Broken Glass Park (9 page)

Maria shakes her head and wipes her tears away with the sleeve of her shirt. Then she pulls out a big, floral-pattern handkerchief from the waistband of her tights and blows her nose. It sounds like a clap of thunder.

“I’m so lonely here,” she sniffles into her handkerchief. “I never thought it would be so awful here. I don’t understand anything here. Not even the TV shows. And the Russians here in the neighborhood all look at me funny. Grigorij’s the only one who is always nice to me.”

“Why does everyone look at you funny?” I ask, surprised. “Half the people around here are from Kazakhstan or wherever. Haven’t you been able to make any friends?”

Maria shakes her head like a wet horse. “I think it might have something to do with the whole history.”

“What history?”

“They all know I’m related to him. And, you know, when something like that happens to a family they are shunned. It’s like a disease, and nobody wants to get infected. It was like that even in Novosibirsk.”

“I don’t give a shit what happened in Novosibirsk,” I say and drop myself down onto my pillows.

“Don’t be mad at me, Sascha. You have your hell and I have mine,” Maria says. Then, with surprising grandiosity, she adds: “It’s my burden and I’m going to bear it. I am not the type of person who would abandon children.”

After she leaves I hear her call from the hallway: “Grigorij is a real sweetheart.”

It sucks that you can’t suffocate yourself with your own pillow, I think to myself. Could I ask Maria to help me?

I lie there for a long time with the covers pulled up over my head. I can see Grigorij’s face in my mind, but it begins to blur and is replaced with Vadim’s. Now there’s a new one, I think. Jesus, girls, can’t you get by without it? Why can’t you be self-sufficient? Why do you want to be groped by someone like Grigorij or Vadim? Is there a gene for masochism on the X chromosome?

I hear the doorbell ring and Anton’s bright voice breaks the silence of the apartment. Half an hour later Alissa’s squeals join in.

I pull the covers down off my head and look at the telephone on my desk.

I’ve been thinking about it for an hour already and keep chasing the thought from my head. I don’t know why I’m even thinking about it. I try to tell myself it’s because of Grigorij. I just can’t accept his presence. Maybe it’s good for Maria and not bad for Anton and Alissa. But I can’t stand it.

I smooth out the business card on my knee and dial the handwritten number. The last thing I feel like is talking to a secretary.

I let it ring for a while. I’m about to hang up. If voicemail kicks in I’ll listen to his greeting and try again later. If I don’t lose my nerve in the meantime.

And then he picks up. He says the two syllables of his last name in one breath, as if he’s just run to pick up the phone.

“Good evening,” I say as a wave of shyness suddenly washes over me.

“Yes?”

“It’s Sascha Naimann,” I say. Now I’ve done it. I can’t hang up now without losing face.

There’s a long pause. I scrape my fingernails across the face of the business card and silently hurl insults at myself. Before I’m finished cursing myself out the voice is there again, louder and more calm.

“Sascha? What a surprise. Now I can talk.”

I’ve forgotten what I want to say.

“Is everything okay?” he asks in a friendly tone. “Are you still there?”

“Yes,” I say. “It’s about your offer.”

“My what?”

“You said I could call you if I had a problem.”

“Ah, yes, of course,” he says. “What’s the trouble?”

“I can’t stay here at home,” I say authoritatively.

“Why not?” he says, shocked.

“Just the way it is,” I say.

“Got it. And what can I do?”

I take a deep breath. “I need a place to stay,” I say. “I need to get out of here—at least for a few days.”

He is silent for a while. I count off the seconds: five, ten, fifteen—at seventeen he speaks.

“Have you thought,” he says, “about a hotel?”

“Whatever,” I say, closing my eyes and uttering a silent, incoherent prayer—despite the fact that I’m not religious.

“Or were you thinking . . . I don’t mean to be too forward, I’m just trying to understand what you mean . . . Would you like to stay over at my place?”

I open my eyes and swallow the gasp that wells up inside me. “I don’t know what your situation is,” I say. “Tell me if it’s a stupid idea. I don’t care where I go, as long as I don’t have to sleep here.”

“We have a guest room,” he says. The “we” stabs painfully at my ear. “I just want to be sure I haven’t misunderstood you. If you are looking for a place to stay and you’re asking me for help, it goes without saying that I’m willing to put you up—but there are other places, as well.”

“If you don’t have anything against it, I would opt for the former arrangement,” I say. Suddenly I don’t care anymore. “Where do you live, by the way?”

“In Bad Soden,” he says. “Not right in the town center—in a section a little ways out. But I can’t pick you up until five-thirty. I’ll wrap up a bit early. Does that work?”

I can’t believe my ears. “You’re going to pick me up?” I ask, feeling that for the first time in two years fortune is smiling on me. “Here at home, is that what you mean?”

“You haven’t moved, have you? If you use public transport it would probably take you two hours. I’ll pick you up at five-thirty.”

“Great,” I say. I’ve gotten up now and I’m dancing in place in my little room. I feel like jumping and singing.

“I’ll just need your address.”

“My what? Oh, of course.” I tell him the address and mix up the street number and the apartment number. It takes a few attempts at straightening it out before he finally reads back the correct address.

“Perfect,” he says patiently. “Just one more thing. Call me if you change your mind, okay? Call my mobile. You have the number.”

“I’m not going to change my mind,” I say. “You can call me if you change yours.”

“Right, see you in a bit,” he says calmly and hangs up.

I open my wardrobe and throw some underwear, jeans, and a hoodie onto my bed. I shove it all into my backpack. I grab a toothbrush from the bathroom and return to my room, spinning around looking for things I might absolutely need.

But I don’t need anything. Shortly after five I go into the kitchen. It’s filled with the smell of crepes. Maria, keeping watch over a cast iron skillet, steps out of the plume of smoke. Alissa is standing on a footstool staring at the skillet as intently as if a cartoon were being shown in it. Anton is sitting quietly at the kitchen table drawing. I look over his shoulder—it’s a row of black tanks in flames.

“Maria,” I say, “ever heard of a ventilation fan?”

“What?” She turns around and ducks her head down.

“Alissa,” I say, “it’s time you took care of these things. There’s a switch up there—Maria should turn it on before she starts cooking. That way the whole apartment won’t stink of fish or cauliflower or burnt crepes. We won’t see each other for a few days. I’m going to a girlfriend of mine’s place.”

Maria would never dare to ask questions. But Alissa has no such inhibitions.

“Which friend?” she asks, turning her jam-smeared face to me. “Do you have any girlfriends?”

“Yes,” I tell her. “She lives in town. I’m going to stay with her for a few days. It’s totally normal.”

“When are you coming back?” Anton asks.

“We’ll see,” I say. “I’m taking my mobile. Call me if anything comes up.”

“Good,” says Alissa. Maria remains silent.

“The crepes are burning, Maria,” I say. She turns around, grabs the skillet, and flicks it. The crepe flies up, turns in the air, and lands back in the pan.

Maria has a lot of these artistic moves up her sleeve.

“Take me to the door, okay?” I say to Maria. “Be good, you little hooligans. I’ll see you soon.”

“See ya,” Anton says, and Alissa waves with a wooden spatula. Maria follows me to the apartment door and stares at the backpack in the entryway. Her lips tremble.

“Did you say something?” I ask her.

“Is it . . . ” she says, barely audible. “Is it because of me and Grigorij? For god’s sake, sweetie, I never thought that this would be such . . . please, Sascha, don’t do this to me!”

«Don’t be so dramatic, Maria,» I say firmly. «Everything’s fine. I’m just going to see a friend. I’m old enough. Take care of the little ones. Don’t let them watch too much TV, read to them, make sure they do their homework—even if you don’t understand it. And make sure they eat some fruit.»

“I buy fresh fruit every second day,” Maria starts to say, but I silence her with a wave of the hand.

“Call me if anything comes up.”

She looks at me sadly.

“I think it’s good that Grigorij only comes over when the kids aren’t home, got it?”

She nods so forcefully that her double chin wobbles.

“Then everything’s all set. See you soon.” I throw my backpack over my shoulders.

“Little Sascha,” Maria says, “Not that I care one way or the other, but do you really have a girlfriend?”

I look at her blankly.

“The thought had crossed my mind,” she says, coming closer so she can look me in the eyes. “You’ve got something against men. Maybe it’s better for you to be with women. The most important thing is to have someone.”

“What?” I scream. “It’s not that type of girlfriend. I’m not a lesbian. Unfortunately. But I’m not one.”

“Then maybe . . . ” Maria’s face takes on an impish look, “Maybe it’s actually a boyfriend?”

I think for a second and then nod.

“You caught me,” I say. “It’s a boyfriend. See you later.”

I head down the stairs.

At quarter to six, a silver Audi winds its way into the complex. I’m sitting on a planter, trying to calm my racing heartbeat. I hop down once I can see the license plate.

He gets out and waits as I walk over.

“Hello,” I say, smiling like an idiot.

“Good evening. You still want to get out of here?”

“Otherwise I would have called you back.”

“Good.” He opens the trunk. “Give me your bag.”

I hand him my backpack. He holds it up as if he’s gauging the weight.

“Is that it?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.” He opens the passenger door for me. It smells nice in the car, new leather and decent cologne.

He gets in. “Last chance to hop out,” he says seriously.

I hold tight to the sides of the seat.

He notices, smiles, and turns the key in the ignition. “Off we go,” he says.

We’re silent for almost the entire trip. I have to keep myself from looking over at him too often. I look straight ahead as houses, trees, and street lamps rush past. The car glides quietly and easily over the asphalt, but I continue to hold onto the sides of the seat as if I might fall out.

Once we’re on the autobahn he glances briefly in my direction.

“Put your seatbelt on,” he says.

“Huh?”

“Please put on your seatbelt.”

I grab the belt and wrestle with it for a while before I finally manage to click it into place. He turns on the radio for the six o’clock news. I peek at him sideways. He’s concentrating on the road ahead, his hands on the steering wheel. He has big hands and not a single ring on his fingers.

I feel butterflies in my stomach.

“Do you know where Bad Soden is?” he asks without looking at me.

“Not really,” I say. “Somewhere around here.”

“True.”

Two miles of stop-and-go traffic, the radio says. It’s music to my ears. I’m hoping we make no progress at all.

I lean back and feel the cool leather on my back. All of a sudden I’m incredibly tired. I’m interested in who is waiting for him—and for me—at his house. But not that interested. I’ll find out soon enough.

“Look,” he says. “Frankfurt.”

I look out at the concrete desert off to the right of the highway with its silhouetted skyscrapers. “I know,” I say. “Nice.”

“What’s nice?”

“Frankfurt. I like big cities. They look best when they are lit up at night. I’ve liked that since I was a kid.”

Then we are silent again.

I close my eyes and try not to smile. Then I jump, startled by a shrill, grating noise.

“The windshield wipers,” he says as I relax back into the seat. “It’s raining.”

“But the sun is shining.”

“And it’s raining.”

The wipers smear the dusty drops across the windshield. Gleaming holes have been punched through the gray clouds exposing patches of improbably blue sky.

“Do you think there’ll be a rainbow?” he asks.

“No,” I say. “It would be too kitschy.”

«Life is kitschy,» he says. «Nothing but kitsch and clichés and things you’ve heard a hundred times before, tasteless plotlines and dialogue that wouldn’t make the cut in any halfway decent screenplay. A rainbow over the Frankfurt skyline—what would you think of that?»