You Must Be Very Intelligent

by Karin Bodewits

  I look around the room. A bookshelf filled with study books and a few novels, a desk, a wardrobe, a sink, a frame of a bike and tools and cables everywhere. Why do guys always make their rooms look more like a garage than anything to live in?

  My eyes are drawn to a picture stuck on the mirror over the sink; Thomas with a girl. They hold hands while hill-walking, and they look very happy. I notice another picture on the desk, the girl alone. I survey the room carefully and note there are pictures of her everywhere. It’s getting a little nerdy-weird, faintly creepy and even a tad Stephen King…

  Wait, I know her! She works in the Chemistry Department and gave a presentation the other day. Lucy told me she is his ex-girlfriend. Wow, he is obsessed with her! Or is he back together with her? And, if so…do I care?…

  I take a large mouthful from the wine glass which Thomas had pushed into my hand, evidently sensing my discomfort. When a man plans to lure a woman back to his den, surely he knows better than to have it looking like a shrine to his ex? I mean, this hardly gets the juices flowing… Is Thomas weird?… Or plain thick?…

  He comments, “She is my ex.”

  “Mm, would never have guessed… Why do you have so many pictures of her?… You know, sort of everywhere?…”

  Does Daniel have as many of me? God I hope not, he’ll never find someone else if he has.

  “Because I still love her,” he replies.

  Wow, again, how to make a girl feel special…

  I sigh and all thoughts of romance vanish. I think the colour in my face disappears. A certain deadening of the internals certainly occurs.

  Meanwhile, Thomas looks sentimental, as if he is about to cry. I stare into his big, brown eyes which are becoming watery. Oh god, please don’t cry… I can’t handle that. I am not a social worker, I am a scientists dealing with my own mess right now – such as a grieving ex!…

  I observe him in silence. Soon I am struggling to suppress a smile. I feel a sense of relief. I feel safe, knowing that, like the evenings before this one, there is only drinking on the agenda for me.

  “Why do you smile?” he asks.

  “Because this is quite bizarre.”

  He actually looks surprised by that answer. I feel compelled to elaborate but I had thought it might have been more obvious than the colour of milk.

  “I could imagine and accept a lot. Like… you turn out to be married or have a kid. That there is a picture frame on your nightstand which reminds you of your wonderful wedding day, or a holiday from days before you took other women home… A picture you would quickly shove in the drawer before you press your heaving body on top of me. I could imagine that we would have sex until the early hours, and then I need to hurry out of your flat before she comes home… But I could not – did not – imagine that your room would be a shrine to your ex? I just didn’t see that one coming, Thomas…”

  He looks away.

  “I was very happy, standing on Arthur’s Seat with you, watching the sunset, dancing at the ceilidh. But I can’t get her out of my head.”

  He picks up one of the picture frames. I see desperation in his eyes and, at another time, I might have felt sympathetic. There is an honesty, perhaps even a purity, in his calm, broken manner. Alas, I am carrying too much emotional baggage already to take on his shit. I want to get out of his room, the shrine-cum-cell where he must spend hours upon hours brooding about her. I want away from the pictures of her and the happy couple, and away from this miserable moment. The only thing I want to take from this room is that bottle of wine.

  “Let’s go,” I say, standing up.

  He looks surprised by me stuffing the bottle in my handbag, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “You don’t want to stay?” he asks. Even chalk formulae on the window couldn’t get that motor going anymore, dude…

  “No. There’s a flat party at Mareike’s place, I want to go there.”

  Thomas doesn’t look as if he knows Mareike. “She works in the Johnson group. Brown curly hair, German.”

  It doesn’t seem to ring a bell. “Are you invited?” he asks.

  “Nope,” I say, opening the door of his room.

  I walked much faster than necessary in the direction of the front door. Thomas follows behind. His two flatmates are organising the chess pieces to start another game.

  “We’re going to a party, you guys want to join us?” I ask, hoping they will say yes and save me from a super-awkward half-hour walk with Thomas.

  They look at me slightly surprised. Yes, that wasn’t enough time for Person A to have intercourse with Person B and as you possibly know it is because Person B can be pretty bloody weird…

  “Eh, no thanks, we’re just starting another game,” says the long-haired guy, the other nodding along. Yeah, such fun guys in this house… I vaguely hope that Thomas will take the chess option, but we end up leaving together.

  We walk through the streets, still much quicker than necessary. I pause at a newsagent’s to buy cigarettes. I light one straight away and hand the pack to Thomas. Just as we pass the train station to head towards the south side of the city my phone rings. As soon as I press on the green horn Vlad starts talking.

  “Daniel phoned, you dumped him!” Oh dear… I hope they have booze at the party.

  “Indeed. A few weeks ago.”

  “Yes, but only now he thinks you might be serious.” Vlad rolls the ‘r’ through his tongue back and forth as he speaks.

  “About time.”

  “You’ve got a new boyfriend?”

  “No.”

  And I mean it; during the last hour I have come to believe I am more likely to metamorphose into a kangaroo than get together with Thomas.

  “So what is your explanation, then?”

  I don’t need to give Vlad an explanation, but I know I will. It’s just like that with him. And he will say something outrageous or amusing in response.

  “I was fed up with him sitting at home doing nothing,” I say.

  “I understand, he should have found a job. He could have started at Sainsbury’s, I have told him many times. So, I tell Daniel to get a job and you take him back.”

  “No. I will not take him back.”

  “Up to yourself, but it is the wrong decision. You are old now, and not as beautiful as Lucy. You will not find someone else. You will end up alone with a cat.”

  His voice is firm, in a way that is typical for Vlad. Why this is not offensive, unsupportive and downright crass I do not know. Maybe because Vlad’s simply being too much himself for it to be taken personally. Somehow it makes me smile, gives me a lift.

  “I’d prefer a cat to Daniel.”

  “Okay. I phone him up and tell him there is no chance anymore. He should get over you. I will invite him to Russia to find a girl there.”

  “Excellent plan.”

  I’m not sure if I am quite ready for such ruthless practicality. The idea of Daniel going to Russia on a chick hunt gives me a sinking feeling. But I know anything is better than having him sitting at my kitchen table every evening.

  Afterwards Thomas looks at me curiously, but I decide against talking about my phone call. We walk uphill through the atmospheric old tenements in the direction of the Grassmarket, a particularly colourful market place in the Old Town.

  “I will probably go to Canada… for a postdoc,” says Thomas as we pass the Shadow of the Gibbet, a memorial stone in honour of the Covenanters publically executed here in the 17th century.

  He had told me during our sunset stroll that he would be finishing his PhD soon. I had refrained from asking what his plans were thereafter. I was fearful that our romance would be interrupted too quickly and our roads would part. That he would not stay in Edinburgh after his PhD was crystal clear. Like me, he wants to become an academic, a professor one day. He will walk on a tightrope from one temporary contract to the next, cajoled along by whatever grant money or contract is available at the time. He will live like a nomad, or perhaps a refugee, until he
lands a permanent position. The youthful belief that two PhD students can find two half-decent positions in one town barely lasts a year in the brute environs of the ivory tower. We have outgrown that romantic illusion and know that fulfilling the academic dream means either leaving partners behind, starting with new partners, having one partner settling for a B-job to follow one’s academic career or trying to sustain the heartache of long-distance relationships – which pretty much nobody can for the likely number of years. Academic careers and romance are oil and water. How much that might have saddened me two weeks ago… How happy I am tonight to contemplate a period of forced promiscuity…

  “Why Canada?” I ask.

  “I want to go as far away from Edinburgh as possible.”

  “Then you should go to New Zealand. Anyway, why as far away as possible?”

  “I want to forget about her.”

  Oh God, he wants to be rescued or he really does think I’m a social worker. I sigh, and let my eyes rest on the dark graphite facade of the Maggie Dickson’s Pub, a touristy place named after the legendary woman who mysteriously awoke a few hours after her execution. I feel a bit dead myself…

  We continue along West Port into Lauriston Street, passing a few strip clubs which – at all times – have clusters of men smoking outside, much more than other pubs; stripping and smoking seem inextricably intertwined.

  I point to an apartment building blaring out noise. “That must be it,” I say. When the door opens we walk up to the third floor. “Us coming together will create rumours,” I say.

  Thomas shrugs, indicating that he couldn’t give a hoot about potential rumours. Of course he doesn’t care what other people say or think, or feel for that matter; he has made that plain this evening… But I don’t want all my chances on the market to be spoiled…

  The hallway is full of familiar faces; all students and postdocs at the University of Edinburgh. I am trying to ignore the curious looks we receive. I do not want to be seen with Thomas who, rather inconveniently, I invited. But I can’t say to people, “Actually we’re not here together because we are having sex. In fact we’re here together precisely because I decided we are not having sex.”

  “I will look to see if Lucy’s here already,” I say to him, and slip off.

  I walk up and down the flat and finally see Lucy standing at a window with two guys. They are undoubtedly trying to chat her up but it’s hard work because Lucy doesn’t flirt. She barely talks. Still, as usual they will not be deterred easily, and they probably know that every guy here wants their space. She just stands there passively, as if submitting to a duty, saying nothing. Lucy rarely says much when there are lots of people around, or even when there is more than just her and me at the table. Initially, I assumed she was bored in public, but she isn’t. She likes listening to other people. She has opinions, but keeps them to herself. I’ve never seen her initiating small talk with anyone apart from with me that day a few weeks after I started my PhD. It was a strange conversation, but she opened it. She has never needed to learn to start a conversation. There are always people wanting to talk to her – mostly men but she impresses women too, just as effortlessly.

  Lucy greets me with a warm smile and, for a moment, the guys glimpse hope that their encounter with Lucy will be normalised. But she walks away from them towards me. To them, she possibly seems superior and arrogant now, yet she isn’t at all.

  “Hi, good you came!” she says. “Are you alone?”

  “No, the freak is here somewhere,” I say, stressing the word “freak.”

  “OMG, what happened? He got the matrices out, didn’t he?”

  “Nooo… I wish. His room is covered with pictures of his ex, everywhere. Seriously he has more pictures of her hanging around than you would find crosses in a catholic church.”

  I take the bottle of red wine out of my handbag and two plastic cups that look half-way clean from a table. Lucy whispers: “I heard once that he keeps her underwear as well.”

  “What?! Why didn’t you tell me?!”

  I laugh at this bizarre idea, which I can now believe.

  “I didn’t think it would be true. I thought it was just daft gossip, I didn’t want to spoil your fun.”

  She looks at me as if she terribly regrets not sharing this information earlier.

  “Well, I’m not sure it’s untrue.”

  “Let’s get out of here… and bring the wine.”

  Lucy gets a 10-pack of Marlboro out of the back pocket of her jeans – our excuse for leaving. I pack the bottle of red wine in my handbag and help myself to a bottle of Rosé as well. We move slowly through the crowded corridor to the front door, then stroll off into the freedom of the lively city streets.

  We stop in The Meadows, a large inner-city grass-land with tree-lined tracks. Groups of youths and adults have covered the park with picnic blankets on one of Edinburgh’s rare warm summer evenings. We sit on a bench, with the bottles of alcohol and light our cigarettes. It is mere seconds before the first passing guys discover Lucy and stop to chat. We wave them off and continue drinking. With regular interruptions from passing men, we tell each other anecdotes and stories until the early morning. When I get home I sit on the windowsill, reluctantly dialling my answerphone service.

  20:17 p.m. Hi, Ka, It’s me. Daniel. We really need to talk. I think you made a mistake. After so many years you can’t expect passion to stay, of course some boredom slips in. Put it aside, it will not get better with anyone else.

  20:45 p.m. It’s me again. I found this amazing place in Italy. We can sleep together in an olive orchard. You will love it. I just sent you the link by email. Let me know what you think. Sounds good… with someone else… Anyway, who ’ d pay for that trip?

  21:20 p.m. I think you should go to a relationship counsellor. They can confirm that we are a good match… that it won’t get any better. If you think it helps, I could join you. That is the point of relationship counselling, you go together, but let’s just save everybody’ s time.

  23:04 p.m. Please Ka. Phone me back. Where are you?

  0:05 a.m. For fuck’s sake Ka! Call me as soon as you hear this message, I know you’re listening to it! Oh please move on, not for my sake, I deserve whatever pain I feel, I brought it on, but move on for your own sake, just roll with life’s punches and recall we were miserable together…

  I leave my telephone on the windowsill and go to bed. I need sleep. That’s all.

  © Springer International Publishing AG 2017

  Karin BodewitsYou Must Be Very Intelligent10.1007/978-3-319-59321-0_22

  Chapter 22

  Karin Bodewits1

  (1)Munich, Germany

  Karin Bodewits

  Email: office@karinbodewits.com

  I just manage to roll my body to the other side of the bed and, with eyes barely open, grab in the direction of the godawful noise. It’s my old Nokia telephone, sounding super-annoying. The stabbing pain in my head is unbearable. The phone’s display reads “7:00 a.m.” Autumn light penetrates the bedroom curtains and thence into my brain. Sitting up straight takes at least thirty seconds, lest I empty my guts in my bed. I walk, sort of, to the bathroom where my dehydrated body proves incapable of peeing. I try another orifice; head over the toilet bowl and fingers in my throat. No luck there either. Why did God not bless me with a body that can handle the lifestyle my heart desires?

  I chuck the last bit of bitter Lidl’s coffee in the French press. Let’s hope my taste buds are defective so I can drink this sludge. It doesn’t take long to find Ibuprofen. I’ve become a boon to the pharmaceutical industry in recent months; strips of painkillers can be found all around my habitat. I guess a status switch on Facebook, from “relationship” to “single” invariably means a breakfast switch from “nice bread with fresh juice” to “Ibu with coffee.”

  With one flat tyre, my bike leans sadly against the stair balustrade. It had been flat already yesterday evening when I left the pub with Lucy, so I walked home, but then i
t slipped my inebriated mind. Shit, I don’t even have tyre levers or glue, or whatever you need to fix it. My next boyfriend will be a dab hand at fixing punctures – it’s a sine qua non for sex.

  I opt for a quick and horribly cold shower then make myself go to work. For the first time since I started my PhD I await a bus, on Robertson Avenue, to take me to campus. The rain is drizzling down and I repeatedly check the bus schedule hanging on the streetlamp. A handful of people stand on the pavement, hiding under umbrellas. I don’t have one – never have had. The concept of umbrellas in windy regions like Edinburgh and the Netherlands has never struck me as tenable. An old, short and thin lady has opted for a long trench coat and a transparent plastic headscarf which slightly crushes her blonde perm curls. She holds a stick instead of a brolly. She has a friendly face with alert eyes and I ask her if I am at the right bus stop?

  “What did you say my child? Where do you need to go?” she asks while lifting the plastic headscarf to free one of her ears. She talks with a strong southern English accent – lovely and easily understood speech.

  “The university campus, King’s Buildings.”

  “Oh yes my child, it will come. Isn’t it dreadful in this weather?”

  “It is,” I say, not really caring about the rain at all.

  At a low point in my life I ponder the question: is everyone here – is anyone here? – as miserable as me going to work? Bang on cue, the friendly woman takes my right hand softly in a way my granny might have, standing in the dwarf door of her little witch house. “May I enquire? What do you do at the university?”

  I am probably eight inches taller so she looks up at me. Her skin is wrinkly, but she has a youthful glow, somehow. Her eyes express hope and happiness, like a little girl asking daddy for another pony ride.

  “I am doing my PhD there.”

  “Oh… In what field?”

  “Chemistry.”

  She slaps her hand in front of her mouth, looking ever more surprised.