mgobluebraelow
10-05-2012, 07:07 PM
They were driving somewhere. He didn’t know where and she didn’t bother asking. Neither of them said very much. The only sounds were the music, their breaths and the whirring of the tires. It was dark and there was no traffic up in the mountains. Sometimes the road would turn from asphalt to dirt, and then to asphalt again and the car would jerk as it changed. He could feel her look over at him but he kept his eyes on the road. To their left the mountain sloped up and was rocky and scattered with tall pines and bare trees that had broad leaves in the springtime. To their right they could see out over the valleys and the sprawls of the villages.
“It’s weird,” She said. He was quiet and didn’t look at her, but he was listening. “The lights from the villages look like stars.” She put her elbow on the door against the glass and put her cheek on her knuckles. He pulled the car out of gear as they went around a bend in the road and then shifted into second and then third as he accelerated out of it. He reached for the radio and changed the song. He didn’t want to think about it, it got him sick thinking about it and he wanted her to shut up and stop talking like it never happened. The side of his lip rose up in a twitchy snarl and he focused on the bends and the gears.
“Are you tired?” She asked.
“No.” He said. His throat was thick from not speaking.
Her cheek was still resting on her knuckles and she was looking out over the mountain and into the dark valleys. He pulled his old Ford 5.0 into neutral as he went around another blind turn. It didn’t handle well and the breaks were old but he liked the feel of the clutch.
“I love you,” she said, now looking at him. There was a tear on her cheek and he wanted to say something to stop it, but all he could do was think about how angry it made him. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Just shut the **** up,” he said. His stomach began to burn and his insides felt hollow and weak. He was sick and sad and hurt, but mostly just angry. Not at her, though. It was hard to explain. At first he had shouted at her and then he had cursed her. He didn’t know with whom he was angry, just that he was and that nothing he could do could make anything better. Now, he was quiet and kept it in his head.
The road straightened out and turned to gravel. He could feel the stones bouncing up and hitting the bottom of the car.
“I love you.” She said again. They were driving between two peaks now. There were no valleys to look into – only cold mountain walls, pines, the bare trees and stones.
“Yeah.” He said.
The road widened as they came out of the narrow and into a village. There were maybe five buildings all in a row on one side of the road. The timber frames were eroding and the whitewashed plaster was peeling off the red bricks. Every window was dark except for that of a tavern that was on the lower level of the largest of the five homes. He pulled the car over and turned it off.
“Where are we?” She asked.
“Hell if I know.” He opened the door and stepped outside and the smell of manure stung in the bridge of his nose. He walked around the back of the car. It was cold but not quite cold enough to snow and he could see his breath. The asphalt was wet from when it had rained earlier that day. Across from the houses the road dipped off and there was a low, barbed-wire fence that ran along it.
“Cows,” she said. He shut the door behind her. He locked the car and put his hands in his jean pockets. She walked up close next to him and went with him in silence across the road and towards the tavern. He felt her body against his as they went; he felt her high hips at his side and her shoulder brushing his arm. They were walking into their breaths. She shivered. She had her arms crossed and her hands tucked up under them. Now, under the moon, he could see the muted amber of her eyes and where the tears had been on her cheek. He looked back at the red Ford as they walked. Even in the dark the cherry coloring seemed to stand out. It was a crappy old car, and he knew it. No matter where in Germany he drove it, he got looks – the same sort of looks that one might get up in northern Michigan if they drove a BMW. The looks never bothered him because he loved the car and it was his until it wasn’t anymore.
“It’s dirty.” She said.
“It needs new breaks.”
“All it needs is a wash.”
“No, it needs new breaks. The breaks don’t ****ing work. The breaks are ****. It needs new breaks and the wheels need to be aligned.”
“Are you going to sell it?”
“Who would buy it?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, “Maybe just wash it.”
They were outside the tavern now. The air was smoky from the cooked meats and sweet from the fermenting beers. The window was stenciled with the name of the tavern: Der Rote Löwe. The door was a heavy, dark wood and the handle was cold and twisted rod iron. It had a rod iron peep-door with cage-like bars at eyelevel. He opened the door and followed her through.
Inside it was small and dim and lit by heavy chandeliers with candles that made the room dance. There were wooden shelves mounted on the white walls and the dark wood framing of the building. On the right there was a brick fireplace and the flames were dead and the wood was smoldering. Above it a poker, an ash shovel, tongs and a bellow were mounted. On the left there was a long bar and two peasants sitting and drinking at the end nearest the back of the room. The barkeeper was leaning on the opposite end. He had his head in his left hand and he was reading a reading a newspaper. He was old and balding and his hair was combed back on his scalp. He had a pointy, aquiline nose and small, round eyeglasses sitting low on its bridge. He was wearing a white shirt and suspenders. His sleeves were rolled up below his elbow and his collar was undone. The wood floor creaked as they walked in and the barkeeper and the two peasants looked at them as they sat at a table in the middle of the tavern. It felt like a dungeon, but that’s how they were in Bavaria.
“Zwei stangen.” He said to the barkeeper, who had approached them and was now standing like a hawk at the side of the lacquered table.
“I don’t want one.” She said.
“Ein bier und eine bratwurst.”
“Die küeche ist zu,” said the barkeeper, “We have bread.” He knew that they were American and so he spoke to them in English.
“Only beer then.”
“Was?”
“Eine stange.”
The barkeeper nodded and went back behind the bar. The peasants were talking to one another. They were old and their beards were thick and their clothes were dirty. The dim lighting thickened the creases on their faces and their eyes wandered.
“Shake your hair,” he said to her, “they’re watching.” He looked at her and she was smiling that damn beautiful smile. The barkeeper came back with a large glass of an amber-colored beer. He put it on the table and walked away. It was thick and had a nice head. He took a drink and put the glass down in front of him and watched as the foam settled. Then, after watching the beer go flat, he lifted it to his mouth and drank it all at once, gasping as he swallowed the last bit. She nodded slowly and watched him as he stare into the empty beer glass.
The barkeeper was wiping down the brown surface of the bar. He was joking with the peasants who stood up and left coins next to their empty glasses. They were laughing as they waived goodbye to the barkeeper and stumbled out the heavy door and disappeared into the dark. When the door shut, the barkeeper sighed and his smile faded as he leaned on the counter. The towel he had used to wipe it down was still in his hand.
“I’m keeping the car,” he said after a while.
“Good,” she said. The barkeeper came by once again and stood over their table.
“We close,” the barkeeper was terse and his eyes were heavy from the day’s work, “Or you want another beer?”
“No, thank you.” he stood up and took some money from his pocket. He put it in the barkeeper’s hand and glared at him. He looked over at her and she followed him outside into the cold, manure scent of the night. They went to the car and they got in. He started the engine and put the car into gear. Across the road the lights from the tavern went out and the village was asleep.
They went back through the narrow — along the gravel stretch of road between the two peaks. The engine was having some difficulty with the incline, but it managed.
“Can we go home now?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. He wanted to go home. But he knew that it would never be the same as when they had left it that afternoon. What had been done had been done and nothing could change that. He didn’t know how home would be when they would get there or if he would even recognize it or if he would like the new home. Now they were driving and that he liked. They were going with the road – up and down along the mountainside and above the valleys with the villages and the stars.
“It’s weird,” She said. He was quiet and didn’t look at her, but he was listening. “The lights from the villages look like stars.” She put her elbow on the door against the glass and put her cheek on her knuckles. He pulled the car out of gear as they went around a bend in the road and then shifted into second and then third as he accelerated out of it. He reached for the radio and changed the song. He didn’t want to think about it, it got him sick thinking about it and he wanted her to shut up and stop talking like it never happened. The side of his lip rose up in a twitchy snarl and he focused on the bends and the gears.
“Are you tired?” She asked.
“No.” He said. His throat was thick from not speaking.
Her cheek was still resting on her knuckles and she was looking out over the mountain and into the dark valleys. He pulled his old Ford 5.0 into neutral as he went around another blind turn. It didn’t handle well and the breaks were old but he liked the feel of the clutch.
“I love you,” she said, now looking at him. There was a tear on her cheek and he wanted to say something to stop it, but all he could do was think about how angry it made him. “It didn’t mean anything.”
“Just shut the **** up,” he said. His stomach began to burn and his insides felt hollow and weak. He was sick and sad and hurt, but mostly just angry. Not at her, though. It was hard to explain. At first he had shouted at her and then he had cursed her. He didn’t know with whom he was angry, just that he was and that nothing he could do could make anything better. Now, he was quiet and kept it in his head.
The road straightened out and turned to gravel. He could feel the stones bouncing up and hitting the bottom of the car.
“I love you.” She said again. They were driving between two peaks now. There were no valleys to look into – only cold mountain walls, pines, the bare trees and stones.
“Yeah.” He said.
The road widened as they came out of the narrow and into a village. There were maybe five buildings all in a row on one side of the road. The timber frames were eroding and the whitewashed plaster was peeling off the red bricks. Every window was dark except for that of a tavern that was on the lower level of the largest of the five homes. He pulled the car over and turned it off.
“Where are we?” She asked.
“Hell if I know.” He opened the door and stepped outside and the smell of manure stung in the bridge of his nose. He walked around the back of the car. It was cold but not quite cold enough to snow and he could see his breath. The asphalt was wet from when it had rained earlier that day. Across from the houses the road dipped off and there was a low, barbed-wire fence that ran along it.
“Cows,” she said. He shut the door behind her. He locked the car and put his hands in his jean pockets. She walked up close next to him and went with him in silence across the road and towards the tavern. He felt her body against his as they went; he felt her high hips at his side and her shoulder brushing his arm. They were walking into their breaths. She shivered. She had her arms crossed and her hands tucked up under them. Now, under the moon, he could see the muted amber of her eyes and where the tears had been on her cheek. He looked back at the red Ford as they walked. Even in the dark the cherry coloring seemed to stand out. It was a crappy old car, and he knew it. No matter where in Germany he drove it, he got looks – the same sort of looks that one might get up in northern Michigan if they drove a BMW. The looks never bothered him because he loved the car and it was his until it wasn’t anymore.
“It’s dirty.” She said.
“It needs new breaks.”
“All it needs is a wash.”
“No, it needs new breaks. The breaks don’t ****ing work. The breaks are ****. It needs new breaks and the wheels need to be aligned.”
“Are you going to sell it?”
“Who would buy it?” He asked.
“I don’t know,” she said, “Maybe just wash it.”
They were outside the tavern now. The air was smoky from the cooked meats and sweet from the fermenting beers. The window was stenciled with the name of the tavern: Der Rote Löwe. The door was a heavy, dark wood and the handle was cold and twisted rod iron. It had a rod iron peep-door with cage-like bars at eyelevel. He opened the door and followed her through.
Inside it was small and dim and lit by heavy chandeliers with candles that made the room dance. There were wooden shelves mounted on the white walls and the dark wood framing of the building. On the right there was a brick fireplace and the flames were dead and the wood was smoldering. Above it a poker, an ash shovel, tongs and a bellow were mounted. On the left there was a long bar and two peasants sitting and drinking at the end nearest the back of the room. The barkeeper was leaning on the opposite end. He had his head in his left hand and he was reading a reading a newspaper. He was old and balding and his hair was combed back on his scalp. He had a pointy, aquiline nose and small, round eyeglasses sitting low on its bridge. He was wearing a white shirt and suspenders. His sleeves were rolled up below his elbow and his collar was undone. The wood floor creaked as they walked in and the barkeeper and the two peasants looked at them as they sat at a table in the middle of the tavern. It felt like a dungeon, but that’s how they were in Bavaria.
“Zwei stangen.” He said to the barkeeper, who had approached them and was now standing like a hawk at the side of the lacquered table.
“I don’t want one.” She said.
“Ein bier und eine bratwurst.”
“Die küeche ist zu,” said the barkeeper, “We have bread.” He knew that they were American and so he spoke to them in English.
“Only beer then.”
“Was?”
“Eine stange.”
The barkeeper nodded and went back behind the bar. The peasants were talking to one another. They were old and their beards were thick and their clothes were dirty. The dim lighting thickened the creases on their faces and their eyes wandered.
“Shake your hair,” he said to her, “they’re watching.” He looked at her and she was smiling that damn beautiful smile. The barkeeper came back with a large glass of an amber-colored beer. He put it on the table and walked away. It was thick and had a nice head. He took a drink and put the glass down in front of him and watched as the foam settled. Then, after watching the beer go flat, he lifted it to his mouth and drank it all at once, gasping as he swallowed the last bit. She nodded slowly and watched him as he stare into the empty beer glass.
The barkeeper was wiping down the brown surface of the bar. He was joking with the peasants who stood up and left coins next to their empty glasses. They were laughing as they waived goodbye to the barkeeper and stumbled out the heavy door and disappeared into the dark. When the door shut, the barkeeper sighed and his smile faded as he leaned on the counter. The towel he had used to wipe it down was still in his hand.
“I’m keeping the car,” he said after a while.
“Good,” she said. The barkeeper came by once again and stood over their table.
“We close,” the barkeeper was terse and his eyes were heavy from the day’s work, “Or you want another beer?”
“No, thank you.” he stood up and took some money from his pocket. He put it in the barkeeper’s hand and glared at him. He looked over at her and she followed him outside into the cold, manure scent of the night. They went to the car and they got in. He started the engine and put the car into gear. Across the road the lights from the tavern went out and the village was asleep.
They went back through the narrow — along the gravel stretch of road between the two peaks. The engine was having some difficulty with the incline, but it managed.
“Can we go home now?” She asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. He wanted to go home. But he knew that it would never be the same as when they had left it that afternoon. What had been done had been done and nothing could change that. He didn’t know how home would be when they would get there or if he would even recognize it or if he would like the new home. Now they were driving and that he liked. They were going with the road – up and down along the mountainside and above the valleys with the villages and the stars.