Love in Case of Emergency, page 20
Jorinde shakes her head.
Malika says the city’s too small to be able to avoid each other entirely, but that’s not true. Their paths don’t cross and she has no intention of changing this.
Jorinde hasn’t spoken to her father since the day he refused to give security for their apartment. More than two years have passed since. Not doing something for two years lasts longer than doing it for that time. Einstein had a better explanation, but even she knows that time isn’t a constant variable.
The children, on the other hand, see their grandparents regularly and enjoy doing so. That contact is particularly important for Ada. Sometimes Malika brings Lilli along, too.
When he leaves the orchestra, Helmut intends to become politically engaged. Jorinde thinks she knows which direction that will be in. All they need now is for him to run for office and have his face appear on posters with his name printed underneath. Then Torben would let everybody know whose daughter she is. Even when she was playing Elsa Bruckmann he sneeringly told people how perfectly apt the role was for her: The daughter of a Nazi playing a supporter of Adolf Hitler.
Sometimes she feels ashamed that she ever got together with Torben.
And sometimes she can’t remember what exactly Helmut has to apologize to her for. Viewed soberly it was just his tone that was wrong. Maybe the only reason she’s not talking to him is that she hasn’t spoken to him for too long.
Lilli keeps trying to get into Malika’s room.
Lilli, too, she whines. Jorinde clamps the child under her arm and carries her into her own room. They romp around on the bed for a while, but as soon as Jorinde’s attention wavers, Lilli scampers into the hallway and makes for Malika’s bedroom. Jorinde puts on a coat, scoops Lilli up, and leaves the apartment.
Lilli loves the freight bicycle. She sits in the box at the front, bedded on soft furs, a cushion at her back, and her toy meerkat in her arm.
The tangy fragrance of ramsons wafts over from the Rosental. They’ve often been to the woods before the plants blossom and picked the young leaves, after which they’ve spent days preparing recipes using wild garlic. Malika can’t get enough of them.
They do a circuit of the large park in the Rosental before turning into the woods. Jorinde likes being close to the water. They pass the Weisse Elster and Parthe Rivers, and then keep to the path that runs along the Neue Luppe. At the artificial lake they lock up the bike and get on the park train, on a narrow-gauge track that in the days of the GDR was known as the Pioneers’ Railway. The locomotive puffs out steam and they ride around the lake. Pedaloes glide across the water like giant swans, and it strikes Jorinde that when wonder ends, death must be close.
* * *
On Sunday the train from Berlin arrives forty minutes late.
Jonne gets out first.
Where’s Ada? she asks anxiously.
She sat somewhere else.
Then she sees her daughter standing farther down the platform. Ada puts her rucksack over her shoulder and approaches her very slowly. Papa’s an arse, she says instead of a greeting. She leans her head on Jorinde’s chest and lets her mother hug her.
Her scruffiness has reached a new height. On her feet are white Nike socks and Adidas slides, and she wears baggy sweatpants on her thin legs. Before Jorinde can ask any questions Ada pulls her headphones over her ears and keeps on going.
What happened? she asks Jonne, who walks beside her.
Hanging his head, he says, We’re not to see Grosspapa and Grossmama anymore.
She stops. He can’t decide that.
He says he can.
Why?
Because Grosspapa told Ada she should cross the street if she sees a group of Arabs coming toward her.
Jorinde groans.
I’m sorry, she says. I’ll sort it out.
* * *
On the tram Ada takes off her headphones and asks abruptly, Is it up to Papa if I see Grosspapa?
No, Jorinde replies. You have every right to visit your grandparents.
Visibly satisfied, Ada goes straight back to her music. Jorinde catches a few bars. If she’s not mistaken its Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1. Ada is a mystery.
Back home Malika is waiting impatiently. She’s dressed and made up for a chamber concert that evening in some small local town.
Is that Herr Weisshaupt outside? Jorinde says, getting ready to catch Lilli, who’s running at full pelt toward her, without the slightest doubt, it seems, that she’ll land safely in her mother’s arms. The energy in her approach is enough for them to spin around a few times.
Yes, he’s driving me there, Malika says.
Then she turns to Ada and Jonne and asks about their weekend.
I’m not going anymore, Ada says.
Then I’m not going either, Jonne adds.
Malika stops midstep and glances at Jorinde, her eyebrows raised. Jorinde waves a hand dismissively. You’ve got to go, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.
Malika nods. Lilli runs behind her into the stairwell and shouts as loudly as she can: Bye-eee!
* * *
The following morning, when the children have left the apartment, Jorinde makes some tea and has breakfast in peace. Her sister is still asleep. She got back late, after midnight. Jorinde was lying awake, heard the door close, and wondered how Malika and Cold Eyes said good-bye.
Soon after, Malika pokes her head around the door to mumble Good morning! and trudges off to the bathroom, and then the telephone rings for the first time. It’s her agent. Two job offers have come in. One of them is interesting: a biopic of the Swedish painter Hilma af Klint. The upside—it’s the lead role; the downside—nobody’s heard of Hilma af Klint.
No sooner has she put the phone down than it rings again. This time it’s the man from the Child Welfare Office. Torben wants a change in his visitation rights. It’s suggested that they meet to discuss this a fortnight from today.
I can’t, Jorinde says. I’ve got an audition for a film.
How about the following week, then? Wednesday morning?
She checks her diary. Sorry, I’m filming in Hamburg for two days.
She can hear him clear his throat. Frau Amsinck, if you’re going to place your own interests above those of your children—
The father of my children doesn’t pay any child support. I have to work to earn money.
That may well be, but your children’s father is making the time. He tells me he could come to any appointment.
Jorinde exhales to control her mounting anger. Are there any slots available this week? Of course I’d like to get this sorted out as quickly as possible.
She hears the rustling of paper, then he says, Someone’s canceled tomorrow morning.
Perfect! she replies. Will you call my ex-husband?
When he hangs up, she feels sick.
* * *
In the night Lilli starts crying. She feels hot to the touch. Jorinde’s first thought is of her appointment. Torben will come. If she blows him off, that will be another black mark against her. The thermometer reads 102.2. She creeps into the kitchen and looks at their joint planner. Malika has a dentist’s appointment, so that rules her out. She could ask Vicky, but doesn’t want to. Going back into Lilli’s room with a damp flannel, she cools her brow and lies next to her. It’s almost half past one.
At around three o’clock she gives her daughter some syrup to lower her temperature and half an hour later they’re both asleep. The alarm goes off at ten to six.
She has to call Jonne three times before he gets up. Who’s taking me to my guitar lesson today, you or Malika? he says, taking a sip of his hot chocolate. Jorinde looks at her daughter.
Not me! Ada says. Can’t he go on his own? It’s two stops, Mama, then five minutes’ walk.
Jorinde looks at Jonne. Could you manage that?
I could, he says with his mouth full. But I don’t want to.
She sits beside him and strokes his head. Only then is her attention caught by Ada’s hoodie—emblazoned across the chest are the words: THERE’S A FUCKIN’ IDIOT STARING AT ME. Ada grins and shows Jorinde the back: STILL STARING AT ME.
Where did you get that? she asks.
From Papa.
She kisses the children good-bye and says I love you very much to each of them in turn. They’ve had this little ritual ever since the daughter of a friend of hers was hit by a lorry on the way to school and killed. They’d been having a blazing row and the last words the mother said to her child were: Get out, now!
At seven o’clock Jorinde’s sitting at the table with a strong black coffee, wondering whether Ada, Jonne, and Lilli will survive their childhood more or less unscathed. Whether they’ll turn into strong adults. The degree of havoc all grown-ups wreak in this world is relative to how damaged they were as children.
Then she thinks of Malika. How angry her sister was as a child, fractious but also quiet. And how the only man she ever loved cheated on her and left. Malika still won’t talk about it. Their parents found her by the door to his workshop and took her to the clinic. Only the apathy she fell into every morning and evening after taking her medicine released her from Götz.
The Cipramil is still in the lockable bathroom cabinet, and maybe it’s the high serotonin level that makes Malika’s life at all possible.
* * *
Torben sneers at her. There’s an unnerving confidence in his face that manifests itself as a grin. He’s got time. Every few weeks he comes up with a new demand she has to grapple with, and each time she hates him more.
On the table in the meeting room are a water bottle and two glasses. Torben helps himself. He finishes it in one gulp, puts the glass down forcefully, and starts whistling quietly to himself. Lilli looks at him with curiosity, cuddling up close to Jorinde with her thumb in her mouth.
We’re here today at the father’s request, says Herr Kölmel, the counselor for clients whose surname begin with A. The children in question are Ada and Jonne Amsinck. He takes out his pen, gets a sheet of paper ready, and gives Torben a nod of encouragement. Go ahead, please, Herr Amsinck.
What Jorinde then hears sounds as if it’s been worked out by a lawyer; it contains responses to every possible objection. He’s come well prepared.
The reasoning is simple. He and his new partner are expecting a child, and they want Ada and Jonne to live full-time with them. Unlike Jorinde, he can offer the children a stable family structure: father, mother, children, and a new sibling. Unlike Jorinde’s father, his parents wouldn’t pollute the children with right-wing propaganda. She can see the delight in his eyes as he paints a picture of her father, which resembles Helmut about as much as the real Torben does the actor sitting opposite her. He doesn’t want his children to see this man again.
She’s about to object when Herr Kölmel intervenes: We insist on peaceful communication here, Frau Amsinck, which means we allow everybody to finish what they have to say.
I’ve got to get rid of that name, she thinks, as Torben continues and Herr Kölmel is again busy writing.
Unlike Jorinde, he’s faithful and reliable. He would like to remind her that the girl on her lap was the product of an affair. Jorinde probably cheated on him several times, he says, and he can’t imagine that his ex-wife’s lifestyle has changed that much. For two years he’s reluctantly contented himself with being a weekend papa, but it’s not enough.
Lilly wriggles from her arms. She toddles back and forth and takes a hole punch from the table. It’s fine, Herr Kölmel says.
The thoughts are rattling around Jorinde’s head. Suddenly Torben’s threat makes sense. When she applied for child support because he wasn’t paying, he rang her. The state’s claiming all the fucking money back from me, he screamed. I keep getting letters from the welfare office!
They’re your children too, she replied. You ought to be happy that the state’s taking over your responsibilities.
He laughed scornfully and hung up. A few minutes later he called again and said, very calmly, You’ll be sorry you said that.
Herr Kölmel gives her an inquiring look. Frau Amsinck, he says in the tone of a therapist, can you imagine the children living with Herr Amsinck permanently?
As he waits for an answer he shows Lilli how the hole punch works. She enthusiastically begins making holes in the cover of a brochure. Clearing her throat, Jorinde says, Herr Amsinck doesn’t even pay child support for the children. I wonder how he imagines it would work?
Torben smiles. That wouldn’t be necessary anymore, he says. We could happily set the outstanding child support payments against what my ex-wife has to pay me.
She fixes him with a stare. Have you asked the children what they want? They don’t want to live with you. They don’t want to go to Berlin anymore.
He leans back and crosses his arms. So your sister’s a substitute for their father, is she?
Herr Kölmel stops writing and gestures with his hands for them to calm down. The only consideration here is the children’s welfare.
The children are fine, Jorinde says. I reject Herr Amsinck’s proposal.
For a moment she fancies she can see relief in Herr Kölmel’s eyes. If he’s on her side, then he’s made a damn good show of hiding it.
Torben’s face twitches. See you in court, then. She senses his anger. A few more choice words and the fine thread of her ex-husband’s patience will snap. Herr Kölmel wouldn’t like Torben unchained.
Lilli has clearly done enough punching. She looks to see what else there is of interest on Herr Kölmel’s table and climbs back onto Jorinde’s lap with a Tipp-Ex correction tape mouse. Her forehead is hot again and her eyes are gleaming feverishly.
Let’s call it a day, Jorinde says. My daughter’s not well.
She says good-bye with Lilli in her arms. Torben merely nods at her.
This here, he says, is unfinished business!
Malika is waiting outside. She’s borrowed the car from Cold Eyes and has even remembered a child seat. Her right cheek is swollen. One tooth down, she mumbles with a shrug.
Jorinde puts Lilli into the car and belts her up. He’s taking me to court, she says flatly. I don’t know if I can cope with that.
As ever, Malika’s embrace feels limp, as if she’s trying to avoid genuine contact. But her words contradict this impression. You don’t have to go through this alone, she says. I’m here for you.
Without saying another word she navigates the car through the heavy traffic. At the next set of lights Jorinde turns to Lilli. Her dark locks are sticking to her forehead and her eyes are half closed. More than one person has mistaken her for Malika’s daughter, and it’s always been Malika who has put them right.
Back home they all lie in Malika’s bed, Lilli asleep between them. Jorinde looks at her sister, who has taken a painkiller and seems to be sleeping, too.
She can imagine living like this for a long time.
* * *
It’s the Resurrection Symphony. Mahler’s second.
Helmut is pleased about this. His last appearance on the big stage. Five whole movements. One and a half hours of grandiose music.
Extraordinarily the children didn’t protest. Ada demanded money to buy a dress for the occasion, and Jonne said he might become a musician, too, one day. He ignored her argument that he’d have to practice.
Jorinde even briefly considered bringing Lilli. She’s two years old, Malika said, rolling her eyes. Why on earth would you take her to listen to a Mahler symphony?
Of course they have the best seats in the middle of the gallery. When the Allegro—the funeral rites—begins, Vicky fleetingly takes Jorinde’s hand. In the fifth movement, the Resurrection, she wipes a few tears from the corners of her eyes.
Jorinde has never liked Mahler. Too bombastic, too marchlike, too many instruments. Listening to it overwhelms and exhausts her. She’s only here because of her father.
At the end of the concert, when the applause gradually dies down, the conductor says a few words. He asks the cellist Helmut Noth to stand, then he thanks an outstanding musician and ever-reliable member of the orchestra for his many years of loyal service and urges the audience to give him another round of applause. Then a girl appears on the stage with a bunch of flowers and gives it to Helmut. Less than a minute later most of the concertgoers get up from their seats and stream toward the exits.
That was it.
* * *
They’re waiting for him at home with sekt and hors d’oeuvres. They raise a toast, then Vicky tells all the others to go and she shuts the door.
His hands are in his trouser pockets, his feet apart. As ever, his head is slightly bowed, but his eyes are fixed on her.
Jorinde slowly approaches him.
About the Author
DANIELA KRIEN was born in 1975 in Mecklenburg-Vorpommern in the then GDR. Her first novel, Someday We’ll Tell Each Other Everything, was published in English in 2013 (MacLehose Press) and in fourteen other languages. For a subsequent volume of short stories, Muldental, she was awarded the Nicolas Born Prize. She lives in Leipzig with her two daughters.
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About the Translator
JAMIE BULLOCH is the translator of novels by Timur Vermes, Steven Uhly, Martin Suter, Arno Geiger, and Roland Schimmelpfennig, and of crime fiction by Romy Hausmann, Oliver Bottini, and Peter Beck. For his translation of Birgit Vanderbeke’s The Mussel Feast, he was the winner of the Schlegel-Tieck Prize.
A Note from the Translator
I’m often asked what the most difficult thing was to translate in a particular text. Surprisingly, it’s rarely those long compound nouns that German can throw together at will, or the meandering sentences intricately held together with grammatical sophistication, but rather the short, seemingly simple words, phrases, or constructions that are usually among the most common in the language.
As in Daniela Krien’s debut novel, Someday We’ll Tell Each Other Everything, here too the author’s style—often in striking contrast to the intensity of emotion it conveys—is understated, economical, almost to the point of simplicity. So far, so good, one might think; after all, English is a language well-suited to straightforward prose. And indeed, individually the sentences posed few problems. But very soon an unwelcome pattern emerged. In my translation, a large proportion of the sentences were ending up with a rigid subject, verb, object structure; far too many for comfort were beginning with “she.” The narrative was in danger of sounding like a seven-year-old’s report of their summer holiday.
