Зимон Штраус - Seven Nights

I am the clandestine free rider of current events. Without a risk, without my own impetus. I let myself be taken along, I’m a part of everything, but never the first, never in charge. I arrive when all is said and done, everything is understood and everything has been decided. Again and again I lower my head and accept the facts. Like a beggar, expelled onto the street from the fancy restaurant. I will never lead an attack, a storming of the Bastille.

That is why I eat meat. To forget all of this and dream that things could be different. That there is a remaining hope for happiness, that a moment of strength, of decisiveness is possible. I eat meat to disagree with myself and my time. Every bite of raw sinew is a bite back to nature. Back to the myth, whose narrative is more enticing than that of psychology. Today, here, in this restaurant under lightning and thunder, among this gluttony, my time has come.

I eat meat. “Flesh of my flesh.” When God freed mankind of solitude, he took a rib and created a counterpart. A companion from “His flesh.” To find this flesh again, man will later leave his father and mother. Will turn away from his house, his youth and everything that offered him a home and protection. He will stray and search until he finds it again—his lost flesh. And then he will mature, will stand upright, will be ashamed and put a coat on his naked body. He will “cleave onto his wife: and they shall be one flesh.” The old recombine anew. Reunited until further notice. The day draws closer. I have to practice—cannot fail my test. That’s why I sit here and eat meat. And for this moment am a different, more courageous human being.

A man, maybe.

TODAY I STAY HOME.

Whenever I’m alone I imagine someone watching me in my solitude. For example, when I crawl out of bed in the morning—my face still sticky from sleep—and step into the cold shower for ten seconds. I imagine this as the first scene of a movie. The opening sequence maybe. Some song playing in the background. The events on screen aren’t really important yet. At least not so important that you can’t simultaneously roll the opening credits in the foreground. I imagine hundreds of people in a movie theater, dry popcorn on their knees, sweaty palms shyly interwoven. They see me run through my exercise program, wheezing and lacking all discipline. Of the ten reps I usually drop at least three. Because it’s either the beginning of the week or the end. Or the weekend. Because the sun is shining, it’s Greta Garbo’s birthday or because last night I refrained from ordering baked banana. Even though I would’ve loved nothing more: a soft- golden brown baked banana, still warm from the oven and dotted with honey, next to a scoop of bourbon vanilla ice cream, softly melting.

At the core of it, I despise morning calisthenics. The whole principle of self-punishment. Senselessly straining my limbs. And for what? It doesn’t make me feel more prepared for the day. That’ll take its own course regardless of whether I did a few clumsy dry runs or not. And yet I do them every day, again and again, because I imagine them to be the start of a long story: it begins with a young man lying on the floor, breathing heavily as a small edge of sweat forms around the V-neck of his white t-shirt. He will admire it a little later in the mirror. Virile. There is a little mole on the left side of his neck. He has prominent features, nicely flowing lips. That’s how it could start. And then: fresh orange juice, stock market gains, sunshine on the freshly ironed tie. A video message to the girlfriend in Tokyo, the messenger bag over the shoulder, beatboxing down the stairs, onto the bike and into the day.

That’s how it could go. Could. Instead: Rain-drops staccato onto the rusty window sill. No milk in the fridge, the tablecloth full of stains. On the forehead, a red pimple.

Instead of going outside, filling in the daily life like a crossword puzzle, today I’ll stay at home. In this apartment that no one enters with any special expectations anymore. The apartment that is filled to the brim with habitualness.

It’s also been a long time since I’ve been in any other apartments. What a great feeling to climb the creaking stairs with a girl for the first time. Not knowing her name, just following her footsteps. I’ve always enjoyed that the most. More than everything that comes after—this moment in which you know nothing about each other, could imagine anything. How the dish towel is hung, if there are matches or a lighter on the kitchen table, what is next to the bed, how many shoes are in the hallway, which pictures above the sofa, which brand of toilet paper on the shelf…

When I come to a new apartment after a successful night out, there’s always a moment when I step up to the window. Doesn’t matter if it’s 3:30 a.m. and my head is swimming, if I ruined some kind of mood or missed my chance. I step to the window and look out onto the street or into the courtyard. Sometimes I even light a cigarette. Just in case someone happens to look up to the window.

But now alone with my four walls. Without any milk. From the outside, voices waft in. The evening is gray as are so many. Of course everyone is dreaming of parties. But I, sitting here on my old Italian sofa with my back to the windows, am trying to find a position in which I can sit for longer than four minutes. A position in which my foot or arm doesn’t keep falling asleep, in which my leg doesn’t tickle and my nose doesn’t run. I’m fervently waiting for laziness to arrive, to wrap me in her thick blankets, as I’m perched here, staring into the empty room that lies pale in front of me—and I see dancing couples. I see laughing faces and hear wine glasses clinking, and I see all the exuberant life that would fit in here.

I am afraid of empty rooms. Am not good at tolerating silence. I am constantly afraid that the quiet mass of unread books on the shelves will suddenly erupt in resounding laughter. Could convict me as an impostor, as a connoisseur of back covers.

The phone rings. Finally. A survey concerning new electric cars, just five minutes, please, a lot depends on it. The future of the environment, for example. And the future of the automotive industry. And last but not least, the caller’s contract getting extended, he adds imploringly. So I let him ask. And why not. The first voice of the day and it already demands so many answers. If I drive fewer than 100 kilometers per day. If I would pay more than 40,000 euros for a car. The location of the nearest charging station. What I do for a living and how many people are in my household. And finally, whether I 1) live in a rural area and work in an urban one, 2) live in an urban area and work in a rural one, 3) live and work rurally or 4) live and work in an urban area. Or both or something. Short pause. I ask him to repeat the options. I still don’t find an answer. Panicked, I hang up. To calm down I walk into the closet. When it comes to my living situation, I think I mostly live incorrectly. That would have been the right answer. But that wasn’t an option.

I’m not home alone very often. Most evenings I have visitors, and during the day I tend to avoid my apartment. At night I lie in bed behind locked doors. Otherwise I’m out a lot, filling my days with appointments that make me seem busy and suppress the wanderlust. And the fear of an early death.

Even the feeling of sitting here during the day, when everyone else is gone and at work, makes me nervous. In the past, the house was the epitome of the workplace—at its root, the word “economy” means household management. Business was conducted not in the city but at home. At home, money was earned and important decisions were made. Outside, in the squares, there was only talk and quarrel. Under these circumstances I would have liked to stay at home.