Berlin Syndrome

by Melanie Joosten

  ‘You made it!’ he would say, ruffling Andi’s hair. He always seemed so pleased to see him, making Andi wonder why his father had worked so hard to leave him behind. After lunch they would walk back to the train station together, at an easier pace. His father would point things out. The names of trees, the different types of clouds. He would ask about school, his favourite subjects. He would tease Andi about when he was going to find himself a girlfriend. On the train home Andi would sleep uneasily, and when the rolling carriage jerked him awake he would see his father staring out the window. As dusk crept by and turned everything navy, it seemed his father was shrinking. He would slump lower and lower in his seat, his bony knees jutting further into the aisle, his eyes never closing.

  ‘Here we are then,’ his father would say, as the train pulled into their station.

  They would walk back to the apartment in silence: Andi, his father and the week ahead.

  ‘Let’s make something.’ Clare has tossed her book aside, rolled onto her stomach. Her feet dangle in the air, misshapen in a pair of his socks.

  ‘Like a cake?’

  ‘No. You bake a cake. I mean … I don’t know. Like a house or a model. A structure!’

  ‘But what with?’

  ‘Well,’ she says, standing up, ready to take charge. ‘What about newspaper?’

  Following her instruction, he begins rolling the weekend newspapers into thin tubes.

  ‘I used to do this as a child.’ She tells him about the house she grew up in. The fruit trees in the backyard, the swings hanging between tall gum trees. The track she and her sister wore into the ground from riding their bicycles around the yard in circles. How they would build jumps for their bikes and rollerskates from brick and scraps of plywood. Build them higher and steeper until one of them eventually hurt herself enough for their mother to come outside and tell them to stop.

  He tells her about how he once wished for siblings. His memories are all of school and the Young Pioneers. Of organised sports and camping. He spent so much time with his friends and classmates he was never lonely, but he mainly remembers activities that were supervised and always for the good of something other than himself.

  ‘Even then it never felt real,’ he says. ‘It was always mediated, as though even childhood had to be commandeered to the socialist cause.’

  The afternoon trundles on. They compare more childhood memories, sing jingles from advertisements and ABBA songs. The rain falls, and their newspaper tower rises. He doesn’t recognise his fingers, busy and smudged with newsprint. He cannot remember the last time he spent an afternoon making something.

  ‘It’s more Pisa than Eiffel, isn’t it?’ he observes, as they flop onto the couch later to admire their handiwork. The tower is made of tightly rolled tubes, taped together to make a pyramid base. As it got taller and thinner, it had started to bend; despite the reinforcements, it seems to be performing a curtsey to them. The peak is decorated with a splay of newspaper, its fronds falling open like fireworks. Impressive for an afternoon’s work.

  He runs his hand up and down her thigh — it gives beneath his touch. Forgiving. He feels like he could endlessly knead it and it would keep bouncing back like yeasty dough. He wishes she was not wearing jeans; he wants to feel her skin. The metal button at her waistband carries the heat of her body, and he slips it from its buttonhole. She lifts her hips, tugs her jeans to her feet, and his hand is on her skin. She lifts one socked foot and then the next from her discarded jeans while he continues stroking. Inky fingerprints mushroom across her thigh. She keeps her legs pressed together, a neat valley forming in her lap; the reddened lines that cross her legs like highways on a road map are hidden from view. They do not need to be mentioned. She lays her head on Andi’s shoulder; he knows she has closed her eyes, is leaving him for somewhere else. He picks up one of her hands and places it on his own leg. Directs it up and down. When he stops, so does she.

  ‘Don’t you like touching my leg, baby?’

  He feels her tense beside him. She does not like being told what to do. But he wants to feel her hands on him, he wants to be covered with her newsprint fingerprints.

  ‘Of course I do,’ she replies. Her hand recommences its brushing back and forth.

  ~

  As he taught his way through the day, Andi resorted to a mantra: she is home, she is waiting for me. He repeated the phrase to himself under his breath, over and over, breaking only to give instruction to his classes. He wished he did not know his students’ names, that they would appear only as an indistinct sea of pimples and petulance. He felt exposed, all of his inadequacies on display. She did not need him. She would not be there when he returned home. When he left the apartment that morning, he had wanted to run back up the stairs, make her promise not to go anywhere, to be there when he returned from work. But she would have thought him desperate. Was he? He herded students through grammar exercises, corrected pronunciation. His answers were concise. She is home, she is waiting for me. The students nodded in agreement: his explanations of the nominative case made sense to them. They laughed at his jokes and didn’t groan at the amount of homework he gave. When the final bell rang, he bolted. She is home, she is waiting for me.

  Peter called out to him as he collected his things from his locker in the staffroom.

  ‘Are you coming for a drink, Andi?’

  He tried to avoid Peter’s expectant gaze, did not want to explain about Clare, not yet. ‘I’ve got to get home.’

  ‘Come for a drink with us. We have something to celebrate.’

  Jana appeared by his side, nodding encouragement.

  To celebrate? He did not want to know, did not want to share in anyone else’s joy.

  ‘Sorry, I really have to go. We will celebrate soon, okay?’ He clapped Peter on the shoulder and hustled his excuses ahead of him out the door.

  When he realised he had forgotten his scarf, he did not go back. What if she wasn’t there when he got home? He stopped walking and leaned over the gutter: he felt ill, his body punishing him for last night’s cocktails. What if she had already left again for the station and he had not been there to bring her back? A woman passed by, her dog sniffing around his ankles. A cyclist threw him a dirty look, not sure if he was about to step out into the street.

  He started walking again, hurried down the steps to the station platform. The air was dry and heavy. People shuffled about like pigeons, heads down, retreating from the day, a sea of brown and black and denim. Would she at least have left a note, her email address? He willed the train to go faster, cursed the slow opening and closing of the doors at each stop. A man sat down beside him and bit into a kebab. It squelched like a kitchen sponge, the smell of garlic sauce filling the carriage.

  It was a relief to finally head out into the open, to cross the road to his street. There was no way she would still be there; she could not possibly feel this way about him. She did not seem to need him in the way he needed her, in a raw, irrational way. She liked him. She wanted to fuck him, of that he had no doubt; her body met his with possessive audacity. But was that enough?

  He opened the door. She was still there. The relief bucketed down on him like a practical joke. He had been running this scene through his head all day, readying himself for the disappointment of her absence, and yet here she was, she was waiting for him.

  ‘You locked the door, Andi! I’ve been stuck in here all day.’ Hands on hips, she stood her ground like a child.

  He had locked her in? He looked from her to the door to the keys in his hand. Ran through his morning routine — and realised.

  ‘Oh, Clare! I’m so sorry! I did not think. Why did you not call me?’ He rushed towards her, grabbed her hands, a literal begging for forgiveness. He had locked the second lock as he did every morning when he left. What was he thinking?

  ‘But I don’t have your number. I wa
s stuck here. It was like being a prisoner.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Clare, I really am. I did not even think about it. It was routine.’ He was horrified. He could not believe he had been so careless.

  ‘At first I thought I wouldn’t be able to get back in. Then I realised that I couldn’t even leave.’ She shook off his grasp, attempted to assert her annoyance.

  ‘And I spent all day just trying to convince myself that you were real and would still exist when I got home.’ He reached for her again, squeezed her arms as if they were a pair of soft toys, almost expected a responsive squeak. ‘I am sorry, Clare. I really am.’

  He wrapped her in his arms, rocked her from side to side. He wanted to have her right now, to feel her bare skin against his, but when he moved to kiss her she pushed him away.

  ‘Stop!’ She was laughing as she batted away his needy hands. ‘Let’s go out — I need to get out of here.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ He wished she did not. ‘Shall we go and get something to eat?’

  Her assent was a lingering kiss, which he savoured while she went to gather her things together. He ducked into the bathroom, his heart bopping in his chest. She is here, she is here, she is here. He splashed his face with water, sluicing away his too obvious relief and trying to dampen his desire.

  ‘Ready?’ She appeared in the doorway as he dried his face on a towel.

  He rubbed doggedly, taming the corners of his smile, which wanted to jerk up in triumph at every opportunity. She is home, she is waiting for me.

  Andi suggested a Turkish restaurant around the corner, but she did not want to sit down just yet; she needed to walk off the day’s confinement. As they crossed the railway lines she packed away her bad humour and tried to concentrate on what he was saying. She was surprised when the River Spree came into view, and they walked its banks towards a mammoth sculpture of three men who looked like they were about to embrace. As with Melbourne, where the Yarra runs like a mud-brown afterthought, she never thought of Berlin as a river city.

  With relief, she felt time begin to slip. They crossed a turreted bridge that an artist had engaged in an endless neon game of rock, paper, scissors, and left the main road to head into parkland. She always found herself so very aware of time — of its passing, of its residue, of its promise. It was one of the things that initially attracted her to photography, the way it managed to hold time still. There was a peacefulness about the final image that belied any urgency to capture the moment. When pressing the shutter button, she felt as though she was protecting her subjects from their future, allowing them to stay at their best. Trying to explain this to Andi, she was aware of how unintentionally worthy it sounded and she let her voice trail off.

  ‘But what is wrong with the future, Clare?’ He did not look at her as he asked, gave her the space to answer. ‘Are you afraid of what might happen?’

  ‘Not afraid,’ she replied too quickly. He would think she was lying. She had never needed to be afraid, never been in any kind of danger. ‘But just so very aware of it.’

  She tried to speak as Andi did, selecting each word carefully to isolate its meaning. ‘The future crowds out the present. If I knew the future would be no different from now, I would just enjoy it. But I never know, so I can’t ever stop wondering.’

  ‘It’s enjoyable enough if you ask me.’ He pulled her into a kiss then stopped. ‘Why do you close your eyes?’

  She opened her eyes to find him scrutinising her face. ‘I don’t know.’ She had never thought about it before. If she had, she would have assumed that the person kissing her was closing their eyes also. ‘Because your face is too close to focus on?’

  ‘But don’t you want to see?’

  ‘I already know what you look like.’ She kissed him again, her eyes closed. She opened them. He was staring at her, and she broke away from him, laughing. ‘It’s distracting! I need to close them so I can concentrate.’

  Abruptly, he let go of her hand and began walking up the path. Was he angry? She was not going to run after him. She stood still, unsure of whether she had just made a decision or whether he had.

  ‘Come on. I want to show you something.’

  Walking backwards, he beckoned to her. She hesitated, then hurried to catch up. They walked past the memorial, caught only glimpses of the heroics of the Soviet soldier, saved child in arm, swastika crushed beneath boot.

  ‘Look,’ he said. A Ferris wheel peeked from behind the bare trees, autumn’s fall bringing it into view. ‘There’s a whole theme park here. It’s been closed for years.’

  They came to a tall picket fence, and he gave her a leg up. She scrambled over the top and let herself down the other side, her feet sliding without purchase on the slippery wood.

  ‘Are you sure this is a good idea?’ she said, as he landed heavily beside her.

  ‘Shhh.’ He put his finger to her lips. ‘It’s patrolled by security guards.’

  The forest was completely overgrown. The last of the daylight struggled to drip through the canopy; bracken snapped beneath their feet. But even in the murky light of dusk, she found the park’s incongruity becoming. A Viking ship tipped in a deep curtsey at the foot of the Ferris wheel; a herd of swan-shaped pleasure boats crowded the chestnut trees like the gathering of a lonely hearts’ club. Further on she stifled laughter at the sight of toppled dinosaurs and little cars that must have once travelled on tracks, their passage now halted by the impenetrable undergrowth. The cars were shaped like moustached men, their windscreens decorated with painted spectacles and their roofs sporting brightly coloured hats. Above, purple egg-shaped capsules hung from a track that wound through the trees, ivy anchoring each one to the ground and, just beyond an enormous big top, a rainbow cat’s gaping mouth welcomed the tail-end of a rollercoaster. He led her into the big top where the red and yellow canvas reined in the last rays of sun, bathing the circus ring in an apocalyptic orange dusk.

  When it was so dark she could hardly see Andi’s silhouette, let alone his expression as she mimed amazement at each neglected ride, she let him lead the way through the jungle-like scrub back to the fence. It was only when they were safely on the other side that she looked at him and burst into laughter.

  ‘It’s amazing, Andi! I can’t believe all of that is right here. I have to come back in the daytime with my camera.’ Her words ran on, tumbling out of her mouth in her excitement. ‘It’s like a dedication to all the fun that people are not having. Those little cars were so adorable! And the swans, they’re so forlorn.’ She paused, waited for him to tie his shoelace. ‘But there’s something kind of hopeful about it all, don’t you think?’

  ‘Perhaps.’ He took her hand, and they began to make their way towards the city. ‘But not for the owner. I think he was done for drug-running in Peru.’

  And for some reason neither of them could stop laughing at the misfortune of the funfair owner, even when it started to rain and they had to sprint through the park and across the bridge. Splashing through the streets, Andi pointed out favourite places and endeavoured to make his neighbourhood her own, and briefly she dared to think that perhaps this was what life had in store for her. Under the influence of such unfettered happiness, she wondered why she had not believed in fate all along. Was it too sentimental to start now? As the rain pattered in fat drops, they slunk into a bar and, legs pressed up against each other’s, fingers entwined, they participated in their own private call and return deep into the night.

  She wishes she had fresh flowers, but the ones Andi bought last week had browned and drooped within days and were consigned to the bin shortly after. It is winter in Berlin: no flowers are growing anywhere nearby. She guesses the ones he bought were imported from Africa, cut, refrigerated and flown to Germany. They were probably in shock, the blooms no longer sure what season it was, whether they were supposed to be open or closed. It was little wonder they only last
ed a couple of days. She strips the bed and makes it with clean sheets, tossing the dirty ones into the laundry hamper in the corner. In the living room she clears mugs and glasses from the coffee table, slips records back into their covers. She takes the broom from beside the fridge and sweeps the floors. They need to be mopped, but she does not have time today.

  In the kitchen she takes milk, eggs and butter from the fridge; flour and sugar from the canisters on the shelf. She wants to make a cake for Andi’s birthday but must do it by guesswork and memory — she didn’t want to ask him to translate a recipe and ruin the surprise. As she measures and stirs, she is assaulted by memories of her mother doing the same. Each birthday, Clare was allowed to choose a cake from the Women’s Weekly children’s cake book. She and her sister would crowd over the book, turning each page slowly and considering the merits of each cake. There were trains and aeroplanes, dolls in full skirts, pirate ships. The swimming-pool cake, with its chocolate log walls and blue jelly surface was a favourite, as was the racetrack in the shape of a number eight, decorated with Matchbox cars. One year, Clare helped her mother make a cake for her father. It was shaped like a guitar: the strings were made of strips of liquorice, and the tuning pegs were chocolate bullets. He was so impressed, he had not wanted to eat it; he even got her mother to cut it up. ‘Would you look at that?’ he kept saying, shaking his head. It was his last birthday. He died three months later, a car accident on the way to work, and when his next birthday came around, none of them knew what to do, or whether to do anything at all.

  For Andi, she will keep it simple. His kitchen doesn’t have an electric beater, and by the time she has creamed the eggs, butter and sugar her hand is aching. She sifts in the cocoa and flour, adds the milk and keeps stirring, tasting as she goes. She lines a pan with baking paper and pours the mixture into two shallow trays, which she places in the oven. Once it has baked and cooled she will slice the cakes and shape them into a letter ‘A’. She knows that he will be pleased.