The bar is called Dubrovnik and before the war was the main place to go in town. I work as head waitress. My name is Ilona. Then I go home. I am waiting for the tram, waiting for Lauri, my husband, and we are going home together. It is autumn. Lauri keeps eye contact with me as we enter the apartment.
He leads me into the apartment, sits me on the sofa, only then may I open my eyes again. Lauri holds the remote control in his hand, he has the choice of twelve stations, it is autumn and our dog is looking for the ball. Then Lauri goes to work, then for the final time Lauri goes to work. There have been layoffs, Lauri, the cards will decide, Kreuz Dreier, that wasn’t enough, that wasn’t enough, and too much for your pride to go to the unemployment office, it won’t take long, a pro doesn’t need luck, Lauri, my poor man, the world won’t end over it either, even if my boss has forgotten to modernize, as she says, no, my boss, people have just gotten older and they can’t drink as much as they used to, when they glide across the dance floor, like love, that then disappears again in the autumn, behind the clouds, again and again, only to return again in the spring, on the dance floor, how many springtimes yet, and where will they dance then when the Dubrovnik has closed its doors.
Where does the hot wind blow? And where does love go in winter? And where do the unemployed go with their pride, when they are older than thirty-eight or older than fifty?
The lights are off, we’re cleaning up, I’m going home to Lauri, I will go home until they’ve carried the furniture out of the apartment, until they pick up the television again and still before spring has come, Lauri, I’m too old to tend tables at thirty-eight and you, you can’t even pass a routine check-up anymore. It’s raining against the windowpanes, and we eat soup in autumn, and we eat with the tourists when they wind their way through the country, with their busses and cameras, Lauri, my love, happiness will return, in the autumn or in winter or in the spring, then we’ll all work together, all of us that have been let go now. You just have to hold out for a few more crossword puzzles. Four letters, reminds you of needles, and as long as the wallpaper is still hanging on the walls, we won’t go hungry. Life is short and sad, wash a few dishes, I don’t do anything special, Lauri, it’s a filthy hole, where I work, it doesn’t even have a name, life is short and sad. Then it snows quite lightly and quite delightfully. And when it snows, our wishes are quite near. I’m opening my own place and I’m going to call it Work, and it’s noon, and then it’s suddenly quite full behind the clouds.
BUS STATION
As a child we once played a game. It had to do with running and looking at people’s faces.
I’m bored with him.
I give her my headaches.
I give her my bills.
I’m not coming back.
I want to begin anew.
I’m going to leave everything where it stands and want to begin anew.
I’m throwing it all away.
I trust her.
I’m staying overnight.
I’m not afraid of the kid.
I’m closing all doors and windows.
I’m closing all lights and doors.
When one grows old, one no longer wants light.
When one grows old, one searches for darkness.
I still have to wash the dishes.
I still have to change.
I’m bored with him.
I have nothing left to say to you.
I’m buying you.
I’m letting myself be paid for.
I’ll give you what you want.
I’m giving you this night.
You move something within me.
I have to wash my face.
I still have to wash my hands.
I really love my husband.
I play golf and pool.
I still want to be young for one more night.
I still want to be desired for one more night.
I still want for a single night for someone to laugh at my jokes, to be invincible.
Then I’ll give you a list of my maladies,
In order to help you get used to my face,
In order to calm your face.
I am bored with him.
You are too old to go away.
She is too you to notice you.
SNOW
Now you begin to die. The bullet is lodged deep. The rocks have spoken through the fire. You were a poet. Now you are a killer of the white man. Now they’re following you. In the woods, only the river and the horses, the wind can be heard. Guns replace your poetry, William Blake. They’re shooting from the windows of the trains. You’re leaning over your cards, falling asleep sitting up. You’re playing against yourself. Everywhere are teepees, standing empty. The men in their fur coats shoot at anything that isn’t them. They point their guns out the windows. The water running down your head is not dissimilar to the landscape.
It’s a long way to the ocean in order to go back. You fall asleep again, have propped your head on the bag. Everywhere there are bones, dead animals. They are following you. The naked bird flies through the river. You’ve killed a white man. The gun will replace your tongue. The wind will watch over you. You tear up the paper that bears your name. William Blake. One can’t stop the clouds by building a wooden ship. Perhaps you’ll see more clearly if you don’t wear any glasses. Now you’re beginning to die. Perhaps then you’ll see more clearly. The soul-stealer is made of forest-berries. In the woods lies snow. The birds are wearing lovely coats. You’ve got a gun now, and it’s raining again. You lie down next to a dead deer. The blood is still warm. You taste it, rubbing it on your wound. You sleep next to the deer. From the woods, faces move toward you. You open your eyes a long time, then shut them again. They come upon you. Those that have feathers do not fly back here.
Sometimes the spirits talk like monkeys. You have to return to the mirror, there, where the water meets the sky. The boat has to be strong enough to carry you across. An elk accompanies you. An eagle accompanies you. Then you fall to a knee in order to put the last few meters behind you. Everywhere there are totem poles, these are strange gods. An Indian woman is weighing her child. They place you in a boat lined with cedar branches. You’ve put on a cap. You’re paddling out to open sea. It’s raining. The air is damp with voices.
DREAM (2)
My name is Gabbeh. I am at your feet. I am telling a story:
My family lives in the desert. We never stay in one place. Thing is, my father is in such a terrible mood because my mother is so ugly. A rider on his white horse is following us. Sometimes the rider rides across a wheat field nearby. When my uncle has found a wife, then I may marry. The rugs are being washed. Feet hurt. The water is clear. My uncle had a dream about a woman who sings like a bird. It was at the source of a river. We are looking for this woman. If she is evil, she will hide and speak poems. Then, too, may I marry. Mother says, we are the branches on a tree. Sometimes we become more than this, sometimes less. The rider is following us. From time to time I give him a sign so that he doesn’t get tired.
During the day, my sisters keep watch over me.
At night, the men do.
I hear the howling of the rider.
I lack courage.
Father would beat me.
Uncle winks at me. I pull the covers over my head. I hear the howling of a wolf. The white rider is following us across the desert. I cry often because I cannot go with him. Then I leave a kerchief lying so that I might be close to him. I look to the distance, how he takes it up close to him, how he smells it. I see myself going with him. My family keeps watch over me. When my mother has come down again, then may I marry. The rugs tell a story of our lives. We move on. Uncle found a young woman at the river that sings like a bird, so lovely. I run as fast as I can. We escape on two white horses. Father pursues us. A shot rings out. You can hear the shot. As clear as water.
This means that my father has broken my neck.
This means that he’s killed the white rider.
On
Gabbeh one can see a white horse that carries two riders. The man is sitting in front.
CLOUDS (2)
to emerge from a silence to go into a silence they experience the birds when they go with every step when they laugh thus do they pass these thoughts from a distance of ten meters from eleven meters
the loveliest moment has still not begun when they they are addressed in the springtime wind to be hoping to delay to a later life yet quite soon the entry shall come the arrival of longing they don’t believe it
with her body and spirit far from home thus do thoughts wander so as not to be here in someplaces or other the dearest people in their head in order to not have to accept the present to endure it in the summer’s wind in the face of the saddest events from their childhood at fifteen below zero in the winter during their puberty from within a fatigue for this life at ten below zero
to speak in hate in neurotic blabbering in fury and despair the speaking in order to go on to suffer continually to laugh to laugh with those couple of holes that just beats life because it just can’t do any different
only to clothe the seeds of fury when we laugh or to take a leaf in our arms in order to keep it present it’s useless to be amazed at or to enjoy solely life this is the agreement in order to be moved by the moment
to no longer be able to have this fear slumber in one’s own body finding no desire that wants to hold itself upright uninterruptedly utterly indifferent wherever we look wherever we go when we hear a bell we stand still in order to be with ourselves alone and nowhere else
when a child laughs when they are many bells do ring but it doesn’t count for them the children that can be seen in front of the house and they cannot hear them the ears are concealed beneath a cap when the telephone rings when it rings they inhale and you inhale and exhale
they are thinking three thousand years in the future four thousand years and the anger ceases when it rains or the sun shines through the steps like clouds in the sky you think three thousand years they come and go around a continent behind itself
and so they sit on that which was and what was and what shall be
the worries and plans for a future for a second in an agreement of ideas to exchange the years yet the longing lies in the distance in a tiredness
in order to return to the true homeland to be with that with all senses that which actually is for example to knead the earth with every step they inhale and you inhale and exhale
RAIN
The cars are driving backward in the rain. Even the people are going backward, when it’s raining, and it’s already been raining for quite a while. No one can remember exactly when these clouds arrived, the ones that brought us the rain. It’s said they will only go away again when people lose themselves in strange new obsessions. And then it’s said: Only when the clouds touch the ground can people lose themselves. Every night, in a theater, they replay the events of the rains. Sometimes, two unpaid power bills lead to a power outage. That can happen sometimes.
The man that works in this theater says to a woman: Your breasts are two flashlights.
The woman says: I can’t pay the rent. Do what you’ve promised.
The man says: I will not go. No matter what they say. And even if they take it all away from me. They’ll have to drag me away from here. I’m staying. I’m ready.
The man says: Your breasts are two flashlights.
The rain is quite heavy and people are getting drenched to the bone. Passionately they stand in front of the closed shops. And life has to go on, somehow.
The man says: In the dark we are many.
The man says: It is difficult to keep one’s balance in light of all that’s happening.
The woman says: You’re still searching, after all these rainy days, for what you’ve lost, to make sure you’re not alone when evening comes.
The man says: Who has time to think if one is busy all day and comes home tired at night.
The woman says: You always were in love with two or three women at once.
People who go into the streets in the rain have long since stopped getting paid. They’ve been living years without money. Since it’s been raining, they wander aimlessly through the city only to lose their minds in the end.
The man says: I’m afraid to die. I’m afraid of loneliness and the truth.
The woman says: One can’t swim against the current, yet one can’t let oneself get dragged away. Only the river itself is an enduring joy.
The man says: If death comes, I’ll scream. I’ll scream so that I don’t choke on my own vomit. I’ll scream as much as I can and as loudly as I can.
The woman says: It’ll all soon be over.
It’s raining the whole time without people ever getting to where they’re going. They have become without origin as well. The people don’t complain, even if they’ve long since been compelled to walk backward. The rain has no beginning, and no end. One needn’t run away from it. No one bothers to hold an umbrella in their hands anymore. The television and radio broadcast the lives of the rain people.
The woman says: The rain has something to do with hope, that the sun might return again.
The woman asks: How many rainy days do we need to finally give up hope and fill up our holes on this earth?
The man says nothing. He tells the observers about the occurrences of rain. He speaks about hopes that the rain never fulfills. He is afraid.
The woman says: It’ll soon be over.
ORACLE
A year ago. In a club. I was there with my cousin. Vacation had just begun. He spoke to me. He said that his name was Kurt. That he was an Englishman. Initially he said that he was Dutch, then that he was English. Both were lies. He was from Italy, as he later told me. From Venice.
We drove around a lot. He always picked me up from school, if he had time. We were often down at the lake and went walking there. We spent a lot of time in the open air. We often went walking for hours.
Yes. Once, in winter.
A cabrio. Initially, a cabrio, then a red Fiat with a smashed window. There were various other sorts of cars. No. I didn’t think much of it at all. He told me that he was a dealer.
A hunting gun and a big pistol, a heavy one. I don’t know. Sometimes a smaller one, too. I was also allowed to shoot when we were out in the open. He had to shoot. I don’t know. Sometimes we made up code names. He killed his parents. Then he was in prison for five years. He couldn’t take it there and went to France. He wanted to be free, finally.
No.
He always had money. A few trivial things, perhaps, when we were together. Yes. Once he got me an ice cream, and I had to wait in the car, I thought for a second that he’d stolen it. But otherwise. Not much.
At the beginning, no. Sometimes he wanted to tie my hands behind my back, but when I began to scream, then he quickly stopped that. No. Never. It was always voluntary.
We lived in abandoned houses or in barns. I think they were abandoned houses. He just went right in. Nobody was living in there at all. I found that interesting. It was often cold. He was never cold. He also slept very little.
After vacation was over I told him that it was over between us. Yet he didn’t believe it at first. No. A few times. Then? No.
He was suddenly standing in front of the school. I was afraid of him. I didn’t want to have anything more to do with him and ran away. He said he could kill five of my friends with one hand. Nothing happened. Then, he left. That was the last time. Yes.
One more time. On my birthday. I think he was somewhere on the sea. He called me. He told me that he was a DJ now. Then, no more.
THE FILMS
DREAM
(1) Don’t Die Without Telling Me Where You’re Going,
directed by Eliseo Subiela
(2) Gabbeh, directed by Mohsen Makhmalbaf
SEA
A Scene at the Sea, directed by Takeshi Kitano
CLOUDS
(1) Drifting Clouds, directed by Aki Kaurismäki
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p; (2) Schritte der Achtsamkeit (Steps of Mindfulness), directed by Thomas Lüchinger
BUS STATION
Faces, directed by John Cassavetes
SNOW
Dead Man, directed by Jim Jarmusch
RAIN
The Cloud, directed by Fernando E. Solanas
ORACLE
Best European Fiction 2011 Page 48
