Decompression (16 page)

I’m happy. That sounds funny—I wouldn’t have thought I’d ever write such a sentence. I don’t even recognize myself. A strange woman with bright eyes and a knowing smile. Happiness is always a secret. Happiness always belongs to yourself alone. People write all kinds of drivel about happiness, and it always sounds false somehow. The beautiful part is that neither of us has a clue about happiness. I don’t, and Sven doesn’t either. That’s obvious from his embarrassment. From his tic of pushing me away if I touch him. From the way he’s always trying to dodge me. He doesn’t want to believe it. Can’t believe he deserves it. And then all at once he pulls me against him. Fastens himself to my mouth. In the middle of the supermarket. While his diving instructor colleagues look on, and through their eyes the entire island. We know absolutely nothing about happiness. Sven’s Antje and my old man weren’t very good guides. We’ll have to teach ourselves. Each in his own way. Sven struggles, I press forward. He probably has it harder than I do. More to lose. He’s going to have to hurt a sweet person like Antje. And whom must I hurt? Only the old man. That’s brutal, that
only.
I offered Theo a ticket on the next flight back to Berlin and told him he could stay in the apartment at first. A trial separation. So we can calmly wait and see how everything develops. With me. With Sven. Then we’ll figure out what’s next. But he doesn’t want to go. He says things like, I’m not abandoning the field to Little Shit. I have a right to be cuckolded by you. I’m staying until the bitter end. And: If nothing else, I can always write about it
.

That would be lovely, I throw in. And see how his eyes flash. But he controls himself. Gets a grip. Says, That
would
be lovely. Exactly right
.

Of course, I knew he wouldn’t go home. Did I ask him just to make him mad? Is it even possible that I want him to stay? Do I need him as an audience? Sometimes I wonder whether my happiness exists only for his sake, only to make him suffer. Whether any Sven would be possible without Theo. Then Sven wouldn’t be the end of Theo’s story, but only the next chapter in it. A new quality. At this thought, sheer horror seized me
.

I cried out, You’ll never lay a hand on me again. If I tell Sven about this, he’ll break every bone in your body! He’ll kill you! It sounded like, Wait until I get my big brother. Was probably meant that way too
.

The old man says, You love me. You’re not capable of leaving me. A little sun, a little sea, feeling good—you’re not the type for that sort of thing, not at all. You need me, Jola. I just have to wait until you realize Little Shit can’t make you happy
.

I tremble at the thought that he could be right
.

At night Sven comes to the window and calls softly. He waits until Antje’s asleep before he sneaks out. Which means he still hasn’t told her. I’m applying no pressure. The old man has taught me at least one thing: you can’t force men to do anything
.

We go down near the water. Sven lays a camping mat on some flat rocks. At night the Atlantic roars even louder than it does during the day. The racket drowns out our cries. The darkness is absolute. A kind of darkness unknown in Berlin. Even if the old man were standing a few meters away, he could neither hear nor see us
.

Sex and oceans—many corny things have been said about that subject. I’m afraid they all apply. Mostly it happens pretty fast. Then we wrap ourselves up in a blanket and wait half an hour before beginning again. More slowly, with a different sort of force
.

Sometimes, in the midst of it all, panic suddenly overcomes me. Something’s not right. The whole thing’s too improbable. I’m losing control. It’s as though Sven could at any moment rip off his face, and someone else’s would emerge from under it. My father’s. Or the old man’s. Then all at once hatred is mixed in with pleasure. I want to draw up my feet and kick Sven in the stomach so that he falls backward into the breakers. When Theo slaps me around, at least I know: this is reality. Unmistakably. Senseless, unfair, brutal reality. No error possible
.

Such thoughts soon vanish again. Most likely I’m just not used to being treated well. It scares me
.

We go back, not touching each other, and separate in silence. Each to one side of the sandlot, each to a different house. In the morning, when I wake up: a sudden flood of happiness. Like a child on Christmas morning, I know something lovely is in store. I get up and make coffee for me and the old man
.

11

We strolled down to the port. The evening was mild. The island enjoys about three hundred mild evenings per year, but this particular evening had something special. The breeze was so soft it made me suspicious again. The contours of people and buildings looked vaguely blurry. On the other hand, all sounds seemed somehow to have sharp outlines. Theo and Jola also noticed something. While we walked along the steep asphalt road, he kept moving closer and closer to her. After we reached the harbor promenade, she allowed him to put his arm around her. She even leaned her head on his shoulder. When I saw that, I felt relief. I let myself drop back a few steps and looked in another direction, as if we weren’t together.

The small group of people stood out even from a distance. Gathered at the spot on the quay where the berths for yachts over twenty meters began, they didn’t appear to be waiting for a table at
one of the restaurants. Rather they were gazing across the harbor basin toward the arrival jetty on the inner side of the mole.

“Can you believe these morons?” Jola said. “They’re actually waiting for that Stadler bitch.”

Yvette Stadler was a famous German singer and actress, whose name I’d heard for the first time that morning. Antje’s Spanish was good enough to extract news from the chatter she listened to on Crónicas Radio, and at breakfast she’d relayed a bulletin: the sailing yacht
Dorset
, chartered by the German protein-bar heir Lars Bittmann, was expected to arrive early this evening at the marina in Puerto Calero. Among the passengers on board was the aforesaid Yvette Stadler. Antje laughed when I asked who that was.

“Just drive over to Puerto Calero and take a look.”

“Are you nuts?” I asked. “Why would I do that?”

And there I was. It had been Jola’s idea, like everything else we’d done over the past few days. She had on insect sunglasses and a fancy turban, accessories to what she called “going incognito.” No matter what disguise she wore, I would have recognized the space between her teeth.

“I’m looking forward to seeing all those dopey faces,” Jola said.

“Just imagine, Sven,” Theo added. “They’ve been waiting two hours, and for a B-list celebrity.”

It was the first time in two days that Theo hadn’t called me “Little Shit.” His eyes were gleaming with happy anticipation, which shone under Jola’s sunglasses as well. The
Dorset
seemed to mean something to both of them.

“Bittmann always does this,” Jola explained. “He gathers together some members of the cultural jet set, sails halfway around
the world, and faxes his guest list to the news agencies. The most famous person on the list isn’t really on board at the time.”

Thinking about German celebrities made me nauseous with indifference. I didn’t understand what was so funny about watching a few island tourists waiting in vain for Yvette Stadler. But Theo and Jola were feeling cheerful for the same reason—the first time that had happened in days—and I spotted Dave among the group of onlookers. He was taller by a head than anyone he was standing with. Theo’s arm was still around Jola’s shoulders. I couldn’t have wished for a better statement to make in public; I even imagined we might be at a turning point. I thought maybe Jola had just been using me in recent days to win Theo back. Women pulled things like that, ultimately harmless tricks that led straight back into normality.

“Dave!”

He turned to us, and I could see him register what
he
saw, and in what order: me, then Jola and Theo, and then the fact that they were walking arm in arm while I strolled along next to them, relaxed, hands in my pockets. “Hey,” I said to Dave, patting him on the shoulder. We always spoke in English. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

“Just paying my respects to a world-famous beauty.”

“Yvette Stadler? Don’t tell me you’re a fan.”

“Christ, no.” Dave laughed. “I’m here for the boat!”

“The
Dorset
’s the biggest gaff cutter in the world,” Jola explained. “Built in 1926, meticulously restored in 2006. Sails under the British flag.”

The look Dave gave her showed his deep amazement. It was as though Jola had just changed from a talking doll to a genuine
human person right before his eyes. “So you know about the
Dorset?
” he asked her.

“She’s a legend! She held her own against modern boats at the Superyacht Cup in 2007, then took two first places at the Saint-Tropez Regatta the following year!”

Another few seconds and Dave would be proposing marriage to her. “You’re saying she can do nine knots?”

That was surely a trick question. No boat wins a regatta with a speed of nine knots. Jola’s mouth spread in a wide grin. “You’ve got to be kidding! Bittmann says she’s done seventeen or more, and she was recorded as breaking twenty-two back in the twenties.”

It was all over for Dave. Generously and resignedly, Theo removed his arm from Jola’s shoulders. Once again, he was lending out his girlfriend.

“You know a thing or two about boats,” Dave said.

“My dad’s always been into sailing,” Jola answered as they took a few steps to one side. “I was co-skipper by the time I was twelve. I knew exactly when to reef the sails or start the engine.”

The longing expressed in Dave’s body language was something to behold. He bent his six-foot-four frame slightly so he could come as close as possible to Jola’s face. While she spoke, he stared at her mouth. Theo followed my eyes. His lips curled in the familiar sneering smile. “Anyone who wants to own a mare like that has to be tolerant when other stallions come sniffing around her,” he said.

At first I thought I’d misheard him, and then I didn’t know how to reply.

“Look at
me
,” he said. He spread out his arms like a Mafia
godfather. “I put up with you banging her. So you have to put up with the Englishman gawking at her a little.”

“Scotsman,” I said.

The upper part of a mast appeared over the top of the mole. The ship the mast belonged to must still have been a good distance away. Before long we could see the topsail, and a little later the gaff. Apparently the mast was some forty meters high. The
Dorset
was big. And fast. No wonder Dave had crossed half the island to welcome her. Even though he now had eyes only for Jola. The others in the waiting group stretched out arms and index fingers and pointed out the tip of the mast to their companions. Some of them carried binoculars.

Theo’s hand gripped my arm. Another favorable statement. Everyone could see how well we got along. I briefly wondered when I’d started using the word
statement
in connection with appearing in public.

“One advantage,” Theo said, “is that I’ve always got a guy standing next to me who’s going through the same shit I go through.” He patted my shoulder encouragingly.

“Thanks all the same,” I said. “But let me make this clear one more time: I’m not ‘banging’ Jola.”

“Perfectly clear.” He was staring squinty-eyed at the harbor entrance. “You screw her with great tenderness.”

The
Dorset
was rapidly approaching. The skipper had probably received instructions to head into port under full sail. It made an undeniably impressive sight.

“Not that either,” I said. “Seriously. We’re not having an affair or anything like that.”

Theo spun around as though something had bitten him. All the former friendliness in his demeanor was gone. He said, “Do you know what honor is?”

I shook my head and got angry, both in the same moment. Of course I knew what honor was. I just didn’t understand where the question was leading. Moreover, our public statement looked like it was about to degenerate horribly.

“I thought not.” Theo laughed. “I’ve already explained it to you. Not so long ago. Bang her. Enjoy it. But don’t lie to me.”

“Can you lower your voice a little?”

“Can you act like a grown-up?”

“Look, Theo.” I moved closer to him and spoke softly. “I don’t know what Jola has told you—”

“Get out of here!” He said it loud. A few people near us looked our way. Dave and Jola also turned their heads. “You know it. I know it. The whole island knows it. You two don’t even bother to hide it. So do me a favor and stop with this shit.”

“But we haven’t—”

“Theo!” Jola yelled.

Either she knew him well enough to read his mind, or the past few days had damaged my reflexes. While I was still wondering why Jola was yelling, Theo already had me by the shoulders. I was too flummoxed to defend myself. I saw people jumping out of the way in slow motion. Then I was tipping backward off the quay wall. One crystal-clear thought flashed into my consciousness:
Don’t fall on the landing stage
. I pushed off before I lost the ground under my feet, did a half turn in midair, and dove into the water. I knew at once I wasn’t hurt. I swam a few strokes close to the bottom. It was surprisingly warm in the harbor basin.
Little fish nibbled at the keels of the anchored boats. I kept telling myself,
Surface. Breathe. Laugh
. My breath was running out. I surfaced, inhaled, saw twenty anxious faces looking down at me from the quay wall, and laughed.

Only the
Dorset
’s final maneuvers put an end to the laughter and talk about my plunge into the harbor. While the yacht’s sails sank down together, I stood in my own private puddle. We could hear the skipper’s orders. The tourists became deadly serious. Suddenly every one of them was looking through binoculars. The diesel engine started up, and the
Dorset
sailed majestically into the harbor at Puerto Calero.