Someday We'll Tell Each Other Everything (10 page)

15

My pride evaporates on the way back to the Brendels'; I feel sordid and cruel. Johannes is waiting for his girlfriend, Frieda has probably prepared dinner, but I am sated in every respect. I don't understand how I can deceive these people who have taken me in so warmly, the Brendels. I'm utterly ashamed of myself, but I cannot regret what I have done.

Luckily Johannes is still working in one of the pastures when I get home. But it will be dark in half an hour at most, hardly long enough to wipe the rapture from my face. I saw it myself in the mirror, and Henner said, “You look completely different, Maria. Much more beautiful.” I wonder whether here on the farm they'll notice it too. But they don't, and in some way that eases my conscience. And
yet their cluelessness almost maddens me. Only Alfred's noticed it. At dinner he gives me looks, sending shivers down my spine. I don't believe he's
thought
it. He's
felt
it. He doesn't think much, but he has a good instinct.

My poor Johannes is so tired, and doesn't realize how happy that makes me. His exhaustion is my temporary salvation. Over dinner he tells me that he plans to start on the photographs of the village as soon as Siegfried returns. He's already asked around and most people seem quite happy about it. Marianne always goes quiet when she hears him talk about art school. Someone's told her there are drugs in the city.

Johannes brushes this off, saying he's not interested in drugs, and then asks his mother, “Does Henner ever come to the shop? I'd like to see if I could go and photograph his farm. I might get some good pictures, what with the dogs, the horses, and the old house.” Marianne nods and says she'll ask him the next time he comes. I can't stomach another mouthful. But Johannes is full of ideas, and his tiredness seems to have dissipated. “Maria,” he says, “you could come with me. I'm sure Henner wouldn't object to me taking photos of you there.” On the contrary, I think, he'd most certainly object. Alfred is quivering. His ugly face hangs briefly over his bowl of soup, and then his sideways glance cuts me in two. He's going to come out with it, I think. It's all over. Part of me would be delighted to be rid of this unbearable tension. He slurps up his soup slowly, and I look him brazenly in the eye until he lowers his head again. Now Johannes is really fired up. “Maria,” he says, “they'd be fantastic photos in that old house. Everything looks like it did in the old days. He hasn't even got a bathroom, only an old washbasin, and it's his grandparents' furniture, isn't it, Mom?”

“Yes, you're right,” she says, and I can see the ideas buzzing around his head. Frieda says that Henner still fetches his water from the well in the yard. No wonder his wife didn't fancy hanging around. The
flowers trembling in the chill of death, waiting to be mown down, I think, but I must have said it out loud, because Johannes asks, “What did you say?” Marianne looks at me inquisitively, and so I have to repeat it. I give them the whole verse: “We are the wanderers without goal, / The clouds blown away by the wind, / The flowers trembling in the chill of death, / Waiting to be mown down.” Marianne says it's a bit morbid, but Johannes finds it beautiful. He asks me how I know it. Keeping my eyes on Alfred I say, “I read it at my mother's; I spent the day there.” But Alfred goes on eating and doesn't look at me again. The cat slithers around my legs, and its purring sounds like rumbling thunder. Outside the birds are singing.

I'm a terrible liar, I think, and a truly terrible person. I hear the others as if they're far in the distance. I can feel the cat's tongue on my leg, which awakens a memory. Alfred laughs suddenly and Frieda joins in. I don't have a clue what they're laughing about, but in my ears it is a diabolical sound. The only reason he's saying nothing is to torture me, I now think; he wants to savor it to the very end, until everything has to come out. He is a monster. All at once I am revolted by his fawning love for Frieda. But I can also understand why he's so bitter and twisted—a man who always got the short end of the stick, who once upon a time might have been given the opportunity to run the farm himself. He can't take it out on any of the others; this is his home, after all, and Frieda would never forgive him if he did anything to harm Siegfried or Marianne. But I don't belong here. No one would blame him for it; I imagine they'd even be thankful if he opened their eyes to the real Maria.

Now the cat jumps onto my lap and rubs up against me. You never know where you stand with cats. Johannes says, “Come on, let's go upstairs.” I get up, keeping the cat on my arm, and hope that Johannes will go to sleep quickly.

I've not had the opportunity to go to Henner's for a while. I'm working at the tavern, and Siegfried came back earlier than planned. The chicken massacre made him anxious. And he'd already seen what he wanted to see: a Demeter farm. He gives a brief report, telling us how they offered to put him up for the night—in the dwarf's chamber. The
dwarf's
chamber! And how they still use a plow pulled by an ox. Jesus! You can take it too far. Otherwise, he says, it was pretty impressive, but it wasn't magic, and he could do without all that superstructure stuff—anthroposophy, for God's sake! Basically most things were like they are here, he said: proper feed produced on the farm, no chemicals or drugs, clean, airy animal sheds, cattle out in the fields. Marianne says she could have told him all this anytime, but Siegfried counters by telling her she should spend more time watching the chickens rather than coming out with all these grand statements. She's offended and so she shuts up.

Then he tells us how Gisela answers back to Hartmut, and that he would never put up with a wife like that. He's happy to be back. In any case he couldn't relax because he knew that Johannes would only manage to get through half of what needed to be done.

He's been home for barely an hour and he's already back at work. Johannes is released from his chores for the time being, and he takes his first photos of the village. I hope he goes to Henner's last. Maybe it will be all over by then.

Summer is coming to an end, autumn is just around the corner, and I have no idea where my life is heading. The landlord has said I can keep on working at the tavern, but that's not a solution. As soon as he closes the beer garden, it'll only be the real drinkers who come regularly. People from town will only drop in on weekends, and every so often there'll be a visit from the local heritage association. There'll be very little to do. Siegfried said I ought to go back to school. At least repeat the year, even if I don't take my final exams. I could stay on at the farm, he said, and his straightforwardness made
me happy. It's all too much. I'm groping blindly; either I can't see a single path to take, or there are far too many.

I want to see him again. He's stopped coming to the shop, which surprises Marianne, and I find it strange, too. Rumors are going around that there was something he had to sort out in town, but no one knows exactly what. I'm worried he's going to forget me. Just like that. Today I'll go and see him after work.

16

The landlord counts up my tips. Almost seven marks, plus my wage for eight hours' work, that makes forty-seven. A tidy sum. Johannes and I could go out for the evening. But now, at the road, I take a right turn, walk for another hundred meters, and then follow the track to Henner's. By the time I get to the gate my legs are like jelly. I can't see a light on, and the Volga isn't there. All I can hear are the dogs prowling in the yard. I creep around the house, checking to see whether any windows are open, but everything is shut tight. Where could he be at this time? I'm seized by childish jealousy; I turn and go back. I don't want him imagining I've got nothing better to do than think of him. In any case, he's far too old for me. I begin to walk faster, terrified that someone may have seen me, even though
nothing's actually happened on this occasion. That would be the ultimate humiliation, being caught out unnecessarily.

Henner! I bet he's with some woman. What else would he be up to this late? As I turn onto the track leading to the Brendels' farm, a car comes across the bridge. I hide behind one of the large limes and wait. It's him, and he's alone.

This makes me so happy that I race home like a madwoman and dash up the stairs to Johannes. I give him a passionate embrace and we make love again.

But the very next morning, before work, I return to Henner's farm and slide a letter under the gate. “Come tomorrow and buy a few things from Marianne. Say you'll pick them up later because you've got some errands to run. Then I'll bring them to you. Otherwise I don't know how I'll find the excuse to see you. Maria.”

I thought up this plan in the night. Johannes was sleeping like a corpse—he's always so exhausted in the evenings, and he works away at his photography like a man possessed. I can't think of another way. I'll say that after dropping off Henner's things I need to see my mother. My shift doesn't begin until early afternoon; that gives me ages.

Ever since I got up I've been listening for him in the shop. There have been a few customers from the village, but most of them are old women who just want to have a gossip with Marianne. Henner doesn't come. I can't bear it; I gag as I swallow my breakfast, I'm on the verge of tears. He's not coming, he's not coming, he's not coming. And when I get changed and set off for work, he still hasn't been. I run through all the possible scenarios: the dogs ate the letter, the wind swept it away, the horses trampled it into the ground, he's ill, drunk, or both. Or—he doesn't want to see me anymore. He's simply had enough of me. I find this inconceivable, and yet likely. The thought of it is worse than any fear of being found out.

When I get to the tavern, I throw my bag behind the bar and start my shift. By the end of the day I'm convinced that it's all over
between Henner and me. And as well as the emptiness, I feel—but only fleetingly—a flicker of relief.

I'm sitting in the garden near the apple tree; my mother is in her deckchair beside me. The mild air is a tonic, as are the peace and quiet, and even my mother. I'm sitting here, peering over the fence, but in fact there's nothing to see.

It's seven days since I wrote that letter. I'm beginning to feel emotions other than pure sorrow. This is the first time I've ever felt lovesick, and there have been moments when I thought it was going to kill me. When people talk about a “broken heart” I don't think they're exaggerating; it seems perfectly real to me. I've been chain-smoking and I've eaten next to nothing. I wanted to efface myself. Die. Perish. I wanted to vanish. The Brendels have been so good to me, but I've suffered terribly. I've been unable to reveal the true cause of this suffering; I've had to bear it alone. It seems an excessively harsh punishment for what I've done. Every act of kindness has only intensified my pain, every caress from Johannes has brought me to tears. I've blamed it on my parents, my father getting married, Mom being so sad, my wasted year at school. I've been able to find plenty of reasons.

But I still went to work. I would have gone around the bend if I'd stayed on my own up in the spiders' nest. I've heard nothing from him and I haven't seen him. He lives so near, and yet he's become invisible. It occurred to me that he might have died. At least that would have guaranteed me a place in his heart for all eternity. I would rather have seen him dead than think he no longer wanted me.

But in the end all I wanted was to be at home with Mom, and so Johannes drove me there. She was horrified at the sight of me, my deathly pallor and the dark rings around my eyes. I went into the house and up the stairs to my room, and climbed into bed. My mind
was overrun with lines from that verse I'm sure I'll never forget: “flowers . . . chill of death . . . / Waiting to be mown down . . . mown down . . . mown down.” My mother made some tea and Grandma Traudel made a bowl of custard, which I always used to ask for when I was ill in bed. I told them it was Dad's visit that was making me feel so miserable; that, and the fact that I'd messed up the year at school. It was Henner who taught me how to lie. That was my fourth day without him. Those that followed brought me closer to my mother again. She looked after me just as she used to. A long time ago, when I was a little girl. Now, in my utter desperation, I'm her needy child once more.

Now it's been seven days. Here we are, sitting in the garden. I haven't died, and I'm able to eat again. I can even imagine a future, albeit a dismal one. I close my eyes and feel the sun on my skin. It is tranquil here, thoughts don't dissipate quickly; in the peace of the garden they hang tenaciously in the air. Still I feel dreadfully unhappy.

A car stops on the lane outside. I hear the doorbell followed by a voice I know. He enters the garden by the open back door and walks over to us. “The Brendels said I should look in on Maria,” he says with great assurance, “seeing as I was driving past. And Johannes was asking whether she'd like me to bring her back. I expect he's missing her.”

I fetch my things and get into the car.

17

When I've closed the car door, Mom gives me a wave from the fence. She smiles and waves, a very slow wave. Then Grandma Traudel appears, waving and laughing, too. I smile back and raise my hand in good-bye. He goes around to the other side of the car and gets in. It is only now that I notice how gaudy Grandma Traudel's apron is; it looks ridiculous on her. She's still waving, as if we're never going to see each other again.

He starts the car and we set off. He's breathing heavily and driving fast. His coolheadedness in the garden must have taken real effort. Lying doesn't come as easily to him as it does to me. He waits until we're out of the village, then says, “I'll take you to the farm. Then I'll go to the Brendels' and tell them I met your mother, who said you
wanted to be on your own for a few days. Okay?” I nod mechanically and realize that I almost died for no reason.

When we arrive he takes my bag up to his mother's room. The corners of his mouth are drooping with tiredness. He says, “Have a bit of a lie-down. I'll be back soon, then I'll make you something to eat.”

But before he goes he gives me a long, tight hug, and I breathe in the sharp odor of lies.

It's the last week of the holidays, the last free days of summer.

I lie on the bed. The apron I wore when I cooked for him is still on the floor. The window is shut and so filthy that you can barely see through it. The bookshelves are covered in dust and the rug is heavily stained. I'm here all alone for the very first time. I've never noticed before how musty it smells, how all these old things are so out of step with the smells of modern life. I can hardly breathe in here. I fetch a bucket and some cloths from the kitchen and start cleaning. I open the windows wide and try to imagine her sitting here, Henner's mother, with a book in her hand. The window looks out onto the yard, which is enclosed on all sides. I'm all alone. The arched brick gateway is like the entrance to a fortress. At Henner's farm it is both protecting and menacing.

The dogs are lying by the feed trough in the shade. Maybe Henner has ordered them to watch over me. I imagine them looking up at the window. I'm happy he came to get me. So happy.

I clean the windows, dust the shelves, mop the floor, and shake out the rug. I hang it out of the window and beat it with my hands. Then I hear him coming back. His car hums along the track; he stops. I hear the door closing and his footsteps as he approaches the gate. He's coming home and I'm already here. I call out and wave to him from the window. He holds up his hand against the sun and smiles.

“Come down,” he says. “I picked up some food at the tavern.”

When we're sitting at the kitchen table he gives me a long, searching look. Then he says, “What were you thinking, Maria?
Just because I was away for three days, you suddenly imagine it's all over? Christ! I just had things to sort out, important things in town. Things to do with money, all kinds of loose ends.” He's still staring at me. I feel embarrassed. My hands are clasped in my lap; I look out of the window.

“When I got back I found your letter,” he continues. “So the following morning I went over to Marianne's, bought everything I could, and then came home and waited for you. But you didn't show up. So I went back to the Brendels' to pick the stuff up myself, and then I found out you were ill and not eating. No one knew what was wrong with you; they had to get another waitress at the tavern. I went back the next day. Marianne said you weren't there; you'd asked to go to your mother's . . . I waited for days for you to come back. And all of this because, just for once, things didn't go exactly as you had imagined them. Did you really believe I didn't want you anymore?” I can see from his eyes and his frown that he's angry.

I say, “Yes, I did think that. You didn't tell me—I didn't know you'd gone away. I thought you'd had enough of me. I thought I was going to die, Henner, I mean die for real.” I don't want to cry so I stop talking. I just swallow.

We haven't touched our food, and with paternal strictness he orders me to “Eat up.” After a while he says, “Dying isn't that easy, my girl. Believe me.”

A noise that sounds like an abortive laugh rises from his gullet. Henner smothers this peculiar sound by clearing his throat. His anger has melted away, and I think he's quite touched. Later he caresses me so tenderly, it feels very different this time. The things he does are to pleasure me alone, and at the end I'm begging him not to stop. Unlike Johannes he wants to know what love sounds like, even if the windows are open.

All night long he holds me tight in his arms, and the next morning I feel happy and whole again.

I spend four days with him. To begin with I can't help crying. This dramatic shift from wanting to die to feeling so happy is utterly exhausting. We're talking to each other all the time. He tells me he doesn't know where we're going to go from here, but we'll find a way. Somehow. He doesn't go out drinking anymore. He talks a lot about his mother. What she looked like—he says she had a fine, sophisticated face, but she hardly ever laughed. He tells me how she started drinking more, hiding the bottles at first—in cupboards, under the bed, in the stables and pig sheds—but later she didn't bother. Then she got cancer and just stayed in bed. She refused to go to the hospital, and Henner's grandparents could understand why. They were solitary people, outsiders, and his grandfather had said, “People should die at home. Besides, we can't keep driving to the hospital.” Henner was fifteen at the time. He would often sit on her bed and read to her. He read entire books, from start to finish, and he was there when she died. Shortly before, she sent him out of the room and called for his father. After all these years she now wanted to tell him the story about the Russians. Henner stood behind the door and listened.

You could trace everything back to her rape by those Russians; she was never able to get over the experience. It deeply affected Henner. Whenever he talks about her, he goes rigid and gets very angry. And yet he always brings the subject up. We don't sleep in her room anymore, but downstairs, next to the kitchen, where he took me for the first time. From there I sometimes look across to the Brendels' farm; I don't know how I'm ever going to be able to go back there.

I tell him I'm sure Alfred knows everything, but this doesn't bother Henner. It will have to come out at some point, he says, and the way we're carrying on at the moment is shoddy. I agree with him; these lies are dreadful, but so is the truth. For now I want everything to stay as it is.

I've tidied up the kitchen and laid out a nice tablecloth. I make a cooked lunch, and in the evening there's bread, butter, salami, cheese, and a few tomatoes and onions. He often lends a hand; he won't just sit there and be served. I adore these meals together. I feel as though I'm doing something quite normal with him. Everything else that happens between us is so very different from the life I know.

When he's out working, I read. Later I tell him about what I've read, although he knows most of it already. Still, he listens to me attentively, and he always wants to know what I think about this or that character, or who I like best. One time he says, “You can be so clever sometimes, and then you turn into this stubborn little girl again.” I feel hurt and it makes me fractious, but then we make love and it's all forgotten. He makes love to me differently now. Not with the same fury as in the beginning. And nothing embarrasses him; I've never known that before. He tells me what to do, and he asks me what I like. He never turns out the light; he wants to see everything. He wants me to see everything, too; he doesn't want me to look away in shame at the sight of his erection. He keeps telling me that there's nothing bad about what we're doing. It's because of him that I can finally accept this. He's my first
real
lover.

Nobody ever sat me down and told me about the facts of life. Everything I know of love came in whispers from dark corners, snippets from others who knew more. But still, many pieces of the puzzle were missing.

All it takes is for him to brush past me at lunchtime when he comes over to see what I'm cooking, and I want him again. He soon realized this, and he teases me by standing behind and slowly pushing his hand up my skirt, inch by inch. His rough fingers stroke me gently, I feel them inside me, and then suddenly he pulls them away again. He loves it when I beg him to keep going, and he asks,
“Maria, what exactly is it you want me to do? Tell me, tell me what you want . . .” I whisper, “Stroke me . . .” And so he starts over again.

This is all so natural that it fills us with hope.

Late afternoon on the third day we go for a ride on horseback. This is risky; you can see a long way over the fields from the Brendels'. But we feel invincible. He gives me docile Jella, while he takes a young stallion he's just broken in. We gallop as far as the woods and I struggle to stay in the saddle. But when we reach the cover of the trees, we slow the horses to a trot. It's a beautiful day: mild, bright, and fragrant. We haven't a care in the world. Then Henner gives the stallion a gentle kick in the flank and speeds away. Laughing, he turns to look back and fails to see the tree lying right across the path. The stallion backs away from the obstacle and rears up. Henner falls and I am paralyzed with horror; I wasn't even able to warn him. I dismount, tie Jella to a tree, and run over to him. He has rolled down a gentle slope to the left, and he lies there groaning. Before I reach him he calls out, “It's nothing, Maria, nothing's happened.” I try to help him up, but I can't. He tells me gruffly that he can manage himself. His left ankle is swollen. Somehow he gets to his feet, hobbles up the slope, drags himself to his horse, and climbs on again. Then we ride home.

When we get there the swelling has reached an alarming size. He has to lean on me for support as we go into the house, and he's in a somber mood. He is unable to stand all evening, and I look after him as well as I can. I fetch ice cubes from the freezer, wrap them in kitchen cloths, and put them on his injured ankle. In the cupboard above the kitchen sink I find a pain-relieving ointment that I rub in. I butter some bread, pour a drop of vodka, and sit beside him. But he's sullen and tetchy, and says I should sleep upstairs tonight. I don't understand.

Later, wide awake, I can't get it out of my mind that Henner's mother died here in this bed. I'm terrified, so I go down to him
anyway. He must have fetched himself the vodka bottle. It's by the bed, two-thirds empty. I think he's asleep. He's lying on his right side, breathing evenly. I get into bed next to him and fold my body into his. He takes hold of me and doesn't let go.

The following morning there's a knock at the door. We stop breathing. Henner is quicker to stir and he gets up slowly. The swelling has gone down slightly; it's still painful, but he can walk. I hear him open the front door, and then I start to shake. It's Johannes. He's come to take pictures; he says he wants to make the most of the morning light. Henner is calm and tells Johannes he's welcome to take photos around the farmyard, but he doesn't want him coming into the house today. I sneak into the kitchen, and from there up the stairs to his mother's bedroom. From behind the curtain I watch Johannes wandering around with his camera, seeking out the best angles. I want to die on the spot all over again. The thought of being discovered strikes me as so dreadful that I'd rather starve to death right here than go downstairs. I can hear Henner clattering about in the kitchen. Then, after what seems like an eternity, he brings me some coffee and bread. He puts his finger to his lips, as if he were afraid I might make a noise that would give us away. But we sit there, absolutely silent. Johannes goes into the stables, then out again, to the well, and over to the barn. He takes pictures of the house and animal sheds, of the front door and the arched gateway, of the dogs and the bench by the kitchen window. I can't resist; I peep out from behind the curtain and look down at him. That's when it happens: he points the camera slightly upward and releases the shutter. I throw myself onto the bed.

“What is it?” Henner whispers, and I reply, “He took a picture of me.”

“What do you mean?” he asks with a gasp, and I say, “He pointed the camera up and I think I might be in the picture.”

“Christ Almighty, Maria!” he says, “That was really stupid!”

Then Johannes calls to Henner. I sit on the floor by the open window, trying to make out what's being said. Johannes asks whether he could come back another time, with Maria, and take photos in the house. Maybe Henner would like one of the pictures. And what's up with his foot—is that a limp? Henner is grumpy. He gives curt answers and Johannes leaves. The gate is closed and bolted behind him. Henner shuffles back to the house and sits at the kitchen table. After a while I come downstairs and sit with him.

A dogged silence.

“But it's not my fault Johannes came,” I insist. He looks at me, as if to say something, but the words evaporate on his lips. I kneel in front of him, lay my head on his thigh, and tell him how much I love him. He breathes heavily, pulls me onto his lap, and buries his head in my chest. We sit like that for a long time, a long time . . .