Julia Franck - Back to Back

Would you like chocolate cream with vanilla sauce or red-fruit fool with sago and whipped cream for dessert? Soundlessly, the waiter had approached, and was looking from Thomas to Ella and back again.

Yes, very snug, aren’t we? A lodger like that who doesn’t bother anyone? Ella tightened her lips.

Stop it. His voice was not angry but pleading. Thomas was begging her to stop talking about Eduard and the lodger and other men. Tell Käthe, tell her about it and then you can get rid of him.

You think she’d believe me? She doesn’t believe anything else I say, she’ll only think I’m showing off. Her lodger is beyond reproach, haven’t you noticed?

Excuse me, chocolate cream or red-fruit fool with sago and whipped cream? The waiter cleared his throat.

One of each, please. The chocolate cream for her, the fruit fool for me.

No, I don’t want either. A cigarette, please, do you have a cigarette? Ella interrupted him, banging the table with her fist angrily, as if their air of distinction was getting her down. The waiter disappeared backwards as silently as he had come.

Shall we order another bottle of wine?

Thomas’s eyes were fixed on Ella. She had been ignoring him for some time now, she wasn’t looking at him but straight past him, cutting him out of her field of vision.

I’m so sorry. His lips were quivering almost imperceptibly. He moved his hand in Ella’s direction over the white tablecloth, half clenched into a fist, an old signal between brother and sister; perhaps he thought she would push her own fist against his, a silent token of forgiveness. But she didn’t know what she was supposed to be forgiving him for. The waiter had placed a small silver salver beside her. It held a piece of dark blue felt, with a single cigarette in the middle of it.

Go on, cry. Ella reached for the cigarette and placed it in her mouth. When the waiter struck a match and lit it for her, she drew on it strongly. Once again she smiled at the waiter. He stumbled, and she quickly snatched at his hand, turned it over and inspected it in its white glove. What a hard-working hand. A glance up at him. Have you been working here long?

Excuse me, he stammered, and red shot into his face; with his left glove he touched his gleaming nose, his right was caught in Ella’s hands. Is everything all right?

Oh, very much so. Ella smiled and drew on the cigarette, holding it with one hand while she still held the waiter’s hand in the other. Smoke came out of her nostrils, a lot of it. She practised that because she though it was funny to breathe smoke like a dragon. She batted her eyelashes. Would you take this out of here, please? She looked deep into the waiter’s eyes.

Excuse me? His glance wandered over the table, on which only the refilled wine glasses now stood; he had cleared all the rest of the china and cutlery away.

My cheek, my face, me, I’m a girl, take me out of here with you.

Now the waiter looked at Thomas. Can I be of any assistance, sir? Would you like the bill now, shall I call a taxi?

That would be a good idea, yes. Thomas rolled his eyes. Chandeliers hung from the ceiling, their glass droplets reflecting the lights. My wife isn’t feeling very –

Huh, my wife — I’m not his wife. That’s my little brother. I’m paying the bill. And then I’m going away with whoever I want. Tell me, will you take me with you?

The waiter preferred not to answer this question, and hastily went away.

Ella reached for Thomas’s glass, which was still full to the brim, put her lips to the rim of the glass and blew bubbles into it, sucked up wine, raised her head: Oh, my dear little brother. She put her forefinger in the glass, put it in her mouth, deep, deeper, she sucked her finger and put it back in the wine. If I could only love, you know — she tried whistling on the rim of the glass — everything might turn out well. Really well. I’d be happy with Johnny. Or Siegfried. If I could only love.

Without moving his head, Thomas looked surreptitiously to all sides. They were being watched; the older, distinguished-looking customers were entertained by the young couple. But Ella, with her tongue out, licked the rim of her wine glass. Couldn’t you play a musical note on the rim of a glass? Which is worse, do you think, not being able to love or not being loved? She directed her question at the glass, putting out her tongue as far as it would go, perhaps getting it right to the bottom of the wine glass before the glass itself suddenly shattered between her hand and her mouth. Perhaps she had pressed it too hard, had bitten it?

The wine had spilled over her dress. Ella carefully removed a gossamer-thin splinter of glass from her tongue. She spat, several times, to get other shards out of her mouth, she spat on the tablecloth and on her dress, waving the stem of the glass, which she was still holding, back and forth like a conductor’s baton. Thomas had jumped up and hurried round the table. He mopped at her with his napkin, carefully collecting the tiny shards of glass.

Don’t swallow, show me your tongue again. Sure enough, he found another long, thin splinter on her tongue.

Your taxi is here. The waiter had brought the bill in a small silver booklet.

Where’s the money?

There. . there. Ella’s mouth was making baby sounds as she spat, dribbling, so as not to swallow any broken glass, and she pointed to her school bag lying on the floor. Thomas crawled under the table to retrieve it, and had to empty the whole bag to find the money at last lying loose in it. He picked out all the coins and the note and placed the money on the little silver booklet that the waiter was holding open. As the waiter went on standing there motionless, Thomas put his hand in his own pocket and added something to it.

I’m sorry, sir, that’s not enough.

Can you send us the bill at home?

What about your taxi?

We’ll take the suburban train. I’m sorry about this. Thomas took a pencil out of Ella’s bag and wrote the address on the bill for the waiter. Another waiter brought their jackets. But Ella couldn’t stand up on her own, and had to be supported. Thomas hauled her up, got his arm under hers, supported her back while her sour breath blew in his face. His poem was still lying on the table. How could he ever have mentioned his doubts of the Red Way to her? She’d hardly listened to his poem, he had written it for nothing, given it to her for nothing.

Can I walk? Ella spoke like a small child now as she sank to the floor and fell to her knees, holding Thomas’s hand.

You can, yes, you can. Thomas was sweating all over and wondering how he was going to get Ella home.

Daddy dear, I love you, said Ella, pressing her cheek to the back of Thomas’s hand, kissing his hand, turning up her eyes soulfully, I love you and only you.

What’s the matter? Don’t stand around like that, get undressed. Käthe turned her back to her adolescent son, cigarette in one hand, holding her chisel against the rotating whetstone with the other. She called through the noise, in her powerful voice: If you’re cold do some knee-bends. He could hardly hear her, and only guessed what she was saying. The screech of the chisel against the whetstone raised gooseflesh on Thomas’s arms and legs. It was a noise that seemed to flay him. He stood motionless and watched her smoking, which she seldom did. Käthe’s blue working jacket, the one she often wore when she was working on stone, particularly in winter because she wanted to keep the stone dust from settling in her sweater, was white on the back; perhaps she had draped it over the side of the vat of plaster when she was making a model, or had brushed against the freshly painted wall later. Thomas took off his shoes, his trousers, his socks. It was cold. He breathed deeply and imagined the warm sand under the pine trees beside the Müggelsee, sun warming his skin. Under the soles of his feet he felt cold concrete with small stones scattered over it. The screeching stopped. Käthe switched off the motor of her whetstone and tested the edge of the chisel with her fingertips. The silence could feel like warmth to Thomas. His gooseflesh went away. A cool, glittering November sun shone through the opaque upper window of the studio. He took off his sweater and vest, finally his underpants. Käthe scrutinised him.