Baboon Page 6

  Walking under the big trees brings up an immediate and direct feeling of happiness in me, which I desperately need. Wednesday came, the earth was still damp after the night’s rain, a gray haze lay over the garden, and I embraced the gnarled maple, pressed my chest against the trunk, tried to control my breathing. It’s always especially bad in the morning. Then out of the corner of my eye I saw something dark and fidgeting stop. Your coat. There you were looking at me. A blue wool hat was pulled down over your ears. You were studying me with your head at an angle. I nodded. Again that wave of your hand, and then you were gone. I didn’t continue my stroll through the garden. I didn’t lie among the ferns down by the pond. I didn’t visit the roses, the wisteria, I didn’t gather snowberries from the ground, I didn’t kiss the first chestnuts. Instead, I sweated like a horse and went home. Strangely broken-hearted, confused, embarrassed. But with new signs in my body as well, ones that nearly drowned out the coursing blood, the pain around the heart, the sensation of falling, and the usual frightening thoughts that follow. I went home and took my member in my hand. I was warm and cold. I never got tired of rolling the foreskin back and squeezing it forward, my hand racing back and forth. I collapsed into the sticky puddle on the floor. Awhile later it was evening, early and blue. And it turned out that I was already having vivid dreams about you, as if I were hearing your footsteps on the gravel, as if I were touching the swinging ball of your blue hat. I woke up in the middle of the night because I was freezing, and it hit me for the first time that you must’ve thought I was mentally ill. Who would hug a tree in broad daylight? You must’ve seen that I was out of my mind, and on top of that, perhaps I even frightened you.

  I don’t remember anymore how it began. Slowly, slowly. A little anxiety that grew. Insomnia. Tremors. Sudden panic during a flight. Feeling anxious in the dark enclosure of a movie theater. Headaches, difficulty breathing, frantic checking of pulse and heart rate, dry mouth, pins and needles in my feet. Fear got the better of me. From the fear came a wish to die over the years, a longing to be released from the agony. But also a fear of that same death. An inferno of opposing desires. One day I stopped working. One day I stayed in bed. I stopped answering the phone, I just stopped. I let myself be dismissed from the high school where I was teaching, received unemployment, sick days, and later, social security. And later, much later, the earth, the trees, the rain. Especially the trees. Their certain endurance in this world, standing, in the same spot, moving and under the influence of everything around them, but they don’t move, they never move until someone cuts them down. And even then, it doesn’t necessarily end their lives—it’s not easy to get rid of a tree. The stump sprouts and soon it’s tall and dense again, growing wildly. I now dedicate my life to a silver maple. No evil can reach me when I crawl up and sit like a monkey in the twisted branches. And this was right where you found me, the next time you happened to see me. This time you came closer. Smiling. Curious.

  “Hi.”

  I nodded a little.

  “Why are you sitting up there?”

  I stared.

  “Aren’t you the one that looked so sad last Tuesday, when you were bending over the roses?”

  “I’m not sad.”

  “No?”

  I shook my head.

  “You look sad.”

  You made as if to go.

  “Wait,” my voice strangely woolen. “Wait, wait a minute.”

  I began to climb clumsily down.

  Your mouth was wide and soft. You reached your hand out, I took it hesitantly, and you helped me down.

  We began to walk. You had that blue hat on, but then you took it off and put it in your pocket. You shook your head so that your hair fell around your face.

  “Do you come here often?”

  I nodded, “I love to walk under the big trees.”

  “And to climb them!” you said laughing.

  “And to climb them, yes.” I tried to smile.

  “Last Tuesday,” I mumbled. “Last Tuesday you looked very happy.”

  “Did I?”

  “I couldn’t forget your face.” You looked down. We turned to go up the steps near the rock gardens. A small stream gurgled. I was about to flee. Then you stopped suddenly and laid your hand on my arm. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.” Your hand was still resting on my greasy sleeve.

  “Nothing’s wrong with me.”

  Then something slipped in me. Something raged through me, lava, a storm, everything went black. I invited you for a cup of coffee.

  Then you were sitting across from me at the outdoor café in the garden. It was cool, but not cold, heavy clouds sat low over the city, a pair of terribly weakened wasps crawled about in the grass near my feet. I watched their death struggle and almost forgot you, was almost completely absorbed, was almost gone, but then you lifted your cup and asked, “Do you live near here?”

  We talked. You had recently moved to the city to study biology. You were majoring in botany. You told me about the plants and flowers, about species and families, about names and soil conditions, about light and shadows, about blooming and seeding, about reproduction and propagation, your cheeks were red, you told me about the trees, you tied your shoelaces, you clutched your mug with both hands, you blew on it, you burned your tongue, you told me your name. Laura. And I, more worn than you, woke up, listened, drank my coffee, lit a cigarette, watched your gesticulating hands, followed your gaze out over the lawn, up to the sky, answered your questions briefly, thought no thoughts, there was only you, right before me, and you shivered, pulled your jacket closer around your body, took your hat out of your pocket again, warmed your hands in it, and then we got up and walked slowly through the garden and out to the street.

  I stopped and turned toward you. “Perhaps we’ll meet again.” You nodded. And then that movement with your hand. I stood there watching you until you turned into the entrance of the university. Warm and cold. The rest of the day I could do nothing else but walk, relying on my steps, needing to stay in motion, and I didn’t go home until long after it had gotten dark and I was so exhausted that I fell asleep right on my stomach with my head buried deeply into my stained pillow.

  Maybe I had fallen down a crevasse, a sudden slide down an all-too-slippery passageway. Maybe this is it. And in this chrysalis, in this recess, in this hole I’ve been waiting either for life to notice me again and pull me up, or death to force me down the last few feet and away. I don’t eat much. I don’t sleep much. Sometimes it’s as if I were possessed by a ghost, at other times it’s clear to me that I’ve created this nonexistence that my life has turned into. I didn’t meet you the following week. The wind drove hard from the northwest, the leaves rattled down and whirled around on the grass. I washed myself in the kitchen. I rubbed my member with a washcloth. I noticed my sunken stomach, pulled on the loose skin, sighed, and smoked. One Wednesday at the end of October I gave up. The night frost had made the earth hard and cold, I lay on my back behind the ferns, hidden by the bushes, I lay looking up at the drifting clouds and the tops of the trees swaying quietly from side to side. The storm had shaken off the leaves. I was heavy in my heart, limp, and numb. Maybe now. If I lie here long enough. Maybe now it’ll end. But an almost tender joy sprung up in me: in that moment I was not afraid of death. Heavy and limp. Ready to give in. Then I heard crunching. Footsteps nearby. And suddenly you were standing over me, looking me in the eye for a second before breaking out in laughter. I got up on my elbows. You shook your head, smiling.

  “There is something wrong with you!”

  I had to get on all fours before standing up. I was stiff from the cold. We stood facing each other. Then your expression became serious.

  “Do you know that bracken is very poisonous? It contaminates the ground water, it’s carcinogenic.” You sounded like a child reading from a book. It was unpleasant, painful to stand so close; I couldn’t move my mouth to say anything.

  “Come on. I’ll get you a cup
of coffee. You must be freezing.” On the way to the outdoor café you started to laugh again. Then you stopped suddenly, as if you just realized it was inappropriate.

  You told me that you often took a walk in the garden during your lunch break, that you’re homesick for the fields and forest, and your brothers who still live at home. You were visiting there last weekend. You had helped your mother till the kitchen garden. You chatted, told me about a friend who was an apprentice hairdresser in a salon back home, about how you’d been enemies. Then you became silent. We both sipped our coffee. I stubbed out my cigarette with my foot. You looked at me, staring into my eyes.

  “Why do you lie on the ground like that?”

  Suddenly I could see how young you were. There was something sulky and innocent in your face, maybe it was the way you pressed your mouth down, maybe because your eyes were so large and clear. But there was also a defiance: the way you continued to hold my gaze.

  “Come on. Tell me.”

  Then I smiled.

  “Ah, it’s not easy to explain. I think it’s good for me. I just like to look up at the trees.”

  “You and your trees,” you said, looking sad.

  And then with sudden courage, I got an overwhelming feeling of being an adult and that I should reassure you:

  “Take my hand.”

  You looked frightened, your lips parted as if you wanted to say something, you hesitated, but then you laid your white hand in mine, and I closed it around yours, encircling it, covering it.

  We looked at each other, the clouds might have gathered over us because it got darker, a gust of wind blew the paper napkins onto the gravel. I caressed the back of your hand with my finger. And you still looked frightened, though you didn’t take your hand away, and I could tell that after awhile you relaxed a little.

  “You looked so happy that Tuesday,” I said, and almost whispered: “I couldn’t forget your face.”

  The day after, we met again. We nearly bumped into each other when you stepped onto the path near the herb beds. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, and the light was soft and at the same time blindingly sharp. We walked down to the pond. The willows were reflecting in the muddy green water. Some coots glided under the bridge. They whistled in the tall reeds. We watched for a while. I thought about how it felt to touch your skin. I didn’t dare look at you. I had no idea what to say. You carefully laid your hand on my shoulder and asked if we should go see the tropics.

  We stepped into the humid warmth of the greenhouse. You took your hat off and unbuttoned your jacket, and for a long time we stood looking at the carnivorous plants. You said, “That’s a pitcher plant. It traps the insects in its sticky funnel.” I pushed the heavy flower and it swung back and forth. You laughed. Then you saw a butterfly that was sitting on a fat dark green leaf flapping its wings. Delicate tiny sweat drops appeared on your upper lip. We stood so close that our shoulders touched. Water dripped gently from the palms. I was about to lean against you, but then you walked away and squatted before a twining plant. You studied the underside of one of its leaves. And then looked at me smiling, a look I couldn’t decipher. Your eyes threw off sparks. That’s how I remember it. When we went outside again the cold was overwhelming. You buttoned up your coat and began to walk. You found a bench in the sun. We sat there for at least ten minutes without saying anything. You leaned back and closed your eyes, and I’m almost certain that you drew a little closer, I could feel your arm pushing against mine. I held my breath, and then suddenly you opened your eyes and got up. You said you had to go, you were late already.

  That night I woke up crying, bathed in sweat. I had dreamed that in one single night a hurricane had stripped the leaves off all the trees in the world. I was in despair. Bare black trunks and a trembling stillness. I cried over my loneliness, which I only now understood. And I scolded myself. How could I think that you desired my company? In the mirror I saw a pathetic figure, unshaven, half bald, gray, dull red eyes with an empty expression. I couldn’t stop crying. I stayed in bed all the next day. It was Friday, I was weak and warm. I staggered down to buy a few groceries. It wasn’t until Tuesday that I returned to the garden. But I was unable to enter my silver maple. It rejected me. Or was it the opposite? The tree was silent. I felt unworthy. That’s how I was standing there, limp arms hanging at my sides, staring at the tree, at the yellow and light green leaves at its base, my legs shaking under me, wearing a coat that was far too big, when you walked up behind me, stood there quietly for a little while. I felt your gaze, and then saw you turn around. I saw your back. I saw you hurry away. In no way can I blame you for avoiding me. I would’ve done the same.

  The garden suddenly seemed sinister in that gray light. I realized nothing was blooming anymore. The rosebuds were brown at the edges, diminished and curled up. They’ll never unfold. From the covered bench I could see the wide staircase that leads up to the greenhouse. I thought I saw you up there with your hand resting on the railing as if you were on your way down, maybe you’d already put one foot on the first step. I looked away, but when I looked back a second later no one was there.

  It got darker, rainier, colder. I was stuck. A panic attack took hold of me. I woke up in the middle of the night with my heart in a wild gallop, terror-stricken, certain that my end was near. I sat at the edge of the bed in the dim light, feverishly checking my pulse, convinced that I was dead, that there was no relief, that eternity was here, on this planet, in this damp apartment, and I imagined that your last moment alive turns into eternity. The way lightning is materialized in a piece of glass. But then not completely, because I imagined eternity as a living picture—a looping, unending repetition, a prison of arrested time. And soon I began to obsessively think about how I should ensure a means of dying happily, preferably in a state of well-being, empty well-being. Which led me to masturbate every time I was struck by anxiety. Or I tried to. I decided that from the perspective of eternity, the seconds just after an orgasm would be a perfect moment. But all too often I just sat there with my limp member in my hand, out of breath. All too often I cried. And winter came, from my window I could see out over the snow-covered roofs and hear the sound of traffic becoming more and more woolen and distant. I dreamed about your springy step. Your hand drawing a half-circle in the air.

  It was well into January before I dared to take a stroll in the garden again. It had snowed a lot. Tiny ice-pearls glittered on the twigs and straw. Some great tits pecked hungrily at frozen paradise apples. A skinny cat ran across the path. The clear air was doing me good. I looked for pebbles in the gravel under the snow. I rattled them around in my hand in my pocket. I was getting closer to my silver maple. It was so beautiful. The sun shone on the thick snow that was covering the branches. I reached out and tentatively caressed the trunk. I rubbed my cheek against the bark. I pressed my lower body against it. Tears welled up in my eyes. And I realized you were gone. I accepted it. It was as if in that moment I became calm and accepted it. Maybe I anticipated a new start for my life. In any case, I was back in the garden by the tree; relieved, I slid down into the deep snow, ate it, washed my face with it.

  But you were not gone. Three weeks later I followed you on the garden paths. A peculiar chase. Filled with energy you moved with self-assurance and determination, while I reeled behind you, hiding behind bushes and trees, sprinting then creeping out of breath behind the red shed when you suddenly stopped and turned to sit on a bench. You pulled a pack of cigarettes out of your purse. You took your gloves off so that I could see your hands. You had painted your nails blue. Then you lifted your face to the sun. Large black sunglasses hid your eyes. It was clear you had changed. I saw how confidently you inhaled the smoke into your lungs with a long drag, how you toyed with a small red phone, and a smile flickered across your face when you apparently received a text. You crossed one leg over the other, you twisted your hair between your fingers and pushed your glasses up on your forehead—and then you looked directly into my eyes. I fought
to endure your gaze. You threw the cigarette down and continued to stare at me and I endured it. I did not let go of your eyes and you would not let go of mine. Your look was angry and defiant. Then at last I looked away. My footprints were deep holes in the snow. You got up from the bench and came storming over to me.

  I could smell you. Your mouth was painted dark red. A little stone sparkled in your nose. You were very close. First you spoke low, almost tenderly, to me:

  “Where have you been? Where have you been all this time?”

  I didn’t answer. Then more accusingly:

  “Where have you been?”

  Finally you yelled, your spit hit my face like a spritz of water.

  “WHERE?!”

  “Away,” I mumbled.

  “What did you say?!”

  “I’ve been away.”

  “AWAY?!” You kicked at the snow furiously with your foot. Then you stood still with your hands on your hips:

  “I thought…” And you took a deep breath.

  “What did you think?”

  “That we…”

  I stared at you for a long time. You were so close.

  “I thought that you...” Now you looked unhappy.

  I wanted to speak. Then suddenly you sneered at me.

  “You’re fucking sick in the head!”

  I wanted to say something. You came even closer. I could feel your warm breath. You glared at me. Your hair brushed my chin. And then you grabbed my cheeks with your hands and pressed your mouth against mine and stuck your tongue into my mouth and it was fierce and hard. I was shocked. I pulled my head back. You held me tightly. You bit me. You pressed your body against mine. I couldn’t breathe. You pinned me against the shed and drove your stiff tongue round and round in my mouth. It was very unpleasant. Then at last you let me go. I was gasping for air. Still low, but not tender: “I wanted to have sex with you in the bathroom. I’ve thought about it a lot.” And then you yelled, “But now it doesn’t matter!”