DieterM
06-12-2010, 09:09 AM
And again, he had lived another day. A snow-filled, lazy January day. One of those days that leave a shale taste in the mouth and end with the question: What for?
He had lived that day for nothing.
He had stood up late, as so often. He had woken up at 10:30 with the ringing of the telephone. A friend. They had chatted. For once, he had been able to tell some news, too.
After the phone call, he had spent three quarters of an hour soaking in the bathtub, reading a book. He loved to do that. Then, he had towelled himself down, had prepared coffee and had had breakfast. Sitting all alone at the huge, black table, coffee mug and ashtray before him, and an entire, endless day to fill.
What should he do?
He hadn’t been able to think of anything.
Whom could he call?
Again, nothing, nobody had come to mind.
Maybe Andrzej? They had decided to remain good friends after all.
Andrzej, of course. Three tries, and he had succeeded. Unheard palpitations had made it hard to listen to Andrzej’s voice. Banter. Squabble. Don’t haste anything, the conversation had expressed between the lines. It had resulted in no promise to meet that evening, only a vague hint of perhaps. Andrzej would perhaps call again. ‘You’ll probably catch me in the middle of a depression,’ he had warned Andrzej. He knew himself well enough. Already, a sensation of horror had invaded him when he’d been thinking of a lonesome evening spent in the empty flat.
Finally, Karl had called. They had gone to the Naschmarkt flea market. At least, a bit of the afternoon had flown by. But Karl had told him that he’d be spending the evening with Benoît, his French boyfriend.
After two filled out, entertaining hours, he had come back. The empty flat had made him angry.
Whom could he call now?
Again, nobody.
He had fallen on the bed, trying to do something with his seconds, minutes, hours. He had finished the book he had started reading two days earlier. The book had bequeathed him with dark thoughts and the recurrent question: Does love really exist? And, if yes, where the **** did it hide?
He had listened to ‘El Concierto de Aranjuez’. Gloomy, heavy ideas had weighed on his mind. The night had swallowed the city, had clouded it in that unbearable deep black.
He had been lying on the bed, in the dark, engrossed with the music and with his own blackness.
Why had he been living that particular day?
He had tried to find something, anything, that would have made that day worth living. After two, three attempts, he had been forced to think about something else.
He should have drawn a picture. Written a novel. There must be something for him too do…
He had been mulling over Andrzej. Beethoven’s ‘Moonshine Sonata’ had filled him with an unbounded sadness. Did love exist? His idea of love had always been a very romantic one, an image of passion, an image of the Prince and his Princess separated by deep waters they couldn’t cross, holding their arms out towards each other with longing and despair… Kisses, embraces, growing old together, name a cliché, he’d have taken it without afterthoughts. But was he able to love?
He had stopped abruptly. He had switched on all the lights in his large and lonely room. He had sat down at the table. Thinking of nothing. A contradiction in itself. He had just sat there, staring at the furniture, trying to process the images, trying to get answers to questions like: What shall I do now? What shall I think about? Which music do I want to listen to? He had been sitting at the table, head in his hands, his gaze fixedly on the white blinds covering the window.
After a while, he had prepared dinner.
While munching, he had deliberated whether he should go to the club that evening or not.
Again, he hadn’t found an answer.
He had asked himself if the next day, he would be able to remember something, anything, that would have justified him having lived that day. The flat’s silence had screamed back at him.
He had lived that day for nothing.
He had stood up late, as so often. He had woken up at 10:30 with the ringing of the telephone. A friend. They had chatted. For once, he had been able to tell some news, too.
After the phone call, he had spent three quarters of an hour soaking in the bathtub, reading a book. He loved to do that. Then, he had towelled himself down, had prepared coffee and had had breakfast. Sitting all alone at the huge, black table, coffee mug and ashtray before him, and an entire, endless day to fill.
What should he do?
He hadn’t been able to think of anything.
Whom could he call?
Again, nothing, nobody had come to mind.
Maybe Andrzej? They had decided to remain good friends after all.
Andrzej, of course. Three tries, and he had succeeded. Unheard palpitations had made it hard to listen to Andrzej’s voice. Banter. Squabble. Don’t haste anything, the conversation had expressed between the lines. It had resulted in no promise to meet that evening, only a vague hint of perhaps. Andrzej would perhaps call again. ‘You’ll probably catch me in the middle of a depression,’ he had warned Andrzej. He knew himself well enough. Already, a sensation of horror had invaded him when he’d been thinking of a lonesome evening spent in the empty flat.
Finally, Karl had called. They had gone to the Naschmarkt flea market. At least, a bit of the afternoon had flown by. But Karl had told him that he’d be spending the evening with Benoît, his French boyfriend.
After two filled out, entertaining hours, he had come back. The empty flat had made him angry.
Whom could he call now?
Again, nobody.
He had fallen on the bed, trying to do something with his seconds, minutes, hours. He had finished the book he had started reading two days earlier. The book had bequeathed him with dark thoughts and the recurrent question: Does love really exist? And, if yes, where the **** did it hide?
He had listened to ‘El Concierto de Aranjuez’. Gloomy, heavy ideas had weighed on his mind. The night had swallowed the city, had clouded it in that unbearable deep black.
He had been lying on the bed, in the dark, engrossed with the music and with his own blackness.
Why had he been living that particular day?
He had tried to find something, anything, that would have made that day worth living. After two, three attempts, he had been forced to think about something else.
He should have drawn a picture. Written a novel. There must be something for him too do…
He had been mulling over Andrzej. Beethoven’s ‘Moonshine Sonata’ had filled him with an unbounded sadness. Did love exist? His idea of love had always been a very romantic one, an image of passion, an image of the Prince and his Princess separated by deep waters they couldn’t cross, holding their arms out towards each other with longing and despair… Kisses, embraces, growing old together, name a cliché, he’d have taken it without afterthoughts. But was he able to love?
He had stopped abruptly. He had switched on all the lights in his large and lonely room. He had sat down at the table. Thinking of nothing. A contradiction in itself. He had just sat there, staring at the furniture, trying to process the images, trying to get answers to questions like: What shall I do now? What shall I think about? Which music do I want to listen to? He had been sitting at the table, head in his hands, his gaze fixedly on the white blinds covering the window.
After a while, he had prepared dinner.
While munching, he had deliberated whether he should go to the club that evening or not.
Again, he hadn’t found an answer.
He had asked himself if the next day, he would be able to remember something, anything, that would have justified him having lived that day. The flat’s silence had screamed back at him.