Зимон Штраус - Seven Nights

Some time ago she was dating a young singer who is now floating in space. He used to give sold-out concerts in old barns in the Uckermark. She accompanied him everywhere, helped him throw up and went with him to where kids and AA members count sheep together. But it didn’t last. They separated amicably—as if that was better.

The city is big, she hadn’t seen him since that very last time when they played charades in the back of a large car and dreamed of tiger blood that flowed through the cracks.

Now she gushes about Netflix and Inedia, the form of complete abstinence that Catholic nun Therese Neumann supposedly practiced for a long time at the beginning of the twentieth century. Nectar glands are said to form at the palate that supply the body. “If light is the nourishment for love, shine on!” Or something like that.

Crazy, how bright lightning is, even here in the city. When the storm clouds draw in and the first raindrops fall, people change their way of walking. All of a sudden, they move faster, more bent and sullen. The grip around the beer bottle tightens. Every German’s pursuit of happiness. It’s just so much harder to run off into the evening with a glass of wine, grape juice spills over and runs down your fingers like warm sunscreen.

The Blaufränkischer Zweigelt is hard to beat says Oli, the waiter with the diamond earring and an undercut. After school he did an apprenticeship as a TV technician, but then the big chains, the Media Markts and Saturns opened, the prices dropped and greed was hip. So, he changed tracks. Winery management, oenology. Oli’s cowboy-blue eyes have seen the inside of every Barrique barrel in Europe and he can talk endlessly about Franz Keller. His Riesling has a creamy finish, like a Werther’s Original, but with a gooseberry-like tartness. Oli’s wine prose is ingenious. Only sometimes, his love of metaphors gets the better of him. Then he apologizes: “That didn’t come out quite right.” When Oli says “Sommelier” the first syllable sounds like he’s saying “zombie.” On weekends he holds tastings in discotheques. Why should only the elite get to sniff and spit? Beer pong can be played just as well with wine glasses, and of course a Chardonnay can also go with steak. “Those who measure etiquette on the color of the wine should see an eye doctor,” says Oli. And also, by your mid-forties everything is over anyway.

From the other side of the street a beggar approaches my table. Proud, not demure. Wishes me a good evening with a voice soft as theatre snow and immediately breaks off as I wave my hand in a well-trained reflex. “Sorry, I don’t have any change.” Without even looking. The beggar punishes me with graciousness: “Have a lovely rest of your evening.” My brother always says: Don’t give them anything! But my sister, who is intelligent, with beautiful senses, gives freely. To every supermarket security guard and subway musician, even if they just walk down the car with an amplifier.

My heart cramps as the beggar lowers his head and turns to the next table. Contempt in his gaze, but formality in his posture. Hand resting on his lower back, ready to take a bow and patiently accepting all disregard. All the while he could just start yelling, long and loud until everyone listens, until they beckon him to their table and feed him with Dry Aged Beef and wet his chapped lips with 2009 Bordeaux.

The Freesisch beef—three weeks dry aged on the meat hook at two degrees Celsius—is the best. Oli can eloquently speak on Irish salt marshes at the Atlantic coast, on grass loaded with minerals and the special taste the meat gets from it. The same goes for the vacuum packaged lamb, which hung in the walk-in refrigerator for four months and was so tender, you could break it apart with your tongue. In his eyes, the claim that eating meat is solely a man’s business is chauvinistic. Crafts and ballet are not just for women either.

A young pin-striped suit strolls past, telling his company that he’s looking forward to “nesting” soon. “Nesting” with his boyfriend and his coffee machine. Tai Chi, hardwood floors and a newspaper subscription. “Nesting”: Would this word have left Gramsci’s mouth? Or Hemingway’s? Or any other meat-eater’s? No, no one who likes eating meat would say “nesting.” That’s a word for the contingent of folding-bike riders, long-beard cultivators and pug owners. Eating meat has become evil. Those who abstain save the world. Those who despise it eat on the right side of history. Those who salt and pepper it are viewed as incurable reactionaries. A reincarnation of Christian Thielemann with a pocket square collection in his nightstand. Those who love their filet—meaty, sinewy, marbled pieces of prime European beef—fattened up on Atlantic shores with smoked hay and warm beer—probably also favor dirty jokes and patterned underwear.

Rain falls onto the awning. No sun in sight. Pieces of Beethoven’s Eroica drift on the gusty wind.

The other guests have long sought refuge inside, but I remain out here, eating my meat with defiant satisfaction to show the world that I am yearning. I have deliberately opened my shirt widely, let the napkin fall to the ground so that a few splashes of fat make it onto my pants.

I eat meat to become that which I’m not. Someone who does not imitate what others do. Who finds his own tone. Who has convictions and defends them against others. Who dares opening his mouth, even when in the minority. And who sometimes stays awake until the early morning, sits at his desk at the open window until the birds start singing. Someone who throws over chairs and runs into walls when he’s angry. Who is seeking adventure, is brisk and honest. But because I am none of those things, least of them honest, I eat meat.

In truth I’m someone who goes doorbell ditching with a running motor. Who pushes the “Information” button at the train station and runs away. Who loves the winter and dreads the summer because that’s when the sun will shine and he’ll have to go outside. I’m someone who puts his socks on the kitchen table the night before to save time on the way to work the next morning. Who locks both wheels of his scooter, who takes earplugs to the concert. Who goes for a short run in the morning, only to later brag about that to himself over breakfast. That is who I am.

Someone who pretends to join the battle, but in reality would run off at the first distant cannon roll. Who praises free love only in theory and crawls back into his mother’s bed at every breakup. Who whimpers when he can’t sleep or misses his train. Or his writing software hasn’t saved his text.

Someone who talks a lot about feeling, about better sex and fantastical alternate realities. But then just ends up watching three porn videos a day and can’t even open his girlfriend’s bra with his left hand. Who bolts the window at the slightest breeze and whose head sinks onto his desk at 12:30 a.m. at the latest. Who pretends to pray without ever truly believing.

Someone who throws big parties just to be at the center of things again, to be able to give speeches that he’ll be congratulated on later. Who arranges poetry books on the coffee table before his friends come over for dinner. Who enjoys being generous and being admired for it. Who gains strength from the misfortune of others whom he consoles only to appear as the hero.

I am someone who even in the most caustic self-criticism remains complacent, narcissistic and self-contained. I like myself in the role of the castigated, taking myself to task without ever really questioning myself. And most importantly: without ever really changing anything. I use big words, speak of revolution, freedom, passion and quarrel. But I always keep my distance, handling the terms with caution so I can drop them if they become too heated.