Thomas Pletzinger - Funeral for a Dog

Interview (author or illustrator?)

MANDELKERN: When are all these pictures from?

TUULI: We haven’t seen each other for a long time.

M: So has Svensson always painted?

T: Svensson is a collector, Manteli , he’s never painted a picture.

M: Then are the pictures in the book not by him at all?

T: He should tell you about that himself.

M: Are they by Felix Blaumeiser? Did Blaumeiser paint all these pictures?

T: The villa on the other side of the lake belongs to his family. Svensson’s house too. Nothing else. Felix had nothing to do with art.

M: Had?

T: What has Svensson told you?

M: Nothing. Is there something to tell?

T: Everything Svensson says is made up, Manteli , you can write that. Svensson collects fragments and assembles them into a world he can bear.

Tears and Blood

Half an hour later Tuuli is cursing in Finnish. She carries the crying boy into the kitchen and opens the medicine cabinet. The boy is bleeding from a wound on his hand, his light blue T-shirt is stained, but he calms down quickly as Tuuli wipes the blood off his hands and the tears from his face. Was it the dog? I ask, but don’t get an answer. I don’t know how I can help. In her anger Tuuli’s cheeks glow and her hands move faster (blood now on her nightshirt too). By the water the dog can be heard still coughing. No, Tuuli finally says, not the dog. It was Svensson. For years I wrote him e-mails, he read them and didn’t reply, then I announced our visit and when he got that message, idiootti , he threw his computer out the window. No more computer, no mail, for days no power: Poppycock, she says, Svensson wants to be alone here. Lua forgot how to bite a long time ago.

Le silence est l’aîné de la parole

Around noon Svensson is standing in the doorway again, sweaty, an army rucksack full of groceries on his back, in his hand a yellow children’s fishing rod wrapped in plastic. He ignores the blood and Tuuli’s nimble fingers, he avoids the bandage on the child’s hand. Here, he says, for tonight, to celebrate the occasion. Svensson bought bread, cheese, and wine (Taleggio & Barolo), he unpacks the groceries into the kitchen cabinets. Tomatoes, onions, peppers. Tuuli and I watch him. Svensson unwraps three fish from wax paper and lays them on the table, the eyes of the fish stare in my direction. He holds the fishing rod out to the boy:

Here, for you!

But the boy doesn’t take it, he leans on his mother’s leg and looks at Svensson. To celebrate the occasion? Tuuli asks Svensson, to celebrate the occasion? She turns around, takes the boy’s hand, and leaves the room. I’m standing in the entrance to the terrace, and want to focus on Svensson, on the questions I should ask him, on his answers. Svensson arranges his purchases on the table: fishing rod, cigarettes, three fish. What’s the matter with her? asks Svensson (the plastic-covered children’s fishing rod next to the fish, the bloody paper). Svensson lays an oleander flower in front of his still life. Silence is the older brother of the word (the fish is decomposing in the wax paper). Finally I ask: Are they self-caught? As if I were in Svensson’s house on the lake to talk about delicacies (as if I wanted to get to know him from the ground up). I don’t know what’s keeping me from asking my questions or simply leaving. I should ask Svensson to bring me to Lugano on the boat, I think, I could also set out on foot toward the village on the other side of the woods (Osteno or Porlezza). There seems to be a footpath, Svensson has just returned from shopping, and from there I could hitchhike to Lugano. Yes, he says, self-caught. In answer to my question as to whether we could talk now, time is running out, Svensson looks at me. Then he pushes me through the kitchen and out of the house. Come with me, Mandelkern, he says.

against himself

Do you play basketball? he asks. He fetches the ball from under the Ping-Pong table, looks at me, and turns to the sycamore. He shoots. The ball flies in a high arc through the air, falls through the hoop, bounces three times in the tall grass, and then comes to rest. Svensson looks me directly in the eyes: he’s stronger than I am, he made the shot. I could pick up the ball, I could say: okay, Svensson, here’s the deal. I’d have to make a shot to get answers to my questions (dramaturgy of sports). But Svensson nailed the basket to the sycamore with his own hands, Svensson has the home court advantage here (his house, his lake). I wouldn’t win here, my questions would remain unanswered. So I stand in the knee-high grass, searching for an explanation for my “no,” but Svensson has apparently not reckoned with any resistance. He pulls down the second half of the table (on it a swastika in red spray-paint). Ping-Pong. He always plays only against himself here, the Italians in the area aren’t suited to it, says Svensson, pointing to the swastika (the Italians must not like him). Svensson tightens the net. And the dog is ultimately no use as an opponent either, he says, brushing dry leaves off the table, the dog’s missing his paddle hand (my polite laugh). From the looks of you, it could be an interesting game, Mandelkern. Svensson positions himself at the table, under it two paddles and a yellow Ping-Pong ball (Schöler + Micke). Okay, I say, Ping-Pong, but I have to leave today, so it’s really important to go through a few questions, that’s the reason I traveled here from Hamburg, after all. My return flight is in a few hours. Best of three, Mandelkern, says Svensson. If you win, I’ll answer all your questions.

between the sets

It’s been years since I’ve held a Ping-Pong paddle in my hand, but I can play (five years Eimsbüttel Sports Club). Svensson wasn’t expecting that, and Elisabeth for her part used to take it as a joke (Mr. Mandelkern’s Ping-Pong past, she said, an endless back-and-forth). Lua’s now lying by the water again and coughing. I win the first set, we play silently and intently (the ticking of the ball a clock). Svensson plays close to the table and slams the yellow ball fiercely, in contrast I stand a few meters away from the table and return the ball slowly and with backspin. Svensson keeps track of the score. My shirt is soon sweaty (my luggage is waiting in Hamburg, Frankfurt, or Lugano). If Svensson mastered the drop shot, he’d have the advantage. I wonder if he can play against himself with such ferocity, alone against the raised half of the table. The 21–19—you — Mandelkern after the first set he states with pointed calm, sweeping a withered oleander flower off the table with a professional hand movement. He takes off his cap and wipes the sweat from his forehead, he suddenly looks distinctly older than his 32 or 33 years. This isn’t going to get me any answers, I think, I should let him win. Tuuli and Samy are lying on a rusty deck chair under the oleander and watching us. Svensson gives me the blue and apparently worse paddle. Changing sides means changing paddles, Mandelkern! I nod and let him regroup (I let Svensson hit one past me). I’ll give him the second set (be polite and get this over with). Svensson accepts my offer: he slams and slams. When I congratulate him on a successful point (14–7) and remind him once again of my questions (of his answers), he puts down the paddle and takes off his T-shirt.

Shut up and play, Mandelkern!

he says, and I reply to this inappropriate outburst with another friendly “okay.” The situation is paradoxical: if I lose, Svensson will be silent, and if I win, he won’t want to talk either. Between forceful strokes Svensson now announces the score increasingly loudly and clearly, 15–7, 16–7, 17–7, 18–7, 19–7, 20–7, 21–7. The boy and Tuuli clap their hands. One to one, says Svensson as we change sides again (but not paddles). Svensson takes a drink of water and doesn’t offer me anything. He wants to win. Svensson has hung his T-shirt over a chair, zero to zero in the third and decisive set.