Leaving Berlin

by Britt Holmström

  She tries to concentrate on something else. Something pleasant.

  Let’s see . . . Well now, here I am a skip and a hop from the famous Seine, lovers strolling along its banks. Isn’t that something?

  The Seine is not visible from where she sits, but she knows it is cutting the city in half not very far away, and the knowledge that it is there pleases her, the fact that all she has to do is get up from the bench, take a short walk, past the gypsy woman, past the tower, and she will be standing by the river Seine, right smack in downtown Paris. She considers doing just that, going for a stroll. She has an idea of the general direction and has plenty of time before the others return to earth. They might even see her from up there — a tiny round ant in a green dress from Eaton’s — crawling along the river which she imagines must look like an uneven grey pencil line from that platform in the sky where Rod will be capturing the view with the Camcorder they couldn’t really afford.

  Is that woman even breathing? She hasn’t blinked the whole time. There’s something predatory about her, she’s so still. Like a snake.

  Predatory.

  That’s another word I shouldn’t be thinking.

  In the end Carol does not budge. She is too afraid to get lost. Besides, Steve has the map. He is the only one who knows how to fold it properly.

  Instead she lets her mind do the wandering. It is safer that way. Unguided, it meanders, not towards the Seine, but backwards into the safe distant past where it knows its way around. It continues meandering until it runs into a dark-haired little girl named Gudrun. She stands before Carol, a seven-year-old girl dressed in an ugly brown skirt and sandals two sizes too small. The encounter is not surprising, considering.

  Carol’s mother, Gudrun, grew up in Denmark. Over the years she has never missed an opportunity to tell her famous story about how she almost became a gypsy. It was the most exhilarating adventure of her childhood, but one that ended abruptly with the shocking revelation that you cannot become a gypsy. Gudrun discovered that you have to be born one. You can not make becoming one your destiny just because it appeals to you.

  And why not?

  Because they won’t let you.

  Gudrun had been devastated. Being sentenced to remain plain old Gudrun Andreasen for the rest of her life was a punishment she did not deserve. This was the point in the story where she would shake her head in profound disappointment without halting the familiar flow of words that now do a rerun in Carol’s head.

  I tell you, I don’t think I ever got over it. Because at first it was so exciting I just about peed myself. Imagine discovering that there existed a people who lived like us kids could only dream about! And right there, on the edge of the city! I tell you, if these people wanted to sing and dance all night, they darn well did! We ordinary folks had to dress decently and behave properly, except for major holidays and birthdays. How fair was that?

  But listen to this. It was an afternoon during the summer holidays. All us kids on Vedbaeckgade had nothing to do that we hadn’t done a million times before. We were bored. Then one of the boys dared us to bike out to the gypsy camp. They were always doing things like that, said it had to do with inventiveness, which was a superior form of intelligence only boys were born with. Like the time we built the airplane that wouldn’t fly no matter how much we flapped our arms, and Peder said it was because us girls . . .

  What? Don’t be so impatient! I’m getting to it! Now listen. Everybody thought it sounded like an exciting adventure, so we hopped on our bikes and got going. There must have been about eight or nine of us. We didn’t bother leaving a note on the kitchen table to tell our parents that we were off to forbidden territory because we figured we’d be back before they got home from work. We wore our house keys on strings around our necks and that made us independent.

  The camp was outside of town in a wooded area. These days it’s all built up out there with new villas and freeways and what have you, you know, out near the airport? Remember when we went visiting a few years back? Anyway, back then we had strict orders to stay away from there. A no-go area it was, where bad dangers lurked that adults could not bring themselves to put into plain language. Nothing had ever happened in those woods, but “it paid to be careful.” A dubious expression, I always thought, for no matter how careful we were, nobody ever paid us for it.

  No, wait! I’m just getting to the good part!

  It was very pretty there, I’ll never forget it, like the woods in all the best storybooks, not a bit scary. I’d never been out that way, and was I surprised to discover paradise so close to where I lived! We walked down a path listening to the birdsong until we came to three caravans standing in a semicircle in a glen right there in the middle of the woods. Under the trees some horses were grazing. It was so tranquil and idyllic I just wanted to sit right down under a tree and fall asleep. Maybe one of those big horses would come and nuzzle my hair and I’d wake up and it would let me ride on its back through the tall grass full of wild flowers. Oh, it was lovely!

  Well, we were no more than ten steps into the meadow when we heard some strange noises and before we knew it a mob of kids came careening out of nowhere, just like that, screaming at us that we were trespassing. Some dropped right out of the trees like ripe fruit. Their leader was a boy named Jesper. He was the oldest, about twelve or so. I don’t know why an exotic boy like that had such a plain Danish name. It didn’t seem right.

  Then it turned out that the boys from our street knew Jesper. He went to the same school as Peder and Ib and was a hero because he was such a terrific football player, that is, a soccer player, and you couldn’t get more heroic than that.

  To us girls he was handsome in the same dashing way of pirates and cowboys in the Sunday matinee movies. Exotic. A real heartthrob. And he knew it.

  Next he and the other kids began to tease us. We teased them right back, of course, and so it went on until we ran out of insults. Then we started talking normally, testing each other.

  And before long we were having a fine old time.

  I remember we had moved to the front of the caravans and were starting some game or other, hide and seek maybe, when suddenly the door to one of the caravans flew open and a bunch of women came flapping out the door. Like giant butterflies, all dressed in scarves and skirts in blues and greens and reds. Never had I seen anything like it. And they were screeching and making a fearful racket! They must have looked out their windows and seen a bunch of brats that didn’t belong there. God knows what they thought we were up to, but all hell broke loose. They tore about, shouting and waving their arms like this, gathering up their own kids like they were in grave danger or something. Us they shooed off like we were stray dogs with fleas, screaming “UD! UD!” in Danish.

  But the thing is, you see, they weren’t paying proper attention, because they collected me as one of their own! Well, my hair was nearly black when I was young, and I have brown eyes. And it was a long sunny summer that year, so I was very tanned. I’ve always tanned real easy, not like you and your father. You have his pale freckled skin that . . .

  Ja, ja, I’m getting to it!

  Now, after my friends ran for their lives, there I was, left behind, standing in my ugly brown skirt and blouse and last year’s sandals that were two sizes too small. I swear, to this day I remember my big toes dangling over the edge of the sandals like big slugs. I felt so drab, like a housefly among those butterflies. Funny thing though, I wasn’t the slightest bit scared! Already I was planning my exciting life as a gypsy. No more living in a cramped apartment, no more sharing a room with my brother, no more being told, do your homework, sit straight at the table, hold your knife and fork properly. Chew your food with your mouth closed. My parents were such sticklers for manners. It comes from being working class and always trying to prove you’re as good as those above you.

  And now I was to be free from all that! Well, I figured I’d go home for Christmas and birthdays, maybe holiday weekends, but the rest of the year I wou
ld travel around in a caravan, spend my time at carnivals, eating spun sugar and riding carousels. Never use a knife and fork. Stay up late every night and dance and sing for the rest of my life. Have my ears pierced and let my hair grow long. Maybe marry the handsome Jesper when I grew up. Become a gypsy queen! Sounds good, ja?

  And then that lousy Jesper betrayed me! He pointed at me and shouted, “She’s not one of us! She’s one of the Danish kids!” And he laughed and laughed. I could tell he’d read every silly thought in my head. He had something I wanted and he had the power to take it away. So he did, and looking mighty pleased with himself too! But I suppose there’s no point in having power if you’re not going to wield it, is there?

  Anyway, next what happened was that the chief gypsy woman, or the loudest at any rate, I remember to this day that she was wearing a turquoise scarf around her head and long dangly earrings, she shrieked like I’d tried to trick her, and then she chased me right out of the adventure, screaming in a language I didn’t understand, apart from that one Danish word, “UD!” And I fled for my life up to the street where my friends were waiting looking mighty scared. They thought the gypsies had taken me prisoner.

  Nothing left to do but jump on our bikes and hurry back home. I tell you, I was so disappointed I cried. By the time I got home my mother was back from work busy getting supper ready, hakkebøf with lots of onions, my favourite, only that evening I wasn’t hungry. When I told her she snapped at me. What did I think she was, a goddamn servant, standing at the stove after a hard day’s work, peeling onions that made her cry, cooking food that wasn’t good enough for me? I said, “I bet gypsy kids don’t have to eat hakkebøf if they don’t feel like it,” and she yelled, “What does that have to do with anything, for crying out loud! Go set the table!”

  Relax, I’m almost finished! I don’t think I told you this last time, but the following month the gypsies left. Somebody said they went south to Germany and France. Others said they went across to Jutland, up to the beaches near Skagen, which didn’t make sense what with the weather growing cold. The truth was, nobody really knew. It wasn’t like they sent us postcards, was it? Wherever they went, we never saw them again.

  And that was the end of my adventure.

  Gudrun did get to travel eventually, to faraway USA as an au pair, then up to Canada on a summer holiday, where she met and fell in love with a man of Scottish ancestry named Gregory Marshall. Before Christmas they were married.

  Carol thinks that if her mother had run away with the gypsies that long ago summer, the bench where she herself now sits would be empty. And who knows, the woman down the path might have been Carol’s mother’s daughter. The daughter of Gudrun Andreasen and Jesper, the soccer-playing gypsy prince.

  Carol is still busy contemplating what could have been, when a boy appears out of nowhere. Standing in front of her he holds out his right hand. She stares, first at his dirty paw, then at his face, realizing it is a familiar one. And for a minute she is convinced that it is Jesper standing before her, that he has finally escaped her mother’s threadbare adventure. He is the same age — more or less, hard to say with these kids — a good-looking boy at any rate, though a bit malnourished, if his bony wrists and thin face are anything to go by.

  “Franc!” The word is a demand, not a plea. The hand ventures closer, the fingers wiggle.

  No. He did not pop out of the past. She remembers where she saw him. This is the same boy who was pestering a group of Americans earlier when they were walking towards the tower, six or seven big beefy Yanks in knee-length plaid shorts, talking and laughing like they were in their own backyard. Until this boy appeared in their midst, a thin foreign reed not knowing his place, his eyes silencing their confidence with that cold, naked look.

  Planted firmly before Carol he studies her with those same cunning eyes that know when and how to plead. He repeats his demand in case she is too dim to comprehend. “Franc! Franc!”

  Having just relived her mother’s famous adventure has left Carol not sentimental exactly, but softer than she might otherwise have tried not to be. She has some change in her pocket.

  Well, let’s face it, what’s a darn franc anyway? Twenty-five cents? It’s not like I can’t afford it, is it? When they change to euros, these kids will demand much more.

  She drops some coins into the boy’s outstretched hand, three or four, she is not counting. She feels confused, she wants the damn kid to disappear, wants him to stop looking at her like that, as if she is guilty of something.

  The boy’s fingers close around the money. Without wasting another glance on his mark, he turns his back on her and saunters down the path. When he reaches the bench where the gypsy woman sits, he slows down and sidles up to her in an offhand manner. It is obvious that they know each other, and yet both pretend otherwise with well-practiced nonchalance. The boy’s back is blocking Carol’s view so she cannot see what they are up to, if anything. A few seconds later the boy swaggers off to ply his trade elsewhere. The woman continues her enigmatic gazing towards the beyond. Like a statue, she has not moved.

  Marvelling at the arrogance of the boy’s swagger, as unperturbed as the woman’s gaze, it occurs to Carol that the two might be mother and son.

  As soon as the boy has disappeared, another one pops up. Carol checks her watch and when she looks up again, there he is. His small shadow has fallen into her lap and there it lies. He is a skinnier, greedier predator, much younger than the previous one, and he repeats the same performance, only he says “Franka, franka!” Inside his mouth an angry pink tongue darts about. For a second it looks forked.

  Carol shakes her head to make clear that enough is damn well enough, and shame on you, kid. Her halfhearted gesture is as futile as she hoped it would not be. Defeated, she does her best to ignore the little pest. She stares towards École Militaire, feigning intense interest in cloud formations.

  This boy does not take kindly to being ignored. He is an expert at his job, knows how to brandish his talent without mercy, wishing as always that it were more lethal. This woman, he decides, and for arbitrary reasons alone, is not getting away.

  It is not because he has taken a particular dislike to her. He hates all tourists.

  In the end Carol capitulates and drops a couple of franc into his hand, the last of her change, acutely, defeatedly aware that she should not exhibit such weakness. His hand is so small the two coins cover his entire palm. Had Rod been there he would call her a hopeless wuss and ask what her goddamn problem is, and doesn’t she ever learn, for chrissake?

  Good thing Rod is up in the sky with his Camcorder.

  I mean, it isn’t easy, is it? These kids are so skinny, aren’t they, the city so rich.

  The persistent boy, unlike the older one, is not about to make do with two measly francs. Feeling himself to be on a roll with this gullible cow, he has no intention of walking away. His eyes — cold and calculating — are big and beautiful, his lashes long and thick. And he knows how to lower those lashes, adorable, Bambi-like, just watch him. He also knows, despite his lack of years, how to discompose his marks, how to make each one feel singled out and defenseless. It is dead easy. Most of them suffer a bad conscience at the mere sight of him. Granted, others do not, but their lack of pity pales compared to his.

  His study of Carol is as intrusive as a physical touch. He knows that this woman with her unguarded eyes is easy prey. A pushover, like so many of them, you can tell by the slope of her shoulders. Has a soft spot for kids. The big ones always do, they are complacent and tend to lack confidence. That is why they squirm when scrutinized.

  Stupid fucking cows. This boy despises such women even more than he despises the rich scrawny ones shopping for designer jewelry in the boutiques along rue Royale, those snooty places where they keep the doors locked. Linger by a shop window and they come and shoo you away.

  Having established what kind of woman he is dealing with, his eyes fall on the small gold Saint Christopher medallion hanging on a sturdy g
old chain around her neck. The way it glints in the sun pleases him. It will look even better around his neck, he does not have that mushy white fat for the chain to get buried in. It will give him status. He points to it, making sure its owner is paying attention. Utters something sharp. It may be the French equivalent of “Hey, lady!” or “Pay attention!” Carol does not speak French and has no idea what he is on about. The boy turns his hand palm up again. Impatient fingers wave, hurry up, hand it over!

  He is wrong about one thing, this brazen child. Carol is not as helpless as she looks. Putting on an expression of disdain, she musters up enough courage to bark “Go away!” But again her attempt at authority fails. The words deflate on the way out, lose the power that fired them. Annoyed, she resorts to poignant gestures, turns her head away from the boy, crosses her arms like a schoolmarm displeased with his behaviour in class. In case he is unfamiliar with the English words “go away,” he will not be able to misinterpret that.

  Carol has had that medallion since she was nineteen. For twenty-seven years and five months it has suffered dire neglect in a chipped lacquered Japanese box where she keeps old jewelry she no longer wears. Both chain and medallion are eighteen-carat gold and look quite attractive hanging around her neck once again, but for Carol their value is entirely sentimental.

  Twenty-eight years ago a young man fastened it around her neck, a dashing young man with shoulder-length golden hair and the kind of groovy moustache that was fashionable back then. His name was Stuart and he was in tears at the time. Only a few tears — three or four — but they looked dramatic enough.

  Yes, Carol too, for all her staid ways, once had an adventure, though unlike her mother, she does not go babbling about it.

  Carol and Stuart met in London the summer of 1967 when they were both doing Europe. She had recently arrived from Canada with two girlfriends. He had come all the way from faraway Australia via the Far East and the Mediterranean countries. They met sitting side by side at Piccadilly Circus one evening, in a large crowd of young people in generic garb and backpacks, all waiting for something interesting to happen, under the impression that good times were delivered by some external force and required no effort on their part.