Julia Franck - Back to Back

So what? I don’t want to read it at all. She looked down the street, and a fleeting smile appeared on her face, as if she recognised someone in the distance. The tram from Adlershof squealed as it came along the curving rails.

Here, take it. Thomas tried putting the letter under Ella’s arm, which she was pressing close to her body, hand in her coat pocket, because it was cold. But at that Ella raised her arm, took a step back, and the letter fell to the ground.

You threw it away. Ella laughed.

Thomas shook his head. You’re so childish. You could at least take it.

But suppose I don’t want to read it? I don’t want it. Ella crossed her arms and, as if by accident, trod on the letter. The ash-grey slush under her feet sucked at it.

Then why do you go dancing around in front of him? With your hair like Brigitte Bardot’s, hopping around on the dance floor in a petticoat?

Is that forbidden? Ella rolled her eyes and squinted with one of them, not sure whether to suggest to her brother that she had a guilty conscience when in fact she didn’t. His fit of morality annoyed her.

Do you enjoy tormenting them? They all seem to be crazy about you, and you are too, crazy about yourself and no one else. Was that contempt in his eyes or lack of understanding?

This is my birthday. Ella was pouting, but Thomas turned away from her.

Here’s to you, darling. Thomas held out the glass of sparkling wine to her.

Cheers! Thank you, my dear. Here’s to us, Achim. Ella giggled. Shall I call you Achim?

I’d rather be Hans-Joachim. Thomas cleared his throat.

As soon as they had finished their sparkling wine, the wine waiter came along and changed them for cut glasses for red wine. Would you care for a Hungarian wine? It’s a little young, but I think you will like its mellow aroma.

Bring it on. Thomas adopted a jovial tone. The wine waiter let him taste the wine and then filled both their glasses.

Two waiters carried in plates under silver covers, put them down in front of Ella and Thomas and said together, in solemn tones: The festive menu for Herr and Frau Löwenthal. First solyanka Moscow-style. The covers were raised to reveal surprisingly small porcelain bowls of a brown soup that smelled delicious to Ella.

Do you have a plain vegetable soup for my husband? He’s a Buddhist and doesn’t like eating dead pig.

The waiter hesitated only briefly, then bowed his head and came back a few minutes later with another cover. Solyanka Moscow-style without meat. He raised the silver dome and took three steps back, head slightly bent, expectantly waiting to see if there would be any further request before turning away and going back to the kitchen.

Amazing, they’ve rehearsed it all, whispered Thomas, every step, every glance. Reaching for it and shaking it just once, Thomas unfolded the fabric napkin and stuffed one corner in the neck of his sweater, as he had often seen Käthe do, and he had once seen her father the professor do the same.

You look like a baby. Ella giggled. Infected by the general formality, she put her hand over her mouth as she did so.

So? That’s what you do. We start with the spoon on the outside. They both picked up their spoons at the same time and, while Ella tried to drink her soup as quietly as possible, Thomas cautiously stirred the thick broth. They’ve taken as many of the bits of meat out as they could, he said, nodding appreciatively and letting the soup fall back into the bowl in a glazed steam. He preferred not to drink it.

How could they get all those tiny scraps of meat out of the soup? But it tastes really good, do try it. Ella sighed with enjoyment. Their glasses were refilled; as soon as they had taken a sip the wine waiter came along to top them up. A waltz was playing in the next room; through the large, open double door they could see the other guests dancing there. They were getting on in years. A graceful elderly lady with hair dyed deep black was wearing a mustard-yellow dress cinched in at the waist, its wide skirt seemed to have thousands of little pleats. She had pinned her hair up on top of her head and she danced almost perfectly, as if the music had been written for her. Perhaps she was a professional dancer?

So who’s the fairest of us all? Ella had finished her soup, was leaning back in her chair, arms folded and was watching the dancer’s light steps with envy and admiration.

What a question, darling. Thomas took a slim blue folder out of his case. It had a dark ribbon round it. For you, but I don’t want you to open it.

The bowls were taken away.

‘Dream Sleep’, it’s called, said Thomas, leaning over the table so that guests sitting near wouldn’t notice. On my left a stone cries out in the dark / slowly my being ends. .

Ella sat opposite him, wide-eyed. She wanted him to think she was listening, he knows those wide eyes, the show of astonishment before there was anything to be astonished by. He wasn’t going to let that annoy him now, and without finishing the verse he went on, further down in the poem: Hands reach out, grasp the void, / faces take distance by storm, / circle a consuming light / that burns a dazzling white. Ella was playing with her fork, her expression didn’t show whether she was even listening, so Thomas skipped the next verse as well in order to get to the end of his poem, which now seemed far too long, as quickly as possible: Gone is the image that brought delight, / the yearning song has died away, / and through the dark and russet night / cold silence blows this way. He also left the next verse out and went straight to the last one, which he wanted to read, even if Ella was yawning now and covering her mouth with her hand. . The wind moves, moves its eyes / And my Self changes, as I see, / the world is silent, all sound dies, / a world cold and dead with no comfort for me. .

Ella was beaming, her happy gaze went to the two waiters carrying in new plates with silver covers over them.

Chicken breast in aspic with leeks and mustard seeds.

Putting his forefinger to his lips, Thomas asked her to keep quiet and not show him up again over the meat. Ella loved aspic, he wasn’t going to send his back, she simply ate half of his serving. She put out her fork right across the table to his plate as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Oh, wonderful, how good that tastes! Poor Thomas, you’re not going to get much to eat today. Ella bowed her head in pretended regret. She was enjoying the meal, she didn’t want to suffer pangs of conscience. Doesn’t that smell good? Go on, do try it. I mean, the chicken’s died for us already. You can’t just send parts of its body back, then it would have died for nothing.

Leave me alone. Thomas was red in the face. He was embarrassed by the attention she was drawing to them.

Chickie chickie chickie. . Ella’s fork reached over the table to Thomas’s plate again as if there were a little chicken there to be enticed out.

Tongue with mustard sauce and green pepper served with boiled potatoes in butter and parsley for the lady, bean casserole for the gentleman.

Ella looked triumphantly at her brother. Serves you right! She nodded eagerly to the waiter and took the fork from his hand even before he could put it down beside her plate, as a substitute for the big fork that she had used by mistake for the chicken breast in aspic, and she dug its prongs into the ox tongue. A poem! Ella was quoting Käthe, who described any delicious meal as a poem. Ella chewed, closing her eyes. I can see our Baltic estates, dear husband, our trees on the Darss peninsula bending in the wind, red deer trotting down to the sea early in the morning, bending their heads and drinking salt water, I see dunes where seagrass grows, reed beds rippling, and the white-flecked meadows by the brackish water where the singing swans raise their cygnets and graze, they bend their long necks and dig holes as they search for roots, further on, near the outskirts of the village of Ahrenshoop, the first buttercups are in bright yellow flower, and our kindly, fat cows walk among them, cheerfully crushing them. Cautiously, Ella opened her eyes and looked to see whether Thomas was listening, picturing the pretty cattle with their gentle eyes and tender tongues. Ella licked her lips. This is delicious!