Chapter 1. An editorial commission

I felt a vague urge to write something, so I sat at my home computer and opened a blank file. A short while later, I found myself gazing out of the window at a large, dense bush in the garden.

My attention seemed to have been drawn by the activity and chirping of a flock of sparrows who had flown there to roost. They were all singing at the same time, as they perched on the branches. How they could possibly hear each other, and whatever they were talking about, was a mystery to me. It was just as confusing as the commission from the editor of our local Blieskastel publishing house to ‘write something realistic, emotional, and with an exciting storyline’! In addition, the action must take place in Germany – a country where people rarely live according to their feelings and where daily ‘passionate outbursts’ are not commonplace…

But why? Why would anyone need a book like that?

 

My initial proposal was to write a novel about a young woman’s love for a mature man who has lived as a hermit in his own home for many years. For reasons known only to him, he not only avoids contact with strangers, but also with his own relatives. However, the attention and concern of a new lady neighbour, who, with her son, has moved in nearby, help him to gradually return to a normal life, despite the fact that, at the beginning, the man is openly hostile towards her.

I was sure that I would be able to develop the plot quite easily, since, after several not particularly successful attempts to build relationships, I was reasonably well versed in matters of the heart. However, the publisher didn’t find my proposal interesting enough because, although the story touched on the emotional side of love, it did not venture beyond the boundaries of an ordinary provincial town.

Finally, Christoph Brunner, the editor whose duties consist in working with writers and who helped me with the publication of my first two books, consented to a realistic novel about love, but with a few conditions.

Firstly, it had to clearly follow the actual lives of the main characters and their struggle to fight for their happiness all the way to the finish. Secondly, the novel should be a true reflection of human destiny, so the readers would feel that the events were real. Then, thirdly, the plot must unfold on a more global scale in order to attract the interest of a wider public.

In other words, the publisher had little interest in banal, romantic stories with the usual selection of scenes, and a predictable fairy-tale ending. The kind where the characters meet, fall in love, are separated by the cruel hand of fate, then find each other again and live happily ever after. All the shelves in bookshops were already crammed with books like that. The agency was endeavouring to find something special which would turn things inside out, and engage the reader in its fast-paced whirlwind of action from the first few lines.

“You need to come up with the kind of story that will make people talk not only about the book, but about the publisher, too!” Christoph told me during one of our morning meetings. “Otherwise the publisher won’t invest any money.”

“Is it absolutely necessary that the setting of the novel is Germany?” I asked.

“Yes, it is. Not much has neen written about Germany and we want to fill this gap,” he replied. Then, as if out of the blue, he asked whether I felt intimidated by their proposed terms of cooperation.

Without thinking, I answered, “No!” Then I even added that, not only was I not frightened by the proposed terms, but I actually found them intriguing. Also, I was looking forward to getting down to work. I would make every effort to ensure that my pen produced the kind of novel they needed: emotional, realistic, in line with the spirit of the times, and with unconventional characters and complex circumstances. In fact, it would be impossible not to talk about it!

After signing the contract at last, I found myself in a state of euphoria for a while, imagining myself at a book fair, giving out autographs and receiving bouquets of flowers…

Interviews… Touring the country… Meeting readers... The empty dreams of a novice writer. How was it going, then? So far, I didn’t even have a plot.

Suddenly, the flock of sparrows outside the window shot up out of the bush and flew off in different directions. Once again, I directed my gaze at the computer monitor. It was as if my wonderful ideas had flown away with the sparrows.

The file which was open in front of me had not changed: it read, “Novel. Part One,” and nothing more…

Chapter 2. The torment of creativity

For a whole month I started writing all sorts of things, but none of them interested me. To tell the truth, the ideas weren’t bad, but they didn’t comply with all of the publisher’s criteria.

My joyful euphoria was replaced by doubt, and my dreams turned into self-searching. After another month, I began to blame myself for flippantly accepting the commission. Before signing such a binding contract, I should have thought carefully and weighed up my options realistically. Basically, I should not have rushed into it! Now, time for reflection was running out. With every passing day, it melted away treacherously, moving inexorably towards the deadline when the draft manuscript must be submitted.

Interestingly, it was not my first contract with this publisher. When I was studying at university, I had published two collections of short stories with them. The books had been favourably received by the critics, which may have influenced the publisher’s willingness to continue working with me. However, I had never written to order, so I felt like a novice writer all over again.

 

While I was studying at university in Saarbrücken, I had mainly written stories based on my own experiences and the real things going on around me. Now that I had more time, though, I felt inclined to take on something more serious: a contemporary romance, for example. This was simply personal preference, though. If the publisher had insisted on a particular genre, I wouldn’t have objected to trying out other options, such as crime or fantasy. In fact, I would have accepted any kind of project, as I had adored books since I was a child.

After the publication of my two short story collections, our local mayor invited me to the town hall and gave me an award for my significant contribution to the development of the region’s literature. Then, three months later, straight after finishing university, I was offered a teaching post on a course for beginner writers at a private literary school in Blieskastel. I viewed this as tantamount to winning the lottery, since it embodied everything that a literature graduate could possibly dream of.

In spite of my rather modest success in the literary field, I was something of a local celebrity for the students or, at the very least, someone who had been written about in the press. In any case, my classes were always over-subscribed, which inspired me to take up my writing again.

 

Before publishing my first book, I  felt as if my life in Blieskastel was hindering me. As far as I could remember, I had always complained about not having been born in Berlin or some other large city, and my friends found this puzzling. Many of them couldn’t understand why I didn’t like living where I did. The provincial infrastructure did leave a lot to be desired, but there were plenty of places within reach. We might not go to the theatre every day, but we did often go shopping in Saarbrücken at the weekends.

Although my head understood all these arguments and even partly agreed with them, my heart betrayed me by wanting more.

 

When I was little, I couldn’t help feeling that an invisible wall separated our town from the rest of the world. From the bright and beautiful world I had read about in books, or seen in films. It was quite unlike our real world, and I dreamed of finding magical wings that could take me there.

My writing became those magical wings! Perhaps I began writing because I wanted something more out of life. And anything was possible on paper!

 

After I started to write, my sense of being detached from the world faded. Life in Blieskastel ceased to bother me, and I even found some advantages to it.

If I had lived in a city, the publication of my first books would have gone unnoticed. They would have been lost among the tens of thousands of other new works which appeared year upon year. The publishing houses in the capital would barely have paid any attention to my stories, since that genre never featured on bestseller lists. No-one would have made anything of it... In other words, for a novice writer, I had been extremely lucky!

 

My successful debut was entirely due to Christoph Brunner, who could not only see my writing talent, but also helped me to believe in myself.

When he received the manuscript of my first book, he didn’t toss it into the rubbish bin, as often happened, but took the time to familiarise himself with it. He was the one who had persuaded the Blieskastel publishing house to set up a regional literature section, in order to support local talent. 

Christoph believed that, without this, they would be reduced to reprinting faceless texts from elsewhere. He saw it as the main aim of his work as a publisher to discover new names who, being at the start of their journeys, were in need of not only financial, but also moral and technical support.

So, thanks to Christoph’s efforts, I became a debutante of regional literature and many people in Blieskastel began to recognise my face.

It was all like a real-life fairy-tale, albeit within a rather limited framework. It was precisely these limitations which troubled me, though, since I knew that, beyond them, fairy-tales no longer existed! Beyond them was ordinary life, where I was not known as a writer.

Nevertheless, I so wanted to break out of the confines of this mythical world and prove to everyone that I hadn’t chosen this path by accident! 

Chapter 3. Time to broaden my horizons

Working as a teacher in a writing college couldn’t fully satisfy my desire to discover new horizons. On one hand, I liked it very much because it allowed me to do something I really enjoyed, but on the other hand it pinned me down to Blieskastel.

I began to wonder more frequently about whether it was time for me to leave my familiar surroundings and start a new, interesting life in a different place. I hadn’t yet worked out where exactly, though, so I hoped that life itself might give me a clue sometime soon.

The unknown was beckoning me, just as it did to many other writers, and beginning work on a fresh, serious project was, for me, like the first step towards this new, more interesting life. Anyone who has ever taken on something new knows that it isn’t easy. It’s not so simple riding a different wave when you have been working in the same way for years.

 

Another fruitless week went by. I became nervous. As before, the ideas which came into my head didn’t seem interesting enough. They clearly lacked scope and drama, but I didn’t know what to do about that. In addition, I needed to stay within the  bounds of reality, as I was aware how much drama the human psyche is able to withstand.

So much depended on this novel, but I just couldn’t get it going!

 

I learned from the internet that the large book fair in Leipzig was coming up soon, where the best new literary offerings from all over the world would be presented. Moreover, famous authors and bloggers, invited as special guests by publishers, would be there for open press conferences and to meet with readers.

Strange as it may seem, I had never been to the book fair in Leipzig before. Each time, for one reason or another, I had put it off until the next year. Realising that there was nothing to prevent me from going this time, I decided to book a hotel room for one night straight away. I couldn’t afford to stay longer, since the room rates were triple the usual price.

I decided to travel to the fair by plane from Frankfurt am Main, since the flight only took about an hour, whereas by train it would be over four hours, including changes. Also, although the train was more attractive to me for financial reasons, when I heard the news about possible rail strikes I decided not to take the risk and opted for the plane.

All I could think about for the next two weeks was the book fair. I couldn’t wait to immerse myself in the delightful chaos where everything except books faded into the background. At the fair, I was hoping to see a few world-famous authors, listen to them speaking, see how they conducted themselves in public and how they spoke to journalists. I might even manage to get a turn with the microphone and ask one of them the question that had been puzzling me for a long time:

What do you need to create an interesting story-line for a novel?

I had plenty of theoretical knowledge, but some practical advice wouldn’t hurt. Besides, I was sure that I wasn’t the only person who had ever had difficulty choosing a subject.  

 

Admittedly, I was excited about the trip to Leipzig for more than just literary reasons. I had another secret wish as well. I wanted to become a city girl, even if it was just for a few hours. To walk along its wide streets… feel its pulse… and its vastness… To get a sense that much more was possible in life…

I had never been to East Germany before, so I jokingly called it a ‘voyage to discover new lands’. In order not to spoil my impression of the city, I refused to look at photographs of it on the internet before I went.

Chapter 4. The airport

I reached Frankfurt am Main airport fairly quickly, as the traffic on the autobahn that day wasn’t as heavy as usual. Pleased with the way things had turned out, I drove into the airport car park and looked around for a space.

I remembered from a conversation with my friend that there was a designated women’s parking area in the first parking zone, so I headed straight there. Car parks like this had appeared quite recently, and I wanted to see what they were like.

I spotted the women’s parking area straight away, since its walls were painted bright pink. The colour was quite loud, in my opinion, but I couldn’t think of a better alternative.

As I drove up to the ramp, I rolled my window down half-way and peered out into the parking area. Although its walls were painted bright pink, most of the spaces inside were occupied by impressively-sized, powerful, aggressive-looking cars. In just a few places, there were small cars with low-capacity engines, which seemed to be cowering in fear, and whose colours and proportions suggested that their drivers were women.

 

Suddenly, a rather plump middle-aged man appeared in the car park, wearing a slightly crumpled business suit. He was pulling a small suitcase which was full to bursting and missing a wheel. As a result, the suitcase was veering sideways, causing its owner no small amount of irritation.

Pausing for a second near my car, the stranger casually declared in a loud voice, “Why should women have privileges? What makes you any better than men!?” Then, clearly pleased with his utterance, continued on his way.

Apparently, he considered the existence of a women’s parking area to be a terrible injustice to himself. With an obvious expression of disgust directed at the pink walls in that part of the car park, he continued to pull a demonstratively sour face all the way to his car.

Slamming his car door shut turned out not to be an option. His blue executive class BMW was sandwiched between the wall and a much more powerful Land Rover. In order to reach the driver’s seat, the man had to literally slide into the car through a barely open door. Nor did he manage to make a quick getaway from the car park. Due to the large size of the monster beside him, he was obliged to manoeuvre one centimetre at a time, which he did jerkily, obviously furious at his awkward situation.

When the man had gone, I immediately took the space he had vacated. Driving into it was a piece of cake for my small Peugeot!

 

After checking in my luggage and going through pre-flight checks, I headed for the waiting room. There were no other passengers waiting for my flight yet, so the room was deserted. Having been afraid that I might be late and miss the plane because of traffic jams on the way, I had left home quite early, and now I had an excruciating, almost two-hour wait ahead of me.

To make good use of the time, I took my laptop out of my bag and began to note down my thoughts on the incident in the car park. Insignificant as it was, it clearly reflected the view of some men with regard to women-only car parks.

 

Time passed. When I was close to finishing my description of the scene, the waiting room was already half full. Suddenly I heard the sound of a child crying on my right, and I automatically turned my head in that direction. It was a little boy whose mother had confiscated his toy gun because he had been using it to hit his younger brother on the head. The brother had opted for a cleverer tactic and, instead of screaming loudly, had merely rubbed where it hurt, and then rushed into his mother’s arms. A moment later, he was playing with the gun, while the offending older brother screamed at the top of his voice, demanding the return of his toy.

It wasn’t just the children who were being demanding in the waiting lounge, though.

At the coffee machine, a plump gentleman in a smart grey suit, who was almost certainly a businessman, was telling off a bewildered member of staff in a loud voice because there were no paper cups. Slightly further away, in an attempt to attract the attention of some guys standing nearby, two teenage girls were complaining in a deliberately noisy way about the selection of free reading material on offer.

“Only stupid newspapers!” one said to the other, rolling her eyes upwards. “Who reads those, for goodness’ sake? Boring!”

“Well, the same type of people who write them… or any kind of nerd…” replied the other, and they burst out laughing.

Then, glancing at the guys, but not receiving the desired reaction, the girls went on.

“Well, they could have given us one fashion magazine to share,” one of them began.

“Or at the very least a comic,” the other snorted. “Without pictures, I would fall asleep within five minutes! Then they would have to carry me onto the plane…”

A minute later, having found nothing of interest, the girls walked away from the shelves and settled down in the seating area, two seats away from me. They tuned into some music on a mobile phone and, putting in one earpiece each, they began to listen to it, whilst swinging their legs.

 

As I watched what was going on in the waiting lounge, I surprised myself by coming to the conclusion that there were only unhappy people around me. How could that be the norm in Germany? Everyone there was accustomed to such a high quality of life, so that even the tiniest deviation from the usual standards sent people off the rails. And it didn’t just apply to adults, but it was true for young people, too.   

I sat there, in good spirits, looking forward to my trip and attending the book fair. Suddenly, male voices burst into a heated exchange in the waiting area. I looked up from my laptop and glanced in the direction from where the voices were coming.

It was the same businessman in the grey suit. He was furious again, but this time it was about the coffee machine. Although he had been brought a selection of cups, they turned out to be useless, since, a minute later, the machine itself broke down. The man simply could not bear this personal affront. His face turned red with anger, making him resemble a steamed tomato which had just had its skin removed.

He paced up and down for a while, in front of the broken machine and, when he was sure that it wasn’t going to be mended any time soon, he went over to the newspaper stand. There, in an irritable mood, he began examining the reading material.

He picked up each newspaper, gave a cursory glance at a few of the main headlines, then, shaking his head in dismay, replaced the paper. Although, instead of ‘replaced’, it might be more accurate to say that he ‘hurled’ it back, whilst uttering caustic remarks for all to hear.  

“Party struggle. Who will win?” he read aloud, and then began his commentary: “For goodness’ sake, no matter who wins, nothing will change! They’re all fed from the same pot!”

“Oil reserves will not last much longer! Ha! Have they taken precise measurements of all the oil under the ground, or what?” he said, frowning. “They’re scaremongering with their unfounded claims. If it was really all that bad, they would have stopped selling petrol at filling stations a long time ago!”

With these words, he waved the newspaper in the air angrily, and, tossing it back onto the stand, grabbed another one straight away.

“Coffee can be harmful to your health! So, did the airport pay them for this reverse advertising?” he yelled at the surrounding area as he put the newspaper back. “And what’s this trash doing here?” he went on, addressing his non-existent audience. “Just look at this rubbish!”

He jabbed his finger in the direction of the newspaper stand.

“I can’t even bring myself to pick it up! Publishers like that should be shut down at once!”

As he was saying this last part, the man turned even redder. Within a matter of seconds, his face had become the colour of Bordeaux.

He’s heading for a heart attack! I thought, unable to understand what was making him angry. If he reacts like this to every trivial problem, his health will struggle to cope!

The girls, who had been listening to music up to this point, began to giggle. The businessman’s inappropriate behaviour clearly amused them, although I couldn’t say the same for myself. After his third outburst of commentary on newspaper articles, I felt my good mood gradually slipping away and being replaced by an unpleasant kind of annoyance. This new emotion worried me very much, as I didn’t want to fly to the book fair in that mood.

“Which paper do you think he will eventually choose?” the girl who was sitting nearest to me said to her friend, nodding in the direction of the businessman.

“Frankfurter Allgemeine, because it’s very big,” she replied, without giving the matter much thought. “That’s what my dad reads, too.”

“I think that one over there, a bit lower down. I think it’s even bigger. We’ll see. Let’s bet a can of cola. Whoever loses gets one from the vending machine.”

The girls stopped talking and began to watch the businessman in silence. I secretly listened in to their debate, as I was curious to find out how it would all end.

I completely agreed with the girls’ view that men such as this one like ‘big’ newspapers. Personally, I might also have added ‘big’ cars, ‘big’ wallets, ‘big’ glasses, and ‘big’ contracts to the list, but I didn’t want to prevent them from making their own minds up about the world.

The businessman turned the Frankfurter Allgemeine around in his hands, then shoved it into his laptop bag and strode briskly over to an empty seat on our side. As he walked, there was so much suffering in his face, as if he had just been diagnosed with an incurable disease.

“Bingo! I guessed it!” exclaimed one of the girls, realising that the businessman had picked the right newspaper.

“Yes, you did,” the other girl replied curtly, clearly disappointed that her friend had been right, so now she would have to go for the cola.

Meanwhile, the man slumped down onto a seat, wiped the sweat from his forehead with a neatly folded, grey check handkerchief and, his legs crossed, began to examine the newspaper. As he read, he turned the pages so violently that the passengers sitting nearby began to cast furtive glances at him.

Less than five minutes went by before he was standing next to the newspaper stand once more. This time he took the ‘losing’ paper, which made the girl sitting nearest to me clap with delight. Most importantly of all, this move meant that she would not have to fetch the cola, since the subject of their argument had ultimately chosen both newspapers.

Stepping backwards, the businessman once again bumped into the same airport employee to whom he had complained about the absence of paper cups. Fearing another angry outburst from the passenger, the airport worker hunched himself up, almost into a ball, and hurried to get out of the room, pretending to be extremely busy.

But it was no use. The businessman called out to him in a loud voice:

“Just a minute! Some of the papers on your stand have already been read! Are you aware of that?”

The airport employee stopped and, turning in trepidation to face the now-familiar passenger, he blinked incredibly rapidly.

“Here! Look! Used papers!” the businessman continued to complain, shaking a newspaper in the air. “What’s that all about, then? Do you give them away several times?”

A little confused over what was required of him, the member of staff held out his arms in a gesture of helplessness.

“Just look at this! It’s even crumpled on the inside! Someone’s already read it before me!” the passenger went on, not letting up. “What is more, I can feel grit on my hands, which means that it has been lying on the floor! How can that be possible! It’s outrageous! You’re making a mockery of your passengers!” he continued with his complaint. “Take it away! I’m not going to leave it at that. I shall be complaining to your manager!”

After thrusting the ‘crumpled’ paper into the hands of the bewildered airport employee, the businessman returned to his seat with the proud expression of a lawyer who had just won a case. He sat down, took out his handkerchief again, and then, sensing that his duty was done, wiped his face and neck – which were pouring with sweat – several times. It didn’t help, though. A short while later, I noticed that his shirt collar was completely soaked. The man was still sweating even whilst sitting on his seat.

Hmm, I thought. He obviously has problems either at work or in his personal life. It shows in his disproportionate reaction to trivial issues. I once read somewhere that a person can often behave inappropriately because of low self-esteem which, in turn, stems from a deep dissatisfaction with life. This man must be deeply unhappy! Oh, if only I could talk to him about it…

 

Meanwhile the number of passengers travelling to Leipzig had increased further. However, although the clock on the electronic board showed that there were just a few minutes until take-off, there was still no member of staff at the desk. Anxious whispers were being exchanged around the waiting room.

Eventually, the airport employee who had been unfortunate enough to fall foul of the businessman several times already, approached the microphone. Then, with an insincere smile on his face, he announced: “For technical reasons, the flight from Frankfurt-am-Main to Leipzig will be delayed by forty-five minutes.”

He repeated this phrase twice, in German and in English, relishing every word, and without taking his eyes off the businessman. From where I was sitting, it even seemed as if he was enjoying announcing the flight delay, since he knew it would irritate the man who had already offended him.

Indeed, it did. Upon hearing that the flight was held up, the businessman reached out one hand and crumpled up the newspaper lying on the seat beside him. It just wasn’t his day…

 

Chapter 5. A stranger

I was rather disappointed about the flight delay, too, but not enough to fall into the depths of despair. Also, my laptop significantly improved the situation, as I could make notes so I wouldn’t be wasting time.

I suddenly turned my attention to a man's feet which were walking past me, in unusually coloured boots. When the same feet walked past again in the opposite direction, I automatically looked up at the owner of the feet.

The flashy, eccentric footwear in a sporty style belonged to a man of about sixty years old. They were the colour of the waves on the sea, with red-brown leather panels on the side, and orange tongues which stuck up a long way.

Apparently the newcomer didn’t feel like sitting down, since he paced continuously up and down the waiting room, sighing deeply from time to time. Then he stopped opposite me, took a mobile phone out of his shirt pocket, glanced at a text message, grunted in annoyance, and slipped it back again.

Another person who is dissatisfied with life, I thought. And he’s flying to Leipzig, too. Well, what a group we are!

 

Our eyes met for a second. Evidently, though, this was enough, because the stranger briskly headed towards me and, without asking permission, slumped down onto the empty seat next to mine. Without saying anything he picked up my bag which I had put on the seat, and placed it on my lap.

The girls, who were sitting on the same row, fell silent at once and stared in my direction, expecting another irate outburst, but this time from me. However, I merely shrugged, indicating to them that I wasn’t planning on being annoyed by this. Besides, the number of free seats in the waiting room was decreasing rapidly, so I would have had to move my bag sooner or later.

“I’m not going to do anything nice for women ever again!” said the stranger as he sat down. “They don’t deserve it!”

Satisfied with his provocative comment, he folded his arms, crossed his legs, and leaned back importantly in his seat.

Without looking up from the file I was working on, I automatically asked, “Why?”

That was a mistake!

Of course, he must have been expecting a question in response, otherwise he simply wouldn’t have started the conversation. He might even have anticipated a few unpleasant comments directed at him, or an indignant reply from me, but I decided to remain extremely polite.

No-one knows what guys like that might be thinking! It’s best to avoid a debate with them!

“Women have ruined my entire life!” the stranger stated, slowing down a little and gazing indifferently at the ceiling. “Every last one of them. And they’re still spoiling it now…”

“How many of them have there been?” was the somewhat bizarre question which sprang from my lips.

“Enough.”

“How many is enough?” I asked, turning my head towards my companion and attempting to examine his sullen face.

“I haven’t counted, but a lot,” he replied, and then his face lit up with a satisfied grin.

Is that really so? I wondered, doubtfully. Perhaps he is confusing what he wants with what is real, so that he can look like Don Juan to me. But what is the point of that? Why does he need to create such a pretence when his appearance suggests the opposite?

His face was covered with unkempt stubble through which an old scar ran across his left cheek. His grey hair was dishevelled, there were dark circles under his eyes, and a steel crown twinkled among his upper teeth, on the right hand side… What kind of Don Juan was this? I immediately felt the need to run away – as far as possible!

And then there were his clothes! They simply screamed about the contradictions going on inside his soul!

 

His tattered, old-fashioned jeans, cheap blue check shirt and worn-out navy waistcoat from a business suit did not match his extravagant boots. However, I was inclined to believe that the man had not chosen this style of outfit by chance.

In lessons, I had often discussed heroes’ clothing with my students, since it could be used to portray personality, or any other character traits. Consequently, I began to think along those lines at that very moment: What message is this man trying to convey with his clothes? What are these awfully clashing styles saying?

On one hand, he clearly couldn’t care less about the impression he was giving to those around him. This was obvious from his cheap, threadbare clothing which other people would have donated to the Red Cross long ago. On the other hand, though, he had also bought himself some exclusive, designer wardrobe items, such as his boots, for example, a brief glance at which was sufficient to tell that they must have cost a fortune!

“A woman should stay at home and do the housework. And most importantly, she shouldn’t poke her nose where it doesn’t belong!” the stranger began again, apparently talking into empty space.   

“Are you going to Leipzig, too?” I asked him, trying to change the subject of the conversation. “To a convention, perhaps?”

He shook his head.

“No… I’m going home. We’ve been to Turkey on holiday.”

“We?” I enquired, surprised, automatically glancing around the waiting room in the hope of spotting his travelling companion.

“Yes, we. Me and my girlfriend! Or, more accurately, my ex-girlfriend,” he added, and gave a nervous laugh.

“Is she here in the airport with you?”

“Oh, no! I left her in Turkey. Now she can have a proper rest.”

He laughed again, but this time it was different, and hoarse, as if he was struggling to breathe.

“Does she know that you’ve left?”

“Oh no,” he replied, shaking his head.

At that moment, his mobile phone began to ring. He pulled it out of his shirt pocket and, glancing at the number on the screen, said, “She does now. I hadn’t expected she would take so long to realise. But what does that matter to me now? I’m done with her.”

With these words he demonstratively pressed ‘reject call’.  

The ring-tone sounded again and, after letting it ring for a little while, the man switched the phone off completely, with clear pleasure.

“So what happened between you?” I asked, interested. “Did she leave you for someone else?”

“Absolutely not. If she had even dared, I would have dealt with her on the spot.”

As he said this, the stranger turned to face me for the first time. Until now he had preferred to stare either straight ahead or up at the ceiling.

“So, what did happen between you?” I asked, perplexed. “It must have been something terrible for you to go away and leave her alone in Turkey.”

“It’s quite simple: she tried to force me to do something I didn’t want to do! I…” After pausing for effect, he went on, “…I don’t follow anyone’s orders, and especially not if they are from women!”

“Why do you speak so negatively about them all the time? About us, in fact,” I blurted out unexpectedly. “That’s not fair!”

After measuring me up with a long stare from his dark-grey, asphalt-like eyes, the man said slowly and deliberately, “Because women have ruined my entire life and are continuing to spoil it even now!”

Well, now we are back where we started, I thought, but refrained from commenting.

 

All the time I had been talking with my new acquaintance, I had been unable to find a single cause for his strong aversion to the female sex. That was a polite way of putting it though. Judging by his outbursts, he simply loathed us all!

Generally speaking, people like that are best avoided, and I should have put a stop to the pointless conversation which seemed to be just a load of hot air. Nevertheless, something had made me remain sitting next to him and even contribute to the bizarre discussion.

“You told me just now that women have ruined your entire life,” I said to the stranger. “But in what way did your girlfriend spoil things?”

“She began giving orders… over breakfast,” he replied, absolutely seriously.

“What do you mean by ‘giving orders’?” I asked, unable to refrain from smiling.

“Just the way women like to do!”

At that point, he imitated his girlfriend, saying in a squeaky voice:

“Ask them to move us to a different table. There’s a draught here! Go and fetch some juice! Bring me a pot of tea!”

He rolled his eyes upwards.

“You see, she didn’t like Turkish coffee! But that’s not all!”

Then, with even more emotion in his voice, he continued: “Ask if they have any riper bananas! These ones are too green! The fruit salad on the display is not fresh! Ask them to make up a separate one for me! I need a small dessert fork for the chocolate roulade – I can’t eat it with a teaspoon! Bring me another croissant, but a chocolate one, not a plain one…and make sure it isn’t squashed on the side…”

“What’s wrong with that?” I asked, surprised, as this scene seemed more comical than offensive to me. “Don’t couples all over the world behave like this? The woman is a little demanding, and the man fusses over her. That kind of role-playing is quite natural… especially on holiday!”

“She could have gone and got a croissant for herself,” he snapped.

“So is that the only reason why you fell out?”

“I wasn’t going to fetch her croissant, and that was that! She took offence, you see, and stopped talking to me. She thought she was punishing me,” he explained with a grin. “But I’m not that kind of person! I finished my omelette, drank up my coffee, and went back up to our room, leaving her in the hotel cafe. Then I quickly packed my things, called a taxi, and went to the airport.”

“But treating a woman like that is not nice, or even rather rude,” I told him, shrugging my shoulders.

“I won’t let anyone use me! That’s a fact! Let that be known!” the stranger blurted out irritably, probably referring to the entire female half of the human race. “Besides, that madam was so certain that I thought of her as my girlfriend, just because we went on holiday and slept together a few times,” he continued, stabbing his finger at his chest. “Ha-ha! I showed her what kind of girlfriend I thought she was, and what she really meant to me! Literally nothing at all! Stupid cow… and not a cow in the first flush of youth, either!”

He stopped talking, suddenly lost in thought. Then it dawned on me that this man clearly had a problem when it came to relationships with members of the opposite sex, and that this had its roots far back in the past. Perhaps, in his youth, he had not managed to win the heart of a girl he loved, and after that he had become embittered towards the whole female sex.

I had come across information like this several times in magazines on psychology. The articles explained that this kind of situation is not rare, especially in genuinely loving relationships. In emotional terms, men are less robust than women, and therefore susceptible to a variety of psychiatric disorders.

That might explain the incongruity of his outfit, I thought, and then a new idea occurred to me, about why my strange companion needed such extravagant boots.

Their loud colour suggested to everyone around him that he was an unconventional, complex person who should either be accepted along with all of his failings, or avoided. There was no third alternative approach, since the stranger was not prepared to adapt to suit anyone. It was even possible that he sported this bold footwear deliberately in order to attract a suitable life partner who would not be afraid of his external appearance and would be able to understand and accept his extraordinary nature.

Apparently, his appearance made people react by examining him from the bottom upwards. First they took in his flashy boots, then his clothes, and finally his face. Many were put off by the boots, though, and didn’t make it as far as the face, which suited him fine. He wanted to create the impression of being strange, and possibly even enjoyed the panic which his conflicting appearance instilled in those around him. 

However, from a psychological point of view, this was not so foolish. Why pretend to be someone else, when, after a few days, weeks or months, your true nature would surface, cancelling out the faceless, assumed mask of the ideal person? Is it not better to show another person who you are from the outset, without wasting time on a cheap sham? Would that not be a sure way to avoid disappointment on both sides?

“Women always ruin everything!” the stranger began again. “They are of no use in life whatsoever – they only bring upset! If you keep your distance, they are offended. If you move closer, they immediately sit on your head and try to drive you! But not me! I know how to stand up for myself! As soon as the whingeing starts I send them all packing like naughty cats who leave their mess on the carpets. I won’t let them mess up my soul any more! Not a single one!”

The stranger’s bold tirade made me feel rather awkward. I sensed that this time he had managed to affect my own self-esteem. Although he was angry at someone from the past, at that moment he was pouring all his anger out onto me.

“You really are a mysoginist!” I commented in response to his outburst. “I don’t know who has offended you so much, but I suspect that it was a woman who you once idealised! Meanwhile, not caring about your feelings, she left you for someone else! Then, instead of letting go and forgetting the whole thing, you now insult and humiliate other women! You punish them for being disobedient in any way, when the problem is that you let HER behave however she pleases!!!”

“I’m a mysoginist, am I?!” my companion exclaimed, literally leaping up from his seat. “I’m nothing of the sort! You all say that, but you don’t know me at all! I have always taken good care of the women I tried to build serious relationships with. I have bought them everything they wanted: jewellery, clothes, laptops, mobile phones… I’ve paid for expensive trips for them. I even got marihuana for one of them, but she was stoned so often that I eventually had to throw her out!”

The man stared at his boots and said nothing. Although he made no sound, his heavy, intermittent breathing suggested that my words had cut him to the quick.

I attempted to analyse the situation, but my thoughts were muddled:

My goodness, what a person! Where has all this anger come from? And all this unshakeable confidence in his own innocence and self-righteousness?.. What just happened? Was it an acting masterclass in front of a person he didn’t know, or an upsurge of the emotion which he had been hiding in his soul? Why did he target me, and not anyone else? Why didn’t he attempt to have this conversation with some other like-minded man? He could have sat down quite calmly next to the businessman, and together they could have had a real grumble about women. I think the businessman would have been in the perfect frame of mind for that.

I didn’t understand what the man wanted from me. Why did he keep on talking about the same topic – his dislike of women? Personally, I had been feeling an urge for quite some time now to stand up and walk away, giving any kind of excuse, but for some reason, my good breeding and politeness were preventing me from doing that. Maybe curiosity had also got the better of me right at the beginning of the conversation.

For whatever reason, I remained seated next to him and stared at my laptop screen. I was no longer in a position to edit the file, but I continued to move the cursor pointlessly from line to line.

“So, what do you do for a living?” the stranger asked unexpectedly, emerging from his trance and once again amazing me with his lack of tact.

Wow, I thought. Without asking my name, or introducing himself, he has become more familiar with me straight away, and wants me to tell him all about myself! If only they would hurry up and announce that the plane is ready for boarding. I can’t cope with this for much longer!

“I mainly write stories and articles for newspapers or book publishers,” I replied evasively, deciding to limit myself to this information only. “It’s nothing special.”

“Aha, so you’re a creative thinker! I see..!” was his unexpectedly pleased reaction. “And I was wondering how you managed to make such intelligent observations about people, at such a young age! Well, I like girls like that. If you had worked in some kind of office, I would have sensed it, and not even glanced in your direction. I hate bureaucratic rats and their grey ways of thinking! As individuals they are harmless, but en masse they can be dangerous! Believe me, I have suffered as a result of their ‘collective’ decisions on more than one occasion!”

Then, without giving me a chance to respond with a question, he immediately added, “I own two supermarkets: one in Leipzig, and the other in Dresden. In my spare time, when I’m not working, I write songs. So, in some ways, I’m a creative person, too, just like you!”

“Do you sing in a group?” I asked seizing the opportunity to change the topic.

“No, I write songs, and then sing them myself with the guitar. I’m a singer and a composer in one, and sometimes I’m also my only listener,” he replied sighing deeply. “My songs don’t attract large audiences, since most people are only interested in pop music nowadays… The same words and sounds repeated over and over again… It’s a sorry state of affairs!” He gave another deep sigh. “But I write meaningful lyrics. I put my entire soul into them!”

“What are the songs about? Are they happy songs?” I asked, unable to refrain from adding a certain irony to my question. Of course, I realised that he wouldn’t write happy songs, but for some reason I felt the need to provoke him a little. This probably said a lot about the mood of our conversation, which was far from happy…

Without spotting the irony in my question, my companion looked me in the eye, pursed his lips, and replied irritably, “Songs are like life! Why would they be happy?”

Then, muttering something under his breath, he drifted off into another trance. It seemed to me that the word ‘happy’ had thrown him off balance, as it bore no relation to his life.

Chapter 6. On the plane

Finally, boarding was announced. I gave a sigh of relief, hoping that, on the way to the plane, I might be able to rid myself of my annoying acquaintance. There was very little of my good mood left, except the desire to get to the book fair as quickly as possible. I was overcome with a miserable weariness, and I could hardly put one foot in front of the other as I walked towards the gangway.

The emotion which had risen up inside me at that moment was like the feeling after failing an exam. Many people have probably experienced a situation when, after revising a particular subject for nights on end, you get to the exam and find the one question to which you don’t know the answer. So that’s it – you fail. Then you have to motivate yourself to sit down with your books all over again. It was the same for me: I had to revive my spirits, otherwise the whole trip would simply go ‘down the drain’.

People really can get under your skin and spoil everything! I thought, as I walked up the gangway towards the plane. I should have made some kind of clever excuse immediately and moved to a different seat, away from this guy. I ought to have done it as soon as he made his first comment… about women!

But who could have known that his remarks would have cut me to the quick? I was just a person who happened to be there, and whom he randomly decided to engage in conversation.

 

Inside the plane, the man with the strange boots sat down in an aisle seat on the right hand side, two rows in front of me. My seat turned out to be next to the aisle, too, but on the left. So, if I looked diagonally, I could see him clearly.

My new acquaintance (I couldn’t call him a stranger any more), made himself comfortable in his seat, put the air conditioning fan above his head onto full power and, muttering something under his breath, began to flex his hands, one after the other.

A few minutes later, a rather portly gentleman of about forty walked over to his seat and, pointing to the vacant seat beside my acquaintance, asked him to change places. The man really was very large, and had got stuck several times on his way down the aisle. However, the passengers who had encountered him had obligingly given way to his bulk and patiently waited each time for him to move along. 

When my friend saw his neighbour, he stood up quickly to allow him through, but refused to swap places.

“No, I won’t! he declared, staring point-blank at the bewildered passenger. “Why should I?”

Clearly not expecting this reaction, the large gentleman turned bright red but persisted with his request.

“No, I won’t swap seats with you!” my friend declared, even louder and more irritably. “Which part of that don’t you understand?”

Realising the awkwardness of the situation, the stewardess hurried over to the angry passenger and asked him, using all the charm at her disposal, to give up his seat to the large gentleman who had a hard time squeezing into the passage between the rows. At that, he grunted crossly and, his arms folded, stated absolutely seriously:

“It’s not my fault that you let elephants onto passenger flights! You should make him sit in the seat indicated on the ticket you sold him!”

Not expecting such a bold reply from the passenger, the stewardess took offence and walked away, leaving the large gentleman to literally squeeze himself along the row. For a moment all the conversations on the plane stopped and the passengers watched in horror and curiosity as he attempted to do this.

I could, of course, have shown some sympathy and offered to change places with the large passenger. After thinking through all the possible consequences, though, I decided to refrain from taking such a rash step. I didn’t want to find myself next to this woman-hater again, since the prospect of another conversation with him did not bode well at all, and could even be dangerous. If nothing else, it would not help to improve my mood in the slightest.

A few minutes later, the whole cabin heard my friend say that “no-one that fat should be allowed anythere near normal people” since he would soon start to smell, and badly, too!

Outraged whispers began to spread around the plane. However, no-one dared to openly stand up for the offended passenger, since the likelihood of becoming the target of another attack from his neighbour was quite high.

A minute later, my friend pressed the button to call a member of the crew. When the stewardess came, he said, boiling with indignation:

“Bring him some deodorant, or at least some air freshener from the toilet!” With these words he jabbed a finger demonstratively at his neighbour. “I can’t sit next to him. I’ll suffocate! Or even better, move this fatso further away from me! Otherwise I might throw up in the plane and you’ll have to clean it up!”

The stewardess changed her facial expression, and blinked her eyes. She had most probably been called upon to calm down passengers in extreme situations on many occasions, but this time she was clearly at a loss.

“But this is my seat!” the large gentleman objected in a squeaky voice, suddenly becoming bolder in the presence of the air hostess. “I have paid for it. So if he doesn’t like the way I smell,” he said, pointing at the man who had insulted him, “then let him move elsewhere!”

“Have you ever seen yourself in a mirror?” my friend barked, turning halfway to face his neighbour. “You’re a guy, but you’ve got boobs, too! What use are they to you? Are you planning on feeding someone with them?”

“Don’t insult other passengers,” the stewardess said, emerging from her stupor and regaining the power of speech. Then, casting a professional eye over the cabin of the plane, she addressed the man who had started the commotion:

“Come with me. I’ll put you in a different seat. There’s a whole row free at the back of the plane.”

“In any other circumstances I would object,” the man replied. “But that would be quite handy right now. I can’t possibly put up with that stench right next to me! God forbid I ever stink like that!”

With these words my friend in the extravagant boots stood up, took his belongings, and followed the stewardess. When he reached my row, he gave a friendly nod and… seeing two free seats next to me, stopped as if rooted to the floor.

“Oh, I’ll sit with her! We’re friends!” he called to the stewardess. Then, paying her no further attention, he pushed his way through to the vacant place next to me. I only just managed to move my knees out of the way in time.

“By the way, I’m Eduard,” he told me as he fastened his seatbelt. “Boarding began so quickly that I didn’t have time to introduce myself. What’s your name?”

“Anna.”

“Ah, dear Anna,” he said in an English accent. “The name suits you. That’s what I’ll call you now! Dear Anna!”

“Why ‘Dear Anna’ exactly?” I enquired.

“You have a pretty face, that’s why,” he replied. “By the way, are you married?”

“No.”

“Me neither… Well, to be more accurate, I am married, but I haven’t lived with my wife for a long time. So I’m as good as single. It turns out that I could still fetch quite a price on the marriage market, don’t you think?” he added, grinning smugly.

I opened my eyes wide in an expression of surprise at his unusual marital status, but I said nothing. I struggled to imagine him as a fiancé, not to mention his ‘price’ on the marriage market. What was more, things weren’t going too well for me in that respect, and I was afraid he might begin digging deeper.

 

The plane taxied out into position. The engines rumbled and it accelerated down the runway. It went faster and faster, until we were soaring up into the air…

It began to shake a lot…

The drop in pressure made my ears pop, so I took a packet of cough sweets out of my bag and attempted to open it. I had read somewhere that the action of swallowing can help a person to cope with take-off and landing, so I had stocked up with lozenges on the way.

The plane began to shake even more violently, and I struggled to tear off the outer wrapper. When I eventually managed, I popped the pastille into my mouth, leaned back in my seat, closed my eyes, and attempted to relax. Because of the shaking, I didn’t feel too good, so I tried to move as little as possible.

Then

Impressum

Verlag: BookRix GmbH & Co. KG

Texte: Nataliya Lang
Bildmaterialien: Elvira Sharapov
Cover: Nataliya Lang
Übersetzung: Helen Hagon
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 05.09.2022
ISBN: 978-3-7554-2020-0

Alle Rechte vorbehalten