SIDEWAYS IN LOVE

... AND A HAPPY NEW YEAR!

A week later, I’m driving along a highway towards home. After arriving from New York I was floored - not just from jet lag, but especially by my situation. My mood was down in the mud, and so I cancelled Christmas, crumble down on the couch and let the world alone. I turned off all phones and fed myself frozen and canned food. I left the house for only one person: Dagmar Dapperheld-Dängeli. I even went to the company, and if my colleague hadn’t left, or I knew where she lived, I would have slapped her around the ears with the new letter which she threw in my mailbox.

Again the image of Danaë was printed and again a simple verse was below. Only with the last two lines of the second letter differing from the first:

Sweet Danaë, sleep!

Be good for me!

Shake the tree,

Fall down dreaming.

The woman must be crazy! A case for the psychiatrist. The perfidy and malevolence with which she takes action against me - unfortunately now not even from unfounded jealousy of Samuel Klingenberg - makes me rant to myself.

Also about myself - I’m thinking of Sam.

How could I?!

And how could I just take off like that?!

What I feel for Sam cannot be described in a few words. In the first place, it’s shame - not because of the s*x, but because of my wordless disappearance. But there’s more, and not all of it I can classify. I have a feeling, knowing him for over three days. He’s a stranger but a friend - who during a few hours even became a lover and took my breath away. The reminder still does. When I think of the s*x with Sam, my heart gallops and I feel something like anticipation. When could I experience that night again as I remember it?

My now active mind is the one that keeps me from letting these thoughts go deeper. I used to not consider many things with such logic, and I dislike logic for interpersonal relationships. My instinct advises me to forget Sam. Not only because he lives on the other side of the world and isn’t exclusively interested in women, but mainly because I should focus on my real life. It’s impossible that I can fly back to New York in my present condition. And what is in two or three years... who knows.

Gradually, the interchanges are fewer and the traffic lanes reduce from three to two. The landscape changes with the final highway. Gentle, snow-covered hills extend as far as the eye can see. You have reached your destination I read on a sign I know well, the lights greener than usual in the dazzling white environment.

My green land has me again if only for a week. Supposedly it’s the local water that ties us humans to our home. According to studies, it has the same structure as that in the bodies of people born in the respective region. I’m powerless over my delight to arrive home.

After I left the highway behind me, I passed some villages where not much has happened since reunification. I call them the forgotten villages. A name that fits particularly well to one in which the inhabitants on roughly one hundred posters request a bypass road, and have to thank, among others, our Chancellor that they don’t get one. One of these posters makes me smirk as it is a written petition to God, to pray for the lying politicians - and I think it is paradoxical - especially since the municipality is ultra-Catholic.

God himself prays, too?

The drive continues along through a forest, between fields, through valleys and over hills, to finally expose the many spires. Particularly striking is the arrowhead copper roof of the Gothic St. Mary’s Church, the highest church in Thuringia, which almost became a cathedral. Around them gather the houses and walls of the city. Muhlhausen is dreamy and bored in its valley.

My parents’ house is in an old district. Most of the houses in the street have been restored, a few crumbling before me. With its red brick and round-arched windows, our house is the most beautiful, I think.

As soon as I put a foot on the first step, the front door flies open and my mother greets me, as if she had a jet engine strapped to her back; she embeds my face in her hands and gives me a longing and relieved look.

“I borrowed a friend’s jeep in case I must free you from a snowdrift,” my father roars in the background. “Your mother makes me nuts.”

“You know I drive slowly,” I say on the way from the arms of my mother to my father’s and gasp for air because he squeezes me tightly.

A moment later I’m held again by my mother’s watchful eyes, which I hope are temporarily blurred and don’t notice my pregnancy. My sister Luisa couldn’t keep her three pregnancies secret for long. Maybe she didn’t try hard enough, I say to myself, but it was probably because Luisa had no reason. I, however, have two good reasons. I’ll succeed.

My mother sighs. “You want to get a private mobile phone already? I tried you on the landline, but it was busy for days. Did you have the handset off the hook?”

Luckily, she pursued the subject no further. “When we have eaten, you have to call Lena. She rang twice already,” she tells me and again stroking my face. ”I’m sure you’re hungry. You’re quite pale! How are you doing?”

I cannot tell you how many times I’ve heard that phrase about my pallor. My mother should especially resist it as she bequeathed me her white skin with all the freckles and red hair. From my father, who is tanned even in the winter, I have inherited nothing except the curls.

As soon as we are inside, the phone rings. Once I hold the handset in my hand, Lena roars in my ear: I’ll be there immediately. She has just hung up, and there she stands already at the door. Lena is one half of the family. There was a time she was with us more than at her own home.

Lena and I grew up together - what with the boycotting of various things that had been imposed on us as children. First, we boycotted the school choir, then our uniforms. When we came up with the idea to hold it during the physics hour on Friday morning, and to spend the time until 8:45 am sitting on the city walls, we got into serious trouble with our parents and grew a little less radical.

“For New Year’s Eve Bastian has converted a barn into a house party and invited half the town,” says Lena. “A taxi will pick up Luke and me at 7 o’clock. We’ll come by here and pick you up, okay?”

“You don’t need a taxi,” my father contradicts. “I’ll drive you.”

If on any other date, a gigantic global party with fireworks and cheering crowds spontaneously arose, I would find this original and would do it immediately. But for New Year’s Eve, I’m getting tired and wonder why we celebrate a new year but no new month or day? Every day is special and unique. The one on 31 December is so glorified, with weeks of preparation fueling expectations for this day, which - to be honest - is often disappointing.

As to Bastian and the barn...

Bastian belongs to Nina, the third member of the group. Intermittently, he’s her longtime partner. Both love to separate - perhaps because they like to be reconciled with each other. Bastian is also the event manager of almost every party organized in Muhlhausen, for which he constantly seeks and finds new places. One would think he’d soon run out of ideas, but that doesn’t seem to be the case. In this sense, the barn for the New Year’s party is the next big thing happening in town. Everyone wants to go but for me.

“Oh, you know…” I begin, however, Lena interrupts me.

“Don’t say you don’t feel like it!” She bundles together her long pitch-black hair and binds it into a knot. “You’re so rarely here and we all miss you. I especially.”

All - this includes Nina and Lilly, girlfriends number four and one. I miss them as well. Until a year ago we were the imperfect perfect quartet. Imperfect because we are very different, and perfect because we complement each other for just this reason. Sometimes our different worlds collide with each other, which most commonly occurs between Lilly and Nina, so we know to appreciate what we have together. In Berlin, I was properly aware of this when I realized that, via phone or email, shared successes and failures are twice as nice and half as horrible.

Lena’s voice brings me out of my thoughts. “Lilly has promised to finally reveal her secret on New year’s Eve.”

Lilly has a secret?

Why has no one told me Lilly has a secret? Because I had pulled the plug from the telephone socket? “What kind of secret is it?”

Startled, Lena raises her hand to her mouth. “You don’t even know about it,” she mumbles, and in her dark eyes flashes a faint sense of guilt. “Mr Perfect has given her the honour.”

What previously connected Lilly and me most was our single life in a world dominated by love or habitual pairs. Although Lilly didn’t like being single, she put high demands on a partner. From now on she’ll probably swarm around me happy in love; an idea that will require getting used to.

“Who would have thought,” my mother commented on the news and cleared the table. She explains to my father, who regularly confuses Lilly and Nina, whom of the two it concerns and that they shouldn’t be confused, actually.

“This is terrific,” I remark, forcing cheerfulness, and a little annoyed I must strive at all. Lilly has finally found what she was looking for. “And she has revealed nothing about him till now?”

Lena grimaces. “Not a word.”

When I see my father get the schnapps, I get up and end the discussion about the evening plans. “If that’s so, I can hardly wait for New Year’s Eve.”

The barn stands in a field on the outskirts of the city and shines for us from a distance since it’s decorated with white Christmas lights. Cars park all around on the frozen, fallow farmland. The Jeep my father uses waits amongst several taxis on the roadside. After we wish each other a happy new year, Lena, Luke and I get out to trudge the last metres to the entrance across the field. In front of us trudges a group of women whose footwear is too festive for a field walk. They grumble and are concerned about their heels.

With each step, the urgent music from the building gets louder, and in addition to the bass, I soon hear a melody that makes me think of South America. Lena, who seems to know the song, is humming it. I shiver from the cold and wrap my arms around my torso. Luke says it will be warmer inside, and holds open the heavy wooden door for Lena and me.

We leave the jackets, scarves and gloves at the makeshift cloakroom. The music in here is so loud we need to raise our voices. We enter the Caribbean decorated main room through a curtain. Large plastic dummy palm trees line the dance floor. Stools facing a bar are covered with bamboo leaves. Even the DJ’s desk and the buffet are decorated accordingly. The lighting is also very consistent which is provided by many colourful small lamps.

Out of nowhere, someone flies to my neck and I stagger a step back, just catch myself and recognize Nina.

“Hannah!” She calls and moves away to look at me. A merry sparkle flits through her brown eyes. “Although I can’t understand why you prefer a party in Muhlhausen rather than Berlin, I’m deadly pleased you’re here!” She presses a peck on my cheek and wraps an arm around me. It’s a miracle the cocktail she holds doesn’t land on my clothes because she acts quite drunk. She and Bastian have probably been here since morning and had begun to toast the old year a few hours ago.

Nina is like a chatting waterfall - she gestures wildly as usual and spills the wine from her glass. She asks who’s still here, and what have we all done in the past few months. While she babbles and babbles, she constantly checks how her hair is. Normally she wears her brunette hair tied back in a practical braid, and she seems annoyed by her current French pleat hairstyle. When Bastian joins us, she asks him if so-and-so is here. He doesn’t hear her as he’s an organizer under stress and is called away at the same time because of a problem at the bar. Luke accompanied him and asked while walking what we wanted to drink. When Lena asks him to bring her and Nina the same drink, he nods and looks questioningly at me. I say I don’t want one at the moment. I very much hope all are soon properly drunk and don’t notice when I take care of myself at the bar with non-alcoholic cocktails.

“Did Lilly and thingy not come?” Lena asks Nina.

She makes a derogatory pout. “They’ll be here soon enough, but not without a mandatory delay.” She sucks on a straw until a loud gurgling reveals her glass is empty. “Man, I’m excited.”

“Yes, Hannah and I have been pondering who…” Lena stops mid-sentence and her gaze fixes onto a certain point in the room. “There she is!” She raises her hand and waves.

Lilly spots us, waves back and extends her hand toward a man to lead him through the crowd which is getting thicker with every minute. As usual, she draws attention to herself, but the man at her side reinforces this effect. In fact, the two look as if they came straight from a Guess advertising shoot. And, actually, he fits - purely visually - her perfectly, as if he were her twin brother. His hair is blond like Lilly’s, his face equally cool, his graceful movements a reflection of hers.

“Are they custom-made?” I exclaim, and it takes a while until the irritation from Lena and Nina’s faces disappears and they both laugh.

“Maybe he is,” chuckles Lena and takes her cocktail from Luke. “But honestly, you expected someone else?”

“Nope,” this comes from Nina. “I merely find it quaint. Both remind me of Barbie and Ken.”

Since Nina finds her own comparison hilarious and wants to work herself up with other examples, Lena silences her with a harsh “Shhh!” because Lilly and the putative Mr Perfect approach. Arriving before us she introduces the man as Maximilian Hero.

Now Nina cackles: “The name fits!”

Lilly blushes and sweeps a loose strand of her hair, trimmed to chin length, behind her ear. After an evil look at Nina, she turns and greets me with a hug.

I shake Maximilian’s hand and use all the distraction to disappear to the bar and order myself a non-alcoholic cocktail. I return in time to hear Maximilian Hero has only recently returned from Shanghai where he worked for a German bank in a managerial position. Now, he’s hired by Lilly’s parent’s company.

I think all this is very convenient - nearly a little too convenient. Unlike, for example, Nina, I remain silent and suck on my straw. The light green stuff in the glass is terribly sour, but serves its purpose well, because when I make a face, Nina laughs, thinking this is my response to the gin or tequila or whatever.

Four hours later, a great fanfare was launched for the New Year. I go get my third fake cocktail with Lena standing beside me.

“I’ll also take one,” she calls to the bartender.

I have the urge to talk her out of it, but with no arguments, I instead hope she doesn’t notice there’s no alcohol in it. Already with her first sip, this hope is disappointed.

She furrows her forehead: “Uh, this one is sour,” she croaks and grabs the menu card. “What is this stuff?”

She looks for the cocktail, studies the ingredients and eyes me above the edge of the card. “Why are you drinking mocktails on New Year? And for hours?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I said as calmly as possible, but couldn’t cover up my nervousness. “I wanted to start slow and then I found it delicious.”

“That’s weird.” Lena puts down the menu. “Nina would now suspect you’re pregnant.”

I feel trapped, and Lena’s jaw drops. “You’re pregnant?”

In my silence, she comes closer and strokes my arm. “Hannah?”

“Yes, I am,” I admit, distressed and put the cocktail onto the bar with sudden disgust.

“But Hannah…”

It’s terrible to watch as Lena struggles for composure and searches for the right words. She knows, fortunately, that she needn’t congratulate me. Both of us are at least spared a foolish moment.

“How could this happen, anyway?” is the first thing that comes to her. I don’t blame her. Probably that would be the first thing that would have occurred to me in her place.

“Well, I wasn’t at the sperm bank, of course,” I say attempting humour. “Therefore it happened by regular sex.”

“Sure…” She acts as if she was prepared to be shocked for a second time. “… but who’s the father?”