In a Deep Blue Hour, page 16
The crematorium has something of a heathen temple look, I can’t quite say why. There is something lifeless and outsize about it, I’m sure it’s colder in there than it is outside, but the doors are locked. There is an inscription on the lintel that we have some trouble reading: Flame, destroy the ephemeral, free the eternal. It doesn’t sound quite Christian to me. What religion has the cult of the eternal flame? Is it Zoroastrianism? Not even Judith knows. Google it. No, don’t google it.
By the entrance some black-clad persons have assembled, the men are smoking, a few children are running around shouting, until a young woman tells them in a foreign language to stop. Someone must have died, we’re not wanted here, this isn’t our tragedy.
We pass on through the rows of graves, study the gravestones, read the names of the deceased. Here is a married couple, both dead in the same year, there are father and son presumably sharing one grave. Where is the mother? The ornamentation of the graves is no more tasteful than that of most apartments, a lot of convention, a lot of kitsch. There is heather on almost all of them. Heather is hardy and inexpensive.
Near the exit, we find the graves of Gottfried Keller, don’t know, haven’t read much of him, and Johanna Spyri, I only know the old film version, with, what was he called again, the old potato-nosed actor? In black and white. More heather.
I feel a bit like Heidi in the city, says Judith, both sad and excited. She takes my arm.
Does that make me Herr Sesemann, then? Or Fräulein Rottenmeier?
Thanks for letting me stay, says Judith.
She doesn’t want to talk about the family, she’d rather talk about Richard. How long did the relationship go on for? She doesn’t like the word relationship. Love affair, correct, that’s what she called it when we were up the mountain. Or just love. How long did their love last? Almost twenty years. Longer for him.
* * *
—
It began in a cemetery, we were both at a classmate’s funeral. I don’t know why we went, neither of us was especially close to him. But Richard was visiting his parents, and I felt like seeing old friends again. I had just got a new job near Lake Constance, and didn’t really know anyone there. Maybe I just wanted to see him again.
And that trip to Paris with the butcher and the other man? When you and Richard shared a room?
She looks at me, her face betrays nothing. Who told you about that?
It happens in one of Richard’s books.
That was nothing, says Judith curtly.
Am I supposed to believe her? Why would she lie to me? Perhaps she took one of the other men back to her room and…? Perhaps it was the butcher, and Richard caught them at it? She does seem a bit flustered anyway. She gathers herself, tries again.
All right, it was my classmate’s funeral. To be honest, I had a little crush on him once. Then he started doing drugs. He went to India, came back, couldn’t adjust. And then he died from a rare illness, there were all kinds of rumors and reports. But that’s not what’s at issue here.
There weren’t many people present that I knew. Richard and I found each other right away, we sat together during the service. There was something in the air. Afterward, there was a little reception, with lots of wine and nothing really to eat. Richard and I stood in a corner talking about old times, and then he said did I want to walk? I’ve got to get out.
We were both a bit tipsy, I think. We headed down to the river, it was springtime. Richard was already fairly successful, and I’d be lying if I said that hadn’t impressed me. And he was a listener. I think I talked practically the whole time, and he said very little.
We walked past the old school building, then along the canal, there’s a little stable where I used to ride out when I was a girl. We stopped to look at the horses, who were very friendly and came up to us by the fence. Richard stroked one on the head and withers and I had the feeling he was stroking me on the head and neck!
Then there was a piece of woodland going along by the river. It’s the middle of the day, quite deserted. We go into the woods, the leaves are not yet fully out, the ground is dappled with sunlight. The path leads straight through the woods, but Richard leaves it for no reason I can see, makes his way through the undergrowth, which then starts thinning out. I’m coming after him. At this stage, I think neither of us knows why we’ve left the path, and are tripping over the uneven ground. Eventually, Richard comes to a stop, it’s not really a clearing, just somewhere the trees are a little less densely packed, and the sun is very bright, shining down on us like a beam. Richard turns back and looks at me silently. I go toward him, I mean to stop, but I go right up to him, in the end he practically can’t help but put his arms around me and hold me. We made love there in the forest. I tried not to think about anything.
On the way back on the train, I got completely undressed in the toilet, and wiped away all the little bits of twig and leaf that were sticking to me. Someone knocked on the door several times, and when I was finally done and came out, an old man was standing there and was very angry with me. I just thought it was incredibly funny. Strange that I can remember him so well, but not how Richard and I made love there in the woods.
And not long after, your older daughter was born.
Judith doesn’t say anything. Is Richard the father of Judith’s daughter, then? Did she tell him? Why am I bothered either way? Do I feel like I’m the milkman’s daughter? Is Richard my father or something? All milkman’s children have the same father, after all.
The following years we would write occasionally, but not often, says Judith. Richard told me he loved me, and I rebuffed him more or less gently, explained why I couldn’t go on writing to him, and yet still kept on writing to him. He sent me copies of his books with suggestive inscriptions that I cut out and kept hidden in a drawer. And then we saw each other at a reading he was giving locally, and I went, and afterward when I wanted to slip away he wouldn’t let me go, and I had a glass of wine with him and the organizers, and then I drove him to the station, even though he could perfectly well have walked. In the station car park we kissed for so long that he almost missed his train. Strange as it may sound, it was much more intimate than sex in the woods with him. After that, I was gone on him.
That’s a line that sounds like it might have come out of a YA novel. After that, I was gone on him. But I like it just the same. Why shouldn’t she say that if she feels like it? I don’t think I’ve ever been gone on anyone.
And that was just the beginning, says Judith. Beginnings are all well and good, but they matter less than you might think. What matters is what comes after, the work. But she’s not telling me about that.
Now I want to tell you something. In our classroom in elementary school we had a little aquarium with bright little guppies in it. Everyone took turns to feed the fish, there was a schedule on the board that told you whose turn it was. The feed they got was little brightly colored flakes in a plastic container, I can remember the savory smell of them to this day. The day after I’d fed the fish, there was one belly-up on the surface, dead. The teacher reckoned that was normal, guppies in captivity didn’t have a long life expectancy, and he was sure I hadn’t done anything wrong. Even so, I felt guilty. Not just because the fish had died, but even more because I couldn’t care less about it. That was my first encounter with death.
Does that have anything to do with anything? Probably not. But I just thought of it, presumably because we’re in a graveyard. I thought the dead fish was icky. The others took him and buried him behind the school.
* * *
—
Judith wants to quit her job and look for another.
Do you remember how I told you in Paris about losing my faith? It didn’t come back, and in fact it feels more like a liberation to me. The world I’m living in now feels colder, but the air is clearer, and I feel much more grown-up. To think that I had to be almost sixty for that to happen! I’m sure I could go on being a minister somewhere, but I would feel like a fraud. And I don’t want that.
She’s going to look for something in welfare, she’s done a lot of work in the community with kids and with old people, she’ll be good at that, she likes that.
She will move to the city, rent a small apartment, buy some furniture and a bicycle. Ann and Ella will live with their father for the time being, they’ll be gone soon enough anyway.
Do you feel like an adventure?
I wouldn’t rule anything out, she says, laughing. In my whole life, I’ve only slept with four men, I think I’m owed a few. Or I’ll change sides. What do they say: I’m open to suggestions. But I’m not about to go looking. I’m going to go to the theater, to concerts, to readings, maybe I’ll join a reading group. And in the event that one of Richard’s books comes up, I’ll just listen to what the others say, and I’ll think, what do you know.
Why am I so envious of this life she describes to me so glowingly? Mine is much the same, except that I’m not about to join any reading group. Maybe I’m envious of her enthusiasm, her joy in her new-gained freedom. She’s never lived on her own before, she moved from home into student housing, then she spent more than thirty years with a husband. Now she’s free, but after a while freedom can be quite demanding.
And when she retires in a few years? Then she’ll draw her pension and be alone. Isn’t she afraid of that at all?
Sure I am. Of course.
* * *
—
An idyll of sorts: we’re both home, Judith is sitting on the sofa, with her legs curled up, reading a book. She’s wearing a short skirt, thick stockings and slippers. If I squint my eyes, I can imagine we’re still students, living together in a shared house. We’re besties, tell each other everything, cuddling and whispering.
I’m sitting at my desk, writing emails, and in between times watching the odd video, with headphones on, so as not to disturb Judith. It’s foggy outside, and night is drawing in. I’ve lit some candles, the only thing missing is some soft jazz, and the scene would be perfect. What if Judith just stayed? She’s almost twenty years older than me, but so what. I think we would get along. I can see us as a couple, nothing sexual, just for the companionship. I would brush her hair, she would rub my back, hold me tight, listen when I talked about trouble in the office. We could look the other in the eye and be fond of one another in an elementary way.
YouTube has gone easy on the serial killers with me, maybe I’ve seen them all, instead it’s offering me polygamous sect leaders, again, not really my scene. A fellow in Utah with seventy-nine sister-wives, currently behind bars because a few of them were underage. Another guy who has five wives and is drawing the line there. When I’m done with the polygamists—there’s not so many of them as there are serial killers—next up will be the Jesuses, first one from Siberia, then one in Brazil, and finally an Australian with shades and a psychedelic T-shirt. At least the Jesus in Petropavlovka wears long white robes, while the Australian guy is driving a minivan around Australia with a bored-looking Mary Magdalene in the back, raving about thirteen dimensions and mathematical proofs for his existence. Does he believe in dinosaurs? Sure, he’s seen ’em. Does every madman, every kooky sect get their own film these days? All this crap, this waste of time, why don’t I just read a book for a change, like Judith?
Alternatively, the two of us could start a sect, with Wechsler as our Savior, we would offer interpretations of his novels and comb them for spiritual messages, spread his word and build a church to him, an altar with his image and flowers and incense. Didn’t he say sacrifice was required? But I would never kill a chicken for him.
This morning Judith asked me what I wanted for supper, what was my favorite dish. I didn’t know what to say. Isn’t that something only children have, a favorite dish? I couldn’t think of anything, I have no idea when someone last asked me what my favorite dish was, let alone cooked it for me. How sad is that? Schnitzel sandwich? Chicken nuggets? Spaghetti and tomato sauce? Or something more sophisticated—osso buco, roast veal? No idea. I eat everything except tongue. I almost felt a bit ashamed in front of Judith. Her daughters will have their favorite dishes, Nutella pancakes, or wonton or pommes frites, things kids like. But they aren’t kids anymore. So maybe sushi or a poke bowl or something hip. When I got home, there was a shopping bag full of good things waiting for me.
My hard drive is full, so I have to clear some space, deleting films I’ve downloaded that I’ll never watch, emptying the bin. I still have all the proxy data for the Wechsler film on the hard drive, I can wipe those now. The rough cut is safe with the producer, and maybe Tom has a copy as well. It’ll never make a film now anyway.
I take a look at the footage, Wechsler walking in Paris, drinking coffee. He gives me a smile. If you knew how little time you have left. Then I start deleting each file one by one, it’s as laborious as saving them. I enjoy the repetitive labor, the little dialogue with the computer as I empty the bin: Do you really want to destroy these eleven files? I think briefly before saying: Yes, I do. Get rid of them.
Judith has put her book down and says she’s going to start cooking. She’s bustling about in the kitchen now. She’s turned on the radio for company, listening to the news. We would cook together, take it in turns to help, sometimes one would stroke the other’s arm, pour her a glass of white wine, lay a hand on her hip as we’re peering down into the saucepans. I think this needs more salt.
Just ask if you can’t find something, I call out. I’m not sure if she heard.
Gigabyte after gigabyte disappears into the bin. Yes, I do. There’s one clip I get stuck on, Tom must have shot it while I was gone. It’s from the afternoon of our last shooting day in Paris, a few hours after the calamity in the café when Wechsler walked off. I try to remember what happened afterward. We had spoken to him briefly, Tom apologized, Wechsler calmed down, said he was tired, and the filming was taking more out of him than he’d anticipated. I could see he was just making excuses. We said goodbye and went back to the hotel to drop our gear and freshen up. After that I took off on my own to do some shopping, a benefit of being in Paris. Tom said he might go for a walk. We agreed to meet up in the restaurant we’d gone to the previous day.
I went back to the Café Les Mouettes, where Tom and Wechsler had had their falling out. There was a department store near there that Wechsler claimed had the best delicatessen section in the whole of Paris. What else am I in the market for anyway? I barely use cosmetics, I have enough clothes, lingerie? Bah! So it would have to be delicatessen.
But instead of going into the store, I headed, not really knowing why, down the narrow passageway that Wechsler had pointed out and that ended up in a small courtyard, where a flight of steps led up to the Chapelle de l’Epiphanie des Missions Etrangères. Inside, synthesizer music, Jean-Michel Jarre, Vangelis, something of that kind, was playing. There’d been a time I was really crazy about that music, especially Vangelis’s Antarctica, which sounded as bleak as the scene at the South Pole. A couple of men were just setting up a sound system, with speakers and microphones and a keyboard, maybe there was going to be a live event tonight or tomorrow, perhaps a service with live music or whatever foreign missions like to do. I sat down on one of the benches and watched them hooking up the equipment.
There were pictures on the walls illustrating the Stations of the Cross. They made Jesus look like a campesino, in the early scenes he was wearing a white suit, I had never seen Jesus in pants before, it seemed vaguely disrespectful. The Roman soldiers who were tormenting him looked like Inca warriors or Aztecs or Mayas, I can never tell those apart.
From time to time, people came in and said hello to me, as though they had been expecting me and had come purely on my account. I had picked up a booklet going in, How to Become a Missionary, and was flicking through it. There were several accounts by serious young men, with equally serious beards, telling you their life story. Two women were also included, an Indian nun and a French trainee. I understood roughly half of what I read, but they all had heard the call and were devoted to their tasks and found help and succor in prayer. All of them looked nice and a little boring, Joseph, Paul, Gabriel, François, Sister Stella, and Marie de Lorgeril. One painting: The Departure of the Missionaries, from the nineteenth century, must have been set in this very chapel. They all wear black robes and look effeminate, gentle, patient, devout, anything other than prepared for the adventures and hardships lying in wait for them. One of them is just being hugged and kissed by an old man with a beard, another is having the hem of his garment kissed by a child.
We are standing there in the chapel, the new missionaries, about to set forth into the world. The organ is playing a hymn composed especially for the occasion by Charles Gounod, and the bishop, our seminarians, our friends and family members, the members of the community, are all kissing our feet. How welcome are the heralds of joy, the bringers of good news!
Then the long journey, long weeks at sea, storms toss the ship, we sing and pray. O God, we hail Thee, Lord, we praise Thy strength. We reach Madagascar, disembark, are put up in a cloister. The sisters who have been here longer look tired and frazzled. They tell me what to do, introduce me to the work, and I go my way. I do good, offer help, tend the sick, distribute food and medicine. I free myself of all my sins, of vanity and selfishness, make myself empty to receive God and my mission. Many of us will never go home, we will die overseas of illnesses, we will be killed for our faith, unlucky martyrs of our glad tidings.
I am standing with George Clooney in a Malagasy marketplace, handing out Nespresso capsules to the needy—Indriya, Rosabaya, Fortissio Lungo. Women wave their hands beseechingly; children grab hold of our robes and make big eyes. George smiles at me coolly, but I have forsworn earthly joys and am not to be tempted.
