Decompression (23 page)

Scallop and swordfish carpaccio with lime-tomato marinade.

The photographer scarfed down the appetizer in something under two minutes. Then he wiped the marinade from his mouth and declared that the European economic crisis would widen the gap between rich and poor. Bittmann pointed out that the Riesling we were drinking came from a good friend’s vineyard on the Mosel River, where a coalition of the righteous was staunchly protesting against the building of a bridge. The star director chimed in, observing that the people were in the process of being repoliticized. Jankowski asked the singer, who was washing down his scallops with beer, why there were so many Nazis in the former DDR. The young black man and Jola chatted in French, leaning across me from both sides in order to hear each other better. The star director talked about her latest play, in which actors who’d spent weeks conversing with hookers, junkies, and homeless people played hookers, junkies, and homeless people. She spoke rapidly, making frequent use of the word
authenticity
. When I asked who’d written the play and what it was about, Jankowski went into a paroxysm of laughter. He struck the table with the flat of his hand and cried out, “Sven, you’re priceless!” Jankowski had liked me from the start. The director’s answer was drowned in the general uproar. Theo looked at me from the other end of the table in a way I couldn’t interpret. The evening was getting better and better. In Jola’s mouth, French sounded like a song with no beginning and no end.

Black ribbon pasta with lobster sauce.

The photographer, his shirt sprinkled with droplets of sauce, asserted that the financial crisis had signaled the definitive end of capitalism. The singer informed us that his band had been supporting projects to combat right-wing extremism ever since the reunification. Jankowski, nodding distractedly, listened while Bittmann praised the real economy.

“Oh, Lars,” cried the director, who’d been a little marginalized. “It’s so wonderful, the way you always bring it off!” She wasn’t referring to rising sales figures, but rather to something about dialogue and the connection between culture and politics. Shouting loudly, Theo asserted that the finance economy was the metaphysics of poker players. The twin servers circled the table tirelessly, Riesling bottles in hand. The little curls on their temples hadn’t budged an inch.

King prawns in sesame tempura, served on a cucumber bed with papaya tartare.

I wasn’t properly listening anymore. I thought about Germany, where these people lived when they weren’t sailing off the coast of Africa. I knew how they felt. They were confronted daily with the task of accommodating their own personal crises to the bank crisis, the financial crisis, the climate crisis, the energy crisis, the education crisis, the euro crisis, the pension crisis, and the Middle East crisis. For fifteen minutes in the evening, every evening, they watched people on television elucidate for them the imminent decline of the West and the inability of politicians to prevent it. Meanwhile the viewers clung to the totally private and slightly embarrassing hope that, in the end, everything would nevertheless remain as it was. Just keep on going. Their lives were wholly
dedicated to keeping on going. To crossing hours and days and things to do off the list, one after another. Although the future appeared to them like the place where the coming catastrophe would be accomplished, they fought their way doggedly through the trenches of the present. They were soldiers who’d lost their faith in victory and cared exclusively about their own survival. They didn’t desert because they didn’t know where to go. In a world without differences, there was no such thing as exile.

I looked around. The temperature was rising steadily; alcohol and candles were heating up the little salon. I felt my cheeks glowing. My shirt stuck to my back. I recognized the anxiety behind the papaya tartare. All the faces were laughing in the way I recognized from Jola: with their mouths open too wide. They all talked like Jola: emphatically, with broad gestures that put glasses and candlesticks in danger. A wave of sympathy washed over me, flipped me around, ebbed away, and left behind a sandy feeling of love for the people at the table.

“It’s too bad you can’t fondle wine,” Theo cried. He’d been watching me the whole time I was looking over the others. Our eyes met again and again. He seemed amazingly relaxed. He clearly assumed he’d be taking Jola back to Germany with him on Saturday. I had the distinct feeling I must not allow that to happen.
Bide your time
, I told myself, and raised my glass to Theo. He lifted his glass as well and sent me a little nod. Jola gave back her plate practically untouched, which nobody commented on.

Cream of celery soup with chard-wrapped salmon roulades.

The evening metamorphosed into a tableau of light, heat, and noise. In my memory, the conversations around the table are covered up by loud music, something classical, somebody’s ninth
whatever, but at the same time, I’m not completely sure there was any music at all. I didn’t turn down the twins’ offers to refill my glass. And Jola’s nearness intoxicated me. She kept groping me, laying her hand on my shoulder, on my arm, on my thigh. She leaned against me, and I could smell her hair. She whispered into my ear, and I could feel her breath. There was a dark red film of wine on her chapped lips. Smeared mascara ringed her eyes. She dug her fingers into my shirt while she laughed.
Too bad you can’t drink a woman
, I thought. During those minutes, I believed I’d never before loved anybody so much. In fact, my sympathy with the others at the table had its source in the profusion of my love for Jola. The East German singer and his faith in beer, the lady director’s strident isolation, Jankowski’s tragic perception of his own past, the young African, locked inside himself, Theo’s pretended serenity, the social-climbing Bittmann and his protein bars—all that provided an overflow basin for my feelings. My affection poured itself over them, fused them into a wedding party that had journeyed from far-off Germany in order to celebrate my marriage to Jola. The mere presence of these people made us a couple, for which service I owed them my thanks. They all moved me to tears. Jola and I, individually and together, moved me to tears. I put an arm around her and felt her soft yielding as I pulled her against me. Ever since the king prawns, I’d been hiding a semi-erection under the table, a reaction to the scent of Jola’s perfume. I knew what lay ahead of me. I saw Jola in my bed, in my kitchen, in front of my computer, in my living room; I saw Jola as an island resident, wearing shorts and flip-flops; I saw her talking to clients and helping run the diving school. Along the way, I’d train her to be a diving instructor in her own right, and she, Jola,
would recover from Germany day by day, month by month; she, Jola, would laugh more softly and gesticulate less and become more and more beautiful. In my fantasy she didn’t give up her career, she only downsized it, and occasionally I accompanied her to Germany, where we lived in an apartment overlooking the rooftops of Berlin and went out to events in the evenings. She wore the shimmering dress and I was at her side, the same as now. Film premieres, television awards. Jola in the spotlight, and I the silent observer. People looked at me askance. Photographers took pictures of us. I smiled, unspeaking; now and then Jola pressed my hand. On the return flight, we imitated the people we’d met and laughed so much that the other passengers complained. Jola was wearing enormous sunglasses so as not to be recognized, and after we landed she said softly, “Welcome home.” One morning she’d bring me coffee in bed, gaze at me for a long time, and tell me she was expecting a child. Even that was something I could imagine.

Terrine of various fish in octopus mantle over sautéed sugar snap peas.

I started out of my reverie. Something had changed: the light, the ambient noise, the guests’ looks. I was apparently in a state of extreme sensitivity, in which I could detect the tiniest vibrations. When Bittmann began to speak of Yvette, I knew something was wrong. Or better, I knew something was going to go wrong in a second.

Yvette was such a dear, according to Bittmann. He’d known her a long time. A fabulous beauty, he said. And of course, a superb actress. Yet despite her accomplishments, she’d remained the same. Still the nice girl next door.

Maybe the movement I felt beside me was Jola, suddenly sitting up a little too straight. In any case, the noise level around Bittmann’s voice seemed to drop down so far that I could hear every word he said. The music, if in fact any was playing, fell silent. Everybody listened.

Yvette had sailed on the
Dorset
before, Bittmann said, and she would have very much liked to come along this time too. A good addition she would have been, because by now she was an expert sailor.

“But seasick,” the lady director cried out.

“But seasick,” Bittmann confirmed.

“Could you all please stop repeating the word
seasick
?” Jankowski asked.

“But you refused my pills,” the photographer cried.

“Ingwer! Please!” cried Jankowski.

They laughed together about something that had happened on the boat a few days before. It was Theo who took it upon himself to bring the conversation back to its topic. He asked, “So why couldn’t Yvette be here this time?”

It was clear that all the guests aboard the
Dorset
knew the answer already. Theo too looked as though he’d been informed. Bittmann had probably told him earlier what Yvette Stadler’s present occupation was. Theo just wanted to make sure that the matter would be gone over in public one more time. When he asked his question, he was looking at Jola, not Bittmann. His face shone with pleasant anticipation. He looked like a man scarcely able to suppress his laughter. I felt Jola tense up beside me. As though her body were preparing for a life-threatening assault.

“Yvette’s on the shores of the Red Sea as we speak,” said
Bittmann. “Beautiful spot. A few years ago, on our legendary tour, we ran into a heavy storm. We were all drenched to the skin, and when we finally reached the new marina in Hurghada, Boris and Til, wearing nothing but underpants, jumped into the water and—”

“But what’s Yvette doing down there by the Red Sea?” Theo asked impatiently. He was grinning. He’d obviously lost all desire to control himself. I had the impression that Jola was starting to tremble.

“She’s preparing for a new role,” Bittmann said. Now he too was looking at Jola. “Surely you’ve heard about it? From your father?”

Jola didn’t react. She extended a hand toward her wineglass, reconsidered halfway there, and put the hand in her lap.

“What role is that?” asked Theo.

“Well, they’re making a film about the life of this woman deep-sea diver.” Bittmann was speaking to Jola again. He assumed that such news would be of professional interest to her. “I can’t come up with her name at the moment.”

“Lotte Hass,” Theo said.

“Yes, maybe so.”

Bittmann still had noticed nothing. Everyone except him and the African had lowered their spoon to their terrine bowl. They gazed at Jola, who had turned as pallid as a corpse.

“In any case, we must keep this among ourselves until the official press conference. I know about it only because it was Yvette’s reason for declining my invitation. Otherwise she would’ve come aboard in Casablanca.”

Theo turned toward Jola. “Wasn’t that role the reason why we
came down here, love?” he asked. “The reason why you’re taking this diving course?”

“But casting …” Jola cleared her throat. “But casting doesn’t start until the week after next.”

Her voice toppled over at the end. I admired her. She fought against domination like a bull in an arena. Theo thrust in the next lance. “Wasn’t your heart set on playing the Girl on the Ocean Floor?”

“What I told you was insider information,” Bittmann said. “They made an internal decision that Yvette absolutely had to get the part.”

“Didn’t you say”—Theo started laughing again—“didn’t you say this was your last chance?”

“Jola …” Bittmann looked stricken. “Don’t tell me you intended to try for the role yourself.”

“Because otherwise you’d never be able to get out of that soap-opera shit?” Theo slapped the table with delight. “You’d never be taken seriously as an actress? You’d just be an aging TV whore nobody would remember in a few years?”

Jola had lost. She’d lost against Theo, against the people around the table, and especially against herself. A gasp escaped her throat. She sprang to her feet and ran out of the salon and up the steep stairs. I wanted to go after her and was already half out of my chair when my eyes fell on Theo. He broke off laughing to raise his eyebrows and shake his head. That meant
Let her go
. I sank back down. He kept looking at me while his chest began to quiver with laughter again.
Now what was that?
His eyes seemed to ask.
You couldn’t give your new girlfriend any help at all? Fucking beginner
.

Amid the general silence, the African turned his head from one side to the other and asked in English, “What is?”

After a longish pause, Bittmann said, “I feel very sorry about that.”

“She’ll get over it,” Jankowski opined.

“I don’t think so,” said Theo.

“Dessert?” Bittmann asked.

Vanilla panna cotta with pistachios and red wine jelly.

When the dessert plate lay in front of me, I couldn’t hold out any longer. I murmured an apology and left the table. Before I reached the main deck, my cell phone rang. I thought it must be Jola and answered at once. It was Bernie. He spoke in English, and pretty rapidly at that. A stream of mostly incomprehensible language rushed past my right ear. Every now and then, single words I could understand briefly emerged from the torrent: “Fuck”; “Dave”;
“Aberdeen.”
I heard the word
crazy
twice.

“Bernie,” I said. “What’s the matter?”

“You can have the fucking boat. But don’t ever ask me again.”

“Pardon?”

“Aren’t you listening, man? You can take the
Aberdeen
out tomorrow morning. But forget about us! Dave—is—not—coming—and—neither—am—I, understand? It’s the last thing I’ll ever do for you. You’ve lost your fucking mind.”