Juli Zeh - Decompression

During that time I often thought of a talk show that Antje and I had seen years before. A couple sitting on a white sofa had discussed their sadomasochistic inclinations. The two were in their late forties, conventionally dressed, the parents of two grown children. Without subordination, love wasn’t possible, the man said. Whoever claimed otherwise demonstrated not modernity of attitude but dishonesty. He declared that equal status or even freedom in interpersonal relations represented an illusion. The difference between someone who lived the S&M lifestyle and a normal citizen didn’t arise from the possession or not of an underground torture chamber, but from the fact that the S&M practitioner acknowledged that illusion. The man asserted that the viewers should take the trouble, just once, to think about their own relationships.

Antje and I had sat motionless on our couch. There was something embarrassing about our torpor. It was as if we weren’t actually following the program but rather staring frantically straight ahead so we wouldn’t have to look at each other.

The viewers could just examine their own sexual fantasies, the woman remarked. She doubted that anyone masturbated while dreaming about gentle foreplay and the missionary position.

About what, then? Asked the moderator, for whom things were not proceeding scandalously enough.

About young things who desired to be put properly through their paces, said the woman. About mothers who did it with their sons. About teachers and their female students, willing prostitutes, Africans with long cocks. Hadn’t the moderator ever visited a standard porn site? The name of the game was submission, she said.

The most important thing in life, the man explained, was being able to count on each other. And for that, you needed rules. Then everyone knew what he or she had to do.

And what the other person had to do, the woman added. That gave you a sense of security.

Then what looks from the outside like hell on earth is happiness on the inside? the moderator asked.

If you want to put it that way, yes, the woman replied.

Hell outside, happiness inside: I remembered that image when Jola’s hand brushed my belt buckle. I was looking for an explanation. I couldn’t get rid of the feeling that Jola and Theo were following the rules of a game I didn’t understand. Basically, I don’t understand it to this day. It’s strange that even in retrospect, no explanation occurs to me. Yet we’re supposed to think that explanations are our well-deserved reward for enduring the passage of time. We’re entitled to them. We go crazy when we don’t get them.

JOLA’S DIARY, EIGHTH DAY

Saturday, November 19. Early morning .

I’m happy. That sounds funny — I wouldn’t have thought I’d ever write such a sentence. I don’t even recognize myself. A strange woman with bright eyes and a knowing smile. Happiness is always a secret. Happiness always belongs to yourself alone. People write all kinds of drivel about happiness, and it always sounds false somehow. The beautiful part is that neither of us has a clue about happiness. I don’t, and Sven doesn’t either. That’s obvious from his embarrassment. From his tic of pushing me away if I touch him. From the way he’s always trying to dodge me. He doesn’t want to believe it. Can’t believe he deserves it. And then all at once he pulls me against him. Fastens himself to my mouth. In the middle of the supermarket. While his diving instructor colleagues look on, and through their eyes the entire island. We know absolutely nothing about happiness. Sven’s Antje and my old man weren’t very good guides. We’ll have to teach ourselves. Each in his own way. Sven struggles, I press forward. He probably has it harder than I do. More to lose. He’s going to have to hurt a sweet person like Antje. And whom must I hurt? Only the old man. That’s brutal, that only. I offered Theo a ticket on the next flight back to Berlin and told him he could stay in the apartment at first. A trial separation. So we can calmly wait and see how everything develops. With me. With Sven. Then we’ll figure out what’s next. But he doesn’t want to go. He says things like, I’m not abandoning the field to Little Shit. I have a right to be cuckolded by you. I’m staying until the bitter end. And: If nothing else, I can always write about it .

That would be lovely, I throw in. And see how his eyes flash. But he controls himself. Gets a grip. Says, That would be lovely. Exactly right .

Of course, I knew he wouldn’t go home. Did I ask him just to make him mad? Is it even possible that I want him to stay? Do I need him as an audience? Sometimes I wonder whether my happiness exists only for his sake, only to make him suffer. Whether any Sven would be possible without Theo. Then Sven wouldn’t be the end of Theo’s story, but only the next chapter in it. A new quality. At this thought, sheer horror seized me .

I cried out, You’ll never lay a hand on me again. If I tell Sven about this, he’ll break every bone in your body! He’ll kill you! It sounded like, Wait until I get my big brother. Was probably meant that way too .

The old man says, You love me. You’re not capable of leaving me. A little sun, a little sea, feeling good — you’re not the type for that sort of thing, not at all. You need me, Jola. I just have to wait until you realize Little Shit can’t make you happy .

I tremble at the thought that he could be right .

At night Sven comes to the window and calls softly. He waits until Antje’s asleep before he sneaks out. Which means he still hasn’t told her. I’m applying no pressure. The old man has taught me at least one thing: you can’t force men to do anything .

We go down near the water. Sven lays a camping mat on some flat rocks. At night the Atlantic roars even louder than it does during the day. The racket drowns out our cries. The darkness is absolute. A kind of darkness unknown in Berlin. Even if the old man were standing a few meters away, he could neither hear nor see us .

Sex and oceans — many corny things have been said about that subject. I’m afraid they all apply. Mostly it happens pretty fast. Then we wrap ourselves up in a blanket and wait half an hour before beginning again. More slowly, with a different sort of force .

Sometimes, in the midst of it all, panic suddenly overcomes me. Something’s not right. The whole thing’s too improbable. I’m losing control. It’s as though Sven could at any moment rip off his face, and someone else’s would emerge from under it. My father’s. Or the old man’s. Then all at once hatred is mixed in with pleasure. I want to draw up my feet and kick Sven in the stomach so that he falls backward into the breakers. When Theo slaps me around, at least I know: this is reality. Unmistakably. Senseless, unfair, brutal reality. No error possible .

Such thoughts soon vanish again. Most likely I’m just not used to being treated well. It scares me .

We go back, not touching each other, and separate in silence. Each to one side of the sandlot, each to a different house. In the morning, when I wake up: a sudden flood of happiness. Like a child on Christmas morning, I know something lovely is in store. I get up and make coffee for me and the old man .

We strolled down to the port. The evening was mild. The island enjoys about three hundred mild evenings per year, but this particular evening had something special. The breeze was so soft it made me suspicious again. The contours of people and buildings looked vaguely blurry. On the other hand, all sounds seemed somehow to have sharp outlines. Theo and Jola also noticed something. While we walked along the steep asphalt road, he kept moving closer and closer to her. After we reached the harbor promenade, she allowed him to put his arm around her. She even leaned her head on his shoulder. When I saw that, I felt relief. I let myself drop back a few steps and looked in another direction, as if we weren’t together.