhine—Westphalia Film Foundation, his slow-assed screenwriter, his young director, who’s idiotic enough to take himself for an artist, and, of course, his bitchy leading lady
.

Occasionally I go “Mm-hmm” and “Golly.” I haven’t said anything to Hartmut about Lotte. He could probably get the part for me. Why didn’t you say so, baby girl? A little telephone call, a bit of pressure. But after that, Lotte would be dead and not my Lotte anymore. For that matter, I could just blow some director so he’d let me play the sidekick in his new comedy
.

Hartmut’s still on about the leading lady. What airs she puts on. What she takes herself for. Who does she think she is
.

I almost have to laugh. Such relief after the old man’s whacked me one. Now he’ll think I’m laughing at him, I’m not taking him seriously. Which will make him even more furious. At the same time, I’m afraid. The old man has destroyed my soul. Only destroyed souls laugh when someone hits them. I take care to see that it happens regularly. So he can work it off in small doses. If he should let things build up, he might inadvertently bash my head in one day. I’m most afraid when he doesn’t lay a hand on me. If I look at it like that, today’s a good day. I’m not even bleeding. The old man always takes care that no one will be able to see anything tomorrow. He can go ballistic, but systematically, please
.

Hartmut next attacks the family. Mama’s got a new hair color again. The Botox hasn’t been a total success. His jokes are the worst: “So I confess to my wife that I cheated on her last night, and she says, ‘But Hartmut, that was me you were screwing.’ ”

How long has it been since his blather could still hurt me? Since I wanted to cry out, Daddy, you’re speaking to your daughter! The woman you’re talking about is my mother! I believe I started putting up barriers before I could spell
barriers.
A good preparation for the old man. I was a young person developing the abilities I’d need when I was thirty. Maybe I should thank Hartmut. Many thanks, Daddy, for making it clear to me early on what shits men are. And for calling at just the right moment
.

Not half an hour ago, while I was sitting up in bed, scribbling away, the old man suddenly appeared in the doorway
.

I want to know, right now, what you’re writing and why you’re giggling like an imbecile
.

Fuck off
.

Give it here
.

Never
.

Give it here or I’ll break all your bones
.

I won’t—you will—I won’t—you will, just like in kindergarten. The winner’s the one who first resorts to violence. Theo ripped a few pages out of my notebook and threw it on the floor. I curled up on the bed while he read them. Interminably. How long can a man take to grasp the information that his girlfriend has fucked somebody else? Finally he crumpled up the pages and let them drop. Very well written in parts, he said. Did I want to be an author now? I didn’t answer. I waited for him to grab me. There was a lot of whining instead: I couldn’t do that to him. He loves me. Was I trying to kill him? I couldn’t leave him. He knows how badly he treats me, he said, how little he deserves me, how often he’s cheated on me or at least tried to—in any case, he hasn’t forgotten that. But it’s different with me, he said, because while he’s a bad person anyway, a devil incarnate, I on the other hand am an angel, his angel, innocent and pure. While he spoke, he started drinking. He drank down the rest of yesterday’s wine straight from the bottle and pulled the cork out of a new one. His little girl mustn’t let herself be soiled by some nonentity, he said, by some diving goon, no matter how completely he stuffs me with his big dick, dirty whore that I am!

And I thought, Hit me and get it over with. Don’t wait too long. Fear tied me up. My face was twitching uncontrollably. My inner voice kept screaming, Pull yourself together! Be strong! Be cold! He can’t do anything to you! He won’t get your soul! But he’s had my soul a long time; what I have left is my body, and it lay there defenseless while the old man poured fuel on his own fire. He told me what a piece of shit I was. Didn’t I have an ounce of self-respect, he wanted to know, doing it with Zero of the Island, a complete loser who ran away from home so he could play the part of a super-Zampanò here, and why should he have any respect for me, would I actually beg for a little respect, and I screamed
, Limpdick!
and finally he whacked me one, and then my phone rang
.

What would Hartmut say if I interrupted him? Sorry, Daddy, I have to hang up, Theo would like to rape me again before he’s too drunk. He’d probably say what he’s saying now: that he’s glad we like the island so much, that he really doesn’t have a lot of time to talk, and that he’s calling for a specific reason, namely to inform me that Bittmann has set sail in the
Dorset
again and will put in at Puerto Calero, Lanzarote, sometime in the next few days. On board, together with Bittmann
himself,
there will probably be the usual riffraff, a little theater, a little film, a little literature. In any case, Bittmann wants to give a small dinner aboard the
Dorset
next week, and it wouldn’t do any harm to be in attendance, no harm at all, especially to a woman in my position
.

Hartmut hangs up. I go “Mm-hmm” and “Golly” for a while longer, until the old man’s finished his bottle. Then I say, “Okay, Daddy, talk to you soon,” and put the telephone away
.

The old man’s sitting at the table, propping up his head with his hands. That’s the position he feels sorry in. Can I forgive him one more time, he wants to know. I’m completely in the right, he says, to cheat on an asshole like him with another man. Because I deserve someone who’s nice to me. He reaches out a hand. But I’m in no mood for cuddling. The old man’s already so crocked he can hardly open the next bottle. When I see him sitting like that, why can’t I gloat? Why does it just seem sad? He looks so old. And so lonely. I know a couple of other lines from his novel by heart: “Men feel hatred when they should feel compassion. With women, it’s the reverse.”

After today’s diving, Sven asked me if I could imagine moving to the island. He was serious. He’d given it some thought. His intentions were thoroughly honorable. He wouldn’t listen to rational arguments. As if the world might come to an end next week! I could have laughed, almost. I’m already so screwed up that I start backing away even when people mean me well. Sven cajoled me into agreeing to go back to Mala. He could hardly keep his hands to himself. I asked him to give me time. Let things develop. I sounded like the Dalai Lama, he sounded like young Werther. And yet he’s ten years older than I am. Nevertheless, the afternoon turned out lovely. Lunch in Teguise and discreet hand-holding in the cactus gardens. More like a contented married couple than new lovers. The lonely old man faded beyond the horizon
.

But there he is now, sitting hunched over the table. It appears that Antje’s supplying him with bottles; he’s always got one in reserve. As long as he boozes and broods, he leaves me in peace. Maybe Theo and Antje could fall in love, and everybody would live happily ever after. The four of us, next-door neighbors
.

9

I couldn’t sleep. I kept replaying the scene with Theo in my head. Where did he get off, calling me a coward because I left Germany? The cowards were people like him, people who saw through the game and went on playing it anyway. I’d already heard enough of that kind of talk, complete with set phrases, from clients. They railed against the achievement-oriented society and sent their children to Chinese classes. They rejected the ideologies of economic growth and took to the streets for their next pay raise. They accused executives of greed and searched the Internet for the stock funds that promised the highest yield. They settled down in front of their brand-new flat-screen TVs and watched talk-show discussions about the evils of capitalism. Everybody cursed and swore, everybody played along. It made me want to puke. And in the end, only broken, burned-out types emerged. Guys like Theo. The fact that he was smart enough to recognize the absurdity made things even worse. If he called me a coward,
it could mean only that in reality he envied me. The other question was, What had Jola told him? Nothing at all, probably. Theo had probably just been carried away by his imagination. The best thing for me to do was nothing. Ninety percent of all problems resolve themselves if you keep calm.

It was shortly after midnight. I got up and went to the kitchen, where I drank a glass of water and ate some olives and cheese cubes directly from the refrigerator. That wouldn’t help me go to sleep. I went into our little office. Emile was sitting on the keyboard, waiting for me. When I reached out my hand, he climbed my fingers like stairs, scurried over my wrist and up my arm, and nestled in the crook. In November, the nights became a little chilly. I had enough body heat to give some of it away. Using one hand so as not to disturb Emile, I turned on the computer, opened
Up and Down
’s home page, and after a brief search found the archived episodes. April 16, 2010: “Deadly Lies.” The soft clicking of paws on terra-cotta tiles came from the hall, followed by snuffling in the doorway. Todd entered the room, joyously wagging his tail because he’d found me. I shoved him back into the hall with my foot and closed the door. A snitch was the last thing I needed.

Two guys in a café setting. One, about twenty years old, sported a baseball cap and a three-day beard, which was supposed to make him seem casual and congenial. The other, not much older and properly clean-cut, was dressed in a suit, which immediately identified him as the nice guy’s enemy. I had to grin. It was typical: the villain in a television show produced by moneygrubbing jerks was a moneygrubbing jerk. Capitalism denouncing its most faithful servants.

They talked about the nice guy’s café. The guy in the suit,
having invested in the nice guy’s café, wanted to see some profits now, while the nice guy asked for a little more time to get his business on its feet. The suit started to make some nasty threats, but then a blond bimbo came up to the table and hung her solarium-tanned silicon décolletage over the nice guy’s shoulder. I fast-forwarded. The summary had promised an appearance by Bella Schweig. Emile’s cold feet moved in the crook of my arm, but then he sat still again.

Bella stood in front of an apartment door, biting her lips. She wore a garishly printed, somewhat-too-youthful dress that nevertheless presented her figure quite appropriately. At last I could take my time and look at her calmly. I could sit there and observe every detail of her face and every movement of her body. She tousled her hair with both hands. She rubbed her eyes and pinched her cheeks. When the camera showed her in close-up again, her makeup was smeared and tears were running down her face. Then she pressed the doorbell. I sat there spellbound. A band of pain tightened my chest. Of course, she was the most beautiful woman I knew, but there was also something behind that beauty, something that went deeper. Something that touched me. The viewer felt a constant urge to call out to her:
You shouldn’t do that
.

A good-looking man, older and graying at the temples, opened the door. I liked his plain gray knitted sweater and his dark jeans. Their conversation revealed that he was Bella’s ex-boyfriend and didn’t want to let her in. But she wept uncontrollably and eventually threw herself into his arms. She’d been in the neighborhood only by chance, she said, and down in the street she’d witnessed a terrible accident. A truck had run over a cyclist. Blood everywhere, she said. Then she fainted.

I thought she did all that very well. And I was glad for her because her partner in that scene looked so much more sensible than the two wankers in the café.

He carried her to a couch and laid her on it with her feet raised. Apparently he was a physician. He touched her forehead with one hand and her belly with the other. The pain in my chest increased. I turned off the computer and sat for a while in the dark. Without my prodding him, Emile left my arm and climbed up on the softly crackling monitor.