Arnon Grunberg - Tirza

'You Know Who in our house is?' he asks without turning and his look tight on the sardines. 'You Know Who in our living room?'

Anyone, Jörgen? Who is in our living room? The love of my life? Have you seen him?' she giggles as if they were a good joke has told us. The love of her life in the living room. She has reached the age at which that is a joke. What was that girl in the barn said? We do not. Take account of. We positive displacement ommen the.

'Mohammed Atta.'

Five sardines are now in the pan. There is still one at. The sixth. Brotherly they are now next to each other. This is nice. This is what a ship's steward beautiful. The sardines have never left in the lurch. For as long as he does the household, for as long as he cooks for Tirza, it is his specialty.

'Who is Mohammed Atta, Jörgen? I know that? He is the love of my life? I will make him painting? He is suitable as a model?'

'Mohammed Atta, you do not know who Mohammed Atta is? Damn.'

She shakes her head. They concern to him. The father of her children. They smell to it.

'No idea," she says. 'MUST I know him?'

'Where are you in the last few years has? In a cave? Was that living boat on drift?'

The oil splatters cheerful.

Ship's steward picks up an apron and binds the order.

'I have no idea who is Mohammed Atta, sorry. Apparently he is not the love of my life, also good. I just wondered if there is still some rum is, I started with rum-cola and now I would like to continue to do so. There is what?'

'Mohammed Atta,' cries out ship's steward. 'Mo-ham-med At-ta.'

'Schreeuw not so, Jörgen.'

She takes it back. It is against him. They squeeze in its upper arm. The man who they exchanged land for her childhood love. Traded and taken over. And be taken back. Or half taken back. An endless series of takeovers is the love life of the man.

He walgt of her and the more he walgt, the more he hopes that they still have also remains pressed against him. Not long, a few seconds. Longer is not necessary.

'I have no idea what you're talking about. But that does not matter. I came only for the same rum. Those guys are so nice, Jörgen. Those guys of Tirza. Such nice and sensible boys.'

'Las that childhood love of you no newspapers? He had no money for a subscription? He was arm? Or Dom? Or arm and Dom? The tv went sometimes to as Houseboat? Was there a tv? Where have you been? In the world you have lived? And furthermore: when that happened you lived here. At least officially.'

'I was in love, Jörgen, i was in love. Than escapes you ever what and I think you love, I think you actually rather than i have found you ever, but I now say where the rum. And then you must explain to me but who Mohammed can't think. What I all missed. As living boat. I promise you that I will listen. I have always listened carefully if you tried to disseminate wisdom?'

He tail in the pan. Just like and then he must turn the fish. The dripping sweat in his neck, but he has no time now to tackle his handkerchief. The listen closely, this action. Sardines buckets is more difficult than people think.

'Four years ago,' he says while he is the pan of the fire to better distribute the oil, 'four years ago is the Third World War.'

'O that I certainly missed. The Third World War. There was also a hunger winter?'

'hold on,' he calls, 'hold. The hunger winter is yet to come. And I hope that he will affect you as first You deserve it. People like you have earned a winter of starvation, not a, no, to four at the same time.'

It is firmer against him.

'What kind of man I am?' she whispers. 'In which category I fall? The category "has-the-hong winter-earned"?'

'De category who are so happy and invulnerable, that they feel like the newspaper no longer need to read. Which category, that is what I am talking about.'

He picks up a spoon, moves back and forth the sardines to prevent them lard.

'I have the Third World War completely missed. Forgive me, Jörgen, forgive me if I irreverent nature with the World War I handled, but where is the rum? Keep me no longer in voltage.'

With his elbow he pushes her away.

She is coming back. It expresses its abdomen against his buttocks.

'Go away,' he calls, still with the spoon in his hand, 'go away! Dirty woman, go away.'

'Is the Third World War has already past?' she whispers in his ear. 'or is he still working? Notify me. Illuminated me.'

He turns the fish. The cooking calm him down.

'I am not in the mood for flauwiteiten. There is still a bottle of rum in the refrigerator. And I am ashamed for you. Uncultivated. Barbaric. You have. When i got to know you I thought that you would be cultivated. A painter. That must be a cultivated woman. I thought. Art Academy. She will probably know something. Ha! None of them. Heard the bell without knowing where the clapper is, that is the best that you can do.'

'I am also not in the mood for flauwiteiten. I am not bland. I have meaning in rum. I have meaning in you. I have meaning in someone. Are you someone, Jörgen? Are you a person?'

They get a por. And ship's steward remains in the pan stare. It bothers him not that the oil splashes, he tail if hypnotise. The sheet of the sardines is so beautiful, it is nicer than the sheet of the man, but he must admit that he has never seen how human sheet looks like you the bakes in a pan.

The wife opens the refrigerator. They bending itself. They are looking for, as he is an hour or so ago the tomato juice was looking for.

'Mohammed Atta,' he says, 'was one of the hijackers, he was the leader of the hijackers. And the friend of Tirza is his brother, or a half-brother, or a cousin. Or an uncle. Or a married uncle. In any case a kind of Mohammed Atta. The same meat, the same eye, the same jaw. The same thoughts of course. The same hatred. Hatred against us. Hatred against what we are, who we are and why we are.'

'But Who are we, Jörgen?'

They retrieves a few bottles from the refrigerator. They sigh. 'You have it here too full,' she panting slightly. 'As a human can still find nothing?'

And while he has his hands on his apron, effectivenessdrynumber considering that he said 'we'. As far as we are concerned, without thinking. The came eight-free and of course. He hates 'us'.

'I think I know it," she says. She has the rum found. 'Mohammed Atta, of the eleventh. The eleventh, yet? Not? The eleventh?'

They open the bottle. Then she takes cola from the refrigerator.

Mix them the rum with the cola. They consume. 'De 11th September, not? God, what seems that long ago. What I was happy when. In Love. Young i felt myself, I do not know, I felt…'

The sardines are ready. He puts them on a dish. Do not look he reciprocates her.

'20. Eighteen. Sometimes also sixteen,' she whispers.

He throws there parsley over it. Looking at its sardines can it tends to smile hardly suppress.

'You know,' he says, while his apron prejudice, 'You know why they are you and me and the neighbors hate? Because we believe in the happiness. Not in God but in the happiness. Because we are individuals with an individual identity. No group of animals.'

They drink its rum-cola as a child, the glass omklemd with both hands. She looks at him, her face presents the traces of the dancing, the hustle and bustle, the heat in the living room. Overrun is her make-up not earlier blurred and dried. Its wrinkles are visible.

'Jörgen, you do not at all in the happiness. Your God has always been the accident. You wanted not much else of life than unfortunate. And you have it served God, you're never become him, even when infidelity you could feel betrayed right by him, you are the god of the accident. You was his most dedicated servant. You deserves our applause. Why do you think I am with you on the phone? I also wanted to ever come first. I also wanted to be next to someone are responsible for the accident not honored. I could no longer be able to. Against You. Well, against everything you glorified.'