Letti Park

by Judith Hermann

  I was young back then, Henry said.

  And I would have liked to say to Ivo, Just listen for once, it could be enough for you; he was young back then, you don’t need to know more than that.

  Henry said, I was really young. Good-God-in-heaven. I was in this club, something like an academy; I had a scholarship there. We had been busy drinking, drinking the whole night through, playing table tennis and drinking, and the next morning I had to walk out in the middle of a lecture and puke into the marigolds in the courtyard.

  He was silent, listening to the sound of the word, marigolds; he seemed to have some kind of obsessive relationship with words; he examined the word, baring his teeth in the process. Then he continued. He said, I was thirsty. I was in urgent need of a glass of water; I had an unquenchable thirst for a big damn glass full of clear, ice-cold, wonderful water, and so I went into this bar. There was a bar; it belonged to the club, and the bartender wasn’t there yet, but in spite of that there was a man sitting at the bar already. One man by himself. One man sitting alone at a bar in the bright, early morning, and I’m sure you know what I mean.

  Samantha looked as if she were hearing this story for the very first time, which I found surprising. In the course of the evening her face had expanded, it had become brighter and more open. I thought I could see the girl she had once been and what she was like seven years earlier, back when Henry met her far away in the East and decided to try a second time. She had one elbow propped on the table and her head resting in her hand. She looked calm, relaxed, very much at one with herself.

  He said that he was Neil Armstrong, Henry went on. He said he was the moon man, and I said something like, Oh, that’s hard to believe. Ten o’clock in the morning, and what the hell are you doing here; what business brings you here? And he said that he was on a lecture tour, that he was on a tour to talk about the moon. To talk about what the moon had done to him. And I said, What did the moon do to you; and he said, The moon did me in. It really fucked me up. That’s what he said.

  Yup, Henry said. He stopped imitating himself; he gave that up. He raised his hands and let them drop to the table-top. He said, That’s it. That’s what I wanted to tell you, that’s all.

  He thought it over a moment longer, and then he said, He was drinking Pink Gin. Back then. At that bar.

  Ivo said, Pink Gin, what’s that. He said it pleasantly, clueless, and something about this annoyed Henry; he wasn’t prepared to explain. He said, shaking his head, Don’t you know what Pink Gin is; I can’t imagine that anyone here wouldn’t know what Pink Gin is, and anyway, that’s what Neil Armstrong was drinking, mixed it himself. He had raised his glass and said that I couldn’t possibly imagine what it was like to stand on the moon and to see the Earth. To see this drop of water floating in the Universe, so alone and so fragile in the darkness. That I couldn’t imagine how difficult it was for him to return to that Earth.

  None of us said anything in reply. I wasn’t sure whether Henry had added the sentences about the return to Earth because Ivo had to ask his childish question about the Pink Gin; whether that part of the story wasn’t actually entirely his alone. We were silent and twisted our empty glasses on the table and watched the drunken youngsters in the golden light up front at the bar taking off their shirts and embracing each other with their naked chests, holding each other.

  We are dying, right, Henry said. That is a picture for dying, and as he said this, the tears came to his pixieish eyes, and he leaned far back in his chair.

  Did you ever talk with anybody about it, Samantha said seriously. Did you tell anyone about it later when you came back to your room. That afternoon, the evening after that?

  Of course not, Henry said. No one. I talked to nobody about it. That’s how it was.

  Later that night when I was walking home with Ivo, we stopped for a while on the swaying bridge. The swaying bridge crosses the river at a bend; it is attached with ropes; and when it’s windy, it sways slightly. The bridge was on our way home; that was the only reason why we were standing at night in the middle of it and looking at the river; the moon was gone.

  Ivo was silent; then he said, He thought that up himself. He cooked up this elegiacal story about the moon man; what was that all about. Armstrong after all died a hundred years ago, and besides, I know the story, I heard it before somewhere.

  I said nothing. I thought, Either way, it’s a good story, and I thought I hadn’t heard it before and it surely sounded true, and even if it wasn’t, it still didn’t change anything. Armstrong had told Henry that he had to leave a part of himself behind up there; that he was a ghost who would wander back and forth in his own footprints for all eternity; he was the Man in the Moon. And I thought that, from now on, so were we – Henry, because he had told us about it, and Samantha, Ivo and I because we had listened to him. But I couldn’t talk to Ivo about this. I could only hold his hand, which was warm and somehow dry or chapped, as if a little bit of moon dust had been carefully passed on from Armstrong to Henry, and from Henry to Ivo, across all these years. I could only stand next to him on the swaying bridge and look across the river, searching the black water, scanning it for an improbable spark, a possibility.

  Paper Airplanes

  The interview is for late in the morning. Luke is still sick, and Sammy looks as if he were about to get sick. He’s been awake since six o’clock, but in spite of that doesn’t want to get up; his cheeks are hot and he’s had his thumb in his mouth all morning long. Tess sits on the sofa with Luke, waiting for the digital beep of the thermometer under Luke’s arm.

  The longer you have to wait, the higher the fever, Luke says. His eyes are shiny and he shoves his hand under Tess’s sweater as if he were actually still an infant.

  Most of the time, Tess says. Not always. Let’s see, 38.7. Not so good. Are you hungry, Luke? You’re not necessarily feeling better, or are you?

  Luke shakes his head dramatically.

  Sammy says, Hungry. But Tess thinks he doesn’t mean it. She can’t leave the two of them alone, but she has to go; that’s the predicament. So she phones Nick. It’s early for Nick, and she lets it ring for quite a while, but then at some point he picks up. It’s obvious that her call woke him.

  She says, Nick.

  He says, It’s me.

  She says, Can you come over for a couple of hours to stay with Luke and Sammy? They’re both sick. Luke has a fever, and Sammy is coming down with one, and I have this interview; it’s a good job, and I have the feeling I might get it. I have to be there at eleven o’clock. I have to leave the house at ten.

  Nick says, Ten is in one hour.

  He thinks that an hour is cutting it short. That it’s hard for him to fully wake up, get dressed, have his coffee, tie his shoelaces, and get going in one hour.

  Tess says nothing. She leans against the wall in the front hall and holds the phone to her ear and waits; it’s not that she has to beg Nick; he’s just slow; that’s all, and she did, after all, wake him up. He always comes over when it concerns Luke and Sammy. He comes over even though Luke and Sammy aren’t his sons. He would take care of Luke and Sammy every day if Tess wanted him to. If she would like him to. But she doesn’t want that.

  Nick says, OK. Give me a moment. I have to really wake up first. I’ll be there at ten.

  Tess says, Thanks.

  She peels two pears and cuts them into small pieces. She makes tea for herself, milk with honey for Luke and Sammy. She takes the pears and the milk over to Sammy’s bed. Luke is lying on his back next to his bed looking at something on the ceiling; Sammy still has his thumb in his mouth. They’re listening to a children’s tape, soft, high little voices singing something soothing.

  Luke says, Well, I’m glad that I can stay home. That I can stay here with Sammy.

  Sammy says, My Luke. My Mama. He doesn’t take the thumb out of his mouth as he says it, but leans out of the bed and pulls Luke’s hair.

  Tess says, Your Luke and your Mama. She says, I’m going out
soon and Nick is coming.

  Luke says, Tell him to bring me something.

  Tess says, I’ll bring you both something.

  She sits down next to Sammy on the edge of his bed and takes his little hot hand in hers. She sits that way for a while. When will you come again, whispers the voice in the cassette player, and another voice replies in a whisper, We’ll come when we come. Tess thinks of a picture Nick once drew: Luke lying on his tummy in front of a collision of matchbox cars and Sammy on a little chair next to it, a prince with a green rabbit on his lap. Nick had been sketching casually; he’d simply drawn what he’d seen. Tess had kept the picture, but at the moment she doesn’t remember where she put it, where it is. It’s good for Luke and Sammy to spend time with Nick. Nick is calm and considerate, and he speaks to Luke and Sammy quite normally. Not like a grown-up talking with a child. Not peevishly and hysterically like Tess sometimes.

  Nick rings the doorbell at ten.

  Tess is in the kitchen; she glances at the clock above the stove; it says 10 o’clock and 26 seconds. She goes to open the apartment door and stands by it watching as he comes up the stairs, and she has to put her hands into the pockets of her jeans to keep from embracing him.

  In the hall she puts on a jacket; she says, Do you think I should wear a hat. Is it cold outside. You could make something to eat around noon; there’s soup in the refrigerator, and both of them ought to drink some cherry juice; that will bring the fever down.

  Nick says, What sort of interview is it you’re going to. You should definitely wear a hat; it’s freezing outside. Let me guess. You certainly don’t want to apply for a job at a bank.

  This embarrasses Tess. She is wearing jeans and a decent sweater, everything quite normal, just as usual, except she’s pinned her hair up so that she’ll look older than she is. More serious. A hat will ruin her hair-do. Never mind. She takes a knitted hat off the coat rack and puts it on. She pulls the hat down over both ears.

  She says, At the welfare centre. At the crisis intervention centre. The place for people who aren’t doing too well. People who are in a life crisis situation. Women who are beaten by their husbands. Men who feel they have to beat their wives when they’re drunk. Problems like that.

  It seems Nick doesn’t want to go into more detail about this. He says only, Night shifts. Or what.

  Tess says, Day shifts. Possibly a night shift now and then, sometimes a night shift, yes, but not regularly. Nothing bad. Nothing that would be dangerous, Nick. You’re just supposed to be there, to talk with the people, watch out that they don’t – go off the deep end, that they don’t hurt themselves. You’re supposed to listen to them. Nothing more. Don’t look at me like that.

  Actually Nick isn’t even looking at her. He’s just standing there. He still looks quite sleepy; on his right cheek there’s a clear impression of his pillow, and he’s combed his hair with water.

  Tess says, What’s the matter. What’s wrong. Do you think it’s not a good idea or something. Do you think I shouldn’t go there. That someone like me shouldn’t go there. Are you wondering what I’m going to tell them.

  She starts shifting her weight from one foot to the other; she feels edgy.

  Nick smiles; he says, No, that’s not what I’m wondering. Of course you ought to go there. I’m sure you’re good at that, watching that people don’t go off the deep end. Don’t hurt themselves.

  Tess doesn’t know how she’s supposed to take that. Do you really mean it.

  And Nick says, I really mean it, Tess. Go ahead. Don’t worry. Good luck!

  It’s already late afternoon by the time Tess gets back, and she has a bad conscience. She’s gone shopping: a loaf of white bread and honey and oranges, a beer for Nick and one for herself and chocolate ice cream for Luke and Sammy, a new comic book for Luke and a frog you can wind up for Sammy. She’s tired. She comes home and puts the grocery bags down in the hall and goes to the bathroom; she washes her hands for a long time, her wrists and then again her hands and then her face before she takes off her jacket; before she goes into the living room.

  Luke, in pyjamas with heavy socks on his feet, is sitting on the carpet folding paper. Sammy is lying behind him on the sofa; he is tearing paper; he says, My paper. Nick is sitting next to Sammy; he has his hands crossed behind his head; the imprint of the pillow on his cheek is gone. He doesn’t say, How was it, Tess; and Tess is grateful to him for that.

  She says, What did you do. How are you. How are you, Sammy; she sits down between Nick and Sammy on the sofa and puts a hand on Sammy’s forehead, and he puts his little hand on top of her cool hand and holds it there.

  We built paper airplanes, Luke says solemnly. For the world championship, right? He looks up at Nick questioningly. For this new record.

  The record is at 29.2 seconds flight duration, Nick says. Takuo Toda in Japan; that was 19 December 2010. Or Tony Felch, United States of America; wait, that was a long time ago, I think 1985? Flight distance 58.8 metres. You have to fold the corners diagonally; the upper edge of the paper has to be exactly on the side edges. Then fold the upper edge of the paper down. The corners towards the middle – like this – and open them up again. You have to do it exactly like that.

  Tess looks at them. She watches Luke as he, the tip of his tongue between his teeth, folds the paper; he bends it rather than folding it. She watches Nick, who is also folding, very neatly, carefully and precisely, as with everything else he starts. And he also finishes everything he starts.

  She touches his shoulder. Stay for supper. Stay a little longer, Nick; I’ll cook something for us, and there’s a cold beer in the fridge.

  Later Nick does ask. So, Tess. When do you start?

  They’ll call me, Tess says. They said they’d call in three days at the latest; they may want to agree on a trial period. They have to discuss it among themselves. We’ll see.

  Nick says, What did you tell them. He doesn’t look at Tess; he looks down at the table while with his index finger he pushes together the wax he’s scraped from the candlesticks.

  The truth. I told them the truth, what else? I said that I have two children and that I’m their sole caretaker and that I have experience with psychiatric wards. That’s how I phrased it. That I had been at home for a long time, and wanted to get out again now. To work. I said, I’m up to it; I have staying power, I’m optimistic. I have stability and inner calm. And I crossed my legs; drank coffee without milk or sugar, and didn’t let my head wobble. Any more questions?

  Any number, Nick says. I’d like to know how you felt there. I’d also like to know what kind of people work there in that ward; what the team is like, for example.

  Tess thinks about it for a while. Then she says, Barbara and Christopher and Stan? Stan was OK. A guy who wears sandals with socks and pins postcards with mottos up over his computer and who looks as if he never sleeps. Barbara could be his older sister. Christopher is the boss. Pleasant. Domineering. Every gesture a warning; you know the sort of thing, Nick. The trick is to slip under his radar. Simply to duck, to act as if you accepted it. But in reality you’re just slipping through under it. Know what I mean?

  I do, Nick says. I know what you mean. And did you see any people? People in crisis. People with problems.

  No, didn’t see any, Tess says. They had shut them away or put them in restraints, or they simply didn’t have any there just then.

  She raises her hands and spreads the fingers, carefully putting her fingertips to her temples and pressing slightly. Then she lowers her hands again. She says, Sometimes I think I’d like to take everything apart and put it together again. Not to start all over again from scratch, that’s not what I mean. But doing something else with what’s there? Ah, well, that just wouldn’t work. Look at Sammy and Luke. I don’t think I can go back again.

  What did it say on Stan’s postcards, Nick says. They both have to laugh at that.

  I don’t remember any more. Something totally idiotic about a little snail, Tess says, cli
mbing very, very slowly up Mount Fuji? Nick, I wish I could tell you something different. Do you believe me.

  That night they’re all standing by the open window. Tess has Sammy in her arms; she’s wrapped the blanket tightly around him. Luke has put on his anorak. Nick holds up the paper airplane; he says, If you throw it fast, if you throw it quickly you can overcome gravity for a moment. Three seconds gliding phase. Then it has to fly.

  Luke says, Go.

  Go, Sammy says.

  The plane soars out over the street and on towards the railway tracks, towards the tall poplars. The tracks glimmer, and the white wings seem to dissolve in the darkness.

  Islands

  In the photograph we’re sitting in front of a house that I can’t remember. In any case it isn’t Zach’s house. On the left, that’s me; Martha is sitting on the right. Oddly enough our posture is exactly the same, only in mirror image. Legs crossed, my left hand on my right arm, Martha’s right hand on her left arm; this is probably because we used to spend a lot of time together. I remember the red dress I was wearing in the photo and the blue stone on Martha’s necklace, not really a necklace in the usual sense, more like a rope. A cord. Whose were the dirty towels in the pile of laundry next to me; whose were the things on the wicker chair behind Martha, the shirts hanging on the clothesline above us? They weren’t ours. I’d say the expression on my face is pleasant, a bit impatient. Martha looks sceptical. We obviously hadn’t combed our hair for days; I’d totally forgotten that my hair had ever been that long. The plant growing into the picture on the right must be a banana tree. We’re not wearing shoes. Whose house are we sitting in front of? And who took the photo; who saw us like that.

  I occasionally run into Martha at birthday parties or the openings of exhibitions, at concerts; I haven’t completely lost track of her. When we meet on an evening like that, we maintain a cautious distance, watching each other for quite a while – surreptitiously; we’re getting older; in which ways and how … But then we do approach each other and start a conversation that’s similar to the conversations we used to have with each other twenty years ago, and yet completely different.