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4 hours ago
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Drip catcher
The carpet hangers disappeared from the rear courtyards when wall-to-wall carpeting and vacuum cleaners were introduced – when the Persian carpets had been bombed away, when there was no money to buy new ones, when the men who used to carry the rolled-up carpets down the stairs for cleaning had been killed in the war.
The shop where I used to take my tights to get them mended when they had a run in them, back when I was a little girl – a shop called “Run Express” – disappeared when the Wall came down and the west was able to sell its cheap tights in the east.
The drip catchers that graced the spouts of the large coffee pots that used to sit on the table at every German family reunion – those drip catchers disappeared when the children born during the last days of the war finally rebelled against their parents and stopped planning family reunions, preferring instead to travel to Italy and bring back espresso makers from there.
Things disappear when they are deprived of their means for existence, as if they, too, have a hunger that must be satisfied. And even if the reason for their disappearance is infinitely far removed from the things themselves – as far removed, say, as the crimes of the German Wehrmacht are from German coffee, which is always far too weak, served in those pear-shaped pots it always tried to trickle down until it was held in check by the drip catcher, a little roll of foam rubber on an elastic band decorated with a butterfly, a doll, or a pearl perched atop the lid of the pot, a little thing that protected white tablecloths in Germany from coffee stains until the mid-1970s – even then, no matter how far removed the thing itself might be from the custom, the invention, or the revolution that leads to its disappearance, that disappearance creates a bond that could not be tighter. For example, the Berlin painter Heinrich Zille once said that you could kill a person with an apartment just as easily as with an axe.
So the little roll of foam rubber and its elastic bridle end up in the trash, which means that now Germans are rich enough to afford vacations in Italy again and to bring back espresso makers in their luggage when they return. Just as every thing, no matter how simple, contains within it all the knowledge of its time, just as everything you can’t touch is contained in a spool of darning thread, for example: in the same way, whenever a thing disappears from everyday life, much more has disappeared than the thing itself – the way of thinking that goes with it has disappeared, and the way of feeling, the sense of what’s appropriate and what’s not, what you can afford and what’s beyond your means. We don’t have darning thread any more! Really, why? People shouldn’t darn their tights, they should buy new ones!
Things
Each time I take a long trip, I lose at least one scarf or hat, sometimes even a pair of sunglasses or a watch. I’ve also lost a number of things when moving house: a piece of moulding from an old rustic wardrobe, a few blinds, and once I even lost the typewriter I used to write my first works. Although the hotel rooms I left were small, and the apartments I left were clearly empty, the things were still missing later; somehow, somewhere, they had disappeared in the no man’s land between departure and arrival, it happened so regularly that I began to expect it when packing my suitcase or my boxes, as if it were a sacrifice, a price I had to pay for the change in my circumstances, and in that respect, despite all the randomness, it was still appropriate. However, in the course of my everyday life, the number of things around me never decreased, but rather increased, the piles grew higher, the folders thicker, I could imagine that a fire would break out and I would tuck my diaries, letters, and photo albums under my arm and run out of the house, but fortunately no fire broke out.
Recently, a Russian woman came to visit me. She moved to Germany a year ago with four children. A piano, how lovely! she says as she enters my apartment. Books, how lovely! A few steps further on, she points to a few of my son’s drawings hanging on the wall and says: Lovely! She adds: It’s lovely to have something like that. At first, I don’t understand what she means; after all, she has four children herself. Well, she says and smiles, you can’t take it all with you. Sure, sure, I say. So, she says, still smiling, we made a big bonfire, we all sat around it, then we took page after page in our hands, we looked at everything again and remembered who drew this or that, how old he or she was at the time, we enjoyed it together one last time, and then we burned it all. It was a lovely bonfire, we were singing. I don’t say anything now. You can’t take it all with you, she repeats and says with a smile: We left with four children and two large suitcases. That was all.
A Better World
“How often in grey hours, O glorious art, / When life ensnares me in its circle wild, / Hast thou enkindled love within my heart / And raptured me into a better world!” – these are the words to one of Schubert’s songs. But I have to: call the insurance company, go to the doctor, the car has a red emissions sticker, do you want digital cable? Sign a form for the child, book the flight to X, which hotel, have you ever played the lottery? Photos for my passport, please submit the direct debit authorisation in writing by mail or fax, buy plants for the balcony, take out the trash, do the laundry, load the dishwasher, pack my suitcase.
What are you working on at the moment? This is the phone company, Mr Müller speaking. Pick up a book at the bookstore, buy stamps, buy hay for the animals, someone will be picking up the key, register the child for the swim meet, take out the trash, do the laundry, load the dishwasher, pack my suitcase. Buy water. Where’s my car? Where’s the key to the apartment? Why won’t the cassette player eject the cassette? Get a hepatitis A booster, make an appointment with the ophthalmologist, make an appointment with the gynaecologist, make an appointment with the pediatrician. You must be writing something new by now, right? Pack my suitcase. Which hotel? Where are my sunglasses? The bread is mouldy. My car has a red emissions sticker. Take out the trash, do the laundry, load the dishwasher, pack my suitcase. Buy potting soil. Plant flowers. It’s his birthday, it’s her birthday, please pay the bill within 7 days, and a parking ticket, you can contest it, where’s the school trip going, pick up a book, pick up photos, buy water. You’ll have something new for us to read soon, right? Trash, laundry, dishes. Who’s going to water the flowers? Get the summer clothes out of the cellar, leave the key, pack the suitcase. Which city? Forgot my cellphone charger. Do you know what your next book will be called? Why doesn’t the video camera show the picture when it’s recording any more? Good evening, Meier speaking, we’re doing a survey. Gas up the car, a package for you, call the bank, book the babysitter for Friday, pay the bill, change the lightbulb, hang up the wet towels, book the flight, sign here, please fill out the application by hand, why is my bike rattling, buy stamps, buy hay for the animals. When is your new novel coming out?
My new novel, I’d say, right, right, I’m in the thick of it right now, in the new novel, head over heels, working, working on the new novel, I mean. Because what else can it mean when life’s wild circle is whirling around me with its two demented circular knitting needles, when it’s been whirling around me for some time now, when life’s wild circle has almost completely knitted me up, what else can it mean but that the moment of rapture has in fact long since arrived, that the rapture has long since been as deep inside me as possible.
