The forest air was warm and drowsy and smelt of dusk and moss. Alfred knew that later on, after sunset, the forest would lose its sluggishness and be transformed into a wondrous strange and busy place, alive with crisp rustles and sporadic skirls: quick sharp movements as prey evaded predator, or else succumbed to claw and beak and tooth. But for now, at the end of a long, hot summer’s day, the forest was listless and quiet. Alfred began to feel sleepy and he closed his eyes.
Then he heard a voice. It was a whisper – hissskkss, shhhhts, psstss – coming from somewhere above him to the left. Alfred had spent enough of his young life in the forest to know that this was no bird or other creature, or any other sound the windless forest could produce. It was a human voice, a woman’s voice. It was too low for him to make out the words, but something in the inflection made him recognise it was a question. A moment later, another voice, slightly to the right. And although this too was a whisper, or perhaps more of a sigh, he could tell that this was a different voice and that it was answering the first. He opened his eyes and lifted his head to the boughs above him. He did this out of curiosity, not because he was afraid, being, developmentally, on the cusp of leaving a world in which hearing voices could still quite easily be reconciled with the stark objective realities of life.
However, with his eyes open, the voices seemed to dim. He shut his eyes again, opening his hearing to its most sensitive, and then:
OF COURSE HE’S NOT AFRAID, ARE YOU, ALFRED?
Alfred fell from his nook and hit the ground hard. He fell, not just because of the loudness and suddenness of the voice, but because he realised at once that the voice had not come from outside, but from inside his head. He sat up and covered his ears with his palms of his hands.
OH, GOODNESS, HE FELL OFF THE TREE!
Clear as day, the voice ricocheted inside his head, the shout bouncing from ear to ear.
The poor boy, he heard. I hope he isn’t hurt.
Perhaps he should stand up to make sure there are no broken bones, he heard.
Dutifully, Alfred stood up and slapped the damp earth from his backside. He wriggled his limbs. All was well. Besides, he’d fallen from greater heights before without coming to any real harm.
KSSSS, IT WAS FUNNY THOUGH, HOW HE JUST – PLOP! – FELL ON HIS BOTTOM!
I think you can stop shouting now. He can hear us perfectly well.
Now, Alfred was a fairly shy and quiet boy. He was not prone to the extroversion and gaiety of his older siblings, ten-year-old Johanna and eleven-year-old Emil, although he enjoyed their exuberance by proxy, delighting in Johanna’s cartwheels across meadows of poppies and cornflowers, admiring Emil’s shows of courage when he climbed to the top of a pine tree and hung there, swaying dangerously as the wind made the tip dance from side to side. On occasion, Alfred’s father would chide his son’s exaggerated prudence and apparent lack of spunk, but Alfred was mostly quite content to sit among the wildflowers, grinning at each forbidden flash of his sister’s underpants, wondering how heavy Emil would have to be for the tip of the pine to snap during one of its dances. Much later in life, Alfred would come to learn that these qualities – a reserved demeanour and a keen mind – were of great benefit when it came to coping with life.
But right now, he was a six-year-old boy in a darkening forest, listening to a conversation between three women, or wood nymphs, or faeries – he knew not which – none of whom he could see. And although this intrigued him somewhat, his reticence got the better of his curiosity. So instead of answering back, or engaging in conversation, he turned to face the tree and waited. He didn’t quite know what he was waiting for, but his silence appeared to have silenced them, because there was nothing more to be heard.
Dusk had washed out the last of the light from the forest. The shriek of a nearby owl officially proclaimed nightfall, and suddenly recalling his father’s tales of wolves, Alfred decided it was time to go home. He circled the ash tree once, just to make sure there really was no one there, and headed back. He knew the woods well, every gnarled tree root, every cluster of fruit-bejewelled brambles, the surreptitious streams that gurgled through the forest like life-blood, all imprinted as an elaborate mental map in his brain. Thus, even in the increasing gloom, he was able to stride confidently and unerringly back through the forest to the cottage. It was completely dark by the time he got back, and as he headed down the sandy path that led from the cowshed to the cottage, he spotted his father sitting on the doorstep with his head in his hands. For a moment, Alfred felt a swell of guilt. Firstly, he realised at the sight of his father that he had, for a short while, forgotten all about Martha. Secondly, it occurred to him that perhaps his father had been sitting there for goodness knows how long, waiting for him to return.
As he approached the cottage, however, it appeared that his absence had gone unnoticed. His father looked up, his face still contorted in grief. He opened his mouth as though to speak, but then wordlessly let his head fall back into his hands. Alfred climbed the steps past him and entered the cottage. The windows had been flung open to let some of the cool of the evening into the room, and the whitewashed walls were already pricked with an array of gnats and mosquitoes, lured in by the light of two petroleum lamps that stood on the mantelpiece.
‘I’m hungry,’ Alfred said to Emil and Johanna, who were sitting on a rug playing cards. Despite the open windows, the air in the cottage was still heavy from the day’s heat.
‘I’m hungry,’ Alfred repeated, his voice rising to a whine. Emil slapped a card on the rug between himself and Johanna with a triumphant ‘Ha!’
Johanna got to her feet and tossed her cards onto the floor. ‘I’m not playing with you anymore,’ she said crossly. ‘You’re cheating.’
Emil shrugged and began to gather the cards together. ‘You’re just a bad loser,’ he said.
Johanna paused, as if trying to think of a suitable rejoinder. Then she placed her hands firmly on her hips and said, ‘Right, I don’t think we should wait for Papa to put us to bed tonight.’
‘I don’t need anyone to put me to bed,’ Emil said, getting up off the floor. He had a smudge of dirt on his right cheek.
Johanna bent over to pick up the cards. ‘Well then,’ she said, still addressing Emil, ‘you can put yourself to bed whenever you like.’ She looked up and spotted Alfred. ‘You. Upstairs. It’s time for bed.’
At these words, hunger and tiredness undertook a brief battle in Alfred. Tiredness won.
‘You’re not in charge here,’ Emil repeated, but this time in a lower voice.
‘That’s not – ’ Johanna began, but stopped as they all heard a loud wail coming from upstairs. She and Emil exchanged a glance.
‘What’s wrong?’ demanded Alfred, made anxious by the exclusion from their understanding. The sound from upstairs had suddenly taken the edge off his tiredness, but had simultaneously reminded him of his hunger.
‘That’s Mama,’ said Johanna quietly. ‘She’s – ’ she hesitated. ‘She’s doing all of her crying today so she’ll be better tomorrow.’ And then she nodded her head as if to affirm this statement for her own benefit and turned and began to climb the stairs. Emil hesitated for a moment and then followed her. Alfred watched them walk upstairs, wondering if he should go to the kitchen to fetch an apple, when a disoriented bat suddenly flew in through an open window, drew a couple of bewildered circles around the room and then flew out again as abruptly as it had entered. Spooked by this, and the thought of other creatures that might be lurking in the dark outside waiting to come in, Alfred dashed up the stairs behind his siblings.
Two Thousand and Four
Fuck, Brynja!
Erich is pissed off, really pissed off, but there’s nothing you can do about it now. Your stomach is growling.
Brynja!
Yeah, I heard you. You push past him into the kitchen, feel the vibration of his rage. Ignore it. I’m fucking starving, you say.
You open the fridge, yank it open too forcefully – c
an’t judge your own strength when you’re on meds – making the milk bottle in the door clatter against the beer bottles. A few drops of milk splash out and onto the floor.
Shit.
Erich comes up behind you, clutching the letter. He is barefoot, you can hear the soles of his feet on the kitchen tiles. Why didn’t you show me this, Bryn? It’s dated June thirteenth. That’s – he pauses, counting in his head – like nine weeks ago.
Eggs, hard lump of cheese, wilted coriander (from Erich cooking Thai), a jar of olives. And bread. Erich has a habit of keeping bread in the fridge. Makes it stay fresh for longer, he claims, although you hate cold bread. Always have to pop it in the toaster for ten seconds just to warm it up to room temperature. You grab two slices, straighten up and turn. Collide with Erich. He is not just barefooted, but also bare-chested. Wiry black curls sprouting around his nipples. There’s a heat wave. He looks at you and tries to establish eye contact, but you evade him. Move your head from side to side. Eye contact makes you uncomfortable. So instead, Erich puts his hand on your shoulder. His hand is hot and heavy.
Brynja, he says, moving his head in synch with yours – a snake charmer with his snake – still trying to catch your eye. Brynja, look at me.
You surrender for a moment, meet his gaze and then quickly look away again. You wipe a trickle of drool from the corner of your mouth. The skin on your shoulder beneath his hand is starting to sweat.
I need to eat, you say and dip and step away from his touch.
Erich follows you to the kitchen table. On the table, cereal bowls from breakfast, small shards of cornflake encrusted on the inside rims. You’ll have to soak them in the sink. Also covering the surface of the table: papers, sketchbook, pencils, a bowl of fruit rotting in the heat. Your laptop. You sit and take a bite of cold bread. Chew.
They’ll evict us, Erich says.
It’s your name on the rent contract, he moved in with you, not vice versa. He reads your thoughts.
Okay, they’ll evict you, he says. He likes to get his facts straight. That’s what attracted you to him when you met. His straight facts.
You chew and swallow. You say, I’m sorry.
Yeah, well sorry doesn’t do it. You owe two months plus the fine for it being overdue.
We, you say. Your mind is suddenly sharp.
What?
We owe. You live here too.
I live here too, but I pay you my half of the rent every month. By standing order. Which means you have my money but didn’t pay the rent with it.
Not as sharp as you think, obviously. You can’t tell, here, under the blanket. Been on Stelazine for over two months now.
I’ll sort it out, you say.
Yeah, I hope so, he says.
He grabs a bright white t-shirt that’s hanging on the back of a chair. How does he get it so white? He uses the same detergent, same machine. Your whites always turn grubby-grey. Always. Inevitably.
Right. I’ve got to get to work, he says and leaves the room.
You wait. Eat your bread. Five minutes later, the front door clicks shut, quietly, politely, passive-aggressively. You take your bread and a bottle of water into the living room, switch your music on and light a cigarette. Let yourself fall onto the couch. It’s hot. You should’ve opened a window. Inhale. Berlin is famous for its summers. Exhale through pursed lips. Outdoor karaoke. Everyone loose-limbed and tanned, giving even less of a fuck than usual. Or more fucks than usual. You smile. Like you and Erich, last summer, fucking all day, everywhere, you didn’t care. Once, sitting next to him on the bus, you pretended to drop an earring and gave him a blowjob.
In the bedroom, Erich likes you best when you’re off your meds. Like when you met last summer. He wouldn’t say it, but you know it’s true. Sometimes the twins’ voices arrive when you’re having sex, and you use them to turn you on. You come in no time when they’re screaming FILTHY BITCH! COCK-LOVING SLUT! in your ear as you ride Erich. But you don’t tell him this. Don’t tell anyone. A secret between you and your madness.
But like this, on meds, nothing. You’re drooling again. You wipe your mouth on the back of your hand, roll onto your side and tap your cigarette ash onto the floor. You’ll sweep up later, before Erich gets home from work. You haven’t got much else to do. Then you roll onto your back and slide your other hand down the waistband of your shorts and then your underpants, feel the springy hair and cushiony skin, shove your fingers a little lower, rub, pinch. Nothing. Zero. Zilch. Not a tingle, not a tickle, not a prickle; instead, a void of feeling, a black hole of arousal. You sit up slowly, somnambulant, reach for an ashtray on the coffee table and stub out your cigarette. Tongue thick in your mouth. Take a sip of water and light another cigarette.
Erich is the schizophrenic one. He likes you when you’re off your meds. You’re fun. You party. You’re wild in bed. He hates you when you’re off your meds. You cry all the time. You misbehave in restaurants. You act like a crazy person in public and in private. He wants to buy a flat, wants to tame your illness with a mortgage, a wedding ring, babies, move to a part of town where you’re fucked if you haven’t got a car because public transport is for cleaners and school children and the nearest bus stop is a good twenty-minute walk away. And you love him for that, because he’s sweet and naïve enough to think it would be that easy.
Your eyes are stinging. The room is full of cigarette smoke. Lying here, looking across the room, the TV is veiled behind layers of grey and white. A smoke screen. You realise you need to open a window. The hot air is heavy on your body. High air pressure, that means lots of air molecules squashed together in one place, right? That’s what makes the air feel heavy, doesn’t it? You force yourself off the couch, although you’re tired, really tired, push your body through the squashed-up air molecules to the other side of the room and go out onto the balcony. Lean on your forearms on the railing and look down, wondering when Erich will be back. He’ll come home and cook something nice. You smile.
Erich’s GOT. IT. TOGETHER. You love him because he broke the pattern of loser boyfriends. You go and lie back down on the couch. Light another cigarette although your tongue is furry. Your mother would have approved of Erich. She would’ve liked his get-up-and-go. She wouldn’t have approved of his atheism, but you wouldn’t have told her. You could’ve pretended to go to church every Sunday. Or to synagogue every Saturday. Or to mosque every Friday. Or to temple whenever. Whatever. You turn to your side, let your eyelids slide shut. Maybe you’ll take Erich to the cemetery some time. You want this to work.
A sharp pain between your index and middle finger. Your cigarette has burned all the way down to the filter. You flick it away, not far enough, it lands near your feet on the couch between the seat cushions. Shit. Shit shit shit shit. You jump up – try to jump up, but can’t get your body to work that quickly. Wisps of smoke already curling up from between the cushions. The smell is disgusting, like when moths fly into the halogen uplighter. You pull a face. What to do? Your mind stalls. It’s fucking hot; you feel sweat gathering beneath your breasts.
Water. You say it out loud, to the room, to no one. An orange flame darts up from between the cushions, disappears again. So quickly, you’re not sure if you really saw it. But then. Again, another flame, two this time, and three. Until they all become one big flame and the smoke is black, and – I’m not my mother! – and you look around for your bottle of water, and
Get out the way!
and Erich is coming up behind you, pushes past you, throws a wet towel onto the flames. You look at him, grateful, embarrassed – your saviour and judge.
He looks at you, shakes his head.
This isn’t going to work.
1932
Several days after Martha’s funeral, Alfred woke abruptly in the middle of the night to a voice in his ear.
Ooohh, she can’t breathe, she can’t breathe!
It was one of the voices he’d heard in the forest. He opened his eyes. It was pitch black in the bedroom.
Quickly Alfred, quickly! he heard (a different voice this time, richer, fuller than the first), and he sat up, waiting for his eyes to become accustomed to the dark. When they had, he looked across to the grey shapes of Emil and Johanna, who lay in their beds, not stirring.
Now Alfred, I need you to listen to me. You must go to Karl and Freyja’s bedroom. Now. Go on, get up. Hurry.
Alfred stood up. He padded barefoot across the room and into the hall, his eyelids heavy and his mouth slightly open. The door to his parents’ bedroom was closed, and he stopped. There he stood, a small figure in white flannel, still half asleep, if truth were to be told. And all of a sudden he feared he might be dreaming, and then what would his mother and father say if he woke them up? Their average working day was rarely under sixteen hours, and they needed their sleep.
What are you waiting for – a written invitation? Go on! NOW!
It was the same voice that had woken him, and he knew now that he wasn’t dreaming.
Please, Alfred, the second voice said, don’t be scared. But you must hurry. There isn’t much time. Please.
Alfred pressed his lips together and turned the handle. He pushed the door open slightly and peered in, but the room was as dark as the one he shared with his siblings.
The baby. Wake her up!
Alfred, Alfred!
Go, go … HURRY…
Over there …
Before it’s too late!
They were all speaking – or rather shouting – at the same time. Alfred mustered all his courage and opened the door wide. The moonlight from the hall provided some dim illumination, enough to see across the room to his mother’s side of the bed, next to which Marie slept in a wooden cradle.
Yes, over there. Good boy, Alfred. Quickly now. She isn’t breathing. Go and pick her up.
Alfred was frightened now, but he headed quickly to where his baby sister was sleeping. There she lay, on her stomach, face pressed into the mattress, the silken blonde hair covering her scalp like down. He reached into the cradle and scooped her out, unsure how to hold her yet marvelling at her lightness. And just as the voices had said, she wasn’t breathing.
The Uncommon Life of Alfred Warner in Six Days Page 3
