Arnon Grunberg - Tirza

What he discovered was that the less the other existed, how which was more bearable.

He waited in the Arrivals Hall, just like dozens, sometimes hundreds of others, but it is different than the people around him he was waiting for someone who did not exist, he called someone who would never come on, he put his hand into the air without really to believe or the hope that his greeting would be detected by a person on the other side of the glass. He waved at most so that a coincidental passer would think: this is an ordinary man.

There are benefits to passengers too shaky to retrieve never appeared. It saved him stories that perhaps should get bored, disappointments, complain that: 'You are listening not.' tensions.

A time came to him a man with a sign bearing the name of a traveller was written. 'You are here even though a time, I see,' said the man. A driver is likely. 'How Long all I ask you? What flight awaits you?'

'A WEEK OR SIX I am standing here already, had a ship's steward must reply', but he said: 'a few hours." And he was all his briefcase firmly as if his life was in.

'but on which flight awaits you?' urged the driver to, a sweaty, squat man.

On the flight he waited? From that side he had never viewed.

'I is not waiting for a specific flight,' said ship's steward.

He opened his briefcase as if he was looking for something. He found an apple and bite. The driver remained standing look at ship's steward, how he the apple opat. As if the driver had hoped that there would be something, a word, a look, a sign of rapport. Two men of a certain age in the arrivals hall who know what it is to wait. There was not a word more from Hofmeesters foot. He ate his apple, gazing to the baggage number 12.

Even now his work, he was Schiphol never without a briefcase from housing. He had him of his wife received ever, long before the first time they disappeared long for Ibi, when she was only just together in the Van Eeghenstraat lived.

How less human existed, how they were more enjoyable. That he discovered at the airport. But that has not meant that there was something wrong with the people who do exist.

Writer he was been translated fiction. He had his entire life involved with the non-existing, with the possible at most, the probable perhaps. Now was the difference between what existed and what did not exist, between the border was unclear. Foggy as the airport in the morning in the autumn. You had the whip of the fantasy about the reality which would otherwise reality you as a rearing horse from the saddle as far as knew, ship's steward now sure.

High it he put his right hand in the air. Sometimes he went to the passport control and waved them that nobody else were waved goodbye.

After the first sardines all alone has eaten, he goes to the top. The bathroom door is open, the bath leave Ibi has. In the bedroom is the wife still for the mirror. Her hair is geföhnd. Its upper body is unfounded. She has a spijkerrok This shop requires to, and in her mouth a cigarette.

'What is that?' requires a ship's steward. He points to the skirt. With extensive arm. His lips are still grease of the fish.

'Dit? This is a skirt of Ibi.' They talk without the cigarette from her mouth and look at it themselves.

'Yes, I see that the of Ibi is. But why did you?'

Only now does the cigarette out of the mouth. The pose of movie star is less. They will be the wife, the wife who returned unexpectedly.

'because I had nothing to attract and paste. I am just about as thin as Ibi on its fifteenth. But do you remember what a dikkerdje she was at its 11th? They had just to the menstruate or we named her the garbage container. Because they all residue opat. She had the whole day hunger.'

Ship's steward shakes his head. The past he now wants to not discuss. This is not the right time for an evaluation of the past. The question is what time. 'it could not,' he says. 'it goes too far. And I do not want you smoke in the bedroom.'

The wife looks at himself in the mirror. There is a brush for her on the table, the hair dryer, lipstick, a comb, hairpins. They inhales and blows the smoke from, if a child that shall exercise for later, a child that is still not really can smoke.

'Why it cannot find the not flattering?'

'It is…' says ship's steward. He squeeze in his nose as if he were a cold and he begins again. 'The state from flattering or not flattering. He is too short. A MINISKIRT. That nothing is covered. That is not possible.'

'You will find him too short? You will find my legs than not nice?'

She goes on his seat and plug with some effort both her legs into the air.

'You will find they are not nice? I thought you liked my legs so. I have they cleared. Specially for this evening.'

'I think,' says ship's steward and he squeeze in his right arm, 'dit skirt sletterig.'

'Sletterig?' She tail him.

'Yes, sletterig. I have no other word for it and I like you, I am sorry that I must say there too old for. I think it is something for if you are eighteen, something for Tirza and her friends. Even this bear this kind of clothes not more. And how much you would wish, you are not her friend. You are her mother.'

They are going to just sit. Its legs are now largely hidden from view Hofmeesters.

'but I thought," she says, 'You a little sletterigheid in women, that men in general that. The way they want it, all they dare not say men like you. Not that responsible, that timid. That neat. I throw my weapons in the fight, Jörgen. If I do not now, than it does not need more.'

He pulls his polo shirt from, a shirt is better anyway. He also has too many gezweet, it is too hot. For the guests is the delicious, a warm evening, but he must operate. The hands in the holes. An empty hand means an empty stomach.

He will feed the hungry and not superfluous. He will never be superfluous.

The polo shirt is wet. He throws in bed.

While he chose a shirt, he says: 'It is Tirza's party, if someone its weapons in the fight should throw the Tirza is, but they do not, it is too modest. To decent.'

'Jörgen, what sort of weapons they would be in the fight to throw?'

'What do you mean?' he draws a shirt from the cabinet and runs on the wife. 'What do you mean?' he asks again and retrieves the shirt of the hanger.

The cigarette is extinguished. Finally.

'How I mean? That You know better than I do. Of the top has them nothing. She is from top as flat as from the rear. I do not know how it is that both our daughters have remained virtually without tits, to me has not located. Look at me. I am voluptueus. Do you think it is surprising that men call me "voluptueus?'

Ship's steward let the shirt fall. He has only the pendant in his hand. He tail to the wife. The madness, he thinks. The madness. This family makes me insane. No, not this family, this woman. My wife. How is it that I've waited on her, how can it be that evenings at the telephone was sitting with the idea that I would call to eventually from to see how is it that they appeared in my life because I hate her. She was never returned. She was but any cowardice. That would have been better. How can you be jealous of your daughter? On everyone you can be jealous of, on the neighbors, colleagues, family members, you man, your wife.

And almost everyone is a ship's steward itself also sometimes jealous, but not on his children.

He notes not, tense is that he receives with the wooden hanger against his leg stores.

'HOW DARE YOU THAT about your own daughter to say,' he finally there. 'And it is not true. This is still the worst. Tirza is a beautiful woman, a beautiful young woman. Everyone loves her, all the boys love her. Everyone is in love with her, I hear of all its teachers. I know of no more beautiful girl. And she is not flat. That they are not of these large lubbe Rende, vulgar hang tits, like you, which only Moroccans and Turks geilen is a blessing.'