Christopher Kloeble - Almost Everything Very Fast

“I shouldn’t have settled in so well, I shouldn’t have let myself believe that Anni’s house could somehow be my house, too. I shouldn’t have taken it on myself to tidy up the attic, and I certainly shouldn’t have opened that leather-bound portfolio. Anni said, It’s just his imagination, pure imagination. But Fred, who’d overheard us, tore the drawing out of my hands: I made it, it’s all true imagination! At first glance, the drawing simply showed a hand. But somehow it made me so afraid — it was like I was four years old again and lying alone in the dark, listening to noises outside my window, I couldn’t look at it for long, I felt queasy. I asked, What’s with this hand, what does this picture mean? , and he said: It’s my Most Beloved Possession! Anni, who was holding you in her arms, stepped between us. He’s confused , she said, as she set you down in your crib, and tried to take the drawing away from him. And he hit her in the face, he hit her in the face, full strength, and she fell. She hit the floor. And Fred just stood there, saying nothing, breathing as loudly as if he wanted to suck all the air out of the room. And I didn’t move, I didn’t dare look at him, I just listened to his breathing and closed my eyes. I don’t know how much time passed before I opened them again. Fred was gone. His drawing lay on the floor. Anni lifted herself up, blood dripping from her nose onto the paper. All well , she said. I wrapped a package of frozen vegetables in a dish towel, handed it to her, and called an ambulance. When the medic arrived, she claimed she’d tripped. Our eyes met. She smiled. And I looked away. At that moment it became clear to me that I wanted nothing, nothing more to do with those people. I stroked your head one last time, and left. You must have sensed that something wasn’t right, you screamed like you’d never screamed before. I can still hear it today. Sometimes, when I’m not feeling well, it’s suddenly right there again, and I almost can’t stand it. I’ve been to every possible doctor, and nobody can explain it to me. The only thing that helps is counting. Fred taught me that if I can’t sleep, I should simply imagine I’m at a bus stop and count the green cars. And that’s just what I do, when the screaming rings through my head. I count and count and count.”

Oxymoron

Albert dozed in wine-red light. The red beech casting its shade over him was the only remaining tree in Königsdorf’s cemetery. The town had felled the rest, for lack of room.

Sweat ran down his forehead. The makeup compact lying on Albert’s chest stirred a bit with his every inhalation — he would have liked to open it, to run the red hair within over the scars on his hands. But that would be too risky. One gust of wind and the hair would be gone. Instead, he tugged at his earlobe.

Even though the Red Lady had proved a dead end, he didn’t want to give the compact up. Who knew, the hair might still belong to his real mother.

To his left and right stood gravestones of black marble, which gleamed as immaculately as if they were polished daily. Franz Stöger and Herbert Älig, both of whom had died this year. Stöger’s grave was snowed under with bouquets and wreaths; on one of the mourning ribbons, black against pale blue, stood the word Why? An idiotic question, since it was so easy to answer, thought Albert. Industrial accident, cholesterol buildup, car accident, testicular cancer— that’s why. Or might Why? really mean Why now, of all times? Why just two days after his retirement? Why during our golden anniversary cruise? Why while we were arguing? Why not later? Why so late?

There was a simple answer for that, too: because. This whole search for meaning had already been getting on Albert’s nerves, even before he’d left the church — as early as possible, and much to Sister Alfonsa’s disappointment — on turning fifteen. There was no meaning, no reason, there was merely sooner-or-later. What was really repulsive about the question Why? was that it articulated a reproach to the dead on the part of those still living. How dare you die before me? How dare you leave me alone here? Do you have even the slightest idea how badly I’m doing? You can’t just scoot off and leave me behind! What am I supposed to do now? Mourning, thought Albert, is nothing but a word. People contrived it to make things simpler. But what you actually feel for the dead isn’t sorrow, isn’t pity either — what hurts so fucking bad when someone disappears forever is nothing more than the realization that you’ve been alone from your very first day in this world, and that you’ll stay that way till the end.

“This is a good spot!” shouted Fred, who lay on his back on an empty plot in the row of gravestones in front of Albert, flapping his arms and legs, making a grass angel. “You should give it a try!”

Albert walked over to Fred and stretched out beside him.

“You can see plenty from here,” said Fred. “You can see the clock tower of the church. That way I’ll always know how late it is. And you can see the moor. And you can see the whole sky.”

“And you can see me, when I come to visit you.”

“That’s ambrosial! Will you come a lot?”

“Every day. Maybe I’ll even bring someone with me now and then.”

“Klondi?”

“For instance.”

“Gertrude?”

“I doubt that horses are allowed in the cemetery.”

“Mama?”

Albert fingered his makeup compact, searching for the right words. But Fred gave him one of his big claps on the shoulder, and pointed at the wall at the edge of the cemetery, in which the funerary urns were kept: “That’s funny! Of course you can’t bring Mama with you. Because she’s already here.”

Albert smiled, acted amused.

For a few minutes they lay silently beside each other. Fred closed his eyes and ran his fingers through the grass. Before long it was too hot for Albert — he sat up, sniffed at Fred, nudged him, and looked him in the eyes.

“But I really did shower!”

“Go tell it to Gertrude.”

“Why?”

“It’s a figure of speech.”

“ Tell it to Gertrude is a figure of speech?”

“Don’t change the subject. Have you showered?”

Fred blinked.

While Fred steeped in the bath, a lit candle in his hand — dripping wax into the water to tell the future — Albert stood on the stairs in front of a framed photograph showing Anni spraying the driveway with a garden hose. She was wearing a dress — she wore dresses in all of her photographs — and the expression on her face was sober, thoughtful.

Albert said to the photo: “I’ve spoken with Britta Grolmann.”

He heard splashing, and glanced up at the bathroom door, which was standing ajar.

“What was it you wanted to hide?”

Albert turned away, descended three steps, then paused. Out of the corner of his eye he’d spotted a photo in which Anni was pushing a wheelbarrow full of leaves.

“Does the gold have anything to do with it? Klondi mentioned that the cassette, the lilies, and a couple of other things were from her. But not the gold.”

A step farther down, Anni was mending a pair of blue jeans. She wasn’t even looking at the camera in that one.

“Ah, shit.”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

Fred stood on the upper landing, wrapped in a bathrobe that barely reached his knees.

“Did you pour something pretty?”

Fred held up a little clump of candle wax. “A real skull!”

Albert looked straight at him. “It looks more like a piece of cheese to me.”

“It looks more like a real skull to me,” said Fred seriously. Lather hung in his beard.