The bread we break

Whenever my alarm clock goes off in the morning, I stay in bed for a little while. Ten, fifteen minutes. I’ve heard somewhere that drunks tend to die in their sleep. That they fall asleep and never wake up again, just like that. So I lie there and listen.

In class, I sit in the very front. Those, who return from lunch before everyone else, always sit in first row. Keeping a low profile. Not standing in anyone’s way. Our teacher’s name is Mrs. Stolz. She wears a pair of glasses that weighs heavy enough to keep slipping down her nose. Today, she looks really short behind the teacher’s desk, short and old. She salutes: “Good morning, class.“ There’s a woman standing next to her, whom I’ve never seen before. Short blond hair, dark suit. I wonder if she’s the reason why Mrs. Stolz is looking so old today.

Mrs. Stolz makes a cautious gesture with her hand and says: “This is Ms. Engels.“
“Doesn’t look like an angel to me“, one of the boys says, everyone’s laughing. “Ms. Engels“, Mrs. Stolz continues , “is our student teacher.“
I always wondered why someone would want to become a teacher. What would make you wanna do that? Ms. Engels doesn’t write her name on the blackboard, she doesn’t repeat it either. She tells us that she’ll be attending our class now from time to time. I’m not listening properly, only contemplating her face. The movement of her lips. Her smile here and there in between her words. At the end of her speech, she looks up to the ceiling for a moment, and seats herself at one of the free desks. Then Mrs. Stolz writes a math problem on the blackboard. Pythagoras‘ theorem. I keep mixing up cathetus and hypotenuse. As I look up from my book, Ms. Engels is standing right next to me and leaning over.
“Are you doin‘ alright with that?“
I look back down on my books. For a few seconds, I dont’t recognize my own handwriting. She places her hand on my shoulder, her fingers are slender but strong. “Yes“, I whisper, not looking at her, my view going right past her out the window.

During our break I go into the library. I sit down at a table at the very end, between two shelves, and open a book. Nothing specific, just some book. I like the smell of the pages. I read a sentence now and then, repeating it in my mind. Meanwhile I imagine every single word, one after the other, as they gradually merge into significance.
Somebody says: “I put my whole fist into that one.“
I recognize the voice, it’s Frank. He’s one grade ahead of me. Although he lives in my neighbourhood, I rarely ever see him outside of school. Most of the time, he hangs out with his friends in front of the corner shop at an intersection nearby. He already smokes and drinks alcohol.
“I took her from behind, too. I’m telling you, there’s nothing better than a real good butt-fuck.“
“Where did you get the money for that?“
“My uncle paid.“
“Dude, that’s awesome,“ one of the other guys says.
I wonder what it was like. His fist and all. And what you get paid for that. Than Frank says: “You can’t do stuff like that with the girls around here. They don’t even let you put a finger up their snatch.“
I stare into my book again. On paper, all the letters look so captive, only in my mind they dance back and forth. Mother used to read a lot, my father says. Supposedly, I’m a chip off the old block.

I wear our key around my neck, on a shoe string with three knots. I fumble for it every few minutes, press the cold metal against my chest. I’m scared to lose it. Sometimes, I imagine someone might find it, someone, who know’s it belongs to me. How he sneaks into our apartment to scan through our stuff. Traces of our existence, evidence that we are more than just a name on the mailbox.

As soon as I open the door, I can hear his rattling breath. He’s fallen asleep in the old armchair, the TV is on mute. Sometimes, he only has his eyes closed, but I can always tell the difference.

I go into my room and lie down on my bed. Rolling over I pull my knees up to my chest and stroke my bare feet with the tips of my fingers. I imagine how I can get my nerves on the right track, by doing this. Of course that’s total nonsense, but sometimes it just feels that way.
I’m thinking of that fine, dreary hair on the back of her hand, and that there was something in her smile, something warm, that was meant for me. Sounds weird, I don’t know her at all. I know absolutely nothing about her, and she doesn’t know anything about me. Perhaps that’s exactly why I feel that way; because she doesn’t know a single thing about me.

I’m standing in an entrance, the door is only ajar. Darkness behind, only at the very end, there’s a dim light. As I step in, there’s a sour smell, which I follow while it grows stronger. I’m approaching a low table made of stone, white doves are lying on top, side by side. I touch their bodies, they’re taut and cold. Their heads have been cut off, but I don’t see any blood. Only their white, immaculate corpses, and the delicately consolidated feathers.

As I open my eyes, he’s sitting in front of my bed in semi-darkness. Sitting there, in silence. He’s looking straight at me, though it feels as if he’s got no eyes, only black holes instead.
“You were in dreamland.“
I nod my head.
“I got money“, he says.
“So?“
Of course I know what he wants.
“You can keep the change.“
“Yeah“, I say, “alright.“
So he gets up and places a bill onto the chair. In the doorway he turns around and says: “You don’t do anything bad?“
“No“, I say, “I don’t do anything bad.“
I take the path around the courtyard. Past the trash cans and the bulky waste. Kaiser’s is not an option, they won’t sell any booze to me, but Winnie knows my father from back in the day. And he says that he trusts me, that I won’t take advantage of that. His store is hardly bigger than my room.

As he sees me, he wipes across his face with his sleeve.
“Haven’t been here in a while.“
I nod my head.
“How’s your father?“
“Fine“, I say.
For a moment he gets lost in his thoughts, then says: “Well, that’s great that your father’s alright.“
I feel his glance on me. He shakes his head and says: “How old are you now?“
“Fourteen“, I say, “almost fifteen.“
“Fourteen“, he repeats, then there’s that glance again. He just doesn’t let it go. Still not, while he’s taking a bottle Zinn 40 off the shelf under the counter.
“Need a bag?“
I nod. He grins and slowly runs his hand up and down the bottleneck. I can see the muscles in his jaw moving, grinding air. He hands over the bag and scrubs his bulge. Then he rummages around in his pocket for quite some time. I close my eyes until I hear a jingle. He holds the change in his palm in my direction, but I only take the bag and leave.

When I come back, a woman is sitting on the couch. I can smell her perfume already in the hallway. She looks at me, examines my legs.
“Hey sweetie“, she says, her voice sounds faceless, like a pre-recorded message on an answering machine.
“This is Marion“, my father says and points with his finger at her as if there was anyone else in the room. She pulls up a corner of her mouth, and eyeballs me again.
“You remind me of my girl“, she says, “she’s about your age.“
I place the bag on the table.
“Lives in Berlin, still doin‘ school.“
“School is important, I tell her that all the time, too“, my father says, and Marion nods in confirmative agreement. “School is important.“

I try to imagine what her daughter might look like. Whether or not she has the same bloated face, the same flimsy blond hair? I wonder, when was the last time she actually saw her daughter, and would she even recognize her own child? By all means, my mother certainly didn’t. When I had walked up the driveway of the house, where she lives with her new family now, she had stopped her gardening only to look at me and ask: “Yes…?“ As if I was lost. After a few seconds, it had finally rung a bell in her head.

He opens the bottle Zinn 40 and pours a little bit into a mug. Then my dad looks at me and says: “Thank you.“ His voice sounds gentle, almost tender. In that moment, his eyes are all clear. He hands the mug to Marion, and shortly after, it’s all as ever. They don’t talk to each other in order to understand what they’re saying, they’re only searching for the sound of someone else. I return to my room and go back to bed. Sometimes, I think that’s all I can do.

I see Frank, and I see a girl. Her face looks blurred and round, like some kind of old-fashioned test picture. Frank is standing behind the girl, whispering into her ear. On the edge of consciousness, I realize that they’re in my room, but I can’t move. Frank shoves a knife into her stomach, then opens the zipper of his jeans. That’s all I see.

Miss Engels says, she would like to break the bread with us. Nobody understands. She explains it’s a school project, through which we’ll get to know more about each other. It would also be about nutrition. Nutrition is important, she says, and she would like to know, what we eat in the morning – in fact, she would join each of us for a breakfast at home with our parents. At the end of the semester, she would then like to discuss her conclusions with us. Then she goes on about long-chain polyunsaturated fatty acids, carbohydrates, how bad white refined sugar and red meat are, and of course soft drinks, too. I have a hard time believing what she’s saying. How she’s saying it. She’s talking about vitamins that I’ve never even heard of. I see her smile, her little white teeth, and then comes that moment, in which I imagine her sitting in our kitchen.
“So, what do you think?“, she asks. Nobody answers. I feel the key as it’s pushing hard and cold against my chest.

Later that day, I’m standing in front of our fridge. I open it just a bit, and close it again fast, without having taken a look inside. My father’s lying on the couch, his head on a pillow, his hair all scraggly in his face, his breath sounds like a broken air conditioning. Right next to him Marion, her arm hanging down like numb, her hand touching the floor below. Both of them have their eyes shut, but there’s a twitch behind their lids, a fine tremble that reminds me of how trapped insects flap their wings. I watch them and wonder if they’re dreaming or if there’re only holes left.

As I open the can, in which my father keeps his cash, I have to think of the coins as they had been laying on Winnie’s clammy palm. I go into the bathroom and lock the door. Turn on the water, ice-cold. My pulse throbbing in my wrists.

Outside the house, I take my key off the shoe lace and throw it into a flower bed. Though, I can still feel the metal on my chest as I start running.

Frank is sitting by himself on a bench in front of the corner shop. It’s already closed. He’s got a cigarette in his mouth and waves at me. I turn away, keep running, then I feel his hands on my hips.
“Hey, wait a second“, he says. “Are you scared of me, or what?“
I stop, but I don’t answer.
“No need to be scared“, he says and touches my breasts, gentle at first, then tight. I think of her little white teeth. And how she says: Together, we break the bread. He’s pressing himself against me from behind, I can smell his breath, cigarettes, beer. “Are you actually still a virgin?“, he asks, his hand slips through my top. At first, he slips off my zipper, but with a quick move, he’s already in my pants.
I see her smile, her entire face in front of me, feel his rough fingertips. How can a person smile like that? At some point, he finally got enough and lets go of me.

On my way back, I still feel his hands on my skin, burning like dirt rubbed into an open wound. Broken asphalt below my feet, a gray surface, laced with scars, and I stare at these scars, see myself and everyone else in them.

The key is still laying in the flower bed.

translated by Doris Jünger

Share

Schreibe einen Kommentar

Deine E-Mail-Adresse wird nicht veröffentlicht. Erforderliche Felder sind mit * markiert.