Tag : mother

Winter Solstice

I open my eyes. The room in semi-darkness, like a cave under the roof slope, which is covered by dark wooden panels. Patches of snow on the window. They dim the light. I can hear Jacob’s breath. Our sleeping berth is a mattress on the floor, in a foreign house.
As I undress I unfurl the shower curtain. Behind the plastic, worn and grey from scale and mould, steam rises and with it the memory of my dream. I close my eyes.

It is quiet in the kitchen. Only the ticking of the clock is to be heard. Not even the dog in his basket noticed me. I wash the dishes, put them on black marble to dry. The hot water makes my skin swelled and wrinkled. A smell of coffee. I pause.
Tick, tack.
All of a sudden there is a noise at the door. Jacob’s mother comes in, in a woollen bathrobe. Her white hair tumbled, a hot-water bottle and sleeping pills in her hand.
Good morning, I say.

For an hour we have been sitting at this table, in a pale December light, which enters the room through the winter garden. It blazes its trail through palm trees and cactuses, which don’t give it enough space. The light diminished since Jacob and I came to live here. The lamps in the rooms and hallways have failed, one after the other. Nobody exchanges them.
There is a clangour when I put my mug on the glass table. This sound drops into the silence of this morning in the countryside.

I had a strange dream tonight, I say. My mother was lying on table, I held her hand and knew she was about to die. All of a sudden the light failed, I was standing in the dark, with tears in my eyes, saying, happy birthday, mum.
Jacob’s mother remains silent. Snow gathers on the balcony rails and more is falling down. The dog gets up and stretches. She pets his head, my gaze following this movement.
You know, she says and doesn’t look up, you have to be clear about the fact, that, if you and Jacob have children, it will be mainly your task.
There is a pause in my thoughts. I try to laugh.
I say: I think this is not ripe for decision.
She looks at me and leans back.
I am glad that all works out with his daughter now, she says. But.
I take a sip from my coffee. The ticking is louder now. Her fingers pick crumbs from the plate in front of her.
But raising a small child? As you imagine it, that will not happen. He is not capable of doing it. I only want you to know.
I shift the mug. Something inside me wants to get up and leave, but I can’t.
We’ll see when the time is ripe, I say.
I can her my voice trembling.
I don’t want you to be unhappy, if it doesn’t work out the way you want it to.
My fingers are clammy. I try to catch a thought, a smart one, I say: We are not thinking about having a child.
The door swings open, Jacob stands there, in his underpants and a shirt.
You are already discussing important matters, at this time of the day.
He comes closer, I get up and push past him.
I open the window in the bathroom and light a cigarette. Its taste calms me down.

In the days before this one particular night she told us about a pressure in her chest. She had her blood pressure checked, was on the phone with her doctor and asked Jacob to be available on his phone all the time.
In this one night we didn’t sleep.
We went to the movies and after that home, to our flat. At one AM she called for the first time, saying she wasn’t well. At two AM she said, there was a burning in her chest. At three AM she called to say she was on the street in the nearby forest, waiting for the ambulance. At four AM she wrote a message, saying she was in the emergency unit of the cardiac department. At half past five we went to the hospital.
The doctor said: The OP is set for half past nine. After all it was a minor infarct.
When we came back in the afternoon, her bed on the intensive care unit was empty.
They didn’t get through to the heart, she said. But they can adjust it medicinally.
She paused for a moment.
The doctor said I shouldn’t be alone during the night.
I heard myself say: We can be with you, in the first period.

I am cutting courgettes, carrots, leek. Top the vegetables up with broth. Light candles. Feed the dog. A hand on my shoulder.
You are making vegetable soup, honey, she says and strokes my back.
You wanted to lie down, I say.
I set the table. Watch her on the sofa, her small figure under a woollen blanket. The dog by her side. The candles’ light is mirrored by the windows. Snow is falling.
It is quiet in here, except for the humming of the fridge. We have dinner together, Jacob’s mother and I.
She says: I am glad that Jacob has found a girl like you.

I formed a cave on our mattress, with blankets and sheets. Therein I sit and look at the shelves in Jacob’s room. Books lined up and boxes, old diaries. On the wall there are photos of a blonde woman holding a newborn baby. It is cool in here, a smell of old carpet and wood sticks to the room. I stand up and put cloth in front of the shelves.
Have you disguised the room, asks Jacob. He sinks down next to me.
If you don’t fix your past I at least don’t want to see it.
Is it not strange for you to be sleeping in your childhood room?
Not at all,
he says.
He kisses me and slips underneath the blankets. I look up to the window, covered by grey snow.

I go for a walk with Jacob’s mother. Jacob stays in the house. He draws his own circles, won’t join us. A crackling under my shoes, a rustling in the trees. The dog breaks through in a puddle, he was moving on thin ice.
I haven’t heard from my family in a long time, I say.
You now have us, says Jacob’s mother. I always wished to have a daughter.

When we get back, the house seems to be warmer than before. We climb the stairs, a voice from the living room. “The onset of winter brought chaos to the streets of Bavaria.” Jacob in front of the TV, his arms crossed behind his head. I put my cold hands onto his cheeks. His mother sits down on the other side. She puts her hand onto his belly, he takes hold of it. I sit offside, watch the flickering of the screen in her eyes.

I change my clothes, comb my hair, wash my face. I remember our flat, in which the light is collected by big windows and reaches into the hindmost corner. It is bright and fair in this space, and warm. A warmth which doesn’t diminish. I make a grimace and try a smile. My reflection doesn’t smile back. I let the water run from the tap, and as the mirror glass gets steamed up, I watch myself disappear.

I can hear their voices and the sounds of a feature film.
There’s need for explanations, I hear her say. Otherwise people might think the film shows real psychoanalysis. This doesn’t do justice to my job.
Jacob answers, his words lost in the shouting of a male voice. I open the door to the living room. Jacob and his mother lying on the sofa. She pets his hand. On screen there is man with dark hair. He is locked up in a lift, hammers against the door.

Where do you go?, I ask him.
I have to pick up the little one from school, Jacob says and puts on his coat.
Will you come back?
No, we go to the flat. Otherwise she will have to get up early.
That means I have to stay with your mother.
You can come with us, if you like.
But someone should be with her during the night.
Then it would be wise if you stayed.
He looks at his phone.
I have to go. You stay?

The sound of the engine.
His mother calls me, asks if I could walk the dog. She doesn’t fell well. I put my clothes on. Every day is darker than the previous one. We walk through the forest, take the street alongside the brook. Only a few houses here, they stay close to the trees, invisible for passers-by. The snow absorbs every sound. Unto the local railway station we walk and back.

On TV there is a documentary about the change of consciousness. The voice of the narrator says: “Iboga is a root with a hallucinogen effect, which lasts for about 12 hours. The ritual is also called ‘breaking up the head’. Probands report on a film which is being displayed on the inner of the eyelids. It is fed by images of the subconscious mind. Allegedly, after consuming Iboga, there is a state of complete stillness in the mind.”
I would love to try that,
I say.
One shouldn’t try this if one is mentally instable, Jacob’s mother says.

There was time when we used to make love in a different way. We forgot which body part belonged to whom. I remember that time didn’t exist longer than a breath, a kiss. The warmth and smell of our skins had found each other and had become allies. Until now. Sex is mechanical, it is sewing-machine sex. We rest upon old blankets, in an aftertaste of what is bygone. Jacob puts his head in the crook of my arm. I wait for a moment and then ask him, when we would return to our flat. He answers, that we were together here, and after all, our flat was too small for work.

Up on the hill, just before midday. Steep is the hill, the dog is in the lead. I turn around. At the bridge I see the house, next to the forest. A faint light in the living room, nothing moves. We continue, a circle, an hour in the hills. A friend calls me. She says that I am being missed. She asks me when I come back.

I pull the gear off the dog, hear the voice of Jacob’s mother. A door is being closed. I enter the hallway, stop in front of her workroom. I hear her say: In February you could move into the new apartment.
I knock at the door.
We are back.
They lean over a piece of paper.
We will be with you in a moment, he says. Ten minutes.
I close the door. The dog looks at me.
Yes, I say. You and I. You and I.

It is the day of Winter Solstice. The shortest day of the year. It has just gone past three PM and twilight has arrived already. Another two days and it will be Christmas Eve. I am in the house by myself. Jacob and his mother went to town.
I assort the laundry. Jacob’s laundry on the left pile, his mother’s on the right pile. Mine in a bag. There is no light left in the attic. Candles are burning and from the speakers comes the sound of a guitar. A man and a woman sing a duet.
A strange form of life, they sing. Kicking through windows, rolling on yards, heading in loved ones’ triggering eyes, a strange one. And a hard way, to come into a cabin, into the weather, into a path, walking together. A hard one.

Tonight I dreamed about a car accident. I drove into a tunnel and missed the exit. I snatched the steering wheel and crashed against the wall. Splinters of glass and parts of the car flew by, I could sense gravity. But I bailed out without being hurt. I looked at the demolished car. I thought: Good that it wasn’t my car.

I put on my coat and winter boots. I blow out the candles and close the front door. The way to the local railway station seems to be shorter than the days before.

***

“Winter Solstice” has been published as “Wintersonnenwende” in my book “Autumn Wood’s Colour” (“Die Farbe des Herbstholzes”) in May 2012.
Translation and Text © Marianne Jungmaier. Wiltshire, 2012.

Categories: Autumn Wood's Colour, Bücher / Books

Summer Flights

It takes a while until the brake applies. A tiny squeaking. Hot wind grazing my cheek. Smells of tar, exhaust fumes and garbage hover above the three-lane roundabout. I turn and plunge in.
Simon navigates between the cars. Turns round, shouts, l’opéra, behind you.
He disappears between metal, the sound of horns, buzzing.
I stop, support myself at the edge of the pavement. A taxi rolling slowly on the side lane ahead of me. I see red lights flashing up. My skin is pale above the dark asphalt, as I hoist my long skirt, tie it anew between my thighs. My bike sways under my body. I push off and pedal. Lights are blinding me.

Simon drives circles around the streetlights’ cones. He is wearing Flip-Flops, his toes stick out like horses at the drinking trough. Any moment they could streak the street, but he does not notice.
Garbage gathers like flotsam around the bollards on the side of the road. Underneath a carton I can see dirty soles. Simon says, in Paris they accept the homeless.

Bright light from a staircase at the métro-station.
Revellers stumble by, hasten in one of the nearest alleyways. Young they are, those women in their sparkling dresses, their heels clicking.
Whereabouts are we, I shout.
Simon turns around.
Near the Seine, but I don’t know the name of this part of the city.
I follow him onward, into a tangle of streets and alleyways. I enjoy being the follower, not knowing where I am. I feel the muscles in my legs, the wind cooling the sweat under my arms and on my temples.

Do you hear that, Simon says, driving a circuit, enqueuing next to me.
Distant beats sliding in from the right, I cannot localize them, from the left, from the right, where do they come from. After the next métro-station there is a crowd of people, cars and bicycles. Moving like a colourful river.
Hip-Hop hammers from open windows and doors. And someone shouts with a loud voice, qu’est-ce tu fais, putain.
More I cannot perceive. Neon letters blink in pink, yellow and green.
My friend stops in front of a shop, a wall of corrugated metal, the entrance door a hole.
Shall we buy some more beer?
I am still feeling drunk from the ones we had before, but I nod.
Of course.
I get off my bike, tug my skirt into place, enter the shop.
Behind a wooden counter there is a brawny man, next to him a meagre kid moving to and fro, bringing bottles.
Avez-vous de la bière?
The tall one looks at me. My white skin stands out from his other customers. He makes a slight move with his head.
Heineken?
He nods, turns around, says a few words to the kid, and turns back. His eyes are black.
Quatre Euro.
I put the coins in his hand, but he is already talking to his next customer. The small one jumps up, grabs my bag from the counter and puts the cans inside. He waves, waves me out.
Merci, I say.

We lock our bikes at the dépot. Stroll into an avenue, nobody to be seen in the lanterns’ lights. From afar we can hear engine noises, dry leaves rustling in the wind. We take a seat on a spur, behind us houseboats in a canal. They seesaw softly on black water. Only one has its lights on.
It must be late, Simon says.
I lean against the wall, put a beer in front of me and one in front of him.
Tell me Simon, how do you like Paris.
It’s fine,
he says and looks down, at the boats.
Did you find what you’ve been looking for?
No. I fled from my family, now sit in Paris and think of them.
But is it easier?
Yeah.
But don’t these things change anyway, when you are away.
I often think of my mother. I cannot forget how she put a glass of water behind the door every single morning, before she left the house. Only to know if they have been in.
Who?
The intelligence service.

I take a sip of my beer. Bittersweet taste. We toast. À Paris.
I had a dream, he says. It was dark, I couldn’t see a thing. My mother was sitting in the living room, rocking herself like a baby, moaning. I couldn’t help her. I started screaming. My sister closed the door to her room and all of a sudden there was my father’s voice. Hush, or the neighbours will know. I fell and woke up. I’m beside myself. She is going insane and he just watches it.
He pauses, his gaze still on the boats.
He is weak. But I cannot look after her, I have a life of my own.
Didn’t you organise therapy for her?
She doesn’t go there anymore.

We look into each other’s eyes. I open my mouth to speak, but not a word comes out. Water gurgles between the boats, at times a buoy bumps against wood. We put our cans down at the same time, a metallic sound. The concrete is dirty, as I spilled my beer. The skirt absorbs the liquid. Time passes, I cannot tell if slowly or fast. The engines noises have slowly diminished. Deliberately we start walking again.

In bra and shorts I leave the bathroom. Damp following me, steaming up the only window in his room on the last floor, a dark rectangle. Seagull-like birds scream, invisible, distant.
This must be night birds, right, I say quietly.
Simon, sprawled on his bed, looks up from his notebook. His room is so tiny, he needed only put forth his hand and could touch me.
Shall we go to sleep?

***

“Summer Flights” has been published in my book “Autumn Wood’s Colour” in May 2012.
Translation and text © Marianne Jungmaier. Rome, 2012.

Categories: Autumn Wood's Colour, Bücher / Books

Winter’s Child

I’m passing the hill, changing up. Third gear. Dark plain ahead of me, no back-lights to be seen. Edith sings the Milord, as I speed up. My hand resting on the gear stick. The long, drawn-out road feels like driving on dark shortpastry. Like the one sprawled on my mother’s table, when I was six years old.

Je vous connais, Milord.**

A light vibration under my hand. The sound of the engine is getting louder. I reach for the switch and turn on the long distance light. Silver cross dangling from the rear-view mirror. I hear my mother’s voice, as she asked me where I was going tonight. I am carefree in my diagram of lies.
I steer the car into the first bend, take my foot off the pedal and let the vehicle glide. Just as I let myself drift into the arms of a man who could be my father.

Je ne suis qu’une fille du port, qu’une ombre de la rue.

An old tree in the emptiness of the landscape. A reflection in the corner of my eye.
A rabbit running across the field, onto the street. A big animal as I can see, in the cone of light.
I wish to avoid it. It was a game of childhood. Green light, red light.
I turn the steering wheel to the left, a little. Green light, red light. Like I did countless times before.

J’en ai froid dans le coeur.

I hear a rumbling, sense a minor rocking. The steering wheel is turning to the right. I am counter-steering. I steer against it, this movement, which I feel underneath my hands. Green light, red light.
I freeze in my seat. Time seems to be standing still. I feel my right foot applying to the brake. Hushed I am inside. All has gone quiet.
I understand this vehicle has one thousand five hundred kilograms. I understand it is moving at an approximate speed of fifty kilometres per hour. I close my eyes.

Vous ne m’avez jamais vu.

A deep crack in an old tree. My hands rest on my head as if the sudden silence was too loud. I open my eyes, wish to ask myself what happened. But I am voiceless, deaf, insensible. And darkness is.
All of a sudden, Edith begins to sing again and with a numbing sound level, the light returns.
There is a dull pain on my hip, on my forehead. I reach out for the seatbelt-fastener, and touch my face. I want to get out. The door is locked. I hammer against the plastic. A click. Something breaks. I crawl outside. Cold and hard the chunks of soil under my knees. I turn around and see my mother’s car. The motor compartment is compressed up to half. The trunk of a tree growing out in the middle. As if it had been standing there always.
I look down, see my hands shaking.

Qui n’a pas su comprendre, qu’elle brisait votre vie.

Now I hear the engine’s sound. The lights illuminate a field, like a scene. I rise, ignoring the pain in my knees, on my hip. Reach behind the steering wheel and turn off the engine. The music is over. My thoughts race.
Where’s my mobile, where’s my mobile. Where is it. Where is it. Mother, a rabbit was crossing the field. It was green light, red light. A sobbing. This is not a joke.
I am waiting. On dark shortpastry which is sprawled on my mother’s plain.
I cover my face with my hands. A moaning escapes my throat. I am humiliated by this sound. But nobody is hearing it.
Stillness makes me gasp. I feel like a patient after the electric shock. Can hear, can feel, but not utter a word. The night is dark and shapeless. No wind, no sound, only the silent resplendence of the stars.
Steps on the asphalt, my own. I situate the breakdown triangle. Search for my bag, find it underneath the dashboard. Search for my innocence, find nothing but lighters, cigarettes, a spectacle case. My devised life has been expecting me. I have to refuse.

Rien ne vas plus, a voice is saying and it is not Edith.
Who will clear this debt, it is asking. I owe my mother a daughter.
L’amour, ca fait pleurer, comme quoi l’existence.

Father. Mother. At their sight I force words to come out, which seem to have been lingering between lips and throat forever. I am surprised to hear myself speak.
Such was not my intention, I say.
I wish to clean up the mess. But they take me home with them. They command me to stay.

***

Translation:
Je vous connais, Milord.
I know you, Milord.

Je ne suis qu’une fille du port, qu’une ombre de la rue.
I’m just a girl from the docks, just a shadow of the street.

J’en ai froid dans le coeur.
It makes my blood run cold.

Vous ne m’avez jamais vu.
You’ve never seen me.

Qui n’a pas su comprendre, qu’elle brisait votre vie.
Who didn’t understand she was ruining your life.

L’amour, ca fait pleurer, comme quoi l’existence.
Love makes one cry, as follows life.

***

“Winter’s Child” has been published in my book “Autumn Wood’s Colour” in May 2012.
Translation and text © Marianne Jungmaier. Rome, 2012.

Categories: Autumn Wood's Colour, Bücher / Books