Excerpts from
In the Light of a Cat
By Niels Brunse
9. day, saturday
Travelling south through Germany I felt light - incredibly light, like a
balloon that has cast off all its moorings and is gently rising into the blue
sky, up towards the only boundary that exists: the height at which the specific
gravity of the air is the same as its own. At that point it ceases to climb,
though not its motion - no national boundaries can restrain it; it follows the
dictates of the wind.
I had not only escaped Denmark; I had escaped my own identity. The entire
account of myself and my past which had defined me and pinned me down now lay
behind me on Danish soil, like sacks of ballast, anchors and slack ropes. It
was the most fantastic feeling of freedom I have ever experienced.
This morning, I awoke from a dream that had the same giddy, incredible
lightness about it. I had already forgotten what it had been all about; I
recognised the feeling, and the images from this trip down south have been
highly present all morning. Now the waiter arrives with my breakfast on a tray.
The coffee has a fragrant aroma, the juice is freshly pressed and the egg still
warm - I knock off the top of the shell with my knife and thrust my spoon into
its soft innards. A warm, yellow taste of yolk on my tongue, both mild and
acrid. The roll has a fluffy texture, the coffee is a kleiner Schwarzer, so strong that it needs plenty of sugar - strong
enough to rouse someone reported missing.
Maybe this café will become my regular haunt. It is really run-down - several
of the marble tables are cracked, the upholstered benches are muddy-grey in
colour and their springs lost all resilience decades ago, the lamps are plain,
round globes; but the window-panes are clean and the place has an unstinting
feel to it, somehow. It makes you feel well at ease and does not demand
anything in return - not as regards prices, either.
The eighteenth Bezirk - not a very choice district, of no interest to tourists.
From the window I can look across at the solid, though grimy and not all that
well kept facade of the house where I am staying. My windows are exactly the
same as all the others. A good place to conceal oneself, to wait for the new
life which perhaps will crystallise out of all my undefined departure. I feel
quieter now, not quite so euphoric; the first habits are gradually making
themselves felt, although I haven’t even been living here for a week. Frau
Meisl comes every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday and does the cleaning,
shopping and cooking if I ask her to, as she used to do for the late Herr
Schönmeister. Today, I told her that I would be having breakfast at the café
and would not be requiring an evening meal. Just for a change. Besides, I have
no wish to alter the arrangement, any more than I wish to have Schönmeister’s
name on the door bell and door replaced by another name.
Let things continue as before - like a shell I can crawl into and make myself
fit, if I want to. Or alter. Let’s worry when the time comes.
Translated by John Irons
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