Thomas Pletzinger - Funeral for a Dog

MANDELKERN: An accident?

K: Svensson called the police and the ambulance, yes, he used the words “accident” and “ Unfall ” when he did so. The swan hissed, Lua barked. The sirens along the shore got closer and closer, Samy was hungry and cried, a bizzare peace hung over everything, as if something had occurred that everyone had long been expecting. The emergency doctor put his finger on Felix Blaumeiser’s neck and declared him dead, but it was Tuuli who closed his eyes. I was standing next to them with Samy, but I didn’t get what was going on, we were paralyzed. The forensic specialists in Como handled the case, and the police investigations didn’t last long either. Felix’s blood alcohol content was high, but not deadly. His shoelaces had gotten caught, he must have fallen and hit his head on the concrete, but his skull hadn’t been fractured. Felix didn’t die of an injury. He simply lay unconscious in the water and drowned. An accident, yes.

M: And then?

K: The next afternoon the police briefly questioned us again, this time with three interpreters from Lugano. Tuuli, Svensson, and I gave statements about our versions of the day in our native languages, we didn’t exactly understand one another in the process. When a policeman inquired what it was that was actually supposed to be celebrated here, Tuuli still didn’t know the answer to this question, but Svensson mentioned the surprise: engagement. Tuuli suddenly realized that she’d been eating cotton candy with Svensson instead of getting a marriage proposal from Felix. The paralysis turned into a brief and fierce quarrel, Tuuli stood on the terrace and screamed. Svensson had never been able to be as spontaneous and carefree as Felix, and now, of all times, he’d wanted to ride the roller coaster, a fatal roller coaster. He’d wanted to talk about their love! He’d kissed her! He’d wanted to prevent this marriage! Because of him they’d kept Felix waiting, he’d indirectly killed him! And so on. Svensson shouted back that she’d turned off both their phones, that she’d had to explain to him on the way to Felix’s, of all times, that they were three and not alone. Still! Felix and Kiki were waiting, he’d said. Then he hadn’t kissed her, but she him. In confusion he’d bought beer and cotton candy, and when he could no longer drive, she’d refused. Even though they’d run out of words and there was nothing more to explain besides the end of the past and the beginning of the future. But that was impossible after Felix’s death, because without him they could neither finish nor start anew. Tuuli screamed and howled, she called Felix and Svensson accomplices, she blamed both of them for her sorrow. She would have said yes, I assume. Then she lay down in Felix’s room and slept for two days. It was a tragic accident, the two of them have been grappling with the consquences to this day. I have no idea who’s right, not the slightest idea, Daniel. Svensson took care of Samy during those days, he sat down next to the baby carriage on the dock and filled up page after page of a whole notepad. Then he crumpled every single page and threw them into the lake. For two days I waited for the arrival of Felix’s parents and the release of the corpse. I tried to sort all that out, eventually gave up and cleaned up the house. I just believe him. The parents decided very pragmatically on cremation. Not without discussions, Svensson was for a burial. At the cremation an Italian priest spoke Italian and Latin, I understood only snatches. We were allowed to see the corpse, Tuuli surpassed Svensson in staring, he pressed his forehead to Felix’s forehead and remained like that for a few moments, it felt like forever. Felix was wearing a white shirt, the coffin was some sort of expensive tropical wood. The ashes were then scattered one or two days later at the deepest point in the lake, illegally, of course. No one will notice, said Felix’s father, the fine is affordable, the lake will keep it a secret. Tuuli left with Samy directly after the ceremony, she seemed sobered and was anxious to put affairs in order in Germany. Svensson and I stayed awhile longer. He mowed the lawn and trimmed the hedges, I took pictures, he refurbished the boat and repaired the motor, we climbed the Monte dei Pizzoni with Lua. Svensson wanted to work with his hands rather than with his head. Blaumeiser’s parents then offered us the unused house here. Nobody ever used it but Felix, you know. Our last night on the lake, two weeks after Felix’s death, Svensson translated the note for me, I know it by heart: “My dearest bride, dear best man,” he said, “I am celebrating our engagement today and since you are late, idiots, I will have to drink everything by myself. In case you should arrive, come down to the water, chin-chin & much love, Felix.”

garbage bags and oleander

We put away the remaining dishes in the cabinets, we mop the floor, we help Samy with his farewell gift, we wait for Svensson. Kiki has told me everything. We move on to simple subjects, foreign languages and boats and baby food. Around noon Tuuli’s singing from upstairs, her cigarette-lighting in the kitchen and her forehead-kissing (smoking, she kisses first the boy, then me on the forehead!). On the lake a pleasure steamer is chugging, Samy explains his picture: Lua in his spot on the boat, his flowers, a can of his favorite beer (I drew the oleander). Suddenly Svensson is standing in a sweaty basketball jersey in the doorway to the kitchen: could someone help him with the dog? Sit down first, says Kiki, Tuuli nods in her green nightshirt (the sun at her bare feet). Svensson sits down at the table, he drinks the glass of milk that Kiki hands to him, he buries his face briefly in his hands. Then he looks up and gazes at the boy and his picture. He looks tired. For the first time I understand that Svensson strikes me as much older than he is (the years cling to him). I sit on my chair and observe these people, how they’re still sitting barefoot around a table and drinking coffee, in the smoke of the past years, with sleep-creased faces and unbrushed teeth. On the fridge hangs Felix Blaumeiser’s smile, on the picture on the wall the red wine has dried, down by the water waits the suitcase with the dead dog, and Svensson in the kitchen pours Tuuli coffee, because he knows how she likes it: with milk and no sugar. She takes the cup without a word. Kiki sets plates on the table in front of us, Svensson gets knives from the drawer, Tuuli wipes pap off Bella’s chin. Life goes on, between pictures and children, between plates and cups and animals, between chairs and oleander, between the dead and ghosts and stories. I want to go back to mine. I take the pack of cigarettes out of the plastic bag and put it on the table in front of Tuuli.

I have to go!

I say into the kitchen and point first to my dirty shirt, then to the plastic bag: I’m four days late. The people look up from their life. Svensson doesn’t contradict me, and Kiki puts the milk in the fridge. Manteli? Tuuli asks with her mouth full, pointing to the cigarettes. I don’t actually smoke, I say. She takes a crayon and pulls the newspaper out of my bag, she writes two phone numbers on the front page. “Air in Sunken Mini-Submarine Running Out,” I read, and wonder whether the air will have lasted long enough for the eight Russian crew members, I’ll be able to find out. I read “Caesarean Risk,” before my eyes the sticky Renault under the trees of Bismarckstrasse, Elisabeth, the linden blood on the windows, the green of the chestnut trees. Tuuli folds the newspaper and pushes it back into the bag, from up close I smell sleep and smoke and milk. Call me if you’re in Berlin, she says, the first number is my cell phone, the second the office number in the Charité. She takes Samy from my knee, I stand up and reach for the bag. It would be my pleasure! Thank you, I say, and then Tuuli stretches herself toward me and kisses me a bit too clearly on the mouth, as if the others weren’t there. Kiki’s voice interrupts us: are you taking Lua to the vet? she asks, and Svensson answers, yes, and says I could accompany him, half an hour won’t make a difference at this point. Right, Mandelkern?