Christopher Kloeble - Almost Everything Very Fast

Klondi didn’t dwell on Fred’s excursion through the sewers. At first, anyway. Everyone’s looking for something he’ll never find, she told herself, a painful experience, but one that was part of life. As far as she could judge, Fred had survived his mother’s heart failure, and it would eventually occur to him that his porcelain box, the chest — whatever he was waiting to find in it — would remain empty. Besides, it didn’t concern her at all, maybe she’d completely misinterpreted the whole thing. It wouldn’t have been the first time, her head never gave her any peace unless it was weighing every option, and in this case it had come to the 100 percent correct conclusion that she ought to mind her own business, avoid the sewers for a while, keep out of Fred’s way, fire up the bong again, that was it.

But the very next day, while shopping at the supermarket, she found herself standing in front of the candy rack, and a few hours later she was secretly observing Fred as he opened the chest, reached in, and pulled out a bag of peppermints. He munched the whole lot of them then and there, and Klondi had to cover her mouth to stifle her giggling, a strange, delighted, girlish giggling that bubbled out of her as if someone were tickling her most sensitive places. Soon enough, Klondi was following her walks in the sewers with excursions aboveground, in the course of which she’d not-quite-accidentally run into Fred at the bus stop and start chatting with him. Fred would show her what he’d found in the chest; his papa, he’d brag, would never let a mere accident stop him from bringing Most Beloved Possessions.

Another time, Klondi made herself comfortable on a deck chair in the garden, squinted up into the sun, and pressed the button with the red dot on a tape recorder. She wanted to tell Fred a story about a woman who had stumbled across a new source of courage in the sewers. She wanted to thank him. But Klondi wasn’t quite sure how to begin, and brooded about it so long that she fell asleep. Later, after she’d treated her sunburn with a cheese poultice and slices of aloe, she discovered that the wordless sighing of the tape was probably better than anything she would have been able to say. The peaceful breathing of a woman who could finally sleep again — she couldn’t have expressed herself better with words.

During that time, Klondi traded one old habit for three new ones:

She didn’t go out on her balcony anymore.

Instead, she put Fred’s wishes into the chest, turning them into Most Beloved Possessions.

And she laughed, almost always alone, whether in her garden, by the frog pond, or in the sewers, simply laughed, delighted by the sound.

And she began taking pottery lessons, which she frequently interrupted and finally broke off, because the only pottery instructor for miles around had an unusually keen nose for cannabis. Which didn’t, of course, prevent her from carrying on by herself. Her teacups and ashtrays sold well enough to support her, even if only to day-trippers from Munich, stopping over on their way to the Alps. Königsdorfers took care not to get involved with her.

Except once, she said to Albert, who had been listening to her silently this whole time. Except once. No more than these two words, and Klondi’s face, pregnant with significance, were necessary to tell Albert that she was talking about him, the visit he’d made to her at fourteen, searching for Hansel and Gretel crumbs, searching for his mother. His eyes had shone greedily, said Klondi, and she’d only wanted to help him, and so she’d told him to abandon all hope, and it had almost broken her heart when he’d shaken his head and his red hair had flopped about. She’d felt sorry for him, because he didn’t understand how good he had it without a mother. It had been the right decision not to help him further, she said, more to herself than to him. She regretted nothing. He’d had a decent life at Saint Helena. Of course she could have told him about the nurse, the woman next to Fred in the photograph, but back then she hadn’t thought it was a good idea. Albert had wanted a mother so badly that nobody would’ve been able to fulfill his expectations, and if she was telling him the truth today, it was only because she could see that he’d never find peace otherwise.

At that she fell silent, and Albert immediately asked her the question he needed to ask.

Klondi answered:

Britta Grolmann

Albert and Fred walked home as night fell. When they got there, Albert fixed them both some bread and butter, and nodded at everything Fred said without really listening. All he could think about was Britta Grolmann. A nurse who’d looked after Fred at the beginning of the 1980s, and afterward had gone to work at a nursing home near Hamburg, at the other end of Germany. Now Albert knew that much. Or rather: that little. Klondi hadn’t been able to give him answers to further questions. Did Britta Grolmann still work at the nursing home? Did she also live there? Alone? Did she think about him sometimes? Did she fear he might show up at her door unannounced? Would she recognize him? Maybe they’d take each other’s hands. Maybe they’d embrace. Maybe she’d smile. And invite him in. And want to see him again. Maybe every few days he’d take the overnight train to Hamburg. Maybe he’d move in with her. Maybe she’d kiss Fred. On the mouth. Maybe they’d all live together. Maybe she’d read to Fred daily from the encyclopedia. Maybe she’d congratulate Albert for passing his exams. And be proud of him. And talk with him about his future. And tell him about what it was like when she’d been pregnant with him. And about Fred. And about Anni. Maybe she’d tell Albert that she’d been waiting for him.

After they’d eaten the bread and butter, Albert and Fred dozed on the chaise longue, in front of the TV. Albert couldn’t help himself, and kept looking at the telephone; he knew that after everything they’d been through and learned today, it was best to sleep on it. He shouldn’t rush into making this kind of call, but do it with a clear head. He had to keep calm. At this point a few more hours wouldn’t make any difference.

Ten minutes later he locked himself in the bathroom with the telephone and dialed the number he’d gotten from information. It rang only once before someone picked up. “Hello, Golden Years Senior Living Facility.”

“Hi, I’d like to speak to one of your employees.”

“If you’d like to register a complaint, you should—”

“No complaints. Just questions.”

“Who are you trying to reach?”

“Britta Grolmann, please.”

“Speaking.”

“You’re Britta Grolmann?”

“I just said so.”

“…”

“Are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“What is this about?”

“I’m Albert Driajes.”

“Fine — and?”

“From Königsdorf.”

“And why are you calling, Albert Driajes from Königsdorf?”

“You don’t remember?”

“What don’t I remember? Is this a joke? I haven’t got time for this kind of thing.”

“Please, don’t hang up — I think you’re my mother.”

She hung up.

The telephone rang five times before someone picked up.

“Golden Years Senior Living Facility.”

“I’m going to keep calling until you hear me out.”

“You’re on the wrong track.” Her voice was shaking. Albert hadn’t expected that. And even less, the satisfaction it gave him. This woman knew who was on the other end of the line, and even if he couldn’t see Britta Grolmann, he was sure that, unlike the expression in the photograph that had been taken over nineteen years ago now, neither pride nor giddiness was on her face today.

“Have you ever worked in Königsdorf?”