Christopher Kloeble - Almost Everything Very Fast

November 16, 2001

Violet’s slim legs disappear into dark water. Feet invisible. Swarms of insects. Splashing. Whip pan: Albert sits on the bank, wrapped in a coat. Pines. Underbrush. Naked roots.

Violet’s voice from off camera: “Come in!”

“It’s fucking cold.”

“I’ll help you warm up.”

“Water’s not my thing.”

“You go swimming with Fred.”

“Water’s his thing.”

“I love the feeling of not knowing what’s around me. What’s under me.”

“That’s just the feeling I can’t stand.”

“Then let me help you. Let me ask Fred a couple of questions.”

“About the past?”

“He must know who your mother is.”

“I already told you, I’ve mucked through all of that.”

“Maybe I’ll see something you missed.”

“Promise me you won’t ask him.”

“Albert.”

“Violet.”

“I promise.”

“Can we go now? I’m cold.”

December 7, 2001

Zoom in on a leather sofa with a metal frame. Albert’s naked back. Pale and freckled. Before him, a stereo from Bang & Olufsen. Not a speck of dust on its mirrored surface.

Violet’s voice from offscreen: “Hey!”

Albert flinches, spins around. “I thought it was your parents.”

“Sorry.”

“Do you have to do that?”

“I could film you for hours.”

“You could? You do. Sometimes it’s hard for me to picture you without that thing in front of your face.”

“You don’t need to be afraid of it just because you’re not used to it.”

“It doesn’t have anything to do with that. It’s just that I’d like to look you in the eye now and then.”

“Someday you’ll thank me.”

“I don’t need recordings to remember how things were.”

“So, what — you think I’m one of those people who videotape the paintings in a museum, and only realize what they’ve seen when they get home?”

“Please, switch it off.”

December 23, 2001

Grainy grayness. Moaning. Heavy breathing. Violet’s voice from off camera: “Wait.” Something bumps the microphone. A streak. A pan across pale thighs. Albert’s hairless chest.

His cold stare. “You can’t be serious.”

“It could be—”

“Turn it off.”

“But it’s the kind of video I want for Christmas.”

“Very funny. Not the kind I want.”

“Just pretend it isn’t here.”

“Violet!”

January 21, 2002

Fred’s profile. Hazy outlines of brownish-green clouds behind him — a map of the world.

Violet’s voice: “Okay. Let’s go. What’s your name?”

“You know what my name is, Violet.”

“Of course. But when other people see this, they’ll certainly want to know what you’re called.”

“Most other people know that I’m Frederick Arkadiusz Driajes.”

“And who gave you that name?”

“Mama.”

“Can you remember her well?”

“I can remember everything.”

“Good, then … what did she say, when Albert was still a baby?”

“Mama said, Albert is a Most Beloved Possession. ”

“I already know that.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Never mind. Fred, do you know a woman who has red hair, like Albert?”

“Mama says, Nature says that red means danger. ”

“How so?”

“What?”

“Why is red dangerous?”

“Because red is the littlest color, of course. You mustn’t touch red, or eat it, or drink it.”

“Fred, did you touch red once?”

“I never, ever touch red! Green is much more ambrosial. I have green eyes.”

“But everyone needs a little bit of red sometimes. Strawberries, for instance, who doesn’t like strawberries?”

“Mama says strawberries make my skin red and steal my breath.”

“Well, she’s right. But you like Albert. And he’s pretty red.”

“Yes.”

“Well …?”

“…”

“Do you understand what I’m getting at?”

“I always understand everything.”

“Fred, there are times when it’s just fine to touch red. Everyone does it.”

“Mama says everyone who touches red says that touching red is okay.”

Door slam. Footsteps.

“Albert!”

Violet’s voice from off camera: “I thought you were going shopping.”

“They’d already closed … is that thing on?!”

“Violet’s doing an interview!”

“I asked you not to.”

“We’ve only been chatting a bit.”

“I have to talk a lot. Violet doesn’t know that red is dangerous.”

“Fred, can you please go to your room?”

“But we aren’t done yet!”

“Yes, I think you are.”

“It’s okay, Fred. We’re done.”

For the first time Fred looks into the camera, as if he’s seeing something that he hadn’t noticed before. Then he goes. Shadows flit across the green-brown clouds.

“I don’t think this is working out.”

“Albert, you’re overreacting.”

“We’re just too different.”

“That could be to our advantage.”

“It doesn’t feel right.”

“I love you.”

“I thought that’s a concept you aren’t convinced by.”

“At least take a little time before you make a decision. Don’t do it for me. Do it for us.”

March 4, 2002

“Is the camera running?”

“Of course not.”

“The red light’s on.”

“It’s off. Don’t you believe me?”

Albert in a coat and hat on a park bench. A torn-open envelope in his left hand.

“Violet, what is this?”

“Tickets.”

“I can see that.”

Violet’s reddened hand moves toward Albert. He flinches. The sound of crows cawing.

“I want to apologize.”

“With first-class tickets?”

“You don’t return my calls. Fred says you were in Königsdorf the other day. You could have told me.”

“You told me to take some time.” He slips the tickets back into the envelope. “This isn’t a good idea.”

“Why not? One of my father’s friends is putting his house in Newfoundland at our disposal, right on the east coast, you know, there should be tons of blueberries, we can hike the East Coast Trail and look for whales. And we’d be far away from here.”

“And what about the camera?”

“I could leave the camera here.”

“You could. ”

“Really!”

“And Fred?”

“You could tell him you’re at Helena.” Her hand reaches for his. “So, what do you think?”

March 7, 2002

A curtain covers the only window in the room. A knock on the door. An older man’s voice from off camera: “Are you okay?”

Violet: “Yes.”

“Why don’t you come on out for a while?”

“Go away!”

Footsteps fading. Violet’s hand, with gnawed fingernails, reaches for the camera. Her pale face appears.

“I eat rice pudding with too much sugar. I cocoon myself in the bedsheets. I don’t go to the bathroom for so long that my belly hurts. The cell phone has grown into my hand. The ‘redial’ button is sticking. I press it every few minutes. Even though you never answer, I think every time that you’re going to, you’re going to explain that you were out, that you’re sorry you canceled the trip, that now it’s clear to you how wrong it was, and you want to make up for it, and that you’re already on your way to me, with two new tickets.”

She weeps.

Two Fingers

Violet had sent Albert these seven recordings after their breakup. And he’d made the mistake of watching them. It was with difficulty that he prevented himself from calling Violet and apologizing. That would only have unnecessarily extended the separation phase, thought Albert again, as he finally approached the airfield. He waited beside the only barn in sight and watched a prop plane with a glider in tow take off. The hill on which the church with its onion dome rose from among the farmhouses of Königsdorf was surrounded by a flat plane of moorland, where the glider airfield had been built back in the fifties.