Читать книгу Diving the Wrecks - magdalena zschokke - Страница 4

She met Ron at the cafe near the S-Bahn entrance. They met once a month for coffee. Years ago at school, Ron had been in love with her and repeatedly professed he’d wait for her forever. Some days, she understood she was his bulwark against the world. Sometimes she felt guilty for allowing the relationship to go on, but he was one of her best and oldest friends. He even became godfather to her younger son, who was named after him.

He was a balding, quiet man whose main characteristic was his invisibility. He was a great listener, providing a comfortable ambiance, like a chair or something. Emma had once likened him to a piece of furniture that people used and then forgot. She had never forgotten the evening when they were about nineteen, drinking beer in his parents’ den. They had dared each other to reveal something embarrassing. His contribution was that his mother couldn’t pick him out in his second-grade school photo.

“And I was there! I still remember the scratchy collar on my Sunday suit that I had to wear for photo day.”

Emma had not believed him and harangued him until he brought the old album out. Despite her determination to prove him wrong, she had ended up asking, “So, which one are you?” And to his shame he had to admit he didn’t know either.

“Oh, come on! You remember the jacket. You must know who you stood next to, don’t you?”

“You’re right. It was Fritz. He had no father. He later got caught stealing the candy from a wedding party.”

When she looked at him oddly, he added, “No, really. You know how it is in a small village. They used to buy huge bags of hard candy to throw at the wedding guests or maybe at those locals who’d come to the church but weren’t invited to the reception. So, anyway, he went into the vestry when the ceremony was going on in the church and stole the whole bag. Of course, not being the brightest bulb in the chandelier, he then handed out candy to all the kids in handfuls … for days. Consequently, before the week was out, the local cop had him standing before the mayor, my father. He thought Fritz stole the candy as revenge for having to live with a single mother.”

“Which one is Fritz?”

Despite the story and the vivid memory of the hard, lemon candy he had kept under his tongue the whole time his father had paced the living room the night Fritz was caught, he couldn’t remember what he looked like either.

“I mean, just look. We’re all the same—buzz cut on the sides like military recruits, combed carefully across the top, missing front teeth, cardigans, and suspenders holding up those horrid shorts.”

“I know. I think all school photos should be made illegal.”

Ron flipped through the pictures in his hand and finally triumphantly said: “Ha! Here I am—the only one in long pants. I remember that. It was the year my mother decided that, since I was the mayor’s son, I had standards to uphold. The kids teased me horribly, but what could I do?”

“Why did you suddenly become the mayor’s son that year and not before?”

“Of course, I had been all that time, as she’d been the mayor’s wife, but I think it was around that time she became addicted to those ‘penny dreadfuls,’ the soft-core porn of the sixties where good women married bad men and came to no good.”

“What about the men?”

“What about them?”

“Bad men married good women? Unlikely. Bad men don’t marry … but, anyway, what happened to the men?”

“Oh, I see.”

Ron had rubbed his index finger along his hairline, a habitual gesture Emma had learned to recognize as indicating confusion.

“I don’t remember. I think men became the obstacles against which the women dashed themselves, like waves against shore boulders.”

“Was your father one of the bad guys?” Emma asked.

He had shrugged and suddenly looked very sad. She hurried to say, “Mine certainly was. And he enjoyed the role, I think … mostly the part about beating his offspring for all misdeeds, real and imaginary.”

It had been one of their most intimate conversations and cemented a trust that had carried them through years of separation, different partners, and breakups. Now, they met once a month.

Curiously enough, Emma didn’t know much about Ron’s life except the bits he chose to reveal during their meetings. They avoided talking about her marriage or his lack of partners unless it was urgent. This way, they could be timeless friends and still offer each other breathing space whenever necessary.

He was already sitting when Emma arrived at the cafe, and the waitress had just delivered two coffees.

“Did I ever tell you about the time I worked in a kiosk?” Emma said instead of greeting him. He shrugged and pulled her chair back so she had enough space to sit.

“It was a summer job. Lousy pay and all, but I just remembered: It was the early seventies, and the world was in an uproar.”

“Yeah, I remember that time. I was there.” He grinned at her. “What happened?”

“I had a stack of flyers for some demonstration, an anarchist meeting or something. I slipped them into the daily newspapers. I thought it was a good way to spread the word, you know?”

He nodded, so she continued, “That afternoon one of my regulars came by. He was one of the dark suits, a lawyer or more likely an accountant or something. He came by and told me in his most serious official voice that what I was doing was illegal, and, if he wanted, he could have me arrested. I was so scared I hardly slept the whole rest of the week and expected the uniforms to show up any time, day or night. You think what he said was true?”

Ron shrugged. “Sounds a bit extreme. I mean, I’m sure you’re not supposed to solicit, but jail? You sure he wasn’t just kidding?”

“Oh, he wasn’t the type. One of those gray men, you know? But maybe he realized it was enough just to give me a good scare. You know, people like us didn’t end up going to jail … we were law-abiding. Even though I did have dreams of being a martyr for the cause—civil disobedience and suffering for the betterment of the world …”

“Yeah, well, and then?”

“Actually, nothing, of course. I didn’t distribute any more flyers, but even now I feel ashamed of my fear. I so wanted to be a hero and always hoped I could be, if the situation arose.”

“Well, as they say, being a hero is not NOT being afraid, but overcoming fear and doing what is necessary despite it.”

“Yeah, I know. I read that too. I think the hardest bit would be …”

“ … Physical pain … ”

“ … Isolation … ”

“ … Ridicule … ”

Emma held up her hand to stop the rapid flow of words. “Yes! I think that’s it. To be ridiculed would be the hardest … and doubting the rightousness of your beliefs.”

“Like the Jehovah’s Witnesses? I read about them. They’re really something! Everybody makes fun of them, and, still, they’re out there professing their faith … ”

“Don’t talk about faith! That always makes me think of my father, and I’d rather not.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Ron dutifully changed the subject. ”How’s your computer practice coming along?”

Emma did not have a computer at her house because Manfred believed they were bad for the children, and he didn’t want even the temptation at home. Emma had taken an adult education class in Internet 101, and she was excited with the possibilities.

“I feel like the world has suddenly opened up under my fingertips. I can go so many places … ”

Ron nodded. In the past, he had vehemently argued that she needed to put her foot down and get a machine at home: “Nobody in the first world lives without access these days … except for you!” They had come close to a fight, and so now he didn’t push any longer. However, he never let a chance go by to inform her how talented her son, Karl, was around the computer. “I mean, he’s only twelve, but the guy makes my computer do things I never tried, and it works. I am impressed. He tells me they teach computer at school, but most of the stuff he does I’m sure he didn’t learn at school. Does Manfred know you’ve got a budding engineer there?”

“You know how he is. If you push him he’ll just dig in harder. But I’ll support Karl if he begins to fight for one, believe me. Every time I go online at school, I feel as though the world was just waiting for me to break it open.”

They sat silently for a while. Finally, Ron asked about his godson, and from there the conversation drifted aimlessly until they got up, handed the waitress a five-franc piece each, and went in their respective directions.

Ron boarded the number 12 bus and headed toward home. His apartment was near the embassy and only two blocks from the pool where he did his morning workouts. He got out and walked slowly toward the Wellenbad, enjoying the stillness that fell as soon as the electric bus had disappeared around the corner.

Huge, old, elm trees shaded the quiet street. All windows were curtained; the ground floor windows were shut tight. There was no one visible. The gardens were immaculate, and, if a weed ever dared to show its face, it would probably shrivel of shame immediately. On the whole street, not a leaf was out of place, not an ill-advised color to be seen. There was not even a rustle of leaves, as if even the wind wouldn’t dare make noise.

He came around the corner into the next street. Now he could hear the distant sound of laughter and water splashing. Although it was a public pool, the place was too expensive to attract much in the way of riffraff. The local teenagers just used the river; it was free. The Wellenbad boasted a wave machine against which, every morning from seven to eight and evenings from five to six, one could battle one’s way against the current through the water. Ron used to imagine he was crossing the Atlantic Ocean—most likely off the African coast rather than farther north; the French coast would be too cold for him. Today, though, he would simply swim laps.

He went in, showed his pass, and changed. In his bathing suit, dressing gown, and rubber slippers, he moved into the pool area. He stored his possessions in one of a row of cubbies built into the wall, showered, and stepped down the stairs into the pool.

He always used the stairs, sliding his hand along the railing provided for the safety of moving in or out of the water. Others would dive in headfirst or at least slide into the water from the side of the pool. He had noticed that men, especially, didn’t walk down the steps the way he did. Women did that, and only old women put their hands on the railing to lead themselves down into the water this way, but he was long past feeling embarrassed about it. He was a cautious man; he was an invisible man; and people told him things precisely for that reason.

Besides, he liked the feel of the metal tube under his hand. It was slick, warmed from the water, and felt clean and smooth. He liked smooth things under his hand, like silk and some fleece—not all fleece, just some kinds. Some made his teeth ache, and his hair stand up with a static charge.

He swam his accustomed twenty laps and returned to the stairs where he, again, worked his way up while sliding his hand along the metal railing. Then he stamped his feet to shake off the excess water and slipped into the rubber slippers. He never walked barefoot around the pool like other people did. The thought of all those germs lurking in the small puddles, just waiting for an unsuspecting bare foot, made his skin crawl.

Ron pushed open the door to the men’s dressing room. It was empty as it usually was at this time of day, which was one of the main reasons he used the pool in the middle of the morning. He did not wish to be scrutinized. He did not want to leash his eyes. He did not want to be careful of how his body moved. Just for a time, he simply wanted to be. He felt free being alone.

He opened his locker, grabbed a towel and wash bag, and relocked it. In the shower, he made sure to close the curtain all the way, so he could remove his bathing suit and wash all over without having to worry about a stray visitor coming in while his ears were plugged with water.

He carefully shampooed his thinning hair once, rinsed it twice, and applied a blob of conditioner. An ad on TV said this made hair virile and was proven to encourage regrowth. Though Ron checked the progress daily, he had failed to notice any improvement to date.

Thoroughly rinsed, he turned the shower off, grabbed his towel, and rubbed himself dry. This was another ritual. The towel, made of rough, natural cotton, was fresh every day, and he made himself rub it hard enough to raise color to his skin. Only then did he wrap the towel around his waist and exit the shower.

An old man with skinny, veined legs and liver spots all over his bald pate was standing in front of the lockers looking as if he’d forgotten why he was there. Ron walked past him, and the man turned and said, “Can you believe this? I forgot my lock.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“Well, it’s supposed to be in the bag but I must’ve …”

“Did you take it out? It might still be in there, if you turn everything upside down. This happens to me once a week, and it’s always right down there, somewhere. After all, where could it go?”

The man looked at Ron with such hope that Ron almost wished it had been the truth. The fact was, he never lost his lock, but he hoped the lie would help. His lock had its own place in his bag in the outside pocket. Not only that, he greased it once a month so it would work easily because you never knew … the damp in those bathing places …

He continued on past the old man and turned the corner to his row of lockers. Behind him he could hear the clatter of an upturned gym bag, and then the old man shouted, “Hey, you were right! Thanks. It was here all along.”

Ron did not bother to answer.

His locker was open now, and his used towel lay folded on the bench while he smoothed body lotion over his arms and legs. When the dressing room was busy, he regretfully omitted this part of the ritual. He did not want to draw attention to himself by using lotion; he’d noticed that men got suspicious of of other men who did. Aftershave lotion, yes. Deodorant, yes, although there was always the suggestion of having an assignation when men applied smelling potions. But skin lotion? Not in public.

Having let the lotion soak into his skin, he pulled on his silk jockeys and silk undershirt. The feel of them against his skin, freshly scrubbed and lotioned, made him feel warm inside. He was reminded of the school photo. Never again would he wear scratchy, woolen trousers or rough underpants with stretched-out elastic that always bunched up behind and begged to be used for wedgies. No, never again.