by Simon Strauß
Once I had dinner with my nemesis. He repeatedly humiliated me, even slept with my girlfriend. He hated me. I hated him. “The enemy is our own question personified,” someone once wrote in my yearbook. So I invited my nemesis. On a winter night he came running up the stairs, wheezing, sweating from his ears, not taking off his snowy shoes. We were sitting on this very sofa, the one I had just been lying on. His big butt exactly where my head was just resting. The things furniture has to put up with sometimes! I hope its memory isn’t too good.
I made lamb for my nemesis and opened a bottle of Barolo. He spent the entire evening talking about the intrigues of work colleagues. I kept refilling his glass, imagining him talking about me the same way behind my back. Couldn’t get rid of the image of him unzipping his pants as my girlfriend sat on the bed in front of him, hands on his hips, eyes glowing.
After the second bottle, things improved. After the third we were wasted. By the end we were sitting on the floor, shirts open, reading Celan’s poems to each other. “Breath-crystal, what a word!” the nemesis said. This is how we got closer.
A day on the sofa in front of the ticking clock. Nothing attempted, nothing achieved. Just waiting.
Lange Ziit the Swiss say, by which they mean both boredom and longing. “I have lange ziit for you” means “I long for you.” Only those who are bored can experience real longing. A life that never postpones will always be panting, never breathing freely.
Of course, you can therapy away all slowness, all that quietly cheerful laziness. You can become a workaholic and celebrate your birthday in the office. But that dream of freedom and fear of missed opportunities will remain. “I was eleven, then I was sixteen. Though no honors came my way, those were the lovely years,” Truman Capote once reminisced.
When I’m alone I always imagine someone watching me being alone. I act out my life for an unknown viewer. Who sits there and notices every move I make. He knows me well by now, knows my weaknesses and strengths. I do my morning sit-ups for him alone, as well as the rhythmic movements of my hands when listening to music. I would love to meet him someday, my observer. Maybe he could offer a few tips on what I could be doing better. So far, he hasn’t come forward. But I’m sure he’ll call. Until then I’m going to hang out at home a bit. Look at the dancing couples and the silent shadows. And wait.
IV
AVARITIA
The trouble is not losing. The trouble is that others win. The clueless beginners, who check the first box that appears in front of their chewed pencil. Who are here for the first time and immediately think they’ve figured it out. “Exacta two and four” they call out to the lady in the betting stand, even before the first race has started.
One of them is next to the stairs that lead up to the grandstand. He belongs to the tribe of harmless barbarians of the twenty first century. He is a super daddy. The baby on his arm, the shoulders relaxed, the shoelaces of his Timberlands untied. Dress code: guileless wealth. I’m a little bit offended that they let someone like him place a bet here. That someone like that in all seriousness can say: “Ten Euros on King’s Soldier coming in first.”
Instead of pointing out the dangers of gambling addiction post facto (“Ask us about the leaflet, What to do when everything is gone. Ways to escape gambling addiction.”), there should be more warnings targeting betting newbies. A horse race bet is no family picnic. It’s for risk takers, for people who order extra-spicy on the menu—not for those who gorge on their kids’ cotton candy.
Prince of the Nibelungen, the horse I bet on, didn’t win. Well, it didn’t just not win, it came in last by a long measure. I had placed such high hopes in the three-year-old stallion from the Puetz stable. With a father named Tertullian and a mother called Nightbitch, how could you not? Such a risky mix of intellect and lewdness is bound for greatness. Except, it wasn’t. Ninth place for Prince of the Nibelungen. First place for King’s Soldier. Super daddy screamed in ecstasy.
In between the races, in the stables, jockeys sucked on orange slices. Wispy lads with milk-white skin who carry the fate of so many in their hands for a short time. For a few minutes, all eyes are on them. They become close allies. In their fluttering wind jackets, white pants and protective goggles, they look like forgotten extras from an old movie. On the way from the show ring to the judges’ tower they flirt with the stable girls who are having trouble holding the nervous horses by the halter and leading them to the race track. They’re pulled back and forth by the horses’ abrupt movement, knocked into the hedges on either side, whipped by their tails. Annoyed, they try to keep their own ponytails in check. Since for them, too, it’s about keeping composure, giving an impression of superiority, just like the jockeys, who calmly kneel on top of the fitful animals, clean their racing goggles and keep bending down to whisper into the girls’ ears: “Your bra has come unlatched, Marie,” I hear one of them say. Another quietly asks about the next massage. As soon as they’ve passed the club stands, the girls unhook their lunge lines and jump to the side. The jockeys stand up in the tight stirrups, lean forward like ski jumpers just before the release and gallop away. Their skill is to disturb the horse’s stride as little as possible, and yet in the decisive moment, slacken or tighten the reins a tiny bit. This demands maximum concentration. Their butts pointed toward the sky, almost titillatingly so, as if they were waiting for a desperate wind god to give them a slap. Potentially that’s exactly what decides victory or loss in the end.
In the second race I bet an exacta on Seagörl and Wild Approach. The British jockey of Seagörl just won with a lower-rung horse. Seagörl is a descendant of the famous Sea-family, I read in the betting magazine that I borrowed from an old man with a stiff leg. She has a first class heritage, a purebred. Besides, she’s coming from the Görls-dorf stable in Brandenburg. I seem to remember having read at some point that the stable belongs to Scientology, but I can’t remember exactly. I bet only two euros, the twenty earlier were gone far too quickly. Now super daddy has my money and is investing it in Nutella crepes for his family.
The only way to gain access to the grandstand is having a VIP ticket. But if you’re mumbling something about “business” and “important call,” the tan security lady will let you through anyway. She knows what you’re up to, but occasionally wants to take a break from being a downer. Especially because the seats in the panorama lounge are never fully occupied anyway. This is where the insiders gather, those who don’t want anything to do with the agitated novices down on the picnic grounds. Here you’ll come across old ladies with cream-softened hands, single gentlemen with sharply-creased pants. Arms loosely crossed, eyes directed downward even after the starting signal. This isn’t the real beginning. It’s too early to invest in movement. Only when the horses enter the final curve, when there are four hundred meters left to the finish line and the mob down below has started screaming and clapping, when the ground softly vibrates. Only then will they lift their gaze, scoot a little forward on their cushions and reach for their binoculars.
This is when the decision is made and we find out who managed their horse’s energy well, who can still count on a final push. Now the jockeys have lost their stiff posture. Their butts sway back and forth, their panting is muffled, crops slapping fiercely. One horse stumbles, sends his rider diving into the floodlit grass. He rests for a moment, groggy, wishing he’d stayed in the rusty deck chair by the lily pond in his father’s garden. Then he laboriously gets up and hobbles to the side. Over and out. Only an instant ago, hundreds knew his name, would have offered him anything for a victory. Now he is already forgotten.
The others gallop on as the crowd roars. That’s roughly how it must have been in the Roman arena as the gladiators begged for a raised thumb. A “like” that decides between life and death.
Two hundred meters until the finish line. “Just based on her breeding she has a good chance,” a man beside me murmurs. The key to his Mercedes hangs on his belt loop. Who i
s he talking about? “Who are you talking about?” Indignant “shhhhs” from the background. Seagörl is in fourth place. Wild Approach even farther down the list. No luck today. Further down I see somebody raise their fist. Super daddy.
Such behavior can’t be rewarded. I’ve seen him copy from his neighbor at the betting stand. Shameless. I mean, there are a lot of factors to influence someone’s bet: general odds, for example, reflecting the majority opinion about favorites. They flicker across the screens fifteen minutes before the race starts and many of the betting folks follow them slavishly.
I don’t care much for the majority opinion. It drives me nuts when too many people think the same thing. When there’s talk of a “we,” I feel provoked. I prefer sitting in my own boat, am willing to sink in it if necessary, just to avoid tasting the same words in my mouth that a million others have spoken.
“When everybody is in agreement, we start doubting.” I saw this silly tagline on a banner hanging outside the headquarters of Der Spiegel during a harbor cruise in Hamburg. I haven’t been able to get it out of my head since. That’s why I often say things, even if I’m not completely convinced of them myself, as long as they surprise the person I’m talking to.
The well-adjusted, the opportunists, the softies and Dalai Lama imitators: They look to the odds when placing their bets. On the other side are those forever loyal to the emperor, those who could never work up the enthusiasm for the utopian core at the heart of democracy. Who think it is enough if a few keep the shop running and make sure that the price of bread doesn’t increase. Those are the types of betters who sit in the lounge with their sports magazines, who placed their bets first thing in the morning. They’ve aligned themselves with the various experts, offset them against each other, done the math and created clever combination bets. Simpler minds often make their decisions based on the looks of the jockey or the eye color of the horse. Academics and the nobility often are influenced in their selection by the horse’s owner having a doctorate degree or a nobility title. Conspiracy theorists claim to see a connection between the nail polish shade on the lady in the betting office and the colors on the winning jockey’s jersey. At every race, they say, one of the betting office employees wears the winning colors.
As absurd as these criteria are, simply copying the neighbors ticket is by far the most objectionable. It’s cynical and dishonorable. But what does that mean to the modern super daddy?
Anyway, Seagörl is behind. A hundred and fifty meters to the finish line. Time is running out. Above the old red brick building the German flag flutters in the wind and asks itself why. Why let yourself be pulled up every day if no one looks up to you?
Something is happening. Seagörl is at the front of the pursuing group. Peels away, storms to the front, mud splattering. A hundred meters to the finish line. A hundred meters.
Downstairs, the stable girls are screaming, picnic blankets are flying. This would be the most opportune moment for pickpocketing. A girl with Down syndrome excitedly hugs her caretaker. Come on, Seagörl! For a few seconds the animal becomes my private property, all standards of ownership have faded. If at this moment Satan were to suggest a Faustian pact—my soul, a lifelong government bureaucracy job, for Seagörl’s victory—I would not hesitate. Avarice has taken hold of me. I want to win. Whatever it costs.
The last meters to the finish line. Seagörl is even with the leading horse. The jockey whips the crop against her back. Again and again. And then, it seems to work. Seagörl takes a leap, extends her forehooves, the first across the finish line. For a moment calmness takes over. I feel a great lightness, like sometimes happens during guided meditation. The thoughts pass like clouds in the sky. In the distance you can hear the waves rolling, back and forth, back and forth. Even before checking the results my gaze falls on super daddy. Previously, his arm was raised in victory. Now it hangs limp by his side. What a divine picture. A foreshadow of doomsday. Triumph, trumpets, tricolor!
Then, from the corner of my eye, I see the second place being displayed: Wild Approach. I shudder and stumble off the grandstand in a daze. Down on the track guys in red vests are smoothing out the ground. Soon, nothing will commemorate this momentous final spurt. At the betting booth I cash in. I bet two euros and get forty-two. The rush of victory only lasts a short time. Too short. Then I realize what I missed out on.
What if… How much would I have won, how many people would I have called up ecstatically if, instead of the two euros, I had bet two hundred? Or at least twenty? There is no one to blame for my stinginess but super daddy and his impertinent post-heroism. If I hadn’t seen my twenty euro bill defenselessly tucked into his sweaty goody-goody hand at the crepe stand, I would have shown more courage.
It’s starting to drizzle. The horses in the stables are getting agitated. The old wooden displays from the nineteenth century rattle in the wind. I wonder if the British investor who now owns this race track sometimes places a bet, too, to pay for the repair of the old brick buildings? Maybe he is the well-dressed man there in the back. The one with the delicate, rosy features. He didn’t get up from his bench during the race. With his back turned to the screen he’s waiting for a better future to tap him on the shoulder. There is something provincial about nobody betting the big money here, all these small minds, thinking they’ll walk away with serious cash after having bet fifty cents.
Later that night I bet on the victory of Loulou’s Jackpot, putting my trust in the jockey with the white hat. For second place, I hope for number ten: Nemesis. Nemésis is how the commentator announces it. If your name is constantly mispronounced and you can’t defend yourself—that would have to adrenalize you, to spur you on to show them all. I hope.
Nemesis remains in the back of the middle and a pimply fop in an old top hat turns to me shortly after the finish: “Kindly give me a light.”
All around me, people are already thinking about the next race, but my thoughts remain with my missed chance. This one race, this one horse. Seagörl. My girl. That’s what could have been.
The speakers blast the Spanish national anthem. The longest race of the night just finished. 3,200 meters for horses aged four and older. The favorite, a premier long distance horse from the stable of a Saudi prince, didn’t win. Justice, at least for once. Those who don’t let their women drive at home shouldn’t let horses run abroad. Such a double standard in terms of horsepower is unacceptable. The chatter about bribes from the sheik and corrupt veterinarians doesn’t last long given the disappointing fifth place of Elvis. The aerodynamic blinkers don’t seem to have done their job.
Shortly before the last race, one of the horses breaks free and runs across the track. A gaggle of stable girls fans out to catch it. Their efforts of calling its name and swinging the lunge line remain futile. In the meantime, I place a bet (last attempt, all in!) on an underdog that gets disqualified before the race even starts. Tristesse royale.
I say goodbye to my loyal ticket stand lady and shudder at the thought that she knows the extent of my defeat. “Thank you very much,” she said amicably every time I handed her a ticket. And probably she thought: “So stupid.” Then I visit super daddy for a last time. Bills are settled at the end. After each feast comes the cleanup.
There he sits, the happy camper. Of course he’s not sitting on the bench, but on the backrest, his feet on the seat, the toddler on this bouncing knees. “Feet off the seat,” I want to say, but then I remember that the guy is at least fifteen years my senior. For garden gnomes like super daddy, worse punishment is in order. For example, disregard. At some point this will hurt him more than any rude word I might now address to him. At some point he will writhe in despair over the memory of me silently walking past him at the end of this long evening at the races.
On his way home he will raise his pink handkerchief triumphantly into the wind. Next to him, his Swabian girlfriend and the sleeping child in designer clothing. Happily ensconced in their ele
ctric car as I miss the train and have to take a cab to the ATM. That’s how it will be. Today.
But soon, I’ll become somebody, and he’ll tell everyone about that night in March when I just walked past him. And he will write to me and beg for a single small word for him, so that he can brag about it to his anorexic children. I will win on all accounts. I will triumph. Not today, not tomorrow. But at some point. I will save my smiling until that day. And continue betting. Every Sunday, come rain or shine…
And when death shows up at my dining room table, unannounced, without notifying my guardian angels, I will say to him: I know the horse to bet on. It’s standing in the back of the paddock. It only lifts its head for those loyal to the king. Stefan George’s verses are written on the hooves: “Past glory bears gifts, albeit late / The spirits inevitably return with full sails / Back to the land of dreams and of legend.”
V
INVIDIA
Most likely, we’re not sufficiently possessed by the devil. Most likely, we’re missing what once was the mantra of youth: rage. That and proper stationary. How much was being read—and loved—in the old days. These days we’re constantly running out of time. A visit to an art show has to be prepared weeks in advance with save-the-date emails. Again and again, I tried to read Musil’s The Man without Qualities with three others. We never made it past the first pages. And the Walter Benjamin reading group I stopped after three and a half meetings. There was always something else going on. These things must have been easier back then, in turtlenecks, smoking cigarettes. Or when Theodor Mommsen climbed the library ladder at night, candle in hand. Allegedly his white hair was the first to catch fire, then his forty thousand books. Among them a manuscript that was over a thousand years old. The famous historian had it recklessly sent to his home. The fire consumed everything. Maybe even the fourth volume of his A history of Rome. Or maybe he never wrote it? Even Nietzsche, who despised the Prussian intellectual, was shocked: “Have you read about the fire at Mommsen’s? That all his excerpts are destroyed, potentially the most important preliminary studies made by any living scholar? He is said to have plunged into the flames again and again, until they had to overpower him—already covered in burns—with force.” The next day Mommsen’s students searched the rubble for remnants, collected charred papers and glued them together. They didn’t want to just give up on the last artifacts of universal scholarship.
