Ilja Pfeijffer - La Superba

At last she fell asleep. She turned onto her side, taking all the covers with her. I was cold, and carefully tried to pull back some covers. But that woke her up, and then she began again. When she finally fell asleep a second time and confiscated all of the covers again, I resigned myself, shivering, to my fate. I lay on my back and looked up at the ceiling. I was cold. I tried to move as little as possible for fear of waking her up again. I shivered. It felt like I’d been raped.

28.

“I’m going for a coffee.” She was completely blonde, freshly showered, awake and cheerful. I felt shattered. “And after that I’m going to go for a little walk. But you can stay in bed, darling. But will I see you again before I leave? I’ll text you where I am.”

She slammed the iron door behind her with a loud bang. I was alone at last. Although I was always alone, it felt like a long-awaited liberation. I turned my back to the door, the city, and her and tried to sleep, not only because I was tired but because I didn’t feel like existing. I didn’t feel like the passing of time. I wanted to cheat. I wanted to skip a stretch of time. Preferably a large stretch. A day or so. In any case, until Inge had safely and, as far as I was concerned, definitively left the city. Perhaps just to be sure I should factor in a safety margin of an extra day.

Hibernation. I muttered the word as a silent prayer. My lips tasted it like the first word, the logos from the beginning. Before the beginning even. That timeless, blissful state the universe was in before it had to go and begin. Everything was perfect until someone rolled over onto their other side and, because he took the covers with him, accidentally awakened a divinity. That was the start of all that crap with time and specific arrival times that had to be texted. That was the start of the misery of consciousness and the consciousness of misery. That was the start of fantasies about belief, hope, and love. That was the start of the fantasy of a better life elsewhere, because it could hardly be worse anywhere else than it was here. Utinam ne in nemore . If only that first tree had never been felled in the holy forest before being deprived of its bark and hollowed out as a vessel to sail to another, better place. All our unhappiness springs from that. But you can’t blame us for any of it, because staying put isn’t an option, either. We can’t remain safely at mama’s side because we’ve been cursed with curiosity and longings. It would have been better off for all concerned if they’d just left us to have a nice sleep. What’s wrong with sleep? According to statistical analysis, the majority of crimes committed in the world are perpetrated by people who were awake, while the contribution of sleepers to the crime figures is negligible. And is the person sleeping unhappy? What kind of longings, failings, complications, or insurance claims from lawyers does he experience in his sleep? Does the sleeper long to awaken so that he can toil away in the frustrated wakeful world among others who are also complaining about having been awoken by such shrill sounds?

The divine being who set off the alarm clock should be immediately arrested and tried at the International Criminal Court. He should be accused of serious crimes against humanity, on behalf of humanity. We have numerous millennia of irrefutable witnesses. He will be given a fair trial, but there’s no other imaginable outcome than that he’ll be given the heaviest sentence. And on that day, delirious crowds will gather on the world’s squares and jubilantly burn their alarm clocks.

29.

I was awoken by her text message. She was in the Bar of Mirrors. I ached all over. I didn’t want to see her again. I wanted to float away in my black gondola along the black river of the black winter.

But I was a knight, too. My suit of armor shone in the corner of the room. I’d sworn an oath of allegiance, though I couldn’t remember to whom or what it involved. But I realized it was my duty to be a good man. I rose creaking from my creaking bed. I splashed my face clean with the little bit of firewater I had left, did up the buckles on my armor, and clattered downstairs.

She was inside the porcelain grotto. I saw her from a distance through the window. I faltered. She sat there so enormous and self-assured that I became embarrassed I was on my way to her, that she was a so-called friend, and that I would have to sit down at her table. She’d seen me, she waved.

She was drinking Prosecco. “Ciao!” she said, much too loudly. I whisperingly ordered myself a Prosecco, too. There she was then. She sat there striking a false note. With everything. With the fragile, elegant people in the bar and with the bar itself, this sacred place where I’d met the most beautiful girl in Genoa and I’d kissed her in the little cubbyhole where they make the stuzzichini . The blonde colossus wouldn’t even fit in there. And she had no idea. That’s what bothered me the most. She thought it was good to be herself, and she hadn’t the faintest inkling of the politely restrained, quivering discomfort around her or my suppressed embarrassment. There she sat, inconsiderate, legs spread, in one of the most sacred places on earth without even wondering where she was.

Some people don’t belong in some places. That’s what they say here about the Moroccans and the Senegalese, I know. But in this case, I can say it, can’t I? If I want to deny a big blonde woman from my very own fatherland access to my new, old, fragile city because she doesn’t understand how old and fragile it is and she doesn’t understand how gentle, slender, and petite she has to be to be allowed to stay here, that doesn’t make me a racist, does it?

I took her to the nearest taxi stand, gave her a peck on the cheek, and said, “See you soon.” I was lying. As far as I was concerned it was a lie. When I went back to the Bar of Mirrors I noticed a large crack in the porcelain-tiled ceiling.

30.

Dear friend, I have good news and bad news. I’ll start with the good news. No, naturally, I should start by thanking you first. The amount you sent me didn’t leave much room for maneuver, but after asking around among friends and with a good bit of negotiating, it turned out to be enough to get us represented by a respectable lawyer. Her name is Stefania Volpedo. She’s young and doesn’t have that much experience, but she works at a reputable office. To be honest, this is her first case. But she was ready to take it on, she assured me. I think it makes her even more motivated to prove herself. And a more experienced lawyer is simply too expensive for us. Essentially this is a simple case. We don’t need a chic hotshot to be able to win it. Stefania made this point several times herself. She described Parodi’s claim as ridiculous, grotesque, and without a hope in hell of succeeding. Exactly like I told you. She said that the judge would probably rule it as inadmissible at the preliminary sitting. In any case, that’s what she’d be aiming for with her plea. In fact, she was amazed that the great Antonio Bentivoglio had even made himself available for such a hopeless case. She was also honored that her first court appearance was going to be against such a renowned criminal lawyer and she was looking forward to inflicting on him one of his rare defeats. It would help her career enormously. It would be a dream start. She thanked me for finding her. She almost kissed me.

The hearing was today. I didn’t have to be there myself, she assured me. It was in fact little more than a pro forma sitting. I wouldn’t be asked to do anything. She would represent us and ensure it didn’t get any further than this one sitting. It has just finished. I just spoke to her. Naturally you’re the first one I’m telling the news to, pronto.