It might be days before she heard from him again.

  She kept to herself at the Institute.

  It wasn’t that she’d made a particular effort to form friendships before she met Götz, but she had certainly taken part in student life. She turned up to parties and went regularly to the cinema with Alma and Xandrine, who wrote prose texts too. Usually, however, she preferred the company of a good book. Brida strictly avoided large gatherings such as New Year’s Eve celebrations, rock concerts, and neighborhood festivities. It had always given her a curious pleasure to not be present when everyone came together.

  Being on her own had always been her natural state. As a solitary child in a solitary house on the edge of the forest, she’d had no choice other than to organize her time herself. Her mother left the house early in the morning and came back late. Every day she spent two hours commuting by bike, then train and on foot to work at the savings bank in the nearest town. Her father spent most of the time in the forest, where he was responsible for a large area. Brida accompanied him sometimes, though often she stayed on her own in the house with its big garden and the tall surrounding fence.

  Only rarely did another child from the village come to the forester’s house. It was far away and people thought that Brida was odd. Janko, a male hunting dog, followed her wherever she went. Although occasionally she longed for playmates and begged her mother for a little brother or sister, she couldn’t put up with the company of another child for very long. After an hour or two at most she would have had enough. Either she would stop talking or become mean, driven on by an unbearable tension inside her.

  Once she just left. Summoning Janko with a whistle, she disappeared with him into the forest, deserting her visitor in the garden.

  The apology she later gave under pressure from her parents was so halfhearted that there was no proper reconciliation, and the child never visited again.

  Brida couldn’t have cared less. She was able to make her own entertainment. All she needed was her head. Any random thought was enough to bring forth a stream of images and feelings. And when she got to the age where ideas were no longer games, she began to write down the characters and places from her inner world, which meant she needed more than ever to be alone. She cultivated it, shielding herself from intrusion by a reality that could never be as intense as the cosmos of her imagination.

  Now her life consisted of Götz and writing, and finally she really did have something to say.

  Like those of many of her fellow students, Brida’s stories lacked experience. Most of the students were young, their first literary efforts the product of a protected childhood and banal infatuations. The lack of human understanding and worldly wisdom led to overconstructed, unbelievable characters and plots. The texts that focused on style alone were of no interest to anyone outside the Institute.

  Being Götz’s lover was a gift.

  Brida plunged as deeply as she could into humiliation, longing, and anxiety. Dozens of pages of text appeared over the course of sleepless nights in which she waited in vain for a sign from him. His presence was the nourishment that sustained her during their next separation.

  But the time spent with him was always too brief, and the intervals between their encounters too long.

  For almost a year her body sent out its warning signals at ever decreasing intervals. One illness would give way to another, and after every possible cause was ruled out save for Malika, she asked him to leave her.

  His answer was no. He would only break up with Malika if the decision came from the heart. If he merely did it to satisfy Brida’s wishes, it would be worthless.

  When she asked him if her loved her, he said yes without hesitation.

  When she asked if he loved Malika, he gave the same answer.

  The weeks and months then flowed indistinguishably into one another. The pain colored her writing. It generated too much pathos, created too many metaphors, and constructed too many adjectives in her prose.

  Brida’s fellow students picked her writing to pieces in seminars, while her tutors made no secret of the fact that they considered her study at the Institute to be a mistake. Nobody, not even her parents, had ever taken seriously her idea of becoming a writer. Götz was the only one who believed in her.

  More months passed.

  A scaly rash appeared around her mouth, her hair became dull, and every smile involved a disproportionate effort. The summer semester was almost at an end, the swifts chased through the streets at night, and the lime blossom gave off its sweet fragrance.

  One evening Götz sat fully dressed on the edge of the bed, gazing out of the window. Malika was expecting him. His phone had already vibrated several times. On each occasion his fingers had twitched. Brida had remained apprehensively silent.

  I ought to tell Malika, he said eventually, lowering his head.

  Brida didn’t understand straightaway. She lay there before him, naked and still.

  Maybe she’ll understand, he added softly.

  What about me? she said, abruptly sitting up.

  I don’t know, he said. Götz put the phone in his pocket and left.

  The following day, nothing existed for Brida save her innermost pain. All external phenomena simply rebounded off her.

  That morning’s poetry seminar reached her ears but not her brain. The lecturer stood at the front of the group, opening and closing her mouth. Sounds poured from the other students’ mouths. Nothing made any sense.

  In aesthetic, cultural, and linguistic theory the concepts blurred, swelled, and disgorged meaninglessly into the room.

  She couldn’t cope with the novel seminar in the afternoon. In the middle of the session she got up, left the room without closing the door, ran down the stairs, and got onto her bike.

  Götz was sitting outside his workshop, beer in hand. The pavements were filling up; nearby Karl-Heine-Strasse was coming to life. Someone was playing the guitar and singing, while young people rode past on old bicycles. From time to time Götz raised his hand in greeting.

  Brida didn’t resist when he pulled her inside and locked the door. Nor did she resist his urgency, the silent undressing. It had to be like this.

  I’m not going to be anyone’s second woman, she said as she got dressed again. I can only be number one.

  She picked up her bag, left the workshop, got on her bike, and rode off without once turning back.

  * * *

  On the train ride up north she deleted his telephone number to avoid being tempted. Her parents collected her from the station in Neustrelitz. They then drove in the jeep along familiar roads, down flagstone tracks and sandy paths to the house by the forest that stood on its own. From the window of her old bedroom she kept looking at the lake through the trees. Sometimes it shimmered golden in the evening light, sometimes in the mornings it lay there dark and still, and then the wind would pick up, propelling waves across the water.

  Her mother had time and patience. Soups were left beside Brida’s bed, cups of tea were brought and taken away again, sweet things were served on small china plates, all of this until Brida was ready to talk.

  The vacation passed and Brida spent it in a state of mental paralysis. She didn’t work on her texts, nor did she meet up with anybody. Some days she would go walking with the dog for hours. She pushed her bike along sandy paths, went swimming in the lakes, and lay in the meadows, watching the days get shorter.

  When, late one afternoon, the cranes gathered on an empty field and heralded the end of summer with their trumpet calls, as they did every year, she went hunting with her father.

  The hunting season for roe, fallow, and red deer had begun on September 1. On the drive there they didn’t exchange a word. Brida knew all the tracks by heart. As a child she’d refused to believe she would ever move away from here. Now she knew she would never fully come back.

  Her father parked the car, fetched the rifles and binoculars from the trunk, and plodded off.

  Brida had known all about hunting and slaughtering from an early age. Her father was the local chief forester. Dead animals hung in the game larder for three to four days before they were butchered and put into the deep freeze. Where the shot had been clean and the animal gutted to perfection, her father sometimes opted for a longer hanging to allow the meat to become as tender as possible. Many people couldn’t bear the smell of game, but Brida always thought of it as an aroma.

  Sitting together in silence in the stand, they peered through their binoculars at the surrounding fields. Both spotted the stag at the same time. Her father touched her arm, pointed at the animal, and she nodded.

  As she watched the grazing stag through a hunter’s telescopic sight, saw his beautiful antlers, his unsuspecting steps farther and farther away from the protection of the forest, Brida thought of Götz. Soon she would end this peaceful life. The stag stood still, she breathed calmly and pulled the trigger.

  It fell at once.

  A few minutes later they were kneeling beside the animal. It had not suffered. The shot had been perfect.

  * * *

  In October, at the start of the new semester, she went back to Leipzig. Among her luggage was a cooler with frozen meat. The shop was open, as was the door to the workshop. The bell rang when Brida went in to put the meat on the counter. There was a note on the package:

  Shot and jointed by Brida Lichtblau. Immediate consumption recommended.

  The bell rang a second time when she left the shop, got into the taxi that was waiting outside, and drove off.

  She ignored his telephone call a few minutes later, as well as all the others that day and over the next few days.

  * * *

  Close to Christmas one of her tutors, Friedhelm Kröner, a successful writer himself, invited the students to his home. A jazz trio was playing in the entrance hall. The rooms were furnished sparingly but tastefully: a Biedermeier cabinet, a farmhouse table with a painted drawer, and other strikingly beautiful pieces.

  Brida remembered the table well. She had been there when Götz discovered it in a barn between Prague and Brno. She was standing behind him when he placed his hands on it and said, This one! It was always like that—whenever the pieces felt right to the touch, when they gave away something of their history, he wanted to have them.

  On the table were glasses, wine, and beer.

  Everyone was relaxed. Publishing folk were on the lookout for fresh talent and Kröner made sure that those he was closest to didn’t leave empty-handed. While he was commending his current favorite to an editor of a renowned literary house, Brida felt eyes on her back. Then she saw the host move away, wander past her with his arms thrown wide, and say, Götz, my friend! Look at this, your table is the centerpiece of my little universe.

  Soon afterward Götz came and stood beside her, took a beer, and said, There’s a writing desk in my workshop. It would be perfect for you.

  Brida took a sip of her red wine.

  How’s Malika? she said.

  We split up three months ago.

  He took a packet of cigarettes from his pocket. Smoking was permitted at Kröner’s. The host came up from behind, put his arms around the two of them, and said, Drink, smoke, and have fun! Obeying his order, they drank and smoked and pretended they were having fun.

  Nobody stopped them when they left the party together.

  A full moon shone through the window.

  Götz was lying on top of Brida, holding her tight, with the weight of his body, with his legs wrapped around hers, his arms on her arms, and his hands clasping her wrists. Every attempt to free herself ended with him grabbing her more firmly and pressing his body a little more heavily on her. She turned her head to one side so she could breathe and waited. Not much more happened that night, but the following morning heralded the first day of a new life.

  * * *

  Svenja dives headfirst into the lake. She’s wearing a sporty black swimsuit and a pink swimming cap. She surfaces, turns, waves, then swims away with calm, precise movements.

  The children try to stand up on their floating mattress to dive in, too. They shriek and laugh, fall backward into the water, clamber back onto the bobbing island, and cry out, Watch, Mama!, before flopping into the lake again. Hermine wants Götz to come over to them. As each year passes she gets more attached to him. She’s always been closer to her father than to Brida. Hermine had just turned two when Undine was born, deposing her sister. From then on it was Götz who settled her down at night, took her to the babysitter in the morning, and walked her to the playground after supper, where she’d go from the slide to the swings until she was tired and Götz carried her home.

  Götz doesn’t take much persuading. He runs into the water and it takes him only a few strokes to get to the girls. They squeal and pretend he’s a shark. Brida watches them and wishes the woman doing the front crawl wouldn’t come back.

  The three of them larking about in the water, laughing and living completely in the moment—none of this has anything to do with her anymore. She’s no longer a part of it. Götz and the girls are a family, she and the girls a different one.

  When Hermine and Undine are grown up they’ll probably have forgotten how Götz roared as he grabbed their thin legs and dragged them off the floating mattress, how he swam and dived with them, while Brida stood at the edge of the jetty and waved as she fought back the tears. Maybe in their memories they’ll see Svenja standing there. Perhaps not a single image will remain from the time they were one family.

  The ground beneath her moves. Children come running down the jetty, making it tip from side to side before they dive in, too, and Brida backs away from the splashes. Far out in the lake Svenja’s pink cap surfaces every few seconds. She’s changed direction and is now heading back to the shore, smoothly and rapidly. When she sees Götz and the children, she’ll play around with them, showing the children tricks and earning their admiration. And soon she will have Götz’s child.

  Brida’s been out in the blazing sun for too long. Her shoulders are burning.

  She wants to walk back to the manor house with Götz and the girls, look out over the lake from the terrace, and have an ice cream. Like all the other families she wants to sit with her husband and children beneath a sun umbrella, languid, heavy with heat, and absolutely certain of where she belongs.

  And in the evening, when the girls go up the only real incline in the area to photograph the sunset, and to roll down the sloping meadow over and over again, she will wander along the winding path with Götz, through the uncultivated landscape, until they reach the hunting stand. In the setting sun, the raised hunters’ platform will cast a lengthy shadow across the meadow. Birds will rise to catch dancing insects in the last of the light, and Götz will grasp her from behind. Tell me what you want! she’ll whisper, and he’ll tell her as clearly as he always does.

  Nothing is less erotic than a man who makes no demands.

  She’ll give him what he wants, not only because he demands it, but because it fuels her desire too. And on the way back he’ll hold her hand, not letting go until they’re standing outside their cottage and Brida unlocks the door. They’ll go in together, take a bottle of wine from the fridge, step out onto the terrace, and wait for the children.

  Mama! Look what I can do!

  Undine stands on Götz’s shoulders and jumps into the water. She swims a few strokes, climbs up the ladder to the jetty, and stands in front of her, dripping wet. Svenja can do a somersault! she says excitedly. Did you know that?

  Svenja’s head, with its pink covering, appears by the jetty. She swiftly climbs the ladder and Götz follows. If you don’t mind, he says, Svenja and I are going to go on a little outing with the girls. That’ll give you the afternoon to write in peace.

  Write in peace.

  For years that was all she wanted.

  Now that she has the children only half the time, only gets half of the children’s lives, half of their joys, half of their worries, the words won’t flow. Now that joint custody—the fairest way the lawyers have devised of sharing bringing up children—has given her the freedom to work undisturbed, the source has dried up.

  She hates it, this arrangement that unsettles the children, that steers them from a Papa week to a Mama week and changes the apartment from Papa’s into Mama’s, then back again, just so everything is done equitably. Having said that, Brida wasn’t prepared to relinquish custody either.

  Even now, on vacation, the arrangement is adhered to fairly. The children spend half of the day with Götz and Svenja, while Brida takes over for the other half. And if, by chance, they decide to spend the day all together by the lake, they look like one big happy family.

  The jetty is still in the blazing sunshine. Although there is no real danger, she feels at the mercy of the world. In a crisis she is on her own. Her face is burning, and one thought after another races through her head.

  Love isn’t an emotion.

  Love isn’t romance.

  Love is an act.

  Love has to be viewed from the perspective of crisis.

  Everything she’s written about love in the past is nonsense.

  Nothing’s going to change between us, Götz said after their divorce. We’ll still be close.

  But everything had changed. There was no “we” anymore.

  In the past his touch and the smell of his skin had dispelled her doubts. His mere physical presence had allayed her concerns. She’d smiled and made jokes about it.

  I don’t need you—how often had Brida thrown these words at him? She, who prized words more than he did, had used them flippantly, underestimating their force.

  Svenja is smarter. Her instincts work properly. Her girly femininity is simple, almost vulgar. She worships Götz, admiring him without any ironic filter. She is submissive, admits her weaknesses outright, even using them to boost his self-worth by saying, You do that better than me, and routinely leaves to him the traditional male preserves.

  Either she’s extremely cunning or genuinely naïve. Brida suspects it’s the latter.

  * * *

  Her best time was when they got together again.

 

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