Зимон Штраус - Seven Nights

Now the car is parked and we walk a little, side by side, under the tall beech trees. The path is scattered with puddles and the air is heavy from the rain. It’s not even rain, just a dull dripping from the leaves. Drops, drops, nothing but drops.

Back in school, when someone insulted my mother, I would always punch them in the face. A little spitefulness was all it took to provoke me. Essentially I was just waiting for an opportunity to prove my courage, to display my fighter’s morale to the gallery. That others saw how I defended my mother’s honor has always been important to me. My heroic act needed spectators. Wounds were only useful if I could show them off to somebody.

But today, in the rainy reprieve I lack the drive, can’t even hold my head up straight. And that despite the fact that there is no greater insult to me than “keep your nose to the grindstone.” This offhand remark from the squinched mouth that questions—no, dismisses!—everything I believe in, everything I feel and think, everything I wrestle to put into words. In hindsight, every word that I’ve addressed to him feels like being exposed against my will. The important thing had always been that we’d protect the other’s pathos. Protect it against the sceptics, side by side. The was our deal: that we’d be allowed to lose ourselves together and seclude ourselves in our shared feeling. And now?

I want to scream at him, want to throw my disappointment at his feet, want to tear the backpack from his shoulder and kick him in the back of his knee: you who shares cars and views with the world, who is barely above it all, who in truth would like to have kids already, you just think of warm bathtubs and beach vacations. You, who pretend to be a boxer in your free time so you won’t have to face the fight in your real life. Will you end up being one of those who are happy to settle for a well-trodden path? Didn’t you want to invent your own language with new words and tones? Instead you spend your weekends in the swimming pools of former State Secretaries and print menus for your next birthday party. “All this talk of narratives puts me to sleep,” you once said. And the “time of the hyperrationalists” was coming to an end. You cared about meaning, about impact, about power. Nothing of that has remained. Your force has run out like oil from a rusty canister. Stay your course, talk with your girlfriend as if she were a child and tell the whole world that you are working on something big. Allow yourself to be blindfolded and finish off other people’s drinks. You can always be against something. And being for something you can always save for later. That’s what I’d like to yell—but I remain silent and stand up straight.

And maybe he’s right. Maybe dreaming no longer is enough at some point. When all wonder is used up, righteousness is all that’s left. Then even feelings are refutable.

He sits on a graffitied park bench and crosses his legs. All strength is gone from his features. All magnetism faded. What remains is someone who I wouldn’t even want to give my left hand. Someone I look past like a stranger at a bus stop. I was wrong about him; I fell for him like the golden-framed ad in a travel catalogue.

I turn my straight back to him and go on by myself. He used to be mine. Now he is no one.

The trip is now mine alone. I let my feet carry me. The city has emptied out. In the shops only the ads are blinking. At the end, time will be the winner. Because it keeps running. Even if we all succumb to sleep—it completes the course. Leaves the dreamers behind in their sorrow, the knowledge that each of us is made of two—as Marivaux says, “One who reveals himself, and one who conceals himself.”

The doubt sits on my shoulder from now on, has latched on. Makes sure that I don’t revert to a carefree state, don’t say again with great satisfaction: I am too young! Regardless, I don’t want to apologize for my hopes. Not yet. Until I turn thirty I’m allowed to talk and plan, question and desire as much as I want. And write without fear of mistakes. Until I am thirty.

The seven nights of sins were seven nights against the time. They postponed my trial for a moment. I have seen what it means to mature. Have passed through many shapes and asked children’s questions. I searched for meaning and expression, I drew shapes in the sand. Against the emptiness. So that something remains.

Maybe like Rilke put it: “Be ahead of all parting, as if it had already happened.” You don’t always have to look back to part with something. Sometimes looking ahead can be sadder than looking back. I’m still standing on the side of the road. In the last shadow. But the sun is climbing higher. Soon the first ray of light will hit me. I can already see the ghosts on the other side of the road, rolling the dice for my future. Playing with my heart. In a moment everything will be set. The winner will have been determined.

Then I will take my first step into the road. I will step out of the protective night and into the gleaming light of day. Surrender to my Curriculum Vitae. Satisfy the ghosts. You will see.

But until then let me draw in the sand one last time. Leave a trace for all those who can still be moved. I have written this for them. A text of fear. Fear of the transition. Mostly of hope, though. Hope that there are still things to come. I’ll wait. Here on the side of the road in the last shadow. Soon I’ll have to cross. Soon it’ll be too late.

DEAR S,

Congratulations, you have passed the maturity test. Welcome, now you’re one of us. In the meantime, winter has arrived. It will harden you for what is to come. If it is to come for you. Because that’s the first lesson—there is little that still awaits: wedding, kids, a job, sure. But they are not waiting for you. From now on, you have to make everything happen yourself. And let me tell you, the worst thing is, you can’t surprise yourself. The only surprise left is death.

I’m sorry, your stories made me emotional and moody. I’m sad that it’s over. Angry, too. Because I had expected so much.

A young man takes a maturity test to avoid growing up. To protect his feelings from too much protection. I’d never heard of such a wish. And in all honesty, didn’t think it was possible. That it is really possible to protect yourself from it.

Indeed, you have completed your assignments so dutifully that I think you are well prepared for a job, and to become a husband, father and role model. But I am not angry or sad for you. I am sure you will be glad to assume the position the world has ascribed to you. To belong. Maybe not squarely in the middle. A bit off to the side, probably to the left (or right?) as a sincere, critical spirit.

I am angry and sad because I had expected so much. For myself. Because I had hoped to get instructions for a counterweight to my life—wife and dog and routine. Sadly, in vain.

Because where in this text are the thoughts, the sentences, the formulas that can save me when necessary? What are the changes you have effected, where are the traces you have left, what impression did you make, against whom did you rebel, what new era did you start? Was the distinctiveness of your vision not just the color of the light, sometimes night blue, angry red at other moments. No heavy blow, no real threat, no new beginning. Nothing that compelled me to defect from everything I have believed up to now.

Maybe I’m doing you wrong. But I really did what I could. I have had you fed, had you rise and fall, I have made you comfortable, exposed you to your past and demanded your future. I aroused your greed, stimulated your senses and nerves, distracted and rerouted you. I remote controlled you and questioned you about your freedom. I wanted you tired so you wouldn’t censor yourself. I didn’t offer you any protection other than that of the night. I wanted to expose you to danger, most of all the danger of failure.