Julia Franck - The Blind Side of the Heart

Helene put her hands over her ears. She had stayed in her seat, the only person to do so; she leaned forward, her chin on her chest, looking down at her lap, and wished she could just disappear. It was more than an hour before they could leave the theatre. People were jamming the exits, they kept stopping, clapping, turning to go back, pushing and shoving. The air was stuffy. Helene was sweating. The uproar frightened her. Someone punched her shoulder, she assumed it was a young man who quickly turned away. Helene did not let go of Carl’s hand. People pushed between them, and again and again it seemed as if they would be forced apart. Helene felt sick. Out of here, she thought, I must get out of here.

Carl wanted to walk along Friedrichstrasse and Unter den Linden. The water in the canal was black, an S-Bahn train ran by overhead. On the bridge, Helene leaned over the stone balustrade and threw up.

You didn’t like it. He was making a statement, not asking a question.

You’re mad about it.

I’m full of enthusiasm, yes.

Helene looked for her handkerchief and couldn’t find it. The sour taste in her mouth wouldn’t let her nausea go away. She felt a little dizzy, so she held on to the stone of the balustrade.

Isn’t this a new departure, true modernity? We’re all a part of the whole, the barriers between being and representation are breaking down. Being and appearance are coming closer. People are hungry, hungry and thirsty for a world that they’ll determine themselves, haven’t you noticed?

What are you talking about? What world will they determine? You talk about enthusiasm and the mob screams. It scares me, oh, that pitiless, overbearing attitude at all social levels scares me. Helene had to straighten up; she felt sick and dizzy, everything seemed to be going up and down. She turned her back to Carl and leaned over the balustrade again. How nice the sandstone felt, rough and firm.

Now Carl put his hand on her back. Darling, are you ill? Do you think the meatballs were off?

Helene’s face hung over the water. She imagined jumping into it. Strings of mucus streamed from her mouth, her nose was running too, she had no handkerchief.

He wasn’t to know that she didn’t have a handkerchief, all she needed was a handkerchief to be able to stand upright again. She had to ask him: Do you have a handkerchief?

Of course I do. Here you are. Come on, let me help you. Carl was solicitous, but Helene was losing her temper.

How can you be so simple, calling that enthusiasm? You read Schopenhauer and Spinoza, then on an evening like this you fling yourself into the crowd as if there were no tomorrow, no yesterday, nothing at all but wallowing in a bath along with the common man.

What do you have against the common man?

Nothing. Helene realized that she was pressing her lips together. I respect him. She wondered whether to tell him that she herself was a common woman. But what good would that do? So she said: The little man isn’t the little man, the great man isn’t the great man. Perhaps people have to be born in comfortable circumstances, like you, to glorify the little man as you do. Open your eyes, Carl.

Carl hugged her. Let’s not quarrel, he said.

Why not? Helene asked softly. She would have preferred to quarrel rather than admit that the play’s effect on Carl, so obvious to her, was genuine enthusiasm. Goodness, she thought, it was nothing but a lot of popular songs strung together.

Carl put his hand on Helene’s mouth to soothe her. Hush, hush, he said, as if she were crying and he wanted to comfort her. I couldn’t bear it if we fell out with each other.

We won’t. Helene smoothed the collar of his coat.

I love you. Carl tried to kiss Helene, but she was ashamed of her sour-tasting mouth and moved her head aside.

Don’t turn away, darling. You’re all I have.

Suddenly Helene had to laugh. I’m not turning away, she laughed. How can you think that? I’ve been sick, I don’t feel good and I’m tired. Let’s go home.

We’ll take a taxi. You’re not feeling well.

No, let’s walk. I need some air.

They walked deep into the night in silence. The narrow wooden bridge in the Tiergarten creaked and gave off its usual musty smell. There was rustling in the undergrowth; rats scuttled across the path in front of them. They stopped under the lime tree near the lock and heard the monkeys calling out from their enclosure.

It seemed strange to Carl that he was the first to speak. But what he wanted to say wouldn’t have fitted into a conversation anyway. He bent down and picked up a lime leaf. Is anyone invulnerable? He held the leaf in front of his chest, roughly where most people think the heart lies. Helene placed her hand on his and carefully guided it to mid-chest instead. She said nothing. Carl dropped the leaf, took both her hands in his, and thought she must feel his heart beating in his own. I could ask you whether you’d marry me, he heard himself saying. You’re twenty-one now. Your mother is Jewish, so my parents won’t object to my choice.

You could ask me, yes. Her eyes didn’t reveal what she was thinking. He looked searchingly at her.

Your shoe’s undone, she said, without looking at his feet. She had obviously noticed some time ago. Carl bent down and tied his shoelace.

You don’t know my mother, my father, any of us.

I know Martha. Your parents are nothing to do with me, just as mine are nothing to do with you. This is between the two of us, no one else. Will you promise to be my wife?

A monkey’s screech met their ears. Helene had to laugh, but Carl looked at her gravely, waiting for an answer.

She said yes. She said it quickly and quietly, and for a moment she was afraid he couldn’t have heard her. Next moment she hoped he hadn’t, because it had sounded so feeble and she would have liked to say a clear Yes from her heart. But a second Yes would have made the first sound even more hesitant and cowardly.

Carl drew Helene to him and kissed her.

Don’t I smell as if I were fermenting?

Carl agreed. A little, yes. Perhaps I’ve waited too long?

He took her hand. The ice was broken. Maybe you’ll give me children, he said, imagining how pleasant it would be if they had two or three small children.

Helene had fallen silent again as they walked on side by side.

Could you have been sick because you’re expecting a baby? Carl liked this idea.

Helene stopped at once. No.

What makes you so sure?

I just know, that’s all. She laughed. Believe me, a nurse knows perfectly well how to prevent that.

Helene was still cheerful, but Carl was shocked.

You shouldn’t say such things. I don’t like it. Don’t you want children too?

Yes, of course, but not now. I want to finish my evening classes. I still haven’t given up my hopes of studying at college. I’m working hard and still I’m barely earning enough for me to rent a place of my own.

Of our own. You can rely on me. You give me children, I’ll pay for your studies. Carl meant it seriously.

Are you trying to do a deal with me?

My parents will support us.

Well, perhaps. Your parents whom I don’t know at all yet. Carl, I must tell you something. I’m not giving a man children. Children can’t be given. Christians give their Lord something, they give love. There was a lot of talk about giving in the theatre just now. I think that’s nonsense. I don’t want you giving me the chance to study.

Why not? My father has promised me money if I pass my exams with distinction.

That will be far too late for me. Helene could sense her own impatience. When I’ve finished the course of evening classes I shall work to pay for my own studies.

Don’t you trust me?