Читать книгу Sorry - Shaun Whiteside - Страница 20

YOU FIRST LEARN ABOUT the agency over lunch. You’re sitting with your boss and three other colleagues in a restaurant on Potsdamer Platz. The restaurant isn’t to your taste. Too loud and too chic. Once a week your boss plans a lunch for you, it’s a quirk he has. He thinks a bit of foodie culture can’t hurt.

You’ve just ordered when your boss mentions the agency. For a few seconds a high-pitched noise rings in your ears and you have the feeling that reality is trembling; it lurches for a moment before coming to a standstill again with a scraping sound. You study the frozen faces around you and wonder what would happen if your heart stopped at a moment like that and you died. Would you really be dead? Would you have disappeared from reality? Then someone laughs, then someone says it’s all nonsense, and time is time again, and you’re sitting with your colleagues at the table and you raise your water glass to your lips even though it’s empty. Your colleagues don’t notice a thing. You quickly set your glass back down again, a waiter leans toward you and pours you some water. You ignore him and laugh with the others. It sounds like a joke. An agency that apologizes. You say something now too, you say:

“Oh, come off it.”

“No, no, it isn’t a joke,” your boss assures you, passing you the bread. “It’s the latest thing. A lot of big companies are working with them already. I’ve heard it firsthand. I wouldn’t even be surprised if we used them one day.”

You all shake your heads in disbelief; the idea is ridiculous, unimaginable; all the things people come up with. You spread butter on your bread, sit still and look like someone spreading butter on some bread. Inside you’re in turmoil. What if it’s true? you wonder. What then? Your boss surprises you by reading your thoughts and says:

“Look on the internet. They must even have a homepage.”

A search on Google brings up 1,288 entries. The agency’s name is Sorry. Their homepage is only one page long. A short text, e-mail address, and phone number. You run your eyes over the comments on the agency but don’t click on them, because you don’t need the opinion of outsiders.

An agency that apologizes …

All those months, days, hours, minutes. Every second is a weight around your neck. Resistance is difficult. How many times have you wanted to fall on your knees? Always resisting, always bracing yourself. It’s understandable that you’re tired. Anyone else would be tired too, many would have given up, but you’re stubborn, and well on the way to freeing yourself of your guilt. You’ve found a way. You’ve only just figured out what needs to be done, and that same day in the restaurant you hear about an agency that apologizes in return for payment. Isn’t that ironic? Would we talk about coincidence or synchronicity? Do you want to enter into a discussion about the elements of fate?

No.

Your fingers tremble as you dial the number. It took you four days to accept the agency’s existence. Four days of stomach pains. Four days when you wanted to pummel the walls with your fists. You’re so nervous that you hang up after a single ring. You laugh. You’re aware that you’re overreacting. You’re not sixteen years old and calling the love of your life. You calm down and press redial.

“This is Sorry, Tamara Berger speaking. How can I help?”

“My name is Lars Meybach, I wanted to ask exactly how you operate,” you say, pressing your hand to your mouth to suppress a nervous giggle.

“The procedure’s very simple,” Tamara tells you. “We listen to what you want to apologize for, who it’s to, and what’s to be said. After this detailed discussion, we send one of our colleagues to see you. He fulfills the commission and—”

“How do I know that your colleague will fulfill the commission to my satisfaction?” you interrupt.

“Trust,” she replies without a moment’s hesitation. “Of course you can also ask for a report, then we put the conversation in writing and send you the report.”

“Sounds interesting. What’s the catch?”

“The only catch is that we don’t take personal requests. Is it a private or a business problem?”

“Business,” you lie. “Definitely business.”

“Wonderful. Should I mail you a copy of our standard business terms?”

You weren’t prepared for that. It’s all happening very quickly. Too quickly.

Don’t hang up!

You switch the receiver to your other hand and ask:

“Is everyone at the agency as nice as you?”

“No, just me, unfortunately. If you heard the others you’d never call us again.”

She laughs; you like her laugh.

“Miss Berger—”

“Tamara,” she says.

“Okay, Tamara, I’ve got a really pressing problem, and I’m not sure whether you can really help me. How fast is your agency?”

“How pressing is it?”

“Very.”

“Then we’re very fast,” she promises.

Minutes later you’ve printed out and read the business terms and the application form. You log on to your bank and transfer the advance payment to the agency’s account. The pace of it all takes your breath away. It’s going to happen in ten days’ time. You still can’t get your head around it.

GIVE US A BRIEF DESCRIPTION OF YOUR PROBLEM

To concentrate on your text, you sit down on the balcony and take a deep breath. You think of the mirrors hanging in your flat. You think about how long it’s been since you could look yourself in the eye. Two months, twenty-six days, eleven hours.

You pick up the pen and fill out the form.

The words have to be right.

Every sentence is important.