Juli Zeh - Decompression

“Why did he call you ‘Monstercock’?”

I briefly stroked her hair. We went back inside together.

JOLA’S DIARY, FIFTH DAY

Wednesday, November 16. Evening .

I’m just wiping something wet off my mouth and looking to see whether it’s blood when my phone rings. It’s Hartmut the Great .

Me: Hello, Daddy. Him: the usual stream of words, without commas or periods. I sometimes wonder what would happen if he dialed the wrong number. Would he notice? Nobody can ask questions more beautifully without wanting to know the answers. With Hartmut the Great, it’s “How’re you doing, good, glad to hear it,” a single unbroken sentence. At some point I stopped being willing to listen to him in mute silence the whole time, and since then our relationship has been difficult. A fact that has managed to escape his notice, as far as I can tell .

The old man’s in the corner, massaging his knuckles and shivering. I point to the cell phone at my ear and soundlessly form the name Hartmut with my lips .

Hartmut talks about all the trouble he’s having with his new project, railing against West German Broadcasting, the North Rhine — Westphalia Film Foundation, his slow-assed screenwriter, his young director, who’s idiotic enough to take himself for an artist, and, of course, his bitchy leading lady .

Occasionally I go “Mm-hmm” and “Golly.” I haven’t said anything to Hartmut about Lotte. He could probably get the part for me. Why didn’t you say so, baby girl? A little telephone call, a bit of pressure. But after that, Lotte would be dead and not my Lotte anymore. For that matter, I could just blow some director so he’d let me play the sidekick in his new comedy .

Hartmut’s still on about the leading lady. What airs she puts on. What she takes herself for. Who does she think she is .

I almost have to laugh. Such relief after the old man’s whacked me one. Now he’ll think I’m laughing at him, I’m not taking him seriously. Which will make him even more furious. At the same time, I’m afraid. The old man has destroyed my soul. Only destroyed souls laugh when someone hits them. I take care to see that it happens regularly. So he can work it off in small doses. If he should let things build up, he might inadvertently bash my head in one day. I’m most afraid when he doesn’t lay a hand on me. If I look at it like that, today’s a good day. I’m not even bleeding. The old man always takes care that no one will be able to see anything tomorrow. He can go ballistic, but systematically, please .

Hartmut next attacks the family. Mama’s got a new hair color again. The Botox hasn’t been a total success. His jokes are the worst: “So I confess to my wife that I cheated on her last night, and she says, ‘But Hartmut, that was me you were screwing.’ ”

How long has it been since his blather could still hurt me? Since I wanted to cry out, Daddy, you’re speaking to your daughter! The woman you’re talking about is my mother! I believe I started putting up barriers before I could spell barriers. A good preparation for the old man. I was a young person developing the abilities I’d need when I was thirty. Maybe I should thank Hartmut. Many thanks, Daddy, for making it clear to me early on what shits men are. And for calling at just the right moment .

Not half an hour ago, while I was sitting up in bed, scribbling away, the old man suddenly appeared in the doorway .

I want to know, right now, what you’re writing and why you’re giggling like an imbecile .

Fuck off .

Give it here .

Never .

Give it here or I’ll break all your bones .

I won’t — you will — I won’t — you will, just like in kindergarten. The winner’s the one who first resorts to violence. Theo ripped a few pages out of my notebook and threw it on the floor. I curled up on the bed while he read them. Interminably. How long can a man take to grasp the information that his girlfriend has fucked somebody else? Finally he crumpled up the pages and let them drop. Very well written in parts, he said. Did I want to be an author now? I didn’t answer. I waited for him to grab me. There was a lot of whining instead: I couldn’t do that to him. He loves me. Was I trying to kill him? I couldn’t leave him. He knows how badly he treats me, he said, how little he deserves me, how often he’s cheated on me or at least tried to — in any case, he hasn’t forgotten that. But it’s different with me, he said, because while he’s a bad person anyway, a devil incarnate, I on the other hand am an angel, his angel, innocent and pure. While he spoke, he started drinking. He drank down the rest of yesterday’s wine straight from the bottle and pulled the cork out of a new one. His little girl mustn’t let herself be soiled by some nonentity, he said, by some diving goon, no matter how completely he stuffs me with his big dick, dirty whore that I am!

And I thought, Hit me and get it over with. Don’t wait too long. Fear tied me up. My face was twitching uncontrollably. My inner voice kept screaming, Pull yourself together! Be strong! Be cold! He can’t do anything to you! He won’t get your soul! But he’s had my soul a long time; what I have left is my body, and it lay there defenseless while the old man poured fuel on his own fire. He told me what a piece of shit I was. Didn’t I have an ounce of self-respect, he wanted to know, doing it with Zero of the Island, a complete loser who ran away from home so he could play the part of a super-Zampanò here, and why should he have any respect for me, would I actually beg for a little respect, and I screamed , Limpdick! and finally he whacked me one, and then my phone rang .

What would Hartmut say if I interrupted him? Sorry, Daddy, I have to hang up, Theo would like to rape me again before he’s too drunk. He’d probably say what he’s saying now: that he’s glad we like the island so much, that he really doesn’t have a lot of time to talk, and that he’s calling for a specific reason, namely to inform me that Bittmann has set sail in the Dorset again and will put in at Puerto Calero, Lanzarote, sometime in the next few days. On board, together with Bittmann himself, there will probably be the usual riffraff, a little theater, a little film, a little literature. In any case, Bittmann wants to give a small dinner aboard the Dorset next week, and it wouldn’t do any harm to be in attendance, no harm at all, especially to a woman in my position .

Hartmut hangs up. I go “Mm-hmm” and “Golly” for a while longer, until the old man’s finished his bottle. Then I say, “Okay, Daddy, talk to you soon,” and put the telephone away .

The old man’s sitting at the table, propping up his head with his hands. That’s the position he feels sorry in. Can I forgive him one more time, he wants to know. I’m completely in the right, he says, to cheat on an asshole like him with another man. Because I deserve someone who’s nice to me. He reaches out a hand. But I’m in no mood for cuddling. The old man’s already so crocked he can hardly open the next bottle. When I see him sitting like that, why can’t I gloat? Why does it just seem sad? He looks so old. And so lonely. I know a couple of other lines from his novel by heart: “Men feel hatred when they should feel compassion. With women, it’s the reverse.”

After today’s diving, Sven asked me if I could imagine moving to the island. He was serious. He’d given it some thought. His intentions were thoroughly honorable. He wouldn’t listen to rational arguments. As if the world might come to an end next week! I could have laughed, almost. I’m already so screwed up that I start backing away even when people mean me well. Sven cajoled me into agreeing to go back to Mala. He could hardly keep his hands to himself. I asked him to give me time. Let things develop. I sounded like the Dalai Lama, he sounded like young Werther. And yet he’s ten years older than I am. Nevertheless, the afternoon turned out lovely. Lunch in Teguise and discreet hand-holding in the cactus gardens. More like a contented married couple than new lovers. The lonely old man faded beyond the horizon .