Milena Flašar - I Called Him Necktie

A fleeting glance at his watch, then he lit a cigarette. The smoke rose in ringlets. That was the beginning of our acquaintance. A sharp odor in my nose. The wind blew the smoke in my direction. Before we had exchanged names, this wind introduced us to each other.

8

Was it his sigh? Or the way he flicked away the ash? Absentmindedly, absent from his own mind. I was not afraid to watch him, as he was, sitting opposite me.

I observed him like a familiar object, a toothbrush, a washcloth, a piece of soap, which all at once you see for the first time, quite separate from its purpose. It may be that this familiarity was what stimulated my particular interest. His well-pressed figure was like thousands of others who fill the streets day in and day out. They stream out of the belly of the city and disappear into tall buildings, whose windows break up the sky into separate pieces. They are average, typical in their inconspicuousness, with smooth-shaven suburban faces, all of them interchangeable. He for example could have been my father. Any father. And yet here he was. Like me.

Again he sighed. This time more quietly. Someone who sighs like that, I thought, is not just a bit tired. More than thinking it, I felt it. I felt this is someone who is tired of life. The tie constricted his throat. He loosened it, looked again at his watch. It was almost midday. He unpacked his bento box. Rice with salmon and pickled vegetables.

9

He ate slowly, chewed each bite ten times. He had time. He slurped the iced tea in little sips. I watched him doing that too. I was surprised at myself now, because at that time I could hardly bear to look at anyone eating or drinking. But he did it with such care that I forgot my nausea. Or how should I describe it: He did it with a full awareness of what he did, and this transformed an everyday act into something meaningful. He took in each individual grain of rice, presenting it to himself with a grateful smile.

With anyone else I would have gotten up and run away, I would have seen his grinding jaws as a threat, his chomping teeth as a danger. I found it horrific, how one mouthful after another slipped in and down into his digestive system. I was gulping, without thinking about it. The inner compulsion to protect myself above all was a mystery I avoided solving. Better not to think about it.

As soon as he had finished eating, he became a normal salaryman. He spread open the newspaper, read the sports section first. The Giants*, printed in bold, had pulled off a triumphant win. He nodded in agreement as his finger traveled along the lines. A ring. So he was married. A married Giants fan. Once again he lit a cigarette. Then another and another, as the smoke enveloped him.

10

The park had grown smaller due to his presence. It consisted of just two benches, his and mine, separated by a few paces. When would he get up and go? The sun had traveled towards the west. It was cooling down. He folded his arms. The newspaper lay open on his knees. A gaggle of schoolchildren came tripping noisily over the grass. Two old ladies were discussing their ailments. That’s life, said one, you are born to die. He had fallen asleep. Heavy-headed. The newspaper fluttered to the ground. It can end at any moment, I heard, sometimes I have no feeling at all inside.

In sleep his face relaxed. Silver strands hung on his forehead, beneath his eyelids one dream chased another. Twitching thigh muscle. I felt something, as thin as the thread of saliva which hung from his open mouth. But the word for it was missing. Only now does it come to me. Sympathy. Or the rash impulse to cover him up.

When he eventually awoke he looked more tired than before.

11

Six o’clock.

He pulled his tie tighter. The park filled with the sounds of the approaching evening. A mother called out: Come, we’re going home. The gentle sound as she summoned them home, as if tugging at their navels. He brushed the hair off his forehead, yawned, and stood up. The briefcase was in his right hand, and he waited for one undecided second. What for? He disappeared, a gray back, behind one of the trees. I watched him until he had completely disappeared, and it must have been in that moment, in the short moment when I lost sight of him, that I sighed like him.

And so what. I shook myself. I shook him off. What connection did I have with someone I’d never see again? I was overcome by the old nausea. Unbearable, how I had meddled in the fate of a stranger. As if it had anything to do with me. Full of the old disgust I shook him off my hands and feet. As I’ve said: I had no idea. That evening, as I went to bed, the covers rising in waves, that evening I hadn’t the slightest idea why, shortly before going under, I should see his face crumbling away on the wall. I waded in the waters of my ignorance. The moon shone through the gap in the curtains.

12

I had not forgotten him when I made my way to the park a few days later. In my dreams he had appeared to me by turns as a grain of rice, a cigarette, a baseball bat, a necktie. The last image was blurred: a man in a room with no walls. It grew fainter with each step, then I extinguished it.

Reaching my bench, I was relieved to find his empty. Where he had sat, there was no trace of him remaining. A sanitation crew was emptying the trash bins. The cigarette butts had already been swept up and dumped into a plastic bag. There were no flakes of ash left to remind me of him. The park was just as big as it had been before. A dewdrop sparkled on one of the blades of grass that grew out of the gravel here and there. I bent down and found it warm from the morning sun. When I got up again he had suddenly appeared, as on the previous day.

I recognized him by his walk. Tilting a little. As if he wanted to avoid someone. That’s how people walk who are accustomed to moving through teeming masses. He wore the same suit, the same shirt, the same tie. The briefcase, swinging. He sat down, crossed his legs, waited, leaned back. Sighed. The same sigh. Blew smoke rings from his nose and mouth. To try to put him out of my mind from now on was futile. He was there, had gotten inside of me, had become a person of whom I could say: I recognize you.

13

He had a piece of bread with him. He unwrapped it carefully, tore it into smaller and smaller pieces, shaped them into little balls and scattered them in front of the cooing pigeons. For you, I heard him murmur. And when he finished: Kish, kish. White feathers swirled all around him. One landed on his head. It was caught up in his slicked back hair and gave him a playful air. If he had sat there in a t-shirt and shorts, you could have taken him for a child. Even the boredom that soon overwhelmed him was that of a child. He rocked restlessly to and fro. Ground his heels into the earth. Puffed out his cheeks. Let the air slowly escape.

I was forced to think about the persistent eternity of a day that had just begun, stretching endlessly ahead. The certainty that it would pass was nothing compared to the pale melancholy of its passing, and melancholy, I considered, was the word written on both our foreheads. It connected us. We met inside it.

In the park he was the only salaryman. In the park I was the only hikikomori*. Something was not quite right with us. He should really be in his office, in one of the high-rises, I should stick to my room, within four walls. We should not be here, or at least not pretend we belong here. High above us was a vapor trail. We should not look up, in the blue, blue sky. I puffed out my cheeks. Let the air slowly escape.

14

At midday others like him arrived. They came in small groups, their ties thrown over their shoulders, to the benches further to the side, and sat, each with his bento box, chatting happily together. At last a break, one of them laughed, at last we can stretch our legs. Others joined in on his laughter.