But Natalie’s words kept echoing. They ricocheted from the walls, against the closed doors, along the ceiling tiles, through our heads.
Of course, what she’d said was only an interpretation. An opinion.
One opinion is an opinion. But a shared opinion can all of a sudden turn into truth. So we shook our heads, and said things like: “Jeez, she really is far gone,” and: “Well, that had no basis, right?” This is how we stood there for a while, fighting Natalie’s interpretation. Because none of us wanted Natalie’s words to become true.
It was Leo who picked up the bottle.
“So what’s this?”
“Something Natalie should be taking,” said Barry.
“How are you so sure?”
Barry sighed emphatically. “Because I really didn’t exchange a single word with her last night.”
Day 55
They could have just left.
Out the classroom, through the hallway, open the door, go outside, and shut the door, through the emergency exit if necessary. We were sitting upstairs; we needn’t have noticed. But apparently Kaspar and Natalie wanted to say goodbye. Or they felt that that’s what we wanted and they couldn’t deny us that. Kaspar must have put his hands around his mouth, “We’re going!”
Immediately we jumped up, ran out the kitchen, down the stairs, Kalim behind us. We could already see them downstairs: Kaspar carried the canvas bag, Natalie was holding Yuri.
It was the first time I’d seen Yuri since he was lifted away five days earlier, from the exact spot they were standing now. Natalie was carrying him in a kind of baby carrier made from trash bags. Although it looked sturdy, she was pressing Yuri against her chest with both her hands. Only his head stuck out of the black plastic. It was impossible to determine where his limbs were.
“Well,” Kaspar said as soon as we were all downstairs, “So we’re going.”
All afternoon he’d been collecting things: rope, Band-Aids, plastic bottles, matches, bank notes from the little safe in the teachers’ lounge. But he only took a little of everything: one plastic bottle, three Band-Aids, a handful of matches, ten euro fifty. He also refused to pack more than three portions of pasta. “This belongs here,” he said. “This belongs to the school. We are voluntarily deciding to leave this building, so it’d be wrong if we pillaged it in the process.” Barry called it noble. And I agreed. Only: Noble is an adjective, not a reason. Perhaps the reason Kaspar refused more food was because it wouldn’t keep. But perhaps also because it didn’t match what Kaspar and Natalie were hoping. Which was, I suspected, that they would soon run into other people. People who could take them to a hospital. A hospital with an emergency generator, or, even better: a hospital where power had long been restored because it had been designated a priority zone by a reconstruction commission. A hospital, also, that had food, delivered by trucks driving back and forth to warehouses full of frozen meat and canned beans. And a hospital with working telephones, with which Kaspar would call his parents and Natalie Erik, if only to tell him his son was still alive. Yes, that was what needed to happen. And then ideally before night fell; before the streetlights went on again.
If Kaspar and Natalie took more than three portions of pasta now, that would suggest they expected to have to wander around for more than three days. But if they hadn’t run into any other people for three days, well: Then there probably also weren’t any doctors, priority zones, or catered hospitals. Taking along more food would mean that they didn’t believe in their own plan. And if they didn’t believe in it, why go at all?
“Well,” Kaspar repeated. “That was it. Or, I mean, that was it for us. For us here, I mean. For us in this building…”
Everyone nodded but no one said anything.
And as we stood there, across from each other, waiting for someone to start the ritual with a kiss or a handshake or even a wave, I thought: This is why they call it taking your leave. And not: Giving leave. Or: Getting leave. Leaving requires movement, action, agency. In the end it was Kaspar who said goodbye first, giving us something in the process. He said, “If we find other people, we’ll send them here.”
Leo nodded. “That’d be great, man.”
The men shook hands, and Leo pulled Kaspar toward him and slapped him on the back. Barry did the same, “Good luck, man,” and then Kalim, “All the luck to both of you,” and me last, “Bye Kaspar.”
In the meantime Leo embraced Natalie. But as soon as he bent down to Yuri, she drew back.
“Sorry,” Leo said.
“No,” whispered Natalie, “it’s ok.” She leaned forward a little so Leo could see Yuri, ruffle his curls a bit, put a hand on his forehead.
“He’s sleeping,” said Natalie.
Leo nodded. “Yes, he’s sleeping.” And whispered, “Goodbye Yuri.”
“Goodbye big guy,” Barry now said. Natalie got a kiss on her cheek. “Hang in there, girl.” Then he stepped aside so I could say goodbye to Natalie and Yuri too.
But how?
Every goodbye has its own language. From temporary: “Have a nice trip, we’ll email, see you later”, to definitive: “So long, nice knowing you, I’ll find you on Facebook.” Because I didn’t know the end result, the true nature of this goodbye, I didn’t know what to say.
“Sorry,” I finally whispered. “Sorry about Yuri, sorry about everything really.”
Natalie looked down, to the bag on her stomach. She stroked it, swallowed, and said, “You didn’t mean to, you didn’t do it on purpose. So, sorry I screamed at you like that.”
Maybe it was the circumstances. Of course it was the circumstances. But I cannot remember ever having been so happy with a response.
I also looked at the makeshift carrier. “Go ahead,” Natalie said.
Carefully I put my hand on the bag, like I used to sometimes put my hand on the belly of a pregnant colleague or friend. “Yeah sure,” I’d say when they’d ask whether I could feel their baby, “yeah, I can feel it.” Also when that wasn’t true.
The carrier felt hard. “Bye Yuri,” I said.
Another brief silence followed, everyone staring at the black cocoon on Natalie’s stomach.
“Now then,” whispered Natalie, “we’ll all see each other again soon, right?”
Everyone nodded.
“Well,” said Kaspar, “we’d better be going then.”
* * *
Silently we watched them go.
The way they turned around, walked down the hallway. Midway through the hallway Kaspar put his arm through Natalie’s, which made the bag slip from his shoulder and they had to stop for a bit to put it on the other shoulder. Then they kept walking, ever more quickly, ever more determined, until they turned the corner at the end of the hallway.
We heard a door open.
And then briefly nothing at all.
“Shit,” Barry said, “they’d better close the…”
We heard a door slam shut.
* * *
I don’t think we could have stopped them; we couldn’t stop Lotteke either. Yet this departure was different from hers. With Lotteke we did all we could to make her stay. But with Kaspar and Natalie, we – all of us – let them go relatively easily, I thought once the door had slammed shut.
Maybe we realized, deep inside, that Kaspar and Natalie’s departure would have benefits for us. Furthermore, they were unhappy here, and who knows, yes: Who knows, they might find what they were looking for outside. On the other hand: If they didn’t, then Yuri would fall victim to that instead.
And suddenly I realized there could be only one reason why Leo hadn’t ripped the bag from Natalie’s stomach.
“I really hope they make it,” said Barry. “Fuck, I really do.”
I looked at Leo. He shook his head.
“Was he already…” I whispered.
“Yes,” Leo said. His voice cracked. “Yuri was already dead.”
Day 57
We did it the very night of their departure, no matter how tire
d we were. Anything not to have to talk about Yuri or Natalie.
We made a new chart full of numbers and little lines, and decided to introduce an extra day of fasting. Instead of fasting for a day every two days, we’d also no longer eat anything all weekend. Thanks to this decision, and with the extra food we now have at our disposal, we’ll be able to keep it up for a month longer than originally calculated. What will happen afterwards, we don’t discuss; that afterwards is never supposed to arrive.
As soon as the schedule was finished, we started discussing the nutritional value of the coffee creamer. And when we knew exactly how many carbs were in a single spoon of creamer, Barry asked, “And what are we going to do with that?”
He pointed to the sink, to the bottle of wine left over after the first rationing.
“Open it?” Leo said.
“At least that way we’ll be rid of it,” Barry said.
Perhaps all four of us felt that, despite everything, there was also cause for celebration. The re-rationing, which had gone without argument or discussion. But, especially: The fact that something had changed. And that hadn’t happened to us in a long time.
Leo opened the bottle. We clinked our teacups. At his first swig Barry closed his eyes. “Imagine!” he said. “That there really are streetlights. That they’ll just come and get us. That all this’ll be over tomorrow or the day after.”
Leo nodded. I said nothing.
We’ve been here before, I thought. We’ve already done this. And suddenly I didn’t feel like doing it anymore: Fantasizing what I’ll eat first, who I’ll call first, all the fun things I’ll do with my life if we ever get out of here. Now Barry was talking about pastrami sandwiches and his mother again, it felt like I was sitting here with a bunch of friends from my past. Friends with whom all you share is a past; a past masquerading as a series of anecdotes that, the one time a year you see each other, get raked up time and again because the present isn’t worth talking about.
Here too, at the table with Kalim and Leo and Barry, we were bringing up those kinds of stories. Albeit not about a shared past, but about a shared prospect. Yes, the future had become a memory. One we kept raking up.
Leo poured us more wine. Each of us another half cup, then the bottle was empty.
“When everything’s back the way it was,” Barry was saying, “then I’ll really start living more mindfully. Be happy with the little things; every ray of sunshine, every grain of rice.”
I looked at his purple wine lips, saw that he meant it, but: When everything’s back the way it was – if everything ever is the way it was – we probably will never be as happy with three grains of rice as we are now. Or with more than three hours of sleep. Or with a cup and a half of wine. Maybe that’s what I miss most: The luxury not to have to be happy with the little things.
But this only strikes me now, afterwards, copying down the new rationing schedule in Melissa’s diary. The moment Barry said it, I nodded, tipsyish from the wine. Just like I also nodded when Kalim fairly unexpectedly muttered, “I wonder how they are now.”
“Uh huh,” I nodded.
It took a while before I realized that he wasn’t talking about rice or sunshine, but about Natalie and Kaspar. And this is how we suddenly were talking about the topic we’d so awkwardly avoided all evening.
“Do you think Natalie knew?” Barry asked.
Leo nodded. Swallowed. Said, “He was already completely cold.”
“Jesus.”
Another swig of wine.
“And still they didn’t want to stay here…” I heard myself mumble.
“What?” asked Kalim.
“They couldn’t live with us.”
Kalim raised an eyebrow, “They can’t live without us.” He reached for the bottle, but drew back his arm as soon as he realized the bottle was empty.
“That’s a song,” said Barry, “A song. U2.”
Kalim nodded. And then did something no one had expected.
He started singing:
See the stone set in your eyes. See the thorn twist in your side.
I’ll wait... for you.
It sounded warm, clear… on a bed of nails she makes me wait... the ease with which he hit those high notes revealed a great sense of musicality.
I’ll wait... for you!
Barry laughed: the discomfort of someone not wanting to react strangely to something strange. But Leo started tapping the beat on the tabletop. And sang along.
With or without you... Leo joined in.
With or without you, Kalim sang.
Leo was now drumming both of his index fingers on the table, Kalim kept singing, knew all the lyrics.
Through the storm we reach the shore. You give it all but I want more...
Now Barry was also won over: And I’m waiting, for you.
With or without you, Leo sang.
With or without you... oh yeah, I sang.
Oohoo hooo hoooo! Kalim threw back his head, sang to the ceiling: Oooh hooo hoo hooo! Barry, Leo, and I looked at each other. And then copied Kalim: Oooh hooo hoo hooo, all of us roared, howling wolves without a moon.
This was no longer about Kaspar and Natalie, no. This was a song; a familiar love story we once heard through our ear buds every day, but hadn’t heard in so long that we became exhilarated by the realization that they were all still there: songs, stories, love stories, maybe even love, and as we sang and drank and Barry and I beat our fists on the table, Leo put his arms around us and pressed us against him on either side and I saw Barry’s fingers run through Leo’s hair and I let my hand slip down Leo’s back and disappear for a bit under his shirt, until the last verse was over and Kalim suddenly stopped singing, because the song ends in a guitar solo and there weren’t any guitars.
“A candle?”
It had gotten dark. There were enough tea lights in the kitchen cabinet to light up our entire night. But the wine was finished and the song over, and I said, “Let’s call it a night.”
* * *
I’d already thought of it. But now Leo said it.
He said, “Now we’re the only ones with a classroom downstairs.”
And I said, “Yes, I’d already thought of that.”
Walking down the stairs in the dark has to be done with care. At this point we’ve developed a technique: Hip pressed against the wall, both hands around the railing, feeling every step with your toes first, and going down this way step by step.
Leo walked behind me. We didn’t say anything but I heard the zipper on his sweatshirt scrape along the wall.
Downstairs I picked up the flashlight from the table. Switched it on, stood in front of our classrooms, passing the beam of light over both doors. Mine right, Leo’s left; there was a little plastic elephant dangling from his door handle.
I walked to the elephant. Took it in my hands, lit it up, looked it over. Strange, I thought. No tusks. Then I pushed down the handle.
Silently, Leo followed me into his classroom, all I heard was his breathing. It seemed heavier than when we were going down the stairs.
I guided the flashlight across chairs and tables until I found the mat. Leo’s jacket was folded next to it. I thought: He wanted to make his bed and this is all he could do.
I started walking, only turning around when I was right in front of the mat.
Leo had followed me, now we were facing each other. Still silent.
I dropped the flashlight and illuminated Leo’s jeans. Put my hand on his crotch.
And turned off the flashlight.
I didn’t know what Leo wanted, felt, or thought at that moment. And also not what he thought I wanted, felt, or thought. But I entered his classroom. He followed me. And that told me enough.
The button was missing; he must have lost it, otherwise Leo would’ve sown it back on again. The zipper immediately gave way.
I pulled down Leo’s trousers and wrested it from his ankles. He’d taken off his sweatshirt himself.
He had just started to ta
ke off his t-shirt when I put my hand back on the bump in his boxers.
Briefly I switched the flashlight on again. Slowly I let the light crawl up his body: his knees, his pelvis, his stomach, his chest. I put my free index finger on his collarbone. I softly prodded. And pushed him right onto the mat.
Leo was on his back, naked.
I straddled him, squeezing my knees around his hips, and unbuttoned my vest.
His hands were running over my buttocks, searching for the zipper on my skirt. I pushed them away, his hands. Hoisted myself up. And pulled up my skirt myself, over my hips, over my waist, my breasts. Only when my skirt was on Leo’s coat next to the mat did I snap off the flashlight.
Gently I touched Leo’s face. I ran my fingers over his eyes, nose, and cheeks, the way blind people do in movies when they’ve just met someone. Leo opened his mouth so I could slip my index finger inside: He sucked while I bent forwards. I kissed his neck and his chin, and I kissed my own fingers. Then I bit his lips.
“Ow!” Leo said.
Before he could bite back, I slipped off him and turned over so my back was facing him.
Now Leo mumbled something. I couldn’t hear what, but it sounded like a question. As an answer of sorts I put his hands on my hips.
I squeezed them, every time he thrusted.
And when Leo lay next to me a little later, panting, I whispered, “Now you have to finger me until I come.” It was the first thing I’d said since we were standing at the top of the stairs, the first thing since: “I’d already thought of that.”
Day 94
I’ll tell you about the first time we made fire: the day we went into Kaspar’s classroom to get the camera light.
We didn’t know what we’d find. That’s why we went together, the two of us: Things you share are half as horrible. That’s what we must’ve been thinking.
“Wow,” said Barry. He pulled his shirt over his nose and mouth, like a child deciding someone farted. Barry was right: It reeked. The smell that used to linger in my kitchen when my downstairs neighbor had spread mouse poison.
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