Speechless, I stood in the hall; I was still holding my brush in my left hand.
“I’ll wait in the car,” Alex finally said. “Ms. Hoffmann.” He nodded and adjusted his cap.
I was utterly confused. I wanted to tell my mom about what had just happened, wanted to run into the fields to search for my father. I wanted to meet Rutger. Finally I ran up the stairs to my room and put on makeup. I wanted to find good reasons for Alex’s appearance, and I found them all too quickly: he was Anna’s brother, he needed work, and at the Big House he was still near his father, without having to show his face in Hemmersmoor much. Besides, Rutger would never have heard of my brother’s death—our lives weren’t part of the von Kamphoffs’ conversations.
Twenty minutes after he’d arrived, Alex opened the car door for me, closed it carefully, and soon we had left the village behind us. The radio was playing with the volume turned low. A singer from Hamburg could be heard, yearning for white sails, sailors, and foreign lands. The skies hung low over the fields, rolled out like down comforters. It was one of those days that promised warmth and sun but still held back both. Light green showed on the bushes along the road; everything looked clean and polished. I was wearing only a light cardigan over my dress and goose bumps spread on my arms. Perhaps it would rain later on.
He didn’t ask once. He rolled down the window, and even though it messed up my hair, so that I had to move away, he kept it open. Halfway to the manor, close to an old barn that hadn’t been used since a fire had nearly destroyed it, Alex braked and let the car slowly roll ahead. I watched the blackened roof of the barn and the large holes in its walls.
“One day I’ll take over my father’s inn,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Can I help you with something? I still have to drive the old man to a show in Bremen tonight. I don’t have much time.”
I shook my head as an answer to his peculiar question. “I don’t need anything.”
“I have some coffee with me.” He reached under his seat and a moment later came up with an orange thermos. “It’s only lukewarm.”
“No thanks,” I said cautiously.
“Not very hot.” Alex stopped the car. He unscrewed the top of the thermos and poured himself some coffee. “It doesn’t matter to me that it’s lukewarm. The body absorbs lukewarm liquids better.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Read it somewhere.”
“Fine,” I said.
Alex drank the black coffee and then switched off the engine. He opened his door and inhaled deeply. “The air gives me the hiccups,” he said, and belched into his hand and laughed. Then he got out, put his cup on the roof of the car, and stretched.
“We should continue,” I said. “Rutger is waiting.”
“Sure,” Alex said. “Sure thing.” Then he opened the left passenger door and sat down next to me.
“We’ll be late,” I said.
“Maybe.” Alex stretched out his hand and touched my breast.
“Hey.” I forced myself to laugh; it could only be a stupid joke.
“Hey,” he echoed and put his other hand on my hip. His hands were enormous, his fingers thick and short. Short hairs sprouted on them.
I scooted all the way to the right, and he followed me. I grabbed the door handle and pulled, but Alex’s left hand closed around my arm and he simply shook his head. Then his hand cupped my other breast.
I could have screamed, I could have tried to push open the car door and run away, but I didn’t want him to hit me. “Rutger will…,” I said and couldn’t finish the sentence.
Alex nodded. “You look funny,” he then said.
The soft afternoon light filled the car, and when he pressed me down onto the backseat, for one short moment I could see the pale sun behind a thin layer of clouds. Then Alex’s face appeared above me. All this happened slowly; he didn’t rush, didn’t show any haste. He sat on top of me, unbuttoned his jacket and threw it onto the front seat. Then he loosened his tie and pulled it over his head. He unbuttoned his shirt and let it drop onto the seat next to my face. Finally Alex raised himself as much as he could and opened his pants.
“You know,” he said, “my brother had all these funny drawings on his skin.”
I nodded. I hadn’t seen them myself, but my friends had told me about Olaf’s tattoos.
“Some of the boys in that institution had them too.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t think I could carry around the same symbol or picture for the rest of my life. Or a name.” He seemed to think about this diligently, as though he wanted to make sure he got the words right. “‘Anke,’ for example. I mean, if you don’t like that girl anymore, it’s still there, and you’re constantly reminded of her.”
My voice was very low and hoarse. It seemed important to answer him. “Maybe a shape, a simple one. Maybe a triangle, a circle, or a square.”
Alex laughed—he seemed to be genuinely amused. “A square. Simple,” he repeated and grinned.
“Yeah, a black square. Doesn’t have to mean anything. Just a square.”
“‘Hey, what’s that mean?’ ‘Why, I love squares,’” he said, and we both laughed. My voice shrilled in my ears.
“Yeah, a square,” I said.
Alex was quiet for a while, sat in his underwear next to me in the backseat. “I’d like to see somebody tattoo his body onto his body.”
“What do you mean?” I asked. His hands had forgotten about me. Say something, Anke, I told myself, keep it up. Just say something, just talk and occupy him. Occupy him.
“The shape of his body tattooed onto his skin, just a bit smaller, so it fits. His fingers drawn onto his fingers, his arms onto his arms. Well, the face would be difficult.”
I tried to smile. “The eyes, yeah. The nose—you could do that.”
“And one thing would be missing. You know, he’d have the whole body tattooed on his body, but one hand would be missing, or a calf. And everybody would look at the missing limb, because it’s just missing.”
“That would be strange,” I said. “Would you tattoo the skeleton onto the skin as well?”
“Maybe,” he said absentmindedly, but I could hear that he hadn’t given it a thought. “There would be two people, only one would be incomplete.” With those words he moved a little away from me, lifted up the hem of my dress and pulled down my panties. The radio was still playing, the singer had a famously clear voice, and she sang about islands in the sea and deadly typhoons. Alex climbed out of the car and turned his back on me. He dropped his pants to the ground. His back had two or three red spots but was otherwise completely white. He focused entirely on untying his shoe laces and seemed to forget about me. I listened to the music, made plans to jump out of the car and escape Alex, whose pants still hung around his ankles. I had time. I was fast. I would succeed. But Alex’s presence, his massive white back, rendered all plans incomprehensible, and when he stepped out of his shoes, I hadn’t even tried to run. I was just lying in the backseat, waiting until he was ready for me.
Alex turned, climbed into the car, lay down heavily on my chest and forced himself into me. He didn’t face me but seemed to look out the rear window. He didn’t try to kiss me.
When he was done, he kept lying on top of me. Behind me I could see a narrow strip of sky; in front of me loomed Alex’s head with its greased hair. The singer received much applause for her ballad about a lonely sailor, and then launched into a song about the Klabautermann. The audience joined in for the chorus.
I had imagined that Alex would get up immediately and start to dress. I had thought that he would hit me, that I might avoid being hit if I lay completely still. I had thought that as soon as he was done he would get behind the wheel once more. But he only sat up, dangled his legs, put his head out the door, and stared into the sky. The audience grew louder and louder and clapped in rhythm with the song about the Klabautermann, and in that moment, when I realized that I had no idea what Alex wanted from me and what he had pla
nned, I knew I would lose my sanity. I had been paralyzed with fear, but I had been proud of myself that I hadn’t screamed and kicked, that I hadn’t given him a reason to beat me. Now, however, he sat at my feet, one hand on my leg, and leaned back in the seat. I’m not sure if he fell asleep, I think he wasn’t asleep, but he sat next to me and put his hand between my legs and I could feel how warm his hand was. Alex breathed steadily, sat next to me in the backseat, and closed his eyes.
In that moment I left my body, and I’m not sure I ever returned. The program ended and a new one began; this one an opera, and all the members of the audience coughed and then fell quiet, and then the instruments started up. Alex and I lay on the backseat, and it started to rain. I could hear the drops fall onto the roof. And I didn’t fear anything as much as I feared the music, the bright brass section, the violins, the singers’ laughing voices.
I wished to get up and switch off the radio, but I didn’t want to alarm Alex. I could smell him now, his sweat had mixed with his aftershave. It was a terrible stench. Alex’s cheeks were soft, and he had a snub nose with large pores, and fleshy lips. His ears were small and fat.
Finally he sighed, got to his feet, and hummed along with the music. He looked over his shoulder at me, and only then did I realize how rigidly I lay in the backseat. I was a wooden puppet he had thrown in back.
Slowly, Alex pulled up his pants. He was looking for his shirt; his hair stood straight up on top, like the comb of a rooster. And as if he had noticed himself, he smoothed it with both hands. Then he nodded his head, perhaps looking to find the appropriate words, but instead he began to whistle—with too much air to produce a clear tone.
He buttoned his shirt, fastened his tie, and went to the hood of the car. I was still in the backseat, and I was overcome with panic as if I only now fully realized what had happened. But I still could not stir—the slightest movement would break me in half.
“Is my tie straight?” Alex asked. His head appeared again in the door.
I shook my head. Carefully, inch by inch, I pulled down my dress. He did not seem to notice.
“Could you…?” he asked.
I sat up, and it started dripping out of me. I stifled a scream. Carefully, I climbed out of the car and pulled at Alex’s tie.
“Thank you.” He turned around, moved his shoulders in circles, turned and twisted his neck like a boxer testing if everything felt right. Then he lit a cigarette. There was no traffic on the road to the Big House, not even a bicycle or a horse-drawn cart. It was still raining, but it did not seem to bother Alex. “As a boy I wanted to open your blouse,” he said, shaking his head. “Are you ready?” He was in no hurry.
And I realized that haste was not necessary. Not for Alex, not even for me. There was nothing I could escape from. I could still hear the music coming from inside the car, a passionate aria, a female and a male voice wrapping themselves around each other, and although I could think of nothing but this music, I knew that Alex was not afraid, and that I would never tell Rutger anything about this trip or the next. If I ever opened my mouth, Alex would be dismissed from the estate, perhaps even arrested. And Rutger? What would he do after he was finished with his driver? What words would he use to get rid of me?
With my embroidered handkerchief I wiped the backseat before getting back into the car. The rain hadn’t cooled the air, it was still soft, and Alex didn’t close the window when he got behind the wheel.
I could have told on Rutger, but I never did, not that afternoon and not later. My goal to live at his side demanded that I keep my mouth shut, and it was important that Alex keep quiet too. After a short while, that silence gave me the feeling that I was the one who had committed a crime. I had not been raped; I had done it to another.
Sometimes, when the black car appeared at our front door, I felt weak and humiliated, but after a few weeks it seemed to me that Alex and I were allies. My disgust subsided, and from then on Alex and his car seemed to give me strength. His presence was preparing me for my new life, his touch was only a prelude to Rutger’s greed. In Alex’s car I was his accomplice. It couldn’t be otherwise.
That afternoon Alex looked once more in the rearview mirror, made sure everything was in order, and started the engine. The gravel crunched under our tires as we drove away from the old barn. Over the music he said, “Next time you can show a little more feeling.”
Christian
On a small chest of drawers in our living room stood the photographs of my family. Nicole and Ingrid as toddlers in our garden, both of them wearing white dresses. Nicole at her confirmation in front of the church. My parents’ wedding picture, taken in Frick’s Inn. My grandmother had kept her eyes closed, and the ring bearer’s face was blurry because he hadn’t sat still. Not a single photo had me in it. My mother had banned me from the family even while I was still living in her house.
One photo of my dad was of special interest to me in those days. It showed him as a young man wearing a leather jacket over his white uniform. Next to him stood the baker, whose right hand rested on my father’s shoulder, and who also laughed at the camera. Both men wore hats with stiff black bills, almost like the police, and they stood in front of their delivery vans, which were parked next to each other. In the background several men unloaded milk and large crates full of bread. They wore uniforms and wore their hair as short as soldiers.
My mother hadn’t removed a single picture of my late father, but it was this one I looked at almost daily. I was in love with Sylvia Meier, the baker’s daughter, and this picture seemed to connect our families. It was a source of pleasure and a certain discomfort to see the two men smiling at me together. It seemed as though my father had meddled with my life and love even before I was born. At times when I looked at Sylvia’s face and ran my fingers over her nose and cheeks, it was as though my dad were leading my hand and Sylvia were looking not at me but him.
When my mother caught me one morning with that photo in my hands, she hit my face repeatedly. My nose started to bleed, and one of her rings cut my forehead. The teacher often admonished me not to brawl—I looked all raw, he said. My white, almost translucent skin was a map of my mother’s wrath.
At night I left the house to meet Sylvia at our usual spot on the banks of the Droste. Sylvia had kissed many boys, and she had already done it with several of them. She was experienced. I was barely her height, but she said I was special and had not once missed an appointed meeting. She felt the small hills of my scars, kissed my burns, my bruises, and licked them. In the dark she ran her tongue over every bump of my skin, and since spring was near, we were half-naked and panting. Sylvia unbuttoned my pants and pulled down my underwear. She showed me how to unclasp her bra, asked if I weren’t curious to see how she looked without her pantyhose.
Often our encounters lasted several hours, but that night Sylvia soon told me to put my clothes back on, and then walked away from the river.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
She laughed, her legs naked and stockings stuffed into one of her coat pockets. We strode past the last houses of Hemmersmoor, across barren fields. The night was damp, thousands of fine drops clung to our bodies. But we were warm.
“Are we meeting someone?” I asked.
Sylvia kissed me, pulling my hand down to touch her. “Be quiet, Christian,” she whispered.
I trusted her, and yet I grew concerned as we made our way farther and farther out onto the moor. After a while the rows of drying peat bricks grew scarce, and only hard grasses covered the soil. Clouds as large as continents blew over our heads. Hemmersmoor had long since disappeared behind us.
After half an hour she finally slowed. In front of us scraggly trees rose and waved their branches, and after a few more steps, we came to a gate, rusty barbed wire curling at our feet.
“You’re not scared, are you?” Sylvia scaled the iron gate, her legs shining even in the dark.
I followed her. “What is this?” I asked. “Do they have dogs?”
>
Sylvia shushed me. “Don’t be afraid. No one’s here.”
We were walking along a narrow paved road, and soon we reached a low barrack. Its door was locked, but Sylvia opened a window on the far side of the building, and we climbed inside. She flicked a switch, and we stood among thirty bunk beds, their mattresses bare, some stained. The room smelled of dust, yet the overall effect was one of cleanliness.
Sylvia’s blond hair was glittering with moisture under the single bare bulb that dangled from the ceiling. Her cheeks were red.
“Who lives here?”
“No one,” she said, and kicked off her shoes.
Three weeks later she said she’d fallen in love with someone else, a twenty-year-old soccer player, and that we couldn’t see each other anymore.
I couldn’t sleep, and I couldn’t tell anyone. My mother was not allowed to know; my sister Nicole had no time for “that monster.” She had a little baby to take care of and couldn’t be bothered. Whatever I confessed to her would go straight to my mother.
Images of Sylvia doing what we had done with a new boy, an older boy, kept me sobbing at night. But even worse was when, after two days of mourning, I plunged into such hopelessness that I didn’t even have the strength to conjure up any haunting images. My world turned black.
After a week I decided to go to the place Sylvia had shown me. Just the thought of returning to that barrack revived my pain, and I felt grateful for it. I would spy on her, I decided. I would watch Sylvia with her new lover. I’d be so close to her, so close.
My task turned out to be more difficult than I had imagined. A walk after school one May afternoon proved futile. The daylight barricaded my way; after an hour of crisscrossing the moor, I stood in ankle-deep mud, with nothing in sight. My memory was useless.
During supper, I tried to steer my family’s conversation toward the subject of a gated area, an empty barrack somewhere north of our village. Maybe my mother or sister knew of that place.
Your House Is on Fire, Your Children All Gone: A Novel Page 16
