Decompression

12

After Antje fell asleep, I got out of bed. I’d overexerted myself, I’d had no dinner, and we’d done it twice in succession. Antje had put herself at my disposal for the second go-round as though for an athletic endeavor in which she functioned as both playing field and spectator. My knees were trembling. For several minutes I stood before the opened refrigerator, contemplating Antje’s leftover, cellophane-wrapped tapas. Todd’s reproachful look identified me as the kind of villain who won’t even give the needy what he himself doesn’t want.

After a couple of pointless turns around the living room, it became obvious that the magnetic attraction the computer was exercising on me could no longer be attributed to anything else. As before, I shut Todd out of the office, and while the machine booted up I looked around for Emile, who didn’t want to show himself that evening. By now I’d seen enough episodes of Up and Down to be able to follow the plot, to find characters appealing or unappealing, and to predict with some certainty when Bella would turn up next. I’d really been enjoying Bella’s appearances since she’d gone back to her old boyfriend the doctor. There was a lot of kissing, sighing, and groping, even though it was thoroughly obvious that the doctor wasn’t about to end the affair he was having with a nurse. For her part, Bella was only using him so she could get her hands on the drugs that would help her avenge herself on a director who hadn’t cast her in a role she’d very much wanted. Bella had just caught the doctor in flagrante delicto with the nurse and was making quite a scene when I heard music. Loud music. I stood up and drew the curtain aside. Out in the hall, Todd started to bark.

I was gazing right into the Casa Raya. When the living room was lit up at night, it looked like a stage. I saw — I wasn’t exactly sure what I saw. I saw two people who seemed to be dancing exuberantly. They embraced, staggered backward, circled each other, crashed together. Every now and then one of the figures would disappear, as if he or she had fallen or briefly run out of the room. Immediately afterward they’d be stumbling around again, locked in another embrace, falling on the floor together, getting back on their feet.

The desire to be with them made me press my face to the windowpane. I saw a kind of energy over there that never manifested itself in my life. Which was, therefore — it came to me in a flash — not rightly a life. Both my hands were flat against the glass, and I was staring with wide-open eyes. I would have sacrificed everything to be a part of that scene. Beyond control. Beyond strategy. Beyond escape. Even when I realized that what I was watching was no dance. At first I was repelled, but then the need to run over there became even more urgent. But I stayed where I was. I clenched my fists on the glass. I wasn’t interested in stopping whatever was going on in the Casa Raya; I wanted to join in, that was all. To plunge in. To scream over the music and be someone else, someone other than Sven, the nice diving instructor. I didn’t know which was more frightening, what I saw or my reaction to it. Across the way, one of the figures raised an object high overhead. A relatively large object. A living-room chair. The nice diving instructor would have long since intervened. Whatever was going on over there, he would have stopped it.

Instead it was Todd who showed some initiative. His little body darted down the gravel walk in front of the Residencia. Yelping hysterically, he raced across the sandlot, ran up the steps to the Casa Raya, and flung himself against the door. The music stopped, the lights went out. The logic machine in my head, working lethargically, concluded that someone must have let the dog out of the house. I spun around. Antje was standing in the office doorway. I shot a quick glance at the computer monitor. The screensaver was hiding Bella’s face.

Antje, who’d followed my eyes, said, “Oh, Sven, not to worry. I know what you do in here anyhow. You never clear your browsing history.”

I didn’t know what a browsing history was. I stared at her. Her blond hair was disheveled, an effect I’d helped produce.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

I wasn’t able to come up with an answer to that one either. I couldn’t take my eyes off her dressing gown, which was printed with strawberries. Why strawberries? I wondered.

“Your friends are slowly starting to get on my nerves, do you know that?”

I finally managed to unclench my teeth. “They’re not my friends,” I said. “They’re our clients.”

“Right you are, Sven, sure,” Antje said and went back to bed.

Disgust suddenly overcame me. Over in the Casa, all was still. I lay down on the sofa to wait for morning.

JOLA’S DIARY, NINTH DAY

Sunday, November 20. Very early morning.

Bella Schweig’s a slut. But always a victim. Never a perpetrator. Who wants to be a perpetrator? Nobody. Except maybe at the moment of perpetrating the deed. But the deed is brief. And forever after, all sympathy belongs to the victim. The victim impulse is part of human nature. The smallest child will whack another kid and cry, “He started it!” Four-year-old girls master the innocent-as-a-lamb eyeblink by practicing it in the mirror. People form couples and share houses and join clubs and parties and societies so that there will always be someone else to blame everything on. The art of playing the victim is easy when you’re performing with a suitable costar. Someone stupid enough to accept the buck when it’s passed. Someone who’ll lash out without thinking and then beg for forgiveness. Such a willing perpetrator yields huge innocence dividends! Innocence with interest, an innocence retirement plan. If you have your own perpetrator, you never have to worry about the victim role again.

Who’d want to break off such a profitable relationship? Nobody in her right mind. The perpetrator smiles a little, zing, and the judicious victim’s back in a win-win situation. So do I go for self-esteem, self-protection, a modicum of self-defense? Not a chance. I’ll stay where I am, comfortably ensconced in my own woe, domiciled in doom. Let’s not forget, there was my difficult childhood, a father who was never there unless a party was being thrown, and a mother locked in combat with the passage of time. Such conditions apparently suffice for a lifetime of self-sacrifice on the offspring’s part. What difference does a bloody nose make, as long as you know it’s for a good cause? Even when the bleeding won’t stop.

Tomorrow the old man will tell Sven he broke the chair by sitting on it too hard. He’ll laugh and demonstrate how he threw himself down on the thing and wham, it fell apart under him. Ha-ha, the good island food, ha-ha, the good island wine! He’ll generously offer to pay for the chair — with my money, by the way — and we won’t be stingy. Maybe he’ll use too many words to describe a basically insignificant event, but he’s a writer, after all, and as such used to embellishing his lies.

Sven will believe him. Sven’s had no experience with lies. The way he gawked when we were down at the port! The loneliness without end that spoke out of his eyes. A ship will come in, but it won’t be his. Meanwhile he’s the one asking for more time. Let’s not rush things. Let’s make no waves. He still hasn’t told Antje. But I know what to think about that. It’s not for lack of love. Men are simply cowards. That’s why they make such good perpetrators. No, stop: Sven’s no perpetrator. Sven’s a victim himself. All you have to do is listen to him to know that. He didn’t leave Germany as a winner, he left as a loser. And now he likes to drone on about the war zone.

“Are you going back to Theo?” That’s what his eyes said down at the port. My silent reply: “Have I left him, then?”

Sven didn’t stand under the window and call me last night. All the same, after the old man went to sleep, I walked down to the edge of the rocks overlooking the sea. Down to our spot. But the pounding of the waves scares me. It’s as if the bit of rock I’m sitting on could be ripped away at any time.

I don’t dare to think about how I behaved in the van earlier. How I sat between lover and life partner and sucked up to both of them. I made jokes about Bittmann’s guests to please the old man. Because he’d acted friendly for a few minutes. Because he’d tried to fight for me by throwing Sven in the water. The perpetrator acts, zing, and the victim’s back. If I could look at it from the outside, I’d have to puke. I’d turn the music loud out of sheer nausea so no one could hear my screams and punish me for being not only a disgusting whore but also a disgusting ass-kisser.

The truth requires only a few words: I’m at the end of my rope. Taking a lovely trip together, maybe even turning myself into Lotte, trying for happiness with someone new — rubbish, all of it. I’ll always go back to the old man, again and again, until he destroys me. I need help. Sven has to make a decision. This isn’t your standard case, where the man can take his sweet time deciding which woman he prefers and in the meantime amuse himself with both. What we have here is an exception. If Sven really wants me, he has to do something.