SIDEWAYS IN LOVE

STRANGER FRIEND

My alarm clock tears me from a five-hour sleep. With difficulty, I open only the left, then the right eye and fight against the desire to make them simply fall again. It’s infinitely cosy and warm, and the blanket is soft and fragrant. There’s only one thing to do: turn on my back, kick back the bedspread, and loll thoroughly. Yawning is counterproductive because that goes bad with open eyes.

As soon as I roll myself, I blink at the sun. Not the one from outside but the one on the ceiling. A gigantic shiningly yolk yellow golden sun was painted there.

While lolling about my eyes wander from the ceiling sun through the room. I have to ask Sam if he has a passion for collecting holiday knickknacks. Besides a boomerang and didgeridoo, I discover African bongo drums, porcupine quills and a complete set of ceramics covered with drawings of zebras. For the vast Indian God character I also discover, he had to have booked an extra seat on the plane. In a display case are, among other trinkets, a mini-Eiffel Tower, a mini-Big Ben and a mini-Acropolis. On the door hangs a disassembled road sign that once warned of moose in Norway, perhaps.

A sudden buzzing and clacking makes me finally perk up. Looking for the source of noise my eyes fly to where a cuckoo clock hangs, whose door opens to let out the bird. Seven times it says cuckoo. Luckily, the bird isn’t nocturnal. Had it tarnished my whole night with that s**t, it would be dead now.

With the thought of my daily schedule, I jump out of bed. From the door of the room, I move more slowly, open it and listen. Sam is already lively. In the living room, music tootles - no Sinatra, fortunately. It smells of tea and toast. Crockery rattles. On tiptoes, I scurry down the hall to the bathroom.

Before the mirror, I’m seized by disillusionment. After the flight, I made a miserable appearance; compared to now, however, yesterday I had looked like Miss America. The woman who stares at me has red bloodshot, semi-sticky eyes, wrinkled skin, chapped lips and a hairdo as if she had stuck a finger into the socket all night. A small child would scream and run away from me, a pensioner would cling to her purse and as a precaution call for help.

A groan escaped me. I lean forward, look at myself in more detail and repeat my age like a mantra. I’m 26, not 62. Because someone has the numbers reversed. A shower will help. A shower must help. And two tons of make-up.

And quickly!

As always, if there’s anything I want quickly, it takes twice as long. Only I can’t get the shower underway, because the Americans cannot set up a simple tap-off and tap-on system. Later things go amiss when brushing my teeth, so I must stop and rinse off. After my stomach has calmed down, it fails because of my hairstyle. A before-after comparison would hardly show any difference. Grumbling, I get dressed, and hate now, what I chose not quite half an hour before. However, when mentally rummaging through my suitcase I encounter no clothes I like better. When I close my bra, I want to cry because it pinches and slightly swells my breasts. As with any of my bras... since about last week, and as usual, just before menstruation.

Hannah Hönig! I remind myself silently. It’s your own fault, you silly nut! Why did you drink and not go to sleep on time? Pull yourself together! Pinch the buttocks together! Eyes shut and go for it! Tomorrow everything will be better!

Muttering this consolation to myself, I torture my feet, which feel like they belong to an elephant, into my shoes. I used to never dress in high heels because I was so uncomfortable. Due to the job I practised hurrying naturally in high heels, and now I even like wearing these shoes. Actually, not today!

My knees feel like rubber as I enter the living area. Sam potters around the kitchen. He raises his head when he hears me and shines. Inevitably, I wonder how he can look so good after all the alcohol and the short night. He appears spick and span in his outfit, comprising black trousers, a light grey shirt with a black collar, cuffs and buttons and a red tie.

“You look fantastic,” he says, pulling a stool back from the counter. Besides tea and toast, there is bacon and scrambled eggs waiting.

I take a deep breath, ignore the nausea and take a seat.

“But you feel crappy, right?” Sam speculates glimpsing me.

Soothingly he raises his hands together with the spatula and the spice tin. “Man! Don't kill me, okay?”

Actually, I might laugh at this gesture, but something stops me and tells me I don’t want to be the Hannah today that I would have otherwise. Today, I want to be unlike myself and do nothing but bad things.

I want to be furious! Pull my unruly hair! Stomp my foot! Tear off all my clothes and kick them into a corner! Push steam out of my nostrils! Go into the forest and shout! Lay into a sandbag! Slam a door! Steal a fast car and give the finger to all I overtake!

All this is only because my bra pinches.

Sam suspects my thoughts. Like a bomb in the area, which goes off at minimal air movement, he puts the spatula aside, puts down the spice tin and stretches his arm in slow motion to my breakfast knife. I realize what he’s up to, and I have to laugh.

I pat him on the finger. “It’s alright, okay!”

Sam pours tea and spreads the scrambled eggs on our plates. He sits down on the second stool next to me and eats with a large appetite.

I clasp the teacup like a life preserver. Although I like scrambled eggs and don’t want to be rude - I cannot. I get no bites down.

“It was amusing last night.” Sam shakes out a napkin and wipes his lips. “I like you.” With a glance at my plate, he said: “Now finally to get started! Don’t punish your cat with an empty stomach, or you'll not survive the day.”

I put the tea down, take the fork in my hand and skewer a piece of egg on it. There’s a rumbling pain in my gut. Something is wrong, something absolutely wrong. I wish I knew what it is exactly, so I could turn it off.

Twelve hours later, Sam and I are on the way back. The new knives are sold. All are still alive.

I’m finished and feel surrounded by a blur of mist. Since I climbed into Sam’s car, my thoughts revolve around one thing hidden in the fog. I want to penetrate it and drag this thing to the light, but find no way in. In addition, I’m reminded with every breath I’m wearing a bra.

Would my damned menstruation finally start, anyway…?

At a stroke, the fog in my head evaporates and a shock moves into my limbs. My menstruation! Should I not already have it?

I count back. One week. Two, three, four weeks. Five weeks. Six weeks ago... pretty much six weeks ago, I had a week off and was at home in Thuringia, Germany.

No!

Absolutely no way!

Sam says something.

I interrupt him by asking him to stop at a pharmacy.

“Oh, honey, what’s wrong?”

Honey, sugar, sweetheart, pumpkin pie! I need stupid candy pet names like a hole in the head. “My name is Hannah. Not Honey!”

“Sure, but what’s going on?”

“I need something for pain.”

“Look in the glove compartment! There’s ibuprofen. That works for everything. Headaches, stomach pain, body aches, toothache and pain after a night with lots of s*x and drugs and rock-and-roll.” He gives me a sidelong glance and smirks. “The latter can't be you, honey.”

“Don’t call me honey! And I need something for menstrual pain.”

“Okay...” he ponders. “I cannot swear to it, but I believe it helps the same way.”

He means well. But he's driving me crazy!

Insanely insane!

“I need a very special medication.”

The irritation in my voice silences Sam.

Arriving at the pharmacy, I tell him I’ll be right back. Not that he gets the idea to accompany me. Quickly inside I ask for what I need, tuck it far down in my purse and pay. Back in the car I try to think of nothing and concentrate on each light flying by, on any fire escape, on every shaggy mutt.

In Sam’s apartment, I apologize and head to the toilet before he can ask one more time if I need help. I shake the stick out of the pack, squat on the loo and perform the test. Then it says wait.

Through my head rattles all of Schlun & Winheller’s products range: paring knife, chef’s knife, slicing knife, bread knife, boning knife, cleaver, kitchen scissors and meat fork. With or without knife blocks in different variants: rustic, culinary, stainless steel. Not to mention the kitchen aids: peeler, lemon scraper, melon spoon, cheese slicer, pizza cutter, potato peeler, apple corer, cookie-cutter. Most recently the utensils for exclusive needs: parmesan grater, fish tweezers, truffle slicer, oyster knife.

Five minutes later, I stare at the test. Again and again, I read the description that states you aren’t pregnant when the pink stripe in the right box disappears. Why doesn’t this stupid stripe disappear? It must fade at some point!

I’ve got to get out of here! Out of the bathroom. Out of the apartment. From the city and the country. Get off this continent. I’d like to see my friend Lena, throw myself into her arms, burst into tears and let her know my life is over.

My life is over!

In ten years at the earliest, I wanted to give serious consideration to getting involved in a partnership. I didn't want to think about offspring any sooner than that. Until then, it should be me, myself and I. Without a man, without children. I want to live, think of me, have fun and earn money to care only for myself. I want to set up a business and think about what exactly I want to do with my life. It’s much too early for all the taboos, obligations and restrictions. I’m too young to stop sleeping around, to be a huge slug and complaining about varicose veins or heartburn.

As with all these super mommies. Wherever the eye looks. One is tubby here, one is even rounder there. They waddle through the DIY stores, furniture stores and H & M stores and flock in groups to gossip. About their bellies, their sufferings, their husbands ignoring them, their breathing exercises - and antenatal classes, about hospitals and midwives, about bath births, about baby names.

Later you see these hordes with strollers in ice cream shops, zoos, city parks and drugstores. My experience, which is henceforth sometimes interrupted by unintelligible sounds, is in talks about their babies, their sufferings, their negligent husbands, their sleepless nights, their extra baggage, their births, breastfeeding, and baby massage and baby swimming lessons.

They are all so... motherly. And in me, there’s almost nothing maternal.

My life is over!

And I’m damn, damn alone.

Someone’s knocking. Sam lets me know he has ordered pizza.

“I’ll be right there,” I call and try not to let on anything to him. Hastily I wipe away a few tears and therefore only create space for new ones. Slowly I get up, wash my face, scrub off the remnants of make-up and cool my temples with water.

In the guest room with the sun ceiling, I peel myself out of the suit, swap the bra for a vest and slip into my favourite dark green, cosy leisure suit, which accompanies me on every trip. It occurs to me I wanted to look for a hotel room today - and I’m glad Sam and I have forgotten about it. The dreary loneliness of a hotel room, far away from home, would push me over the edge.

Once in the living room, Sam holds out a glass of wine to me. I hesitate and politely refuse. Bloody hell! I can’t even get drunk!

“The pizza is right there,” he says and looks at me. “Are you feeling better?”

An increase in totally screwed in the ass would describe my condition perfectly, but I keep this to myself and force a smile.

“It’s…” too bad tears come to my eyes again.

Sam puts his hand on my back, gently caressing me up and down. “What’s going on?” He asks so compassionately I snivel and want to throw myself against his chest. Just someone to hug and hold me.

“Oh, everything is just a little...”

“... difficult?”

“Yes, and I’m currently just a bit...”

“... stressed out?”

“No. Pregnant.”

Sam stops. “That’s... well, actually that’s...” he stammers, “... super!”

“It’s not at all,” I whisper.

Since I can no longer hold back the tears, I raise my free hand over my eyes. Each of my muscles tenses and triggers in me the desire to curl up until I’m not here anymore.

Sam softly grasps my wrists, loosens my hand from my face and puts them both on his shoulders. I feel his heat when he hugs me. His proximity is comforting, his smell reassuring, and I close my arms tightly around him, put my forehead on his shoulder and let my emotions take over. I wail his sweater wet and let him take part in my panic between the sobs. He patiently assembles the parts of sentences and looks for encouraging words. He tells me I have a choice and to think about the possibilities calmly and reasonably. Since I could never agree on terminating the pregnancy with my conscience, I don’t take this putative option into consideration.

“I’m kind of glad,” he murmurs. “Once you get over the shock, I’m sure someday you’ll look forward to the baby as an adventure of life.”

In my silence, he asks: “What will you tell the dad?”

“Change the subject!” A shiver chases over my skin. That’s a matter which I’ll deal with at the appropriate time.

Eric Clapton instead of Frank Sinatra sings for dinner today, which I find much more pleasant.

“Do you know the woman Dapperdings Dingelmann or whatever her name is?” Sam asks out of the blue.

How convenient he doesn’t remember her name.

“She’s my colleague. I took over her area two months ago. I don’t know her well. Was she often here in New York?”

Sam pulls an estimating pout. “Two or three times, I think.” He gives me and himself water and takes another slice of pizza. “We know each other more casually, as we only got acquainted at meetings,” he winks. “After all, she didn’t have the privilege of living with me.”

“Oh, and I thought she would have been one of the prickly Germans in your bed.”

He choked down the bite so as not to choke while laughing. “There was no one prickly in my bed, and on the legs of the woman Dapperdings I can say nothing,” he’s emphatic and yet amused. “I ask because I got a strange message on f*******: from her yesterday.”

I have no idea about f*******:. I have no account and don’t plan to change this. “What did she write?”

“First, I found it strange she wanted to link with me a few weeks ago, anyway. We had never messaged via f*******: until yesterday when she wrote to me about what a shame it was she’ll no longer come to New York. She wants me to tell her if there are problems with you.”

I feel like I’m going red with anger. But, to discuss with Sam about the Dapperheld-Dängeli woman would shed unprofessional light on Schlun & Winheller, so I leave it and reply: “That’s strange,” instead of talking about the burgeoning anger over the message. However, a question occurs to me, and I have to ask: “Have you ever talked to her about Klimt?”

“Nope.” Sam is puzzled. “We never had private issues. How so? What about Klimt?”

I shake my head. “Nothing…”

“One of his paintings is my profile picture on f*******:. Maybe she was thinking, therefore, I like the painter...” He ponders further. “Do you have a problem with her?”

A problem which is obviously much bigger than I thought until recently. Nevertheless, this isn’t an issue for Sam. He understands my silence, and seeks and finds other conversations by bringing up a notorious inquiry: “What part of Germany do you come from?”

I hear this question from almost every American. Not infrequently, a second question follows the first, namely whether the East is the good or the bad part.

“Right in the middle,” I say.

“And is the centre in former East Germany?”

“Exactly.”

“Cool.” He bites and thinks. “I’ve never met someone from the German Democratic Republic. What was it like? As terrible as they all say?”

“It wasn’t. I was probably too young to be aware of the negative sides. I think my childhood wasn’t much different from yours.”

“Which things do you remember when you think about the past?”

A smile creeps onto my lips. “Cocoa, red fruit jelly and Neptune Festivals.” I have these things on standby to give back to the question.

“Hmmm,” ponders Sam. “Street basketball, BMX biking and The Wonder Years.”

“Sure, The Wonder Years. This is a TV show with a little boy in love with a girl who’s a head taller and...” I rummaged my brain for her name. “What was her name?”

“Winnie,” Sam helps me on the jumps. “And he’s called Kevin.”

“Exactly, and the narrator was the voice of Magnum.”

Sam frowns. “Not at all, it was Daniel Stern.”

I’m confused for a moment. Then I get it. “The American original was dubbed over and spoken by the German Magnum voice.”

Sam cannot follow me but doesn’t go further on the matter. “Can you tell me what the hell a Neptune Festival is?”

“Oh, that took place every year at the end of the summer holidays. It’s an East German tradition that originated in the holiday camps on the Baltic Sea, with a sort of baptism for certain kids who would be included in Neptune’s realm.”

Sam nabs his third slice of pizza. “All the summer camp participants were baptized in one day? As a reward, so to speak?”

I myself was never in a holiday camp. However, holiday games took place in kindergarten, and also a Neptune Festival was held on a lake for the older kids. “I don’t know how it is today, but it used to not be a reward, but a kind of punishment for naughty kids or negative behaviour.”

Sam’s eyes widen. “Punished? By baptism? Holy cow!”

“Everyone gathered on the beach to witness the arrival of Neptune and his captors,” I tell him. “Neptune delivered a speech, and at the end, he pulled out a list of names. If he called your name, the captors trapped you in a net and dragged you to Neptune.”

Sam has stopped eating. I watch a piece of salami slowly slip off the pizza quarter that he’s holding. “Sounds scary,” he notes. “Were the naughty kids submerged?”

“Would that not be a rather mild punishment for disobedience under socialism?” I ask in a reasonable tone and continue: “First, the person being baptized had to swallow a mush that had been mixed from delicious things such as herring, vinegar, pepper, mustard pickles and paprika sauce.”

Sam’s face makes me laugh. Briefly, he turns to his slice of pizza and seems to consider whether he still wants to eat it.

“Then, the person is baptized with eggs, flour and seaweed!”

Now he grins.

“At the end, the men grabbed him, dragged him into the sea and he’s thrown in a high arc.”

“That’s cruel,” snorts Sam. “And you’re telling me the regime hadn’t been terrible...” He finally takes a bite and brings out his next question: “What have the children done? Dope? Excessive party celebrations? Raided the camp stores? Listened to the music of the enemy?” With a nod, he points towards the stereo where I shot the Sheriff was just playing. “Or they shot the sheriff?”

I also have to grin. “Actually, they have only done things children sometimes just do.”

“Horrible! And were you baptized?”

“Twice at the end of the holiday games.”

“What did you do?”

“Once I was sitting on a tree one day looking at books because the holiday program bored me. The second time I said lunch was disgusting.”

“Wow!” He licks the grease from his fingers. “It was a cruel country. Little girls looking at books, stuff with herring and cucumber pepper mush. It’s a crime. In the US, they would be sued.”

I grab the last quarter of the pizza. “I believe you.”