Where Love Begins (10 page)

Eighteen

Stella takes her bike to the back of the house. She twists off the valve cap, listens to the air escaping, waits a while. Then she closes the valve again, puts the cap on the windowsill and pushes the bike out of the garden.

*

The bicycle mechanic is sitting in the afternoon sun in front of his house on a folding chair next to a little table. He's drinking tea out of a chipped cup, has just rolled himself a cigarette but not yet lit it. He's wearing a shirt that's been mended in many places the old-fashioned way, dirty trousers and sturdy shoes. Next to him, dusty bikes leaning against each other next to the house wall. The picture windowpane is turned green by the large plants clustered behind it.

Would you like a cup of tea.

He's not at all surprised by Stella's arrival. Points at the bikes leaning against each other; she adds her bike to them. He goes around the corner of the house, comes back with a second chair, and unfolds it next to his own. He says, Actually, it's nicer to sit out back, but you know that already. Then he disappears into the house.

Stella sits down.

Tobacco, cigarette papers, an ashtray, an address book, a box of matches with a carnation on top, and a book without a dust jacket whose spine Stella can't decipher, and which she doesn't have the nerve to turn over, are lying on the little table. She hears the bicycle mechanic walking around inside the house, clattering in the kitchen; it's odd to know where the kitchen is in his house; it's also peculiar to sit outside his house, looking out at the familiar yet at the same time different street. The gate is wide open. Dandelions and wild mint grow in the rubble next to the fence. Water for the flowers in plastic bottles. A rusted tank between his property and Mister Pfister's. The grass around Mister Pfister's house is dry. His house looks deserted, downright grey.

The bicycle mechanic puts a cup of tea on the little table next to Stella. The tea is clear and golden; this cup too has a crack. The bicycle mechanic sits down on the second chair. They sit next to each other, looking out at the street where a hunchbacked, sharp-eyed child is pushing a scooter past the gate from right to left as if on cue.

I work here just for myself, the bicycle mechanic says. This isn't an official workshop; I work on my own.

I know, Stella says. I thought as much.

He nods. He says, Your child goes to the Community Kindergarten, and you always disappear into the Community Centre. Do you work in the Community Centre.

I pick up keys there, Stella says. At the office for Home Nursing Care. The office is in the Community Centre, and I pick up the keys to my patients' homes there. I'm a nurse. I work for Paloma.

They talk a little together. They try to have a conversation, what Mister Pfister had asked for and Stella had refused him. She's talking with this bicycle mechanic who of course reminds her of Jason – dirty hands, black, lively eyes, a quiet physical tension, and a dangerous politeness; where does that come from, and what does it mean. They talk a little about the belated spring, everything in bloom at the same time, lilac, horse chestnuts, a phenomenon. About winter, which the bicycle mechanic spends in the South because he can't stand the freezing cold, not coming back until the days get longer again. About the old development; he says that he would leave as soon as the exalted pretensions of the new development cross the street. He speaks slowly, almost sleepily, yet precisely.

There is a time warp here, have you noticed that already? Time has stood still here, and everyone who lives here keeps to himself. I've seen you for years, yet this is the first time we're talking to each other. There are scarcely any changes. This is not an open neighbourhood, but for a while that can be a good thing, a necessary thing maybe.

He looks at Stella thoughtfully. Then he says, Do you dance.

No, Stella says. I never dance.

It feels funny to say that sentence. I never dance. She thinks, Sometimes I dance with Esther, and she has to laugh at that; he laughs too, laughs to himself in a knowing way.

I'm sure you'd be a good tango dancer.

Unlikely, Stella thinks, that certain things will still happen. That I'll dance at some time or other. And is that too bad, or isn't it.

She raises her cup and extends her legs. The bicycle mechanic's wristwatch emits a soft signal tone, four o'clock; he says, I set it once by accident, and I've left it like that ever since. It's certainly not supposed to remind me that it's the end of the work day. All I can do is ask myself what happened on this day, that's all.

And what happened today, Stella asks hesitantly.

I repaired a bike. Read one page in a book, watered my plants, you came by, and I made tea for you. Definitely a lot for one day.

*

At some point Stella says it.

I wanted to ask you about Mister Pfister, about your neighbour. I wanted to ask you whether you know him.

She says it, then holds her breath.

Of course I know Mister Pfister, the bicycle mechanic says. He says it without making a face, doesn't bat an eye. I know pretty much all the people living on this street. Except for you, probably. All of them except for you.

He says, Why do you ask? What do you want to know?

Stella sits up in her chair, exhales, and leans forward. She is filled with regret; she feels reminded of something, almost, something from her childhood, something long forgotten.

She wants to know whether the matter is getting out of hand. But how is the bicycle mechanic concerned in that?

Stella says, The thing is, Mister Pfister wants to talk to me. It's that he'd like to have a conversation with me.

Yes, and what's so hard about that? the bicycle mechanic says with a smile, and what is he supposed to say, after all; so of course he asks exactly this stupid and appropriate question.

Yes but I don't want to, Stella says. I don't want to have a conversation with him, and he can't understand that. He simply doesn't understand; he won't leave me alone; he is terrorising me. He's terrorising me. Her voice is trembling audibly.

The bicycle mechanic looks out into the street. Not over towards Mister Pfister's.

He says, All right, when the sun goes down, we'll go to the back of the house.

Thank you very much, Stella says.

She waits a while. Then she says, What kind of person is he. Can you tell me something about him, would that be possible.

The bicycle mechanic could say, Why should I of all people tell you about Mister Pfister. He could say, Why me, I'm not getting involved in that. But that isn't what he does. He comes to Stella's aid; at least he speaks, doesn't refuse to give her an answer. In doing so he reveals a little about himself. We do that all the time, Stella thinks, gratefully; we keep revealing ourselves.

The bicycle mechanic says, Mister Pfister comes over to visit me sometimes. He sits there where you're sitting now. He's pretty alone. I can imagine quite well that he can't accept a No, he's out of practice; he doesn't have much to do with other people. Maybe it's always been like that. Could be.

He says, Mister Pfister used to be good-looking – not any more; he takes medications, there are mental problems. He could have had several women, but didn't. In spite of that he's very full of himself, that's obvious. He thinks he's fine. He has a high opinion of himself; he's smug and conceited too. When we sit here together, he likes to tell me things. Knows what's going on. What keeps the world from coming apart; he has his own ideas about what's going on. Dead sure. Not open to other opinions, you might say. Mister Pfister is not open to other ideas.

He finally lights his cigarette, inhales once, twice, and then looks briefly over at Mister Pfister's house, not worried, rather as if he wanted to check on something. Then he says, But he's also touchy. Sensitive, educated; at some point he must have wanted something. If he follows you, he's probably not doing well. I haven't seen him for quite a while. It's been quite a while since he's come over; who knows what that may mean.

He doesn't follow me, Stella says. He harasses me; there's a difference. I'd like him to stop. I can't stand it any more.

Then you have to tell him that; the bicycle mechanic looks at Stella impassively; he seems to be wondering which side he'd be on if someone were to ask him. It's obvious he isn't necessarily Mister Pfister's friend, but he seems to like him.

Tell him that. If you've never spoken to him, then maybe you ought to do it sometime. Tell him, talk to him. One can talk to him; I'm sure one can.

Oh, Stella says. Can one?

This suggestion is the opposite of Jason's advice. The opposite of Clara's advice, all the advice in the goddamn miserable network. But Stella senses that she's going to listen to this suggestion. What would Jason and Clara say? And what would they say about her even sitting here.

But after all she isn't sitting here secretly. Jason can walk by the house; Mister Pfister can walk by the house; anybody can.

Let's move to another spot, the bicycle mechanic says, move into the warm setting sun.

He takes his cup off the table and pours the rest of the tea into the grass with a conclusive or preparatory gesture.

Yes, Stella says. With pleasure.

Could I go through the house? Through the hall and the kitchen, out the back; I'd like to see what your house looks like. Compared to mine.

Of course, the bicycle mechanic says. Of course you can.

He gets up before she does and goes in ahead of her.

Nineteen

These days Esther does everything by herself. When Stella arrives, she's already sitting in the kitchen. She has dressed herself, straightened her bed, put her medication, glasses, pencils, crossword puzzles and newspaper on the tray of her walker and set off. She has closed the kitchen door, which at other times is left wide open, behind her; Stella assumes this is supposed to mean something, but can't imagine what. Esther is sitting at the kitchen table and has the radio on very loud. She's listening to a classical music concert and raises her hand in warning when Stella enters the kitchen. In spite of that Stella starts to unpack her purchases, wash the dishes, sweep up. You have no idea, Esther says; it's really astonishing that you don't have the slightest inkling about anything.

She inclines her head to the radio and conducts an invisible orchestra with skilful little gestures. Pa-ti-ta. Pa-ti-ta. Pa-ti – listen, now here they are. The mermaids. Esther shakes her head and gestures as if Stella had said something, then she turns the radio off and bends over the television listings, and with angry strokes checks all the programmes she wants to watch, that she considers worthwhile.

I can take care of myself. Please make me some toast with orange marmalade since you're sneaking around here anyway, and sweep the room, the dust balls are as big as a child's head; I wonder where you learned to keep house. You're pale. You should change your hairstyle. You ought to see more people; I think I'm the only person you have anything to do with.

Stella empties the commode, the washbowl, the mug with Esther's stringy spit, she rinses the mug at the sink in the bathroom looking elsewhere, certainly not in the mirror. She vacuums, piles up the old newspapers; she's brought along flowers, irises and roses, and she arranges them carefully in Esther's glass vase; she listens to Esther's monologues and thinks there is a kernel of truth in what Esther's going on about. Esther is not well liked. Stella puts the books Esther has dropped behind the bed over the weekend back on the shelf. Volumes of poetry, short stories, dream interpretations. She wipes off the shelf and arranges the photos of Esther's children and grandchildren again; it's sad to see how many people Esther has lived with, and how alone she now is. Get down to business, Esther calls from the kitchen. Get a move on! She doesn't specify what business, what move she's referring to.

Stella sits down at the table with Esther; cuts the toast into small pieces, says, Esther, be sensible. Let me get at your ear to measure your blood sugar. Esther turns and with the expression of an offended child that knows better, holds her left ear to Stella. Stella squeezes a drop of blood from the soft, delicate earlobe. Your sugar is too high, Esther; and then she watches as Esther confidently lifts her shirt and injects insulin into her swollen abdomen. She records Esther's numbers in the record book; they sit together peacefully. Stella has the clear sense that Esther is glad she is there, even though she would never say so. In suspiciously good shape, the night nurse had written into the record book, conspicuously lively. Stella knows what that means; increased vitality is often followed by illness, a fall or an accident.

Close that awful book, Esther says sternly. Leave now. There's a fresh wind blowing here, I can feel it, and the two of us, you and I, we won't be seeing much of each other any more. How is your child?

She's well, Stella says. She's doing well. Last week she lost both of her front teeth at the same time; she looks like a little vampire.

Aha. Esther smiles vaguely. She says, I think you'll be leaving us, or am I mistaken. You'll put a nice letter of resignation on Paloma's desk, that's what you'll do. Am I wrong.

No, Stella says. She says, I don't know.

Well, Esther says, this is a dead corner. A dead corner of the world. I don't remember any more what brought me here, how in God's name I ever came to be here.

Stella ponders this as she gets on her bicycle outside Esther's house. She could have said, Same here. I don't remember either what brought me here, how I got here.

In the dim summery light the gardens disappear, the ordinary streets suddenly look completely foreign to her; something is changing, has already changed.

*

Recently,
Stella writes to Clara,
I've been having the same dreams I had when I was a child. I dream about the doll's house that stood in my nursery and a tiny little being, which I know is evil, flits through the night-time doll's house. It hides in the doll's house; it's not to be found, but I know it's there; it's in my house. What does this mean? I'm writing you this letter sitting in the garden, it's already almost dark; I can't see what I put down on the paper, and I don't have any words either, not a single little word for my longing for Jason, that feels so final, as if he were dead. But he isn't dead. He'll come back again tomorrow, and three beers and a bowl of plums are waiting for him in the refrigerator. Do you still remember how full of confidence we were ten years ago? Almost reckless. And yet it was all about nothing. What we wanted is what we have – a husband, child, a roof over our head, a self-contained life. It's going to rain soon; you can feel it before it really starts to rain; it's something electric, it's in the air. Clara, Take care. As ever your –

*

Heat hangs over the city; at night the horizon doesn't turn black any more, but glows ominously and threateningly orange from under a bank of clouds. Contrary to Paloma's pronouncement no one dies, but the nursing shifts are arduous and exhausting. Stella accompanies Walter to the hospital. Walter's catheter has to be exchanged; he has to have his bowel irrigated and then undergo a colonoscopy. He'll have to stay in the hospital for one long, hot week, and Stella doesn't know whether Walter knows that his family is coming this week to talk to Paloma; his sisters and his brother. Possibly they'll take him to a nursing home, clean out and sell his house; how do you transport those fragile cardboard models of bridges, and will it even matter to anyone. Who will take care of the canaries. Could the canaries, if they were freed, survive in the suburban gardens? Stella sits next to Walter in the ambulette. Walter is buckled into his wheelchair; the windows of the ambulette are made of frosted glass, they can't be opened; it's impossible to find out what section of town they're in, where they are. Walter can't even look out of the window, now that he is actually being driven through the city. Ava would break out in tears at this injustice. There's a traffic jam. The tinted glass pane separating them from the driver's compartment is closed, and Stella and Walter watch the inaudible conversation of the drivers, which is apparently about all those things that have always been and will never change, a choreography of gestures and head shaking. They are stuck in the traffic jam. Walter closes his eyes. He turns his face to Stella as if for a very last look, a face from the series of sleepers hanging above his bed. What is Walter dreaming about. Stella knows so much about him and yet so little. She looks at him. In a sickly way he is carefully shaved and his eyelids are wrinkled; the eyelashes are thick as a child's. He opens his eyes again as if Stella had seen enough. He says, Thirsty, and Stella lifts up the cup and puts the straw between his lips, wipes the water from his chin with a cloth, and puts the cup down again. She says, Is that enough. Walter doesn't answer. The driver brakes, finally stops, and turns off the engine. Stella sees from Walter's smile that he doesn't care, that there's no connection between things anyway.

She had spent the morning with him at his desk, lifting his heavy arms and legs, saying, Contract, Walter, do it yourself, contract your muscles, and Walter wasn't able to complete even one coordinated movement. Should we stop? But he had shaken his head, apparently wanting to go on, to endure it, this sweaty work together in the middle of the living room in the oppressive heat, in front of the television, in front of the animated cartoons, as if the odd movements of the cartoon figures were more like Walter's own movements than any single movement in real life.

Stella leans forward and taps on the glass divider; the driver turns around and opens the glass a crack, a prison guard would do it no differently.

Do you have any idea, Stella says not concentrating; I mean, can you estimate how long we'll have to stand here like this; because if it's going to be a long time, we would get out. She knows she sounds like a wilful child.

Freedom. The freedom to get out of a car.

If I knew stuff like that, the driver says, I wouldn't be sitting here. I'd be somewhere else, somewhere completely different, and he leaves it at this arbitrary answer, shuts the divider, turns away.

I'm going to be leaving, Walter, Stella says. She crumples the damp cloth in her lap. I wanted you to know. I'm going to stop working for Paloma; we're moving. I'll still be here till the end of the month; then I'll hand in my notice; I'm not sure when Paloma can let me go. I'll still be here when you come back from the hospital. In any case. But later on I'll have to leave.

She talks and talks. She knows that she's talking like this because Walter won't be saying anything in reply. Can't say anything about it and can't ask any questions; he can only alternate between syllables, between sounds that can be understood one way or another, depending, depending on what Stella wants to hear.

*

Dermot says, What did you eat today?

What did I eat today, Stella says. She has to think about it for a moment, then she remembers – lettuce. I ate lettuce and bread and the last cold pancake that Ava couldn't manage to eat yesterday. And you?

A little bit of soup, Dermot says absent-mindedly. It's actually too hot to eat, isn't it. But one has to eat. One has to eat something.

Why did you ask what I ate, Stella asks in all seriousness.

Sometimes that can be a distraction, Dermot says, and he smiles as if she'd caught him at something.

They're standing together in Dermot's garden. Julia is in the hospital. She'd got up during the night, had sat down in the kitchen, waiting for a sign, and had finally left the house at dawn; she fell just outside the house, and Dermot found her on the front stairs. She was dressed as if for a Sunday church service or for a concert; blood was coming out of her ears. Where did she get the strength to do this, and why didn't Dermot hear her; why didn't he hear her get up. How is that possible. Stella thinks that in a certain way Julia walked out of the picture. Walked out for good; a move she had begun by the sea in March forty years ago and had now completed.

It seems, Dermot says casually, that we'll be packing our things at the same time. You and I. Our, how do you say it – our trash. He looks at Stella, his face is too familiar for her to be able to tell how sad he is. His friendliness seems to have faded, warmth diminishing, withdrawing. Stella thinks she can understand that.

He jerks his large head as if he wanted to keep her from such thoughts. He says, Do you already know what you want to do?

No, Stella says. She has to smile; it's embarrassing not to know what she wants to do. She says, The sort of work I do I can do anywhere, can't I. I mean, there are people everywhere like you, like Julia, like Esther. There are people everywhere like Paloma. But perhaps I'll do something completely different. Let's wait and see?

Yes. You'll see, Dermot says. He sounds matter-of-fact. Change releases energy, an energy you perhaps don't even know of yet.

Stella thinks, But that also applies to you then. Does that also apply to you? Will Julia's death release an energy in you which you don't have any inkling of now; what energy is that supposed to be.

She can't imagine. She stands next to Dermot, and they watch the wind blow through the tarpaulins outside the house. The tarps ripple in a wave-like motion like water, reflecting the light.