SIDEWAYS IN LOVE

BETWEEN BLOCKS AND SOHO

After the final meeting with the management and the marketing on Thursday morning, Sam and I go to Manhattan. My New York to-do list is exhausted, and we take the afternoon off. I could almost forget my new condition, but since waking up I’m constantly aware of it. I cannot accept it. Everything in me is reluctant. I cannot be pregnant! I don’t want to be pregnant! And I’m grateful for every second where I can mentally deal with something else.

In the morning I called a hotel to spend the last night there. When I told Sam about it, he called me crazy, correctly called me a typical German and said he’ll be offended if I move to the hotel. Somewhat quietly relieved, I cancelled the reservation.

When viewing the Brooklyn Bridge I’m engulfed by homesickness and considerable pride. When we reach the bridge, I ask Sam if he knows who built it.

“Sure, a guy named Roebling,” he replies. “A German.”

“Johann August Roebling had planned and begun the construction. He was killed when measuring a bridge pier, whereupon his son and his wife finished building the Brooklyn Bridge.”

He lets out a low whistle. “You’re interested in architecture?”

“Not particularly. But old Roebling was, like me, born in Muhlhausen.”

“He’s also from East Germany?”

“Jeez, no! This bridge was built in 1800-something. There were no Easterners or Westerners, but Prussia and Saxony, and so on. Roebling was Prussian.”

“So you’re not just East German, but also Prussian…”

When I see Sam’s grin, I give no reply and contort my neck to look up at the stone bridge piers. Again and again, my gaze glides down and sweeps the no less impressive skyline which we approach. It looks like a strange world, and it probably is.

A little later, Sam’s car winds through the dense traffic of the financial district with all its shimmering glass buildings. Because I ask him, Sam drives a detour and we pass Ground Zero, where the four new towers will be built. Sam says the first building is to be the tallest in the United States. The architects and builders want to set an example. One that appeals to me, because they don’t want to build the world’s tallest building and beat various Asian skyscrapers, but only on American soil, which shows strength and a certain defiance.

In SoHo, we go to Broadway where we are flanked by innumerable yellow cabs. In the chorus of horns, in which everyone seems to honk, whines a police siren. A few blocks from Times Square Sam parks in front of Sarabeth Kitchen, which, he says, enjoys the reputation of being the grande dame of New York brunch. As we enter, an elderly couple at a table waves at us. Must be Sam’s parents.

On with the fun!

Gerald and Elisa Klingenberg are entertaining in very different ways. Apart from the external similarity to his mother, Sam doesn’t seem to have much in common with either of them.

Gerald is the tough business type with his own company in the construction industry, who is opposed to adjusting to his son’s lifestyle. To keep the peace Elisa is a chatterbox. She babbles about any subject, lots of laughs and warmth and babbles on. She makes stories from banalities where you listen with pleasure. For example, they would watch through the kitchen window in the morning, as the neighbour tried to lure the new pooch to the door. The dog, however, didn’t like the snow and did his business on the porch, to the annoyance of the neighbours.

Two glasses of white wine, in spite of eating, raise Elisa to a head. She quickly overcomes the last inhibitions and lets us know Sam and I would make a lovely couple. We both laugh, but Gerald’s face is grim.

“The day on which he introduces us to his woman…” his emphasis is on the word woman, “we will probably not see,” he growls and pivots on to another topic. Sam ignores his father’s comment and embarks on a discussion about a game of the Yankees while I think about my first guess: Sam is gay.

He doesn’t notice I observe him. Days ago he seemed merely attractive - and today he looks in his business suit, which I don’t like on men, mercilessly good. He’s one of those men who can change from a casual style of dress to a suit easily without fail. Today he seems appealing to me, which isn’t only due to his looks. When he speaks and is carried away by the subject, his green eyes twinkle and his laugh is so engaging I laugh, also, although I don’t follow the conversation. It feels good to look at him as if a part of his lightheartedness and the sunlight that shines in his mind transferred to me. His presence makes me forget my worries, or at least gives me the certainty they will be resolved in due course.

Elisa wants to talk and remember how annoying it was to wash grass stains out of Sam’s baseball pants. Looking back, she wishes she could have had a high-tech washing machine. Then she babbles again and raves about her washing machine marvel. Gerald rolls his eyes and winks at me.

“If a new device is purchased,” she clarifies, “it will be by Bosch. Anything else will not come into the house.” Almost frightened she looks at me and says in an apologetic tone: “Oh, I tell you of our gadgets, and you probably don’t even have a washing machine. Is there at least a laundromat near you?”

“Moooom!” Sam exclaims half indignant, half amused and Gerald laughs uproariously.

However, I would like to knock her on the ear, to correct any faults. It’s unacceptable that this woman raves for half an hour about Bosch and asks a German whether she has a washing machine! My confusion is written on my face.

As a sign of her contrition, Elisa puts a hand to her chest. “Goodness, I said something wrong? I’m sorry if that’s the case!”

“Laundromat...?” I wave and try to keep a straight face. “We scrub our laundry at the river!” To clarify, I move my fists on an imaginary washboard. “The way there is sometimes difficult, because the wheels of horse carts are often stuck in mud holes, but in principle, everybody is glad to get out of the city and its streets affected by the plague.” At Elisa’s stunned expression I raise my shoulders and let them fall with mock resignation. “If the toilet is finally invented, people might stop emptying their chamber pots from the window, and then this disease would also be overcome in Germany.”

Sam and Gerald can hold it no more.

“Oh, darling,” Sam’s father snorts, wiping a tear from his eye. “Did you know Bosch is a German company?”

Three hours later, Sam and I leave Sarabeth’s Kitchen sustainably amused. On the way to the car, Sam suggests a walk. I agree because, after the prolific brunch, I feel stuffed like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Our route takes us south. Continuing along 5th Avenue, we pass the Empire State Building, the library guarded by stone lions and other similar impressive, historic buildings. With each new crossroad, the blocks are shorter on our right and the parallel Broadway moves closer to 5th Avenue until the two streets meet at Madison Square Park.

At the crossroads, I put my head back to look up at the Flatiron Building. New York’s oldest skyscraper was the tallest building in the world at the beginning of the 19th century. For my basics about the Brooklyn Bridge Sam now retaliates with a little history.

“Its name is Fuller Building,” he tells me. “But everyone calls it the Flatiron.”

“Because it has the shape of an iron…”

“Exactly.” Sam waits for two passing cars and puts his hand on my back to guide me on the road. “There were only low-rise buildings, which is why this Flatiron Building caused unusual wind gusts.” Arriving on the other side, he shoves his hand back into his coat pocket and grins at me. “If a woman went along here, she had to expect that her skirt would be blown up exposing their ankles, which caused particularly men to enjoy staying here.”

“Such a scandal!” I giggle.

“The cops were fetched in the end. They soon patrolled routinely to get rid of the men.”

From this story to another, we put more blocks behind us and get closer to a triumphal arch. We buy coffee to go and stroll through the stone gate in Washington Square Park. Sam takes a seat on a bench, folds his coat collar up and takes a sip of coffee. I sit down next to him and look at the sky. The condensation trails of aircraft fade quickly against the pale blue backdrop, but constantly develop new forms, painted by the tiny aviators.

I can no longer hold my curiosity in check. “This friend who wanted to come yesterday evening, he’s your significant other?”

Sam replies, without moving. “Maybe he’s a companion. But not for life.”

“Hmm…”

He winks at me. “Hmm, what?”

“A bedmate?”

“It’s more than that.”

He turns his face back to the sun. I do the same as him, close my eyes and enjoy the warmth caressing my skin.

“When did you know you’re gay?” I ask after a while and hear Sam chuckle.

“It is news to me I’m gay.”

A little frightened, I look at him. He remains as he is. “You’re not? Oh,” it gushes out of me. How embarrassing!

Sam formulates longer sentences.

“For a few years, I have found I find a certain type of man fascinating.” Without looking up, he shrugs. “And one came along and made me…” he searches a little while for the right word, “... a proposition. I was curious and wanted to try it.”

Now, why did I start this? I’m angry and want to choke off the subject. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

“But you have. And it’s okay.” Now he tilts his head, blinking at me through his lashes. “No way could I renounce women,” he murmurs.

The following silence drags on and succeeds in causing Sam and me to break eye contact. When I get myself together and then look at the sky, he stands up.

“It’ll get too cold and dark soon. Do you want to do a small tour through SoHo and then go home?”

I agree.

SoHo is an artists’ district, which owes its name to North Houston Street. South of Houston, shortened to SoHo. Besides many very individually designed and colourful houses, I discover a small truck in a loading area, and 11 life-size metal figures squatting on a metal beam. The allusion to the famous photograph is guaranteed an effective advertising medium.

“Imagine you’re on a gameshow, okay?” Sam stops beside me. “This is the million-dollar question.”

“Of course.”

“How many men sat on the bar?”

I can only guess. “Are there twelve? Fifteen? Can I call my Friend?”

Sam whistles the Jeopardy melody, looking at me expectantly to solve the puzzle. “There are eleven. Here’s a second chance: Which building did they build?”

“The Empire State Building?”

“Nope, Rockefeller Center. Are you cold?”

“Is that a million-dollar question?” I rub my hands. The temperature must have dropped by a few degrees at dusk, and I’m not dressed thickly enough. “I wouldn’t mind something to warm me up.”

“Then let’s have tea somewhere.”

Shortly after midnight, we stumble to Sam’s apartment door, giggling and cackling as if we were drunk. Near Madison Square Park we found a coffee bar, where good music was played, so we stuck there. The decor was quaint. No lamp was like the other, no photo frame matched the next. The seating areas were also all different. In the company of Canadian tourists who had been hooked by Sam in conversation, we sat on blue plush couches, ate finger food and drank white tea.

“When is your flight tomorrow morning?” Sam asks and turns on the stereo. Frankie boy sings... again.

“Just before ten. I have to be at the airport at eight.”

“And up at seven.”

“No later than that.”

The swing-heavy Somewhere beyond the Sea comes to an end. Tragic violins bleed into the next song, Strangers in the night. Taking up the drama of the melody, I dance to the couch to plop onto the cushions, humming softly - and find myself in Sam’s arms.

For a moment, it occurs to me it would be better to skip this song in favour of one perhaps less cheesy, like Fly Me to the Moon. In the next second, this idea is forgotten because Sam’s hand lying on my back feels incredibly good, and I give in to the slight pressure he exerts to pull me closer. We turn circles through his living room. Sam smiles as if he’s the happiest person in the world. His eyes imprison mine and let me explore the dark speckles in the green of his irises. When his thumb strokes the back of my hand, it tingles hot on my skin.

Something in your eyes was so inviting...

I think of this little bean in my stomach, to the life I shall give to this creature and its mini heart that begins perhaps to beat at this moment.

Something in your smile was so exciting...

I think of my arrival here, the walk through Manhattan and a movie whose name I cannot remember. I wonder how many people I have still to meet in life, ones whose hearts I will connect with more than others.

Strangers in the night, two lonely people...

I think of a starry sky in the summer, shooting stars, grass that tickles underfoot, fireflies. I imagine a fairy who grants me three wishes.

Up to the moment when we said our first hello, little did we know...

As if someone had clicked his fingers in front of my eyes, the La-La-world fizzles from my thoughts. Sam danced me against the wall where Klimt’s Danaë hangs. He raises his hand from mine to put it with the other on my back. As if drawn by invisible threads, my fingers crossed over his face, my thumb tracing the contour of his cheeks. He’s so handsome, I am today for the second time as firmly enchanted. He’s also a nice person - although at times he behaves totally American. As crazy as it sounds when I’m back in Berlin he’ll be missed for a while more than any other person.

Sam’s kiss is gentle, as his beautiful mouth has promised. His lips play with mine, his teeth nibbling them. His hands move to my hips, embracing them, pulling me even closer to him. Then they are between us. Starting at the bottom, they open the buttons of my blouse and pull it over my shoulders. I take off his baseball cap to bury my fingers in his thick, dark hair.

When I lean my head against the wall, his lips slide down my neck. They linger in the hollow between my collarbones and kiss back upwards to my ear where I’m hypersensitive. His touch and his breath let the endorphins go haywire in me and send them on a crazy journey through my blood. The sound that rises from my throat causes Sam’s kiss to become a nibble which just makes me mad. Relieved and disappointed at the same time I gasp when he moves away from this spot. His lips land again on mine and when he kisses me intimately, something explodes as if my senses were suddenly highly sensitive and polarized solely on the satisfaction of this abruptly arisen desire.

I explore the hem of Sam’s sweater, slide it upwards and pull it over his head. Then I begin with the buttons of his shirt, hastily and greedily, feeling his skin under my fingers. Sam lays his hands under my butt. I sling a leg around him, then the second. I hook them together and without interrupting the kiss, he carries me into his bedroom.

He puts me on his bed and remains above me. He supports himself with one hand, and with the other, he gets down to the buttons of my pants and eventually pulls them from my legs. I undo his belt and let his pants follow.

In the semidarkness, Sam is like a cat - the blue shimmer in his black hair, the sparkle in his eyes, the muscles. He covers my skin with kisses, encircles my breasts with his hands and massages them gently. When I feel his lips on them it drives the air from me again. He shouldn’t stop. And he doesn’t. He pulls from me and himself the last piece of clothing.

Our movements are getting impatient, and my heartbeat roars in my ears.

“I’ll get a condom,” whispers Sam.

I nod and twist myself, as his heat is replaced by the coolness of the air, even if only for seconds.

“Hannah,” he murmurs, and the way he pronounces my name makes me smile.

In the distance, illuminated by sunlight, the Manhattan skyline emerges. Dazzling giant buildings tower in front of the horizon - some brand new, some nearly 100 years old.

Music drones from the loudspeakers, Sinatra’s Fly Me to the Moon... seriously! Even without it, I would feel miserable. My heart is incredibly heavy. Perfect chaos dominated my thoughts and granted me access to neither rationality nor ignorance.

The panic was all mine, for when my phone woke me an hour before, I felt quite brisk. The realization I slept with Sam hit me like a blow! How could I! That shouldn’t have happened... because I like him! No, I didn’t want to talk to him, have breakfast, or again let him so close to me, but very quietly disappear. I couldn’t look into his eyes... because I like him! But I’m f*****g pregnant! I don’t need another problem. So I snuck out of his room on tiptoes and took the liberty, before I closed the door, to allow myself one last look at him. He slumbered blissfully. After a stopover in the bathroom, I gathered my clothes scattered in the apartment, crammed everything into my suitcase in the room with the ceiling sun, dressed with whatever fell into my hands and left the apartment.

The Boeing takes off. I throw a last glance out the window. The aircraft flies a curve across the southern tip of Manhattan. It’s the first time I when leaving this country, feel no anticipation of Germany.

Before my eyes, the city wakes up to traffic jams.

Before my eyes, Sam wakes up and looks for me in the apartment.