Sorry. Shaun Whiteside
looks at them one by one. It’s plain that none of them has the faintest idea what he’s talking about. So Kris stretches out his right hand, palm upwards, like an offering.
“They can’t apologize,” he says. “And that’s exactly what we’re going to offer them. Apologies galore, at a damned good price.”
FRAUKE
KRIS TALKS ABOUT HIS morning at the Urbanhafen and how he apologized to the woman. He said he knew exactly what was going on with her.
“And she believed me. She accepted my apology without hesitation. No doubt, nothing.”
“You couldn’t have done that with me,” says Frauke.
“With me you could,” says Tamara.
They talk for a while, and one idea chases the next. They anticipate each other’s sentences, they are moving on a single wavelength, so that Frauke can’t shake the feeling of floating above the ground.
It’s the dope, she thinks, we’re just a bit high, it’s nothing more than that.
But it isn’t the dope or the wine. It’s a particular string of circumstances that brings particular people together at particular times. And anyone who finds that puzzling has never been influenced by such a concatenation.
At three in the morning Wolf gets up and announces that he’s going to butter some rolls.
“I’m incredibly hungry, aren’t you?”
They watch him go, then Tamara explodes with laughter and says, “He’s not really going to do rolls, is he?”
“Of course I’m doing rolls!” come the words from the kitchen.
They laugh, tears run down their faces, they gasp for air. The last time they got so hysterical was at the end of school. All the senior grades went to the Teufelsberg to celebrate their goodbyes. Kris wore a suit, Frauke and Tamara came in dresses. Black and white. They all felt inviolable, and Frauke can still remember what she whispered in Tamara’s ear: I’m immortal, what about you? Tamara had grinned and said she was with them. Of course I’m with you, do you think I’d leave you in the lurch?
They thought the whole world was at their feet. First university, then the big job, then masses of cash. They particularly agreed on the last point. They planned to meet up again in a few years and celebrate their successes appropriately. Even today Frauke can’t get her head round how naïve they were back then. They talked about going abroad, as if abroad were right on their doorstep waiting for them. England, Spain, Australia, China. They wanted to go everywhere. We thought no one could touch us. We thought we could get everything that could be—
“Frauke, are you still there?”
Tamara snaps her fingers in front of her face.
“Where else would I be?” Frauke asks back.
She has no idea how long she was thinking about the party on the Teufelsberg. No one is laughing now. Kris rolls the next joint, Wolf goes on busying himself in the kitchen, and Tamara sits with a ballpoint in her hand, bent over a notepad.
“One minute,” she says.
Frauke is amazed at what it is that has brought her and Tamara together and held them together for so long. There was one falling-out during their school days. Tamara had met a new clique of girls, and Frauke didn’t fit in with them at all. It was a bad month, and then all of a sudden Tamara sat next to Frauke during break and said it had been a really bad idea. Frauke never told her that she could almost have cried with relief. She felt incomplete without her best friend. She knows exactly what her life would be without Tamara. Like an endless winter’s day. Like no sun ever again.
“I’ve got it.”
Tamara holds the notepad out to Frauke. Frauke reads, and the grin vanishes from her face.
“What’s up?”
Kris crouches down and joins them. He and Frauke freeze. Wolf comes out of the kitchen with the rolls.
“What’s wrong with you guys?”
Tamara blushes.
“Nothing in particular. It’s just what Kris said,” she explains, and is about to set the notepad aside when Kris grabs it.
“You’ve just written this?” he asks.
Tamara shrugs.
“I could try and do it a different way, if you …”
She gets no further, Kris has passed the pad on to Wolf, and put his hands on Tamara’s cheeks.
“You bloody genius,” he says and kisses her.
When Frauke comes back into the room at half past four, her answering machine is flashing. Three messages, three times the same voice.
How are you …
What are you doing …
When are we seeing each other …
Frauke deletes the messages without listening to them all the way through, and pins Tamara’s text to the corkboard beside the monitor. Kris said she should take her time, Wolf would really want to do it himself, and Tamara had no opinion, because she’d gone to sleep on the floor.
Frauke promised to set about designing the text right away the following morning. But she’s so uneasy that she doesn’t know if she can even get to sleep. To calm herself down she takes a shower. Her brain is intoxicated with the ideas that they all had last night. It feels a bit as if they had traveled into the past together to bring their youthful immortality into the present.
I’m immortal, what about you?
I’m not tired, Frauke thinks and gets out of the shower to switch her computer on.
Two and a half hours later Frauke pushes herself up from her desk. She has turned Tamara’s text into an advertisement, and is now so amped that she can’t sit still. Work as a pick-me-up. Her muscles are tense, her thoughts a bright flame. In a few minutes Frauke has put on her running things and is out the door.
The Tiergarten is deserted at this time of day, the morning light is like underwater photographs on a rainy day. Colorless and crisp. Frauke runs three times around the little lake, her body has found its rhythm, her breathing adapts to her footsteps. As if I could slow down time, as if the minutes were collapsing into one another and the clock hands slowing down. Frauke likes the idea. The faster she runs, the harder it gets for time to advance. Time becomes material. Frauke has the feeling that she can stretch, compress, or tear that material. Time has torn so often for her before that Frauke finds herself wondering how it is that time still exists at all.
When she gets back from her run, he’s waiting for her by the door to her apartment. She often wonders how he manages to get up the stairs. The tenants are very suspicious and even discuss on the intercom with the man from the parcel service because they think he’s delivering some sort of junk mail.
He’s sitting on the floor, his back resting against the door of the apartment, chin on his chest, hands clasped in his lap. Once a neighbor found him like that and called an ambulance. Frauke knows he isn’t asleep, he’s in more of a twilight state. Or as he once explained: Half the time I’m on standby.
She shakes him by the shoulder. He stirs, opens his eyes, grins.
“Hi, sweetie.”
“You shouldn’t do that,” says Frauke.
“What? And what am I supposed to do in your opinion, if you don’t call back?”
He sits up and she helps him; even though she doesn’t really want to, she helps him. He gets to his feet, groans and sighs,