This story is a remix of
Ich Weiss Nicht by Pearl-o, written for
Remix Redux IV
audio version
(mp3, 13.5MB, about 14.5 minutes long - please rightclick and save)
Eins: Die junge Frau
[Nun bin ich also hier, in Chicago, in Amerika….] So: here I am in Chicago, in America. So far it is a very interesting vacation, although my lack of English makes communication difficult. But my German eyes can appreciate the view from the Sears Tower without it being translated; and a pretty girl is a pretty girl, whatever language she speaks.
Chicago has no shortage of either tall buildings or pretty girls. Today I was walking down the street, distracted by the former - looking up, thinking about how many people must work and live here, and multiplying it in my head by all the great cities of America - and I walked straight into one of the latter, knocking the bags she was carrying out of her hand, scattering small packages on the sidewalk.
Instantly I begged her pardon and knelt to retrieve her packages, but she only stared at me and said something - oh, I don't know what she said, it was in English, but it was not a word I recognized. She looked amazed, incredulous; she touched my face, running her hand along my jaw and then snatching it away in obvious embarrassment. She said something more, speaking quickly, gesturing at me, the sidewalk, the packages. She bit her lip and ran a hand through her dark hair. Adorable.
"Forgive me," I told her, handing her the packages, and she shrugged helplessly; clearly her German was no better than my English. Then she smiled.
"Franziska," she said, tapping a hand to her chest. No, not precisely 'Franziska;" she gave herself the equivalent English name, but when I repeated, "Franziska," she nodded.
"Josef," I said, tapping my own chest. "May I apologize for my clumsiness by taking you out to dinner?"
She didn't understand, of course, so I resorted to mime: eating food, the two of us, a sweep of the arm to indicate the city.
She tapped her watch and shrugged her shoulders. "At seven," I said, and drew the numeral in the air. Ah, an idea. I took out my card and on the back wrote the name of my hotel and the desired hour: 7:00. I handed it to her with one of the few words I knew in English: "Yes?"
"Yes," she said.
I was not entirely sure she would show up, but at 7:00 she was there, in my hotel lobby. Dressed in a red skirt and a tight sweater, her hair shining, her eyes shining - beautiful, she was beautiful, and when she smiled at me she was even more so. I had asked the concierge to make dinner reservations at the restaurant around the corner. Franziska and I had steaks and red wine, and if I did not understand a single word that dropped from her lovely lips it did not matter; her radiant eyes told me everything I needed to know.
When the meal was over, she walked me back to my hotel. "Yes?" I asked her, holding her hand.
"Yes," she said, and followed me into the elevator, and to my room.
It did not seem to bother her, that I could not speak her language, and when I said something in mine she laughed and run her fingers over my lips; and when she ran her fingers over my lips I sucked them into my mouth, kissing them one by one; and when I kissed her fingers she sighed and said more mysterious words; and then I kissed her lips, and the words turned to moans.
We undressed ourselves, and I lifted her up and laid her gently on the bed, which made her smile. For a few moments I feasted my eyes on her, my beautiful Chicago girl; then I removed my eyeglasses and slid down to join her. Again she caressed my jaw with that look of wonder, ran her fingers across my eyebrow, breathed strange English words.
Then I bent to her and let my body speak, and hers answered.
After we were both sated we lay together quietly for a while. Then she glanced at the clock on the bedside table. With words and gestures, she told me she needed to leave, but that she wanted to see me again.
"I am leaving here in ten days," I told her. "To the east coast for more traveling, then home to Germany." I pulled out this diary and turned to the calendar at the front, pointing out the date of my departure to her, and she smiled and nodded with great enthusiasm.
She mimed writing, so I gave her a pen, and she wrote her name, a phone number, an address. With signs she indicated that this was where she worked, a police station in the city, and that I might call her there. She pulled on her clothes, kissed me one more time, and then my beautiful Franziska left me and went out into the Chicago night.
I shall send her flowers tomorrow.
Zwei: Der Mann
[In den letzten Wochen habe ich Franziska mehrmals angerufen….] Over the past week I called Franziska a few times, but over the phone I could not make my intentions clear. Finally this afternoon I visited her at the police station, to see if I could invite her once more to my room, but she shook her head and babbled something at me, something clearly friendly but just as clearly dismissive. I shall never understand American girls!
As I walked down the street away from the station I heard a man's voice behind me. There was something familiar about his voice, and as I turned, I realized what it was: it was not his voice but one of the words he had called out to me, the same word my Franziska had said when we met, that I heard from her lips several more times that evening.
The man looked at me as though he knew me, as though he expected me to know him, but then he smiled and shook his head, and said something very fast and apologetic-sounding.
"I'm sorry," I told him. "I don't speak English."
He nodded, and his grin grew broader. It was infectious, his grin, and I could not help but grin back. He said something else; then, to my astonishment, with gestures he invited me to have a meal with him, just as I had invited Franziska last week.
I admit that I wondered, as I followed the man to a diner, whether his intentions toward me were the same as mine had been toward her. I hoped so; Ray - this was his name - was a striking man, tall and slender, with dyed blond hair sticking up like a scrubbing-brush. And his smile! I told him the joke about the dog and the balloon even though I knew he could not understand my words, just to see his white teeth sparkling as he laughed.
He laughed, and he caught my eye, and he lifted an eyebrow; no, he didn't have to speak German, this Ray. We spoke the same language.
Together we walked to his car. In the darkness he kissed me, hot and sweet, against the door of his ridiculously-large automobile, the noise of the city rising all around us. Then he drove us to my hotel and I took him up to my room. And on the bed where only a week ago Franziska and I had made gentle love, Ray and I rutted like animals.
With a woman it is one way; with a man it is a different sort of need, and I could see my need reflected equally in Ray's eyes. He stared at me with a great hunger, as though he had not been touched in months, in years, perhaps. Eating me up with his eyes. He stroked my body and arched into my touch, and when I took him into my mouth he broke and came, shouting, "God! Fuck! Fraser!"
'God' I understood, it is nearly the same as our 'Gott.' And 'Fuck' is what we were doing: I have seen enough American movies to know that much in English. And 'Fraser'…that is what he had said on the street. What Franziska had said as she touched my cheek and smiled.
After Ray left my hotel room, I looked in my dictionary, but I could not find this word 'Fraser' there.
Drei: Der Zinnsoldat
[Ich schreibe das hier im Flugzeug….] I am writing this on the airplane. Chicago is behind me; I will land in Atlantic City in two hours, and then in four more days I will fly home.
This morning before I went to the airport I walked once more through the streets of Chicago, taking photographs and fixing the place in my memories: the tall buildings, the pretty girls, the men who walk with casually confident strides. I found myself in a neighborhood of fine buildings with flags of other countries flying from their rooftops. Consulates, no doubt.
The Canadian consulate had not only their distinctive red-and-white flag, fluttering in the strong wind, but outside the door stood a man in the uniform of a Canadian Mountie. A handsome man, he stood unmoving, a toy soldier - ein Zinnsoldat - bright red against the gray stone wall.
I stepped toward him, fascinated by his rigidity. He did not seem even to breathe. And as I came closer I saw his face - and that was the most amazing thing. He bore an astonishing resemblance to my brother Bernard.
I addressed him: "Herr Mountie! I see in your features a similarity to my brother. I am wondering, are you related to the Grossmanns, of Mannheim?"
He remained silent. It was likely that he, like most people in this city, spoke no German, but I persisted.
"My grandmother's brother emigrated to Canada. Perhaps you are related to him?"
As I spoke, a woman came out of the Consulate's front door, dressed in one of those ugly suits that businesswomen wear in this country. She shot me a somewhat perfunctory smile and, shaking her head, said something in English.
"I'm sorry, I don't understand."
She gestured toward the toy soldier and spoke again; a long string of syllables that had no meaning to me except for one word I picked out, one word I had heard before: 'Fraser.'
"Fraser," I repeated. "What is 'Fraser', please?"
At that she looked more closely at me, and her eyes grew wide. She looked back and forth between us, between me and the toy soldier who stood there unblinking, unmoving, unspeaking. I could hear the incredulity in her voice, but I could not understand a word she said other than Fraser, Fraser, Fraser.
Finally I shook my head and shrugged. "Fraser?" I said, trying to make it into a question.
The woman frowned, then suddenly nodded. Pointing at the toy soldier, she spoke slowly, pronouncing each syllable clearly: "Konstabal Fraser."
Aha! This was the Mountie's name. I tried it out. "Konstabal Fraser," I said, and she laughed, pointed at me. I shook my head and placed my hand on my chest. "Josef Grossmann."
She said something else, more English, more 'Fraser', and then she nodded once at the silent Mountie and once at me, and strode down the street, away from the Consulate.
I was about to do the same and had even taken a few steps away, when a thought struck me. I had thought that this Fraser resembled my brother; but the truth is that he must have resembled me. I suppose I didn't think of it before because one never thinks about one's own visage, but it was all clear to me now, what Franziska and Ray had seen. Why they had desired me. Not me. Fraser.
I walked back up to the toy soldier. "Herr Fraser," I said. "I believe I have met a young woman of your acquaintance. Franziska is her name." I tried to pronounce it as she had, in the American way.
He did not blink.
"You will think it bold of me, Herr Fraser, to say this. But this young woman - she is quite pretty. And I think that perhaps she is in love with you. She is a sweet and charming woman, Franziska. Although it is true that she talks constantly. And maybe it is easier for me, not knowing what she is saying." Eyeing the unmoving Fraser, I added, "Of course, you do not know what I am saying, either. Do you?"
No reaction from the toy soldier.
I leaned closer, lowered my voice. "In bed, she is very good."
No reaction. No response at all.
I began to walk away. Then it occurred to me that I had not told him the complete story; honesty compelled me to return. Even though he most likely would not understand my words. Perhaps because he would not understand them.
"There is more, Herr Fraser," I said quietly. "There is a man. His name is Ray." I searched his face for some recognition of the name, but he remained silent, staring out at some distant place beyond me. "His name is Ray," I repeated, "and he desires you. But it seems that he can not have you, so he settled for me. In my hotel, on my bed. His pale skin under my fingers as I caressed his body, so beautiful. Do you know that he has a tattoo? Right here," I said, and tapped my shoulder. I remembered that red and black tattoo; it said something in English, I don't know what.
"I took Ray to my bed. So beautiful a man, and so lonely, I think. He stared at me when I touched him, because I resemble you. Because he could look at me and think of you. And when he came into my mouth, it was your name he called out. Fraser," I whispered. "Fraser."
Then I turned and walked away, back to my hotel where I packed my things and had the concierge call me a taxi to the airport. As I rode through the city one last time, I thought of the Mountie, the toy soldier. I do not know whether he understood me or not; he never said a word, never moved a muscle. I do not know.
I had thought, as I turned away from him that last time, that his eyes were glistening with unshed tears. But perhaps it was only the chill Chicago wind.
audio version (mp3, 13.5MB, about 14.5 minutes long - please rightclick and save)
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http://hieroglyfics.net/einszweidrei.htm | written February 2006 by Isis