Shorter Days (3 page)

She doesn't like to calculate how long she and Simon have been together. Sometimes she's embarrassed to think that she's been sleeping with the same man for more than ten years. When talking to women she doesn't know well, Leonie invents affairs and lovers: professors, taxi drivers, bartenders. She'd even chalked up the elevator sex—with Simon, of course—at an all-inclusive hotel on the Costa del Sol, to an encounter with a native waiter.

The children holler. Bernd and Stavros, the two teachers, emerge from inside wearing flowered oven mitts. The men carry big trays with toasted cubes of bread. They expertly tear the aluminum foil from tubs of sour cream, distribute spoons, and serve the soup. Most of the children are hungry. As their colorful plastic bowls are filled, they pile on the croutons and eat greedily. “I'm sure this is the first warm meal some of them have eaten today,” Simon whispers to Leonie. He steps behind her, and Feli immediately switches from his hand to Leonie's. The little paw is as sticky and soft as dough, the bones slim and flexible. Leonie strokes her fingers and feels their regularity, the skin's tenderness. Every day she's newly amazed by the bodies of her children, just as she's amazed by the cruel fact that her own constantly moisturized hands look spotty and old when compared to those of the girls.

“Our spoiled brats are the only picky ones. Look at the girls fussing again!” Lisa hesitates when Bernd offers her a ladleful, and Leonie knows it isn't because of his red and black hangman costume. “I don't really like soup that much.” Feli nibbles a few croutons and clings to Leonie's leg. “I have to go. It's getting late.” Simon waves to Lisa, who's beaming at him, then squats and rubs noses with Feli. She gives a deep, throaty giggle—the dirty laugh of a cartoon character. Then he touches Leonie's chin and turns her face toward him. It's a macho gesture that he's cultivated, the same as smacking her ass or standing to pee. But it lacks the element of invitation—the dimpled grin, the naughty whisper. His eyes are cloudy and tired, his hand limp. Leonie can see clearly that he's long gone, already mentally back at the office. Simon was recently made sales manager at the company. They manufacture gaskets for the automotive industry. It's not going so well at the moment, what with the increasing competition from Eastern Europe and China.

“Can I get a kiss?” Simon gives her a quick kiss with no tongue, a new habit she finds as disappointing as the fact that he didn't spare a word for her short skirt and high boots. They're hardly playground clothes. She knows he doesn't like her work clothes, the dark outfits and pantsuits: “That's what the girls at work wear too. It's like a uniform.” She's his preppy straight-A student from an end-terrace house, and he's as proud of his conquest of her as he is of his Saab, or the fact that people with doctorates work under him.

Simon goes down the rocky sandstone steps, waves one more time, then doesn't look back. Pumpkin-zombies and their chaperones run around him, hooting and jostling each other. The heavy iron gate rattles shut. Feli starts to whine and refuses to be comforted; she stretches up toward Leonie and hangs on her belt. Even if it means dirty streaks on her bright corduroy skirt and greasy breadcrumbs on her coat, Leonie picks up her youngest and looks into her face. “What's wrong, Mouse? Don't you want to run around anymore?” Feli hides her face in Leonie's neck, her hair soft as precious fur. She's heavy, much heavier than Lisa was at two. A burning in the tendons of her knees and shoulder blades warns Leonie against carrying this much weight. She knows that she ought to encourage Feli to walk, and especially to climb the stairs, but she can't resist the temptation to press this little creature to her body, this tiny being who was breastfeeding only a year ago, to listen to her garbled words that still can't convey complexities or malice. She often carries Feli—not just to enjoy the warmth and flexibility of her child's round body, but also to assuage her guilty conscience. Leonie, who loves her work, would never admit that it also troubles her. But now, with Feli in her arms, the truth is obvious: It does, every day. Every day, when she sees her girls wave at her from behind the kindergarten windows that are decorated with paper cut-outs. Every day, when Lisa gripes, “I want to finish playing here, I never get to be at home.” Every day that she packs Feli off to kindergarten despite her cough, every time Leonie has to shake her awake—gently, of course, only her fingertips betraying a touch of frenzy. Is there traffic today? What time does the meeting start? She hears about how other parents spend their afternoons, and compares their visits to the Wilhelma Zoo or nature parks with her frantic trips to the supermarket and the cleaners.

For her, the greatest betrayal is her feeling of relief when she gets to the office and sits down at her desk. Leonie works in the communications department of a mid-level bank. She's in charge of the employee magazine and the newsletter. Leonie never much liked school. The world outside of university, where tasks were swiftly accomplished and new ones immediately begun, where she was paid in money and not with honors and pretty words, suited her immediately. She enjoys phone calls and meetings, often simply because they allow her to forget about her children. She loves going to the black-tiled department bathroom between meetings, peeing in peace and retouching her lipstick without anyone screaming or banging on the door. She doesn't really want to believe that the standards she's held to have become much higher since she's had kids, that any distraction or failure is noted more quickly, met with incomprehension instead of assistance; rather than complain, she works more conscientiously than ever. “We working mothers get shafted—we have to be twice as good as the others to achieve less,” a drunken colleague once ranted to her on a business trip. Since she had only Simon to take care of at the time, she'd turned away in disgust. Nowadays she'd heartily agree.

Stavros puts out the fire with a bucket of sand and straightens the dagger that's sticking out of the middle of his belly like the crank of a windup toy. The tip, appropriately painted with fake blood, reemerges near his kidneys. He wears leather pants that are scarred with age, like the skin of some animal he shot himself. He's at least ten years younger than Leonie, and probably lives in some Kreuzberg co-op. Leonie knows he smokes hand-rolled cigarettes when the kids aren't watching. He has tattoos too, of course: she spent all summer observing his muscled biceps and shoulders when he played ball with the kids. He's obviously good in bed. He makes his hands into a funnel and yells: “Everyone who wants to hear ghost stories come stand quietly by the door. Shoes off in the coat-room. No talking or yelling!” The older kids rush into the house, kicking off sneakers and boots, “Shhh, Stavros said . . .” The mass of monsters bottlenecks at the spiderweb- and ghost-covered door to the common room. Lisa hangs back, shifting from one foot to the other. “Mama, are you coming?” Leonie props Feli's diapered bottom on her hip. “I can't go in with Feli, sweetheart. I'll stay right outside, and if you get scared you can just come out.” Lisa chews on her index finger—a habit that Leonie hates but decides to allow, given the circumstances.

The room is completely dark. Paper monsters swing from the ceiling. A few candles flicker. An older girl hits the boy next to her—he's trying to shove ahead—“Hey, let the little ones in first or they won't be able to see anything.” “That's right, the littlest all the way up front!” Lisa gets lifted up like a doll and passed through the crowd to a place in the circle up front. She's too surprised and excited to say anything. Her eyes are huge in the dim room. It smells like chewing gum, fabric softener, and sweat. Stavros comes in last, leaving the door open just a crack. Leonie tries to divert Felicia, who's still cooing and trying to get to her sister. The teacher hunches in the middle of the circle, legs folded like a big insect. His voice rumbles through the room, where forty children are breathing fast. The story begins. A king and queen want a child so badly that they don't care where it comes from: “Even if it comes from the devil!” The princess is born. On the night of her fifteenth birthday she goes to her father: “Father, I shall die tomorrow.” Twelve days vigil must be held over her deathbed. Leonie sits Felicia on the ground and casts a final glance at Lisa, who sits in the glow of the rhythmically flickering red light. She has the same vacant look as she does in front of the television. The other children clap out the tolling bell that signals the witching hour, and Leonie closes the door.

“Schlamper, be good—dontcha pull, now!” Through the half-open apartment door Judith hears the dog's impatient whimpering and her neighbor's fretful voice. Kilian is grimacing with effort in front of the hall mirror, struggling with the fat wooden buttons of his winter jacket—he doesn't hear a thing. Judith waits on the landing until the dog's claws and Frau Posselt's winter boots have clattered down to the entrance of the building. The door bangs shut. Carefully, Judith peeks through the stairwell's canted window. The old woman in the lambskin coat has let the dog off its leash. It sniffs deliberately at the foot of a
NO-PARKING
sign. Frau Posselt turns her head back and forth, as if looking for someone. Short white hairs, stiff with hair spray, peep out from under a felt hat—a disheveled bundle of shimmering feathers droops from its right side. Judith thinks. Quail, pheasants, they came skimming through the alders, the snipes, that is. Gottfried Benn's lines mingle in her head with snippets of verse from
Bird Time,
one of Ulrich's picture books, while Frau Posselt winds the red leash around her wrist and slowly walks off. Judith closes the window quietly and straightens her son's hat. They still need greens for the soup, but she's not interested in having their walk to Nâzim's shop delayed by the old woman's babble and Kilian's enthusiasm for Schlamper.

It's cool outside, and dark-yellow light shines between the houses: it's not yet dusk, but it's no longer bright. Kilian squats in front of a garage entrance and pets the dog with care, the same way he's begun smoothing his bedspread each morning. The wicker basket with the shopping list sits next to him on the sidewalk. Schlamper doesn't move. His gray snout trembles. Judith looks around quickly. Frau Posselt lifts a fur-clad arm to wave. The leash glows like a bracelet in the strange light, and Judith knows she won't retrace the distance that lies between them. The old lady forms a circle with her thumb and index finger and thrusts it between her lips. A high whistle sounds. Child and dog raise their heads. “Say bye-bye to Schlamper, Kilian—Frau Posselt is waiting for him.” The boy kisses the animal's muzzle, and it slowly starts to move away. Judith waves to Frau Posselt, then turns to go.

Judith is repulsed by Frau Posselt. The old neighbor wears pink lipstick the color of herring salad. Usually she paints it on too wide, with no regard for the borders of her mouth. There are often streaks of it on her front teeth too—obviously dentures, from their yellowish regularity. Her white-rimmed glasses are smudged from her greasy fingers and there are flakes of dead skin in her eyebrows. Gold earrings hang from her long, wrinkly earlobes, while a tangle of gold and pearl strands jingles around her neck. Her blouses and tweed skirts are always stained, and the scent of old-fashioned perfume can't mask the smell of sweat and dirty underwear. Whenever Kilian and Ulrich go over to Frau Posselt's apartment, which opens directly onto the back garden, Judith uses every possible pretext to wrest away whatever they bring back. She gets goosebumps on her arms as she tosses their treasure—long-expired chocolate, dried-out bars of soap from luxury hotels in Switzerland and Italy, moth-eaten stuffed animals—into the trash can. She feels ashamed when she does it—years ago, when she came from Hackstraße with two moving boxes and a hiking backpack, asking the silent taxi driver to drop her off in front of Klaus's apartment, Frau Posselt was the first person she met. Judith still felt a kind of superstition about encountering the old lady. It was like the spell for getting rid of the hiccups—“Häcker, jump o'er the Necker, jump o'er the Rhine but don't break your spine”—or the feeling that she would bring harm to her family if she stepped on a crack on the way home from kindergarten in Kirchheim. Frau Posselt's appearance on the sidewalk in Constantinstraße had turned her into a kind of mascot for Judith's peace of mind, an unwashed house-sprite who could be appeased with a chat on the stairs or a slice of homemade apple pie.

Klaus got home late that sunny September afternoon. He had no clue that Judith, the untouchable Madonna-figure with dyed blue-black hair and earrings that glimmered and trembled every time she moved her head, was already sitting on a sloppily packed box in front of his apartment, firmly resolved to stow her toothbrush next to his and stretch her narrow ankles under his table. She waited with Tavor-slowed pulse and limbs as limp as a rag doll's. As she waited, she imagined the telephone on Hackstraße ringing and ringing, Sören leaving a message instead of hearing her breathless “Hello” and blissful “Ah, it's you” after the second ring. She saw Sören sitting on his black leather couch in Tübingen, chin propped helplessly on his hand, thinking of the unreachable Judith, whose memory suddenly tainted his life like a bitter liquid that seeped into every bite and coated his tongue day and night. She'd never call back, just remain missing—simply gone, on the other side of the city, safe in protected territory. Whether she would be able to endure it was uncertain. “I'll just act like trailer trash fleeing from an abusive husband. Maybe at first he won't even let me in. Who knows if he's even single. He hooked up with Annett a few times. Annett, that ditz. She'd be delighted to see me knocking on the door. Another woman in Klaus's house.” She laughed hysterically at her own rhyme, which stuck in her head and rattled around. She should have skipped the extra helping from the blue tin, but now it was too late. Judith slid off the carton and onto the sidewalk. With her back against the wall, she didn't have to struggle to keep her balance. A volume of Mörike lay open on her knees. Judith read in the mild autumn sun, marveling at the stillness and the chirping of birds, the graffiti-free walls, and the long row of carefully renovated old buildings that were set with castle-like grandeur against the blue sky. The swarm of figures on the façades pleased her. She gazed at them as at a picture book: sandstone animal heads, gently smiling lions, sheep, and deer, garlands, naked angels, and grotesque faces. Aside from a small delicatessen with a striped awning, there wasn't a store in sight. Only occasionally did a car turn onto the street, though expensive vehicles were parked on both sides. She saw no passersby, which was quite a different experience from busy Hackstraße with its bustling sidewalks, the throngs of people shopping in Stöckach, and the squeaking of streetcars. Judith skimmed through the “Peregrina” cycle, thinking between the blurring lines of Klaus, and how he would be coming home soon.

For barely a year, Klaus lived beneath her on Hackstraße. He was older than Judith—a stocky, broad-shouldered man with thick blond curls and a good-natured look. He had studied machine building in Stuttgart, then worked as an engineer for a large automotive parts supplier in Mannheim before returning to his old university to teach. He was nearly done with his doctorate—something incomprehensible about combustion engines. Everything seemed to come easily to him. He loved his work and was unrelentingly optimistic as far as his professional future was concerned: “I'll be promoted to professor as soon as I finish my doctorate. Pretty sweet, right? Academia is more relaxed than the industry. And I can keep my finger in other pies at the same time. My advisor, Veylland, has an engineering firm—I'm sure he'll find projects for me.” His attitude was so foreign to Judith that she took Klaus's proclamations for black humor.

Since their first meeting in the stairwell, Klaus pestered her at every turn: with invitations to his parties, which were frequent, since he played in a band and had a large circle of friends. He knocked on her door almost every day, to ask her if she needed anything from the supermarket, from the kebab shop, or from the state library, to see if she wanted a free ticket for a jazz concert or if she would be interested in a weekend in the Vosges. Judith wanted neither kebabs nor milk. Occasionally she'd show up at the parties, always quite late, when she was sure there was no longer any hope that Sören would call. She'd stand at the edge of the smoke-filled room, her silver-shadowed eyes half-closed, a glass in her hand, moving her hips to the music and staring into the crowd of people until the host came over and forced her into conversation. He'd bring her a selection of snacks from the kitchen: flatbreads, sheep's cheese, tsatziki, sometimes a curried pasta salad. He watched her paw at the food with a fork, picking through bits, then finally stubbing out her cigarette in the barely-touched food and setting the plate down on the bookshelf. “Are you still agonizing over old Dix? No wonder you always look so sad. That shit is depressing.” Klaus drank beer and tequila, he bit into a wedge of lemon and then tossed it on the floor. “I know you really like flower paintings better, you just can't admit it because they're not cool. That's why you're sticking it out. Just like you're sticking it out with Sören. Screw that asshole! There are plenty of guys who could make you happier.” His otherwise clear enunciation began to muddy and he talked louder. Judith just smiled and shook her head. One time she helped him clean up afterward, since she couldn't sleep anyway. She made out with him in front of a sink filled with greasy dishwater, only to pull away in dismay when she saw the blissful look on his face. When Klaus started going out with Annett, a plump little music therapist with spiky, bleach-blonde hair, Judith was surprised to find herself struck with jealousy—as sharp and fresh as the pain of an open wound. But when Sören showed up again, she managed to pass Klaus in the stairway without even a greeting, not because she enjoyed torturing him, but out of pure carelessness. He must have seen her coming home near dawn in her thin lurex dresses, leather pants, high boots. When Sören stayed in Tübingen to study for exams with unnamed female students, she'd bring home other men, sleep with them on the cigarette-burned sofa bed, and then kick them out when she wanted to drink her coffee and dip into the blue tin in peace. Klaus moved out and left his new address in her mailbox: Constantinstr. 153, his phone number, and “Call me!” highlighted below in neon yellow. She never called.

“Don't wanna meddle, hon, but sittin' on the cold ground—that ain't good for us gals. Who're ya lookin' for?” Frau Posselt's heart-shaped face, adorned even then with gaudy glasses and colorful makeup, bent down to look into hers. Judith raised her head from Orplid's sober shore and blinked. A broad smile spread involuntarily across her face. The old woman's squawking, the mink stole that encircled her shoulders like a shining snake, and the chubby, clownish face cheered her immeasurably, and she felt like bursting out laughing. It was only due to years of practice that she was able to keep her composure even when heavily medicated. During office hours with Baumeister, she always managed to stare stoically ahead, no matter how much of a gnarled, pompous old goat he seemed to her. With some effort she stood up and shook the woman's hand. Then the words just started to flow out of her. Her explanations were accompanied by economical but nonetheless meaningful gestures. A queen on a box. The autumn light fell on Judith's faux pearl necklace at a flattering angle. The old lady looked sympathetically at her light blue pullover, her Marlene Dietrich trousers, velvet jacket, and pumps. Judith hadn't brought much with her from Hackstraße: her old sock monkey, the Chinese tea set, her bathrobe, cosmetics, a few mystery novels, Kafka, Anne Sexton, Hermann Lenz, and Mörike had all been pedantically wrapped in old copies of the
Stuttgart News
and piled into two boxes, while binders, boxes of index cards, and laptop were left on the desk. Standing in front of the closet in her underwear, she had reached without hesitation for her professional clothes, the ones she'd bought for her internship at the gallery. They made her feel like an imposter, but they also made her feel elegant and protected. She'd eyed Anita Berber with scorn. Her nipples pricked through the thin red fabric. Judith shook her head: “Of course, you would just show up at his door in those rags and stick your tongue in his ear by way of greeting. It would probably work, too.” She packed a cotton nightgown, jeans, and her only pair of sneakers. The shiny miniskirts, studded belts, T-shirts with dragons or Madonna, and the pile of stilettos for every season remained in the closet.

The old lady on the sidewalk smiled and nodded. Her friendliness and the enthusiasm with which she listened—it bordered on rapture—spurred Judith on, as applause does an actor. Her right arm traced an arc that included the moving boxes and the hiking backpack that lay next to it like an armless, legless torso, and came to lie in a gesture of blessing on her own body, somewhere in the region of her belly.

The old lady clapped her hands. “Aw, that makes me happy. Ma name is Posselt, Luise Posselt. Ma husband ‘n me live on the first floor, two floors under the professor. He's a good un. He'll make a good daddy.” Judith smiled: “Yes, I'm very proud of Klaus.” It was a pleasant sensation to feel at home in a story that ended happily, to have someone's sympathy and attention, at least for the duration of the conversation. The approving look of her thoroughly bourgeois interlocutor, who at another time would surely have passed her by, shaking her head and murmuring crossly, egged Judith on.

“I was abroad for a while, in the USA, working as an art historian. But I just missed Klaus so much. It was only over there that I realized we belonged together. I came back for an exhibition at the Staatsgalerie.” The old lady's eyes grew round. “We saw each other and decided to get married.” Judith spoke slowly and clearly. She held herself erect and looked the woman in the eye. Instead of biting her nails, she used her hands to underscore her tale. She suddenly felt certain that she could play this part even without chemical support, as if Constantinstraße-Judith was her true self, like a piece of clothing she'd been wearing inside out for years and had finally reversed, displaying a shimmering brocade that stunned everyone.

But Frau Posselt suddenly began to pluck at the cuffs of her coat and turned her head this way and that, like a bird. She seemed embarrassed; she didn't want to say the wrong thing to nice Miss Seysollf, but the little blonde who came over almost every night, stashed her folding bike under the stairs, and never said “Hi” was weighing on her mind. Judith looked serious and nodded knowingly. “Yes, that's Annett, Klaus's sister. She's in a bad way, Frau Posselt—it's really sad. She's been studying for ages but can't manage to pass her exams. And then there's that cad who won't marry her and runs around with other women. No wonder she drinks and takes tranquilizers. Klaus worries about her.”