Shorter Days (16 page)

But it had been Spandau Ballet. She had to tap her feet, hum along:
This is the sound of my soul, always slipping from my head. My love is like a hard prison wall, why do you make me standing so . . .
“If this preppy music makes you move, we have to dance.” Tobias put his arm around her shoulders. She leaned against him. It didn't feel wrong. Conny was dancing with Wolfgang. Their eyes met as they turned and she shook her head. Leonie looked away.

Just before the technical school building, she turns onto Constantinstraße. The dome is covered with a wire net to protect the verdigrised decoration from pigeons. The high-rises on the corner reach toward the sky like oversized juice boxes. Leonie drives around the litter-filled green space with the recycling bins. To the right is a parking garage with a blue neon sign over the entrance. Stairs lead up to a small car dealership. A few sports cars sparkle behind the showroom windows. Simon always stops, but the girls tug him onward. She sees the brightly-lit bakery, framed by nondescript post-war buildings. Blocks, so many blocks. Yellow posters are stuck on the display windows: “Christmas pastries are here!” In front of the bakery is a large, bare tree. In the summer it shelters plastic tables and chairs—they sell homemade ice cream. They came here as a family once. The girls' faces were smeared with the unchanging age-old flavors: vanilla, strawberry, chocolate. They closed their eyes and bored their tongues into the cold sweetness, leaf-shadows on colorful shirts, dusty sandaled feet. Nearby, steps run down to Olgastraße. The gray concrete stroller tracks run alongside the flat steps. Lisa loves to walk down them, balancing with the help of the railing. She's never stumbled. Constantinstraße rises steeply, only to drop away and offer Leonie a wide panorama: two rows of old buildings in the twilight, straight as an arrow. Leonie squeezes her eyes shut.

Tobias's hotel room in Tübingen was uncomfortable. They had only turned on the bedside lamp, so they wouldn't have to look at the unctuous Neckar landscapes, the nubby green curtains, and the slipcovers. Leonie sat Indian style on the broad bed, strangely indifferent to the fact that the man could see the hole where her little toe poked out of her teal tights. She felt carefree, safe, familiar. Tobias untied his shoes and kicked them into the corner under the television, rummaged in the minibar, surfed through the nighttime TV shows. “First soaps, then Cortázar. Everyone gets a little of his favorite!” They drank vodka and kissed. He took off her tights and stroked her legs, unshaven for the winter. The little copper-red hairs stood on end; he kissed her ankle, her instep, then his hands wandered higher and paused of their own accord, at the same instant that Leonie said, “Stop.” She fled to the window seat. She could sit there comfortably and stare out into the darkness.

What if Simon called Conny? Simon, who was watching the girls. Suddenly she was completely sure he'd come home on time. He'd made the hated bedtime cocoa tasty: “Drink up, or your bones will get crumbly like butter cookies.” He'd gotten them into their fleecy pajamas and fished all the little clips out of their hair. With dead certainty, she knew he'd chosen their favorite book for a bedtime story, one which Leonie was so bored by she could no longer stand to read it: “Owl lays back onto her pillow. The moon shines through the window. And owl is not sad any more.”

There's hardly any traffic on Constantinstraße. Leonie drives slowly, braking at the crosswalks. The beautiful naked lady sits in the fountain. The day's last light makes her white limbs glow against the gray granite base. Her head is lowered, as if in shame. She's probably gotten into some kind of trouble too. Her body bends carelessly forward, as if she's just been nestling against someone behind her—someone who's saying inappropriate things, things that don't go with a few drunken kisses, a longing touch, a boner under jeans. The parks department has already turned off the water. Lisa and Feli can clamber around in the empty basin again.

A tree grows below the fountain; the sky above is bluish yellow. A boy leans against the tree, smoking. A plastic bag rests between his legs. Dirty-blond hair spills out from under his hat. Leonie recognizes the candy-moocher from Halloween. A nervy son of a bitch. His head is lowered, like the fountain beauty, the fountain slut. Like her, he doesn't look up—he seems pensive, invulnerable, impenetrable. Did Simon pick up milk? Leonie stops in front of Nâzim's and puts on her hazards. A huge bouquet of lilies in a vase stands before a backdrop of golden lights; behind it the store is dark with people shopping for the weekend. Tote-bag-Hanna pushes through the door. Mattis follows slowly, his face chalk-colored under his black-and-red Spiderman hat. She walks in front of him, her steps surprisingly long for such a small person. He moves like an old man. Fists jammed in his pockets, he shuffles down the sidewalk. Hanna stares straight ahead. Leonie drives on—she has no desire to wait in the store, listening to stories of lactose intolerance, puking, complete blood count. Seriously, I have my own intolerances.

There's a parking space right in front of the house: a small mercy. The street-side windows are bright: kitchen, dining room, living room. Warm yellow squares beam from the windows. Leonie feels sick.

She slept on the bed, Tobias in the armchair. Aside from tights, shoes, and jacket, they didn't remove any more clothes. She awoke near morning from a deep, schnapps-induced sleep filled with bad dreams: Simon, naked in the bedroom, a plaster apple breaking out of the ceiling decoration, falling on his head, and cracking like an egg. The display on the clock radio read 6:30. Tobias was slumped in the chair, his head fallen to the side. His mouth hung half open. The sleep of the dead, it looked like. She knew the look from Simon, who sleeps so deeply that he doesn't hear the alarm and flails around when Leonie shakes him: “Leave me alone! Jeez, I'm coming!”

She crept into the bathroom, took a quick shower, and brushed her teeth, avoiding her own eyes in the mirror. Suddenly he was behind her, his hands on her stomach, a human belt of plump fingers.

Simon's hands are long and bony, the skin cracks easily when it gets cold. He doesn't like to use hand lotion. “What, am I gay or something?” He'd stood behind her and held her during both her pregnancies. The pain kept her from sitting or lying down, she ran to and fro in the overheated delivery room, kneeled on the stool, groaned and cursed. Simon's hands were damp with sweat and she gripped them, trying to escape the pain by passing it on to him. Tobias has children too. Two little boys—twins, born on the first of May this year. “Workers' Day: and it suits them. They're sweet things, but they wear me out. My wife breastfeeds them, and she can do two at once. Football carry, we call it. Their heads are the balls, one under each arm, with their feet poking out behind. It's a funny sight.”

She turned, and they looked into each other's eyes. “I have to go, or I'll be late to work.” He hugged her. “Drive safe. And don't forget: Reading is good for you!” He held out the Cortázar. “I'm sorry I don't have any wrapping paper. And I scribbled all over it, for the article.” She quickly swept her stuff into her toilet bag, disgustedly noticing traces of toothpaste, like bird shit on the fake marble sink, and Tobias's stubble: a little piece of wire in every pore. Yesterday's alcohol cut into her stomach, sharp and sour. She skipped the hotel breakfast.
These are my salad days, slowly being eaten away.

She gets out of the car and lifts her bag out of the trunk, leans her head back to feel the cold air on her throat. She knows it's flushed with red blotches, the telltale sign of her panic, worse even than a hickey. The sky has grown dark. Suddenly Leonie sees the clouds, whitish-gray puzzle pieces with irregular edges, speeding toward each other. The only remaining patch of blue is behind her, over the woody hills near Degerloch, and it's growing dark, turning purple and shrinking. A gust of wind blows a few tiny snowflakes against her hot cheeks: they're grainy, like sand. She lowers her head and rubs her eyes with her sleeve.

Across the way, Judith is rounding the corner of the building. She's wearing pants and rubber boots and a basket is slung over her arm. Kilian and Ulrich run in front of her, their colorful knitted caps flashing in the dusk. They're carrying lanterns on long sticks, simple red and blue paper balloons that give off a warm glow. “Come on, Mama! We can hang them on the elderberry bush!” Leonie hides behind the open door of the trunk. Some fucking idyll over there. Since the days have grown shorter, Judith has been taking the boys out to walk with their St. Martin's lanterns. They walk up Constantinstraße almost every evening, carrying the glowing balls in front of them. Their singing is thin and melodic. They go up the so-called “snake path”: a winding footpath over scrubby ground that leads to the Bopserstraße subway stop. The street sign displays a name no one in the neighborhood actually uses. Through the streets, up and down, you see the lanterns come to town: red, yellow, blue, green, dear St. Martin come and see.

Leonie closes the door to the building and climbs the stairs. She hears music from behind her own door on the third floor—the steady beats of German pop. SWR4, no doubt: Ingrid's favorite radio station, which mingles with Feli's squeals, Lisa's precocious babbling, and Simon's voice, which sounds like he's trying to placate them. There are lumps of dirt and leaves on the doormat. The door springs open before she can even turn the key. Lisa and Feli run out, checked aprons over their bellies. “Mama, Mama! Papa's making pizza with us! Look at everything we've cut up.” Leonie walks into the hall, her overnight bag at her side like a dangerous black dog. The apartment smells of onions. Don't come any closer. Beware: this dog bites. The girls jump on her, step on her feet, chatter non-stop. Feli catches her sleeve, tugs at it, and keeps up a ceaseless refrain of, “Mama, Mama, Feli too, Feli too,” to counter her sister's torrent of words. “Mama, Papa picked us up early today, earlier than he ever has, and Feli didn't take her nap! Then we went to the new playground and then home, and Papa played ‘Fruit Garden' with us and the raven lost and now we're making pizza. We get to cut up the vegetables, ‘cause this morning we cried so much that Papa said he'd take the afternoon off and now we're here and now you're here too!”

Leonie kneels to hug her children. They smell like bell pepper. Their mouths are smeared with red sauce. They're small and warm, fidgety and already on their way to the kitchen. She twists out of her coat, reaches into the coat closet; the hangers jangle as they hit each other. Simon's aftershave hangs between the clothes, there's his scarf, his jacket. Suddenly, she wishes she could call Tobias. She closes her eyes, feels his hands running over her back, then suddenly stopping. She pulls away, winces. “Hey, baby, why are you so jumpy? I'm sorry I didn't call, but the girls were really all over me. All three of us nearly overslept this morning, and then they made such a fuss about getting dressed that I had to bribe them, otherwise I would have been late. I used the afternoon off as bait. But they were so sweet, and I thought, this just isn't right. I checked myself out—they can do without me for one day. Gündert was left standing there with his dick in his hand, but whatever. I've worked overtime so much, and it's just not right for a father to see his kids only when they're asleep.” Simon stands behind Leonie in the open closet door. He's wearing jeans and a sweatshirt that says
LET THE GOOD TIMES ROLL
in green letters. His face looks young. Leonie thinks of their first meeting in the teachers' parking lot. He has circles under his eyes and a few more wrinkles, but it's still the same old Simon, and he seems intent and very awake. She turns and presents her bedraggled appearance: unmade-up face, missing earring. Now he'll have to ask. What should I do? He strokes her hair, his hands are warm. “You seem pretty pooped. Did you guys really rage last night? I sent Connie an e-card with music and flowers, but only after the kids were tucked in. I couldn't even watch the game in peace. They kept jabbering and coming out: I'm thirsty, I have to go potty, my tummy hurts, who knows. How do you do it? They don't act like this when you're around.” He doesn't notice, he sees nothing. Suddenly she has to sneeze, she covers her face with her hands. “Uh oh, I hope you didn't catch something. Do you have Kleenex in your bag?” She hears the latch clicking open, the crackle of the package, then Simon laughs: “
The Night Face Up
. Is it erotica or something? Wow, and published by Suhrkamp, too. Egghead sex. Will you read me some tonight?” He hands her the tissues and waves the Cortázar. Something hot rises in Leonie's stomach; she swallows. “Shut up, what do you know about it?” She tears the book from his hand and crosses the hall with staccato steps. The girls are on stools at the kitchen table, cutting something. Leonie walks right past.

The bed is unmade. Felicia's disheveled Bert doll lies on a mound of blankets, arms wide. It's a wild landscape of child-size pajamas, Simon's boxers, a heap of picture books, and a half-f milk bottle. She falls back into the basket chair and wipes her tears. She wants to hit herself, and him too, standing there like a dumb sheep. Why does he have to follow her around like a little puppy dog? He wasn't around yesterday, he hasn't been around in general, but now—here he is, standing in front of her. Too much overtime? Don't make me laugh! All of a sudden it's no problem, all of a sudden he can just take the afternoon off! Simon takes her by the shoulders, his face now very close to hers. “Leo, what's wrong? Did something happen?” She looks at him but can't stop bawling. Little tree, little tree, shake over me, that silver and gold may come down and cover me. What will fall now, oh holy St. Anthony—the other earring maybe? It's probably stuck in the crack of a hotel bed in Tübingen. “Leo, tell me what's wrong.” Now she really feels sick. She screams: “What should I do, vomit on your feet to show you how I feel?” And there are so many apples, hanging from the ceiling—they'll fall down now, one for each of us, and when we eat them we'll be like God and know good and evil. Who's the evil one now?