m e n u
 corona blues - geschenkt  lily und so  leseproben ohne (ge)waehrung  das heulmeisje und ich  lubeck  globally me - and you?  witch tells tiny tales  off the beach - a corona gift // about me

Lubeck, 20.2.2022

Hi Marion,

Happy Birthday!! On your last birthdays (and not only yours) most of us were "locked in", sending digital hugs and making each other presents or kadootjes (some words shine best in a specific language, like sauerkraut or omg) online: a concert here, a poem there - beautiful! So the 40 pages of "off the beach" was my kadootje, written during the first two so called lockdowns in Germany - I needed five months to write and several weeks to translate it, with generous and humorous support from Alicia, Renée and #DeepL. My way of coping with this nightmare, so it's light and bitchy with crumbles of #me-too in it - sloppy and in Mom's cool pajamas, nothing romantic, ya hear: nothing for the beach.

Sorry it didn't work writing something completely new in English, my English is almost as old and rusty as myself, especially the commas are a nuisance; anyway: when did we leave the USA to go back to the Netherlands: 1973? Never mind, you left a year earlier, so you hopefully won't even notice.

your lil sis

P.S. I added some special info and unnecessary comments for insiders to keep my spirits up and tried hard to keep Mom's index finger down, but it's never anyone's fault and always the DNA.

off the beach (2022)

by m. jacobse

I. what happened beforehand

(kim & what's-his-name)

Kim's father had often warned about poking your nose or other protruding body parts into the garden of a neighbor difficult to avoid, a lonely pensioner with plenty of time might enjoy that - or someone with a skin so thick every toothpick breaks off. And now she had one tailing her.

"QUEEN OF THE DANCE, the original with

Alice McArdy. I have two concert tickets for April

the 2nd in Salten and would be delighted to pass

one of them to a true music lover without resale

ambitions. To mail or not to mail: ..."

How was she supposed to know the person so nobly offering her ticket in the local SaNews was her neighbor? Sure, the concert was a ten minutes walk from her front door - but neither was Salten a village with two and a half cows, nor the theater a disguised barn [may I introduce my world to you? A place filled with lively human beings instead of insurance numbers - since 1989 almost all of my stories took place here]. Anyway, for some reason she had Hamburg as his place of residence stamped in some cells in the back of her head.

When the locations of the "Queen of the Dance" concerts were announced, she had been down in Bavaria with Paps and Daniel: no internet, just a small old TV with antenna on top, hidden under Daniel's bed upstairs ike something indecent. Her efforts to get a ticket anywhere in Europe a week later were like diving without water:

"Already sold out in advance, sorry, can we offer you something of equal value?"

Shit. Later it turned out to be one of the last public events for months - Corona had tightened it's grip on life. Double shit.

That ad in the SaNews didn't get Alice and her co-dancers any nearer either: the more she struggled for at least one of the two tickets, the weirder her opponent's efforts became to keep them - compared to him, Don Quixote was a small clerk in a department for pencils. She would have bought both tickets for a more than good price, had taken over the small but exclusive carpentry with the modest name 'Holzkiste' [= wooden box] from her father several years ago. Except for her preference for natural stuff, she was not keen on luxury and not poor; unfortunately, he as a computer expert wasn't either - money was the wrong bait. After a few dozen e-mails, one more sparkling than the last, his witty pranks had softened her misgivings to such an extent that it became a blind date - her first ever...
And now - as already mentioned - she had a guy sticking like molasses. Not that he was ugly: normal height; hair, teeth and limbs as usual and even in the right place as far as she could see; specimen clean shaved, non-athletic country doctor/lawyer - only the silk scarf was missing. Not bad at all, however: he was not the man she jumped for, in fact, she had no jumping addiction at all. Sensible and independent women don't put their hearts on appearances, otherwise she would have preferred someone like Paps. Maybe. Instead, she met Mr. What's-his-name:

"Tiara Andrieux?" Raised questioning brows and an open and confident look from washed-out pseudo-blue eyes. Or were they gray... or brown?... did he even have eyes? Who...?

She nodded, although she had pointed out twice via e-mail that Tiara was her middle name and she preferred Kim. Her father had added Tiara in case Kim turned out to be a Tiara and was too plain for her - you never know. Who appreciates the acquaintance of people who need a third hint? They balanced their way between the rows, the dummies that were supposed to provide distance not making room as nicely as the visitors alive. Without the tickets, she would have passed him without even a first look.

During this first meeting, her attention was focused on the stage: lively music and synchronized movements, a combination that made the limbs wriggle. The rhythm seemed to grasp the whole body: ballet and tap dancing with acrobatic interludes, wow! Everything with an ease, that that insisted anybody can copy it at home. She had forgotten the man next to her and needed time to reconstruct her own existence, after music, dance and vibrations had left her, to pay him even the minimum of courtesy. A prelude as promising as an unpeeled rotten apple at the beginning of a menu worth four stars. A monsanto apple.

She didn't belong to the ladies who sit around and wait for a man, had no intentions: neither serious nor otherwise. Grown up between two decent guys and a sickly, yes, even a bit silly, but adorable old lady, her happiness was attached neither to a man nor to motherhood - actually the same pair of shoes, right? Or as Paps, who would have preferred studying philosophy, put it: "Only those who can't make use of their time wait". Why change things? She loved her work, enjoyed going out as much as staying home with a good book - she was independent and cultivated, a modern woman with no biological ticking or bitching around. And hard to overlook: Salten's Meg Ryan; her almost chronic defensiveness toward men came from the same corner: supposing she would roll her eyes and pant at the sight of any attractive man running around? Cooking, cleaning up and running after some spoiled majesty (or his kids) had nothing attractive for her - no one demanded that from men. So why was a relationship so desirable? Going out once in a while, taking turns cooking for each other - wasn't that enough? Sex? Nothing you had to move together for - and anyway, giving yourself a hand or a vibrator is always better than a bacterial vaginosis or something worse.

Well, he had behaved and even said goodbye to her in front of the theater instead of throwing himself forward to bring her home after the obligatory glass of wine and light snack - with half a promise to see her again some time or other. Maybe.

It went on like that for weeks: at an arm's length distance, but in touch, because caution didn't seem necessary - she avoided the lamp hanging in her kitchen with similar routine. Much later it turned out he had moved into the apartment underneath hers months before he offered and only a few weeks before the tickets officially were on sale - probably they had already met. By then, the time to slam a door had passed; somehow she had slipped in so inconspicuously, not even with reversed roles Goethe's: "...she pulled halfway, he sank halfway..." fitted. That poet was a #sexist anyway, who wants that?

From then on she began to lose ground and it really started. It wasn't only the possessive habit of Neanderthal men, who mix up a little sex with the pissing over a blade of grass by dogs: mine! Her revealing many of her habits in the heat of their loose writing battle, when she had only wanted a ticket and thought he lived in Hamburg, made her phone now buzz as if programmed to flag without evident stalking - and they met everywhere: in front of the door, while shopping, near the "holzkiste", in the library, while having lunch with a friend, in front of or in the organic food store, in her favorite café, on her regular walks: always charming and a little embarrassed, but with gentle, barely noticeable persistence.
What could she possibly do about that? Permanently stumbling over her own good nature and humor, she smiled - sometimes rather crooked, but she smiled, answered his mails, took his calls - and gradually got used to him. He wasn't a bad guy, was he? And educated. Had read a lot. Went with her wherever she wanted, would have carried her everywhere perhaps not on his hands, but in his car, one of these fat SUVs, made for war and banned out of the city anyway, had a good job, and manners. And ideas. And. Nevertheless: something was missing and when she realized what or even that, they were already known everywhere as a couple, as a happy double pack. She should have listened to her intuition in the first place: no. NO! It's not easy to cancel something like a consent without reason - shit, she even liked the man. Thanks to her own procrastination and/or good-nature, her acquaintances were now his acquaintances. All liked each other, were enthusiastic and happy about and with the beautiful couple: she was in steady hands at last, hooray!

Time rippled leisurely along, one week kicked the previous off the calender and the varnish began to crumble: his great education turned out to be googled, the humor flashes directly from comedy and Simpsons & Co and the books of his complete classic library collection were never read. More? The luxury ballpoint pen he loved bragging with: "Unique, not available for less than 500 Euro!" was used exclusively for his signature and simple crossword puzzles any child could have solved: "Come on Tiara, why should any sensible modern man write by hand?" He considered active sport as something for losers, who didn't have enough brain to win a game without muscles. He was conservative, even a bit right-wing - a bourgeois with zero flexibility and less imagination. And stubborn. Here you go.

The longer they made the rounds as an ideal couple and the more she tried pulling herself out, the less she seemed able to finish the thing - what was this: Kafka's quicksand? Even her oldest friend, otherwise always her opinion, advised her not to throw it all away, for heaven's sake.

"My dear child," this young lady explained with a wisdom suggesting they were half a century apart. "All men are conservative and stubborn, they hunt their prey and then of course don't want to give it away or share it. Mike, at least, is reliable and - even you can't deny he has a certain charm..."

"Okay, granny" had been her gruffy reply. "Take him - charm and the rest!" She batted her eyelashes:"You can have my record collection as a bonus."

"Really?" came the incredulous reply. "You'd give your beloved records away? That bad?" And at her nod, "Would love to, Kim, really, even without the records, but he's only got eyes for you, girl..."

True enough. Unfortunately. And unfortunately, the hairs she found in the soup weren't distinctive, could have been something else: too long cooked ramen for example. Their conversations were "English for Beginners", he avoided discussions or even simple questions, it was like groping for a wet bar of soap - awkward for someone who loved arguments and a good verbal battle.

"So what?" was the comment of that same friend subscribed to charm. "All men are scared of verbal disputes - that's why they look for a woman."

Honestly?! And vice versa? Did a sort of conflict readiness, sufficient for two, drive her sex comrades in the arms of a man - were they likely to explode if they stayed alone too long? In that case she'd rather leave the whole battlefield to the lunatics on both sides and listen to music or read a book. Alone please.

Except for that he was a dream man, wasn't he? Okay, the lack of or better: the one-sided physical attraction between them existed - but people who held inner values up as high as she did should be above such trivialities, right? Especially since he, normally blind for her antipathies concerning himself, noticed it here, and had eagerly started asking her friends behind her back, where this silly frigidity might come from, buying erotic videos, her favorite white wine, trying aphrodisiac recipes he invited her to try in his kitchen, humming promisingly while stirring until all the taste was gone and making her laugh - not exactly his intention, but if it helps...

Well, she had her own apartment, her own computer and her own internet connection, and she started some research herself, looking for girls and women who were prettier, richer, whatever-er than she was, sending pictures to him.

He was pleased she cared, but not interested, and in a funny sort of way offended: "Honey bunny, why do you do such things, you are all I need in this life and the next!" Honey bunny? Urgh.

In the meantime, nothing went naturally on that behalf, and of course she went out of his way or at least avoided situations that ended up with sex. He also noticed when she didn't feel like it and simply worked on certain spots, she had revealed in their innocent e-mail times: the perfect lover, hell yes. And what was she: a press-here-push-there doll, who could be bungled up to physical peak records - was that the name of the game? So she changed her tactics and did everything to make a quickie out of those seldom occasions. In vain, he was disciplined here and wanted her along each time, and nothing, but really nothing was too much for him to achieve that. She soon realized, the best thing was to stay outdoors or in public places, where he was a pretty big chicken.

The only way to provoke him seemed via his communication deficits. She started snooping for explosive hot spots, arguing with him about politics, about his clothes, about mice, the measles and Michelangelo.... It all trickled off him like greasy raindrops or the millions, that are supposed to trickle into empty pockets. He smiled incredulously - and dropped it under the table like bread crumbs, worse: baby cracker crumbs. If she insisted on fighting something out, a normal procedure between two reasonable human beings, who could and should disagree now and then, he called her 'his disputatious Amazon' with eyes that were supposed to spit a fire he didn't have. If she insisted on her point, he recommended her not to pout, that made wrinkles...

In the meantime, simply watching a video together got her blood pressure up.

"Nice weather Sunday - how about it: shall we go to the flea market? It's probably one of the last ones before they lock everything down again," he said graciously one evening, his eyes fixed on the TV. He had lured her into his apartment with a rare and very old musical: "nothing for me, I admit, so let me look at the news first." She was not only fond of musicals, but also loved flea markets, and his amusement about those funny human beings (women and children) enjoying flea markets and such immature things seemed to beam out of every masculine pore he had: men, real men had better things to do, of course...

"And what?" she wanted to know, already on top of a palm tree.

"Huh?" he left his mouth open, his eyes wandering between the very important weather report and lil Kim.

"What must men necessarily do on a Sunday morning? And why does His Highness deign to accompany me, a mere poor mortal, to something so inferior like a flea market?"

"Really, Kim" - oh good, when he called her Kim, he was starting to get bitchy about something - "I think flea markets are very amusing and -"

"Amusing?" she pensively interrupted him. "And what if I'd rather go to the CeBIT [= Center for Office Automation, Information Technology and Telecommunication - computer expo] and buy myself a new laptop?"

"You can't buy anything there, honey bunny, even if it's open during Corona - such things are just to show off and make big business", he promptly corrected her. "You can order a few hundred for your company, if you have one like myself. Is your old one broken, why didn't you say so? If you want me to take a look at it, okidoki... - I can also get you one cheap if you like and..."

"Mike," she cut him off again with a very calm voice. "My laptop works fine."

His face was rather red by then. "Oh, and why do you want me to go to the CeBIT with you?"

"I don't."

"Flea market then?" he shifted without even blinking.

"Mike," she tried again, "would you go to a flea market without me?"

Now she had his attention, he looked at her, a mix out of perplexity, amusement and condescension on his face: How do I tell my child she's being silly without causing a third world war...? "But honey bunny, what am I supposed to do there?"

"Then why do you want to go to the flea market with me, please? Do you think I can't find my way there on my own, or that somebody will clobber and sell me to some Arab sheik with harem enlargement needs?"

"Yes, I mean: no. Gee, I just want to make you happy."

She stared at him. "Let's wrap the ingredients together: You think it gives me pleasure to go somewhere with someone who wouldn't go without me?"

Instead of getting angry or laughing at such quibbles, as she would have done in his place, he said, complacently, "So you want to go to the flea market alone - no problem, just say so." It sounded like: what an ungrateful little bitch, how lucky for her she has such an easy-going chap. "Do you want me to fetch my car and drive you there?" he offered, knowing his car was forbidden and too fat for most streets in Salten anyway.

"I want my apartment," she said, getting to her feet.

"And the musical? It was hard to get, you know, and I can only keep it two days and don't have any time tomorrow." Kim swallowed the question, why he didn't simply give her the video and ask her to bring it back herself, eager to get away. And when she was almost at the door: "Do you want me to come with you, honey bunny?"

"No, thanks." she said politely - a mistake, it was meant ironically and therefore wasted on him.

"No need to thank me, Tiarchen."

She hated being called honey bunny or Tiarchen, and if she said so, she got a: "My God, are you ladies touchy nowadays - must be Corona." Making her wonder, what he'd use when the pandemic was over: her period?

He didn't give up so easily. "I can come up just before eleven o'clock" - that was her usual bedtime - "and massage your neck a little bit. You're so tense tonight!" he added indulgently.

"No," she said, resolutely this time.

He rolled his eyes. "What you always think, I really just wanted to rub your neck..." etcetera etcetera.

And that's why strong independent people gave up their freedom? Slowly a resentment started to pile up inside of her - she felt like exploding. And she did explode. Regularly. He smiled. Was all understanding. Made her a marriage proposal, which she rejected with a huff - he was then unstoppable: she was so cute when she was angry, his pretty little lady.... grrrrrr.
Nobody had ever taught her how to cope with idiocratic people, what was she supposed to do? He was a moderate wine drinker and non-smoker. So was she. Out of nowhere she started drinking beer and occasionally puffing a cigar just because he couldn't stand the smell. He showered twice a day, and against his wardrobe and toiletries, her things looked like nun clothes from the last century. She neglected her appearance even more, dressed more than sloppy and showered twice, then - good for her footprint! - once a week. She had the best time of her life playing badminton without sleeves and deodorant or shaving, and took unexpected pleasure in showing up with him in old unwashed and baggy jogging stuff.

His reaction: "Need some money, honey bunny, or do you want me to get you some decent clothes in Hamburg...? The ladies say my taste is not bad at all."

One day she had an egg in her hand and poof! the innocent thing landed in his mailbox. Or she'd dribble around a bit with superglue: door locks, shoes, clothes - anything that seemed glueable to her. And belonged to him. It took a while before he realized where these inconveniences came from, she had run out of little ideas - and patience - and was forced to use arguments with a deeper bite. His alarm bells went on, when he "coincidentally" bumped straight into her flattening all the tires of his #SUV with a nail gun, knowing she knew he had an appointment in Hamburg: she must have waited until he left the house and then ran to get there before him. Serious talks followed, after the scheme:

"He = good + smart

"She = naughty + ignorant."

He not only talked to her, he asked some of their mutual acquaintances, a psychologist friend of hers, her own father - discreetly and without names: the wife of a friend had the problem, not he himself - and she neither of course. And anyway: what problem? Her experience level was boosted to being a predator reported for kleptomania, and she began to look at "The Taming of the Shrew" from a different angle: wasn't Shakespeare a man...?
And again: he didn't mean to do any harm, lord no, was simply a desperate man madly in love, looking for answers.
Wasn't that sweet? everyone agreed.

Her last action had a real bad smell. Literally. One very early Sunday morning he had come home slightly drunk from a friend's (one of her friends) birthday and trodded into it with both feet. The emergency plumber was there within an hour and had to pass the job to a plumber specialist, who showed up with his special monster machine made for small streets two hours later: sucking, spitting and pumping with three men in dirty boots not only in his apartment, the manhole cover in front of the house had to be opened - his beautiful rock garden! And thus they rummaged another one and a half hours, during which breathtaking feces bubbled out of the toilet on the ground floor, because his neighbors above him (a total of five lots in one of these beautiful old half-timbered houses in the center of Salten) at some point felt their nightly liquids following the rules of gravity or digestion and got up to relieve themselves, and guess who lived downstairs directly overneath the sharp bend, before the mess vanished in the sewer system? Of course his housekeeper was unavailable and the professionals were not paid to bend their knees or back and wipe up the stinking gloop that oozed through his bathroom and the rest of his beautiful apartment on this now no longer early, but beautiful Sunday approximately eleven times.

One look at the bulky stuff they had fished and scratched out and his red eyes went open like two hungry amphipods, immediately aware who was responsible for the fecal destruction: his expensive built in music system, his beautiful parquet floor with underfloor heating, his inherited and precious Afshari oriental carpets as well as several Chippendale antiques - ruined! Trash. [This stinky piece really happened, but I was the one living downstairs in a very lovely two room apartment with wooden floors, balcony, self-made furniture and tiny garden. I added this comment Oktober 2023, after listening to a podcast where they call my simple way of living "precarious" (= awkward, embarrassing). It tells a lot about the unreflected way words are used without thinking and even more about the status quo of one of the best German magazines - in spite of the climate crisis. Under the roof lived an old couple who preferred kitchen paper; I'm so pleased I can use it at last, but please don't copy!]. The decisive drop that made his kettle explode was the realization that his precious Italian shoe collection was spoiled: almost two decades of online grazing for special offers. Gone. The stupid girl must have patiently fed her toilet sheet by sheet day after day, always as much as could be flushed down: twenty-nine kitchen rolls with his face on each sheet, his creative present for her birthday several weeks ago, one roll for each year - the vast quantities the plumbers choked out seemed to suggest all 29 rolls were used. Good timing, Tiara. Kim. Dear.

Every now and then the curious or/and gleeful face of a neighbor in the staircase made him flinch; the perpetrator herself stayed invisible on day X or maybe he should say: day S. She was in her bed with a stomach flu - and he silly man had wanted to stay home and take care of her...

He stomped up the stairs towards evening, as soon as he had finished cleaning up, sweaty and not showered, leaving his thumb on her doorbell button until she opened the door, hair all over the place and crumpled and sleepy in her old japanese robe.

If she had been healthy, his panting, his facial expression may have warned her: the more excited or angrier he was, the emptier his face went. In any case, that Sunday his features were almost non-existent. And then the smell...

He had sort of shoved her inside with bis body, closing the door behind them with a side kick, and slowly placed his right hand, reddened from the physical work and water, on her left cheek, very lightly touching a certain spot that she had once revealed to him: just a whiff. Opening her robe slightly, he placed his left hand unerringly a little to the left below her navel. Her sensitive olfactory nerves, her after three days of influenza weakened mind reared up like a pooped horse and then collapsed as if non-existent, and he seduced her, despite her rebellious nose and irritated stomach, on the black dirt doormat in the hall.

At the last moment he spun her around like a sausage and after a few violent thrusts discharged himself, opening his mouth for the first time as he pulled up his zipper: "Appropriate, isn't it? Yes, I think that was quite appropriate." And disappeared - calm and easygoing - as if reading the newspaper or just for little girls.

She ran to the bathroom and vomited. For quite a long time.

Then her mind was made up.

II. still a bit beforehand
(olga & roko)

[always getting advice to stop writing chapters and titles small, it's not cool, they say. Who says I wanna be cool? And why should I allow some silly program (or person) to correct me without my asking - and all programs do exactly that. And what precisely is so 'cool' about copying?]

"By the way, Olga", instead of looking at her, Roko admired the ancient Dutch oven with the ceramic feet and delft-blue original tiles in the corner between living room and dining room, as if he had never seen it before - the same one that had dominated her reception room in Berlin during several successful decades. "Do you have any relatives still alive?"

"What do you mean: 'still' - do I belong to the dinosaurs, or what - don't you have any relatives left?" Anybody could see he didn't like the hint of them being the same age, it was obvious. Undoubtedly, he was still a good-looking man, but the gap between a dream man and an elderly champagne advertising figure seemed too big a leap, and the old vest Elisa had knitted was not able to conceal that little belly of his. Olga herself had kept her weight constant throughout the years, and her hair, which Elisa used to call "Alf's quiff" after some alien, was still full, although white - so what? Anyway: she didn't dye her hair.
She smugly wiped her quiff out of the way before adding: "Why do you ask?"

Twice a year they met on Elisa's and her own birthday five and a half months later, sitting in the dining room on chairs carved centuries, but thank God upholstered merely a few years ago, cups, pot of decaf and diet cookies between them on the table. In the course of a long life, rituals - one by one - usually land on the scaffold of time, Olga's last bastion was her more representative than comfortable living room as a reception room: the cracking of joints when she dropped herself into this deep pit they call sofa, the even bigger struggles to get back out, the distances between everything, whether pot, shoe, cup or whatever, which had to be overcome - in slow motion, otherwise shards, pain or both were inevitable. A bit like the first reading glasses: at some point the arms were not long enough. From a certain age on it's an advantage to be able to reach everything without having to stand up, or contort your neck in order to look at the visitors' mouth, because the hearing hadn't improved either, and those funny little things that were supposed to fix that always beeped at inopportune times and made other strange noises, not to mention the fiddling around with the even tinier batteries that don't seem to fit in, especially without glasses. Luckily, when this status was reached, the memory how easy everything used to be was gone and it didn't mind. Almost.

"Isn't anyone else coming?" he glanced at the three empty coffee cups. "Are Malte and his wife and sister dead too?"

"No," she said curtly. "Not that I know of."


"What do you mean 'Uh-huh'? Have you forgotten how to express yourself civilly, Roko?"

"Says the right person," came back pointedly. "Professor Roko, if you please - so much time and etiquette must be." Roko was short for Robert Konrad and Elisabeth's creation; Robert himself hated abbreviations. Since his wife had died four years ago, Olga was the only one who called him Roko, sometimes it pleased him because of the memory of Elisabeth, sometimes it annoyed him.

Ill-tempered he added, "Let me guess: you scared them away with your bitchy behavior too?"

"Too?" she hooted back, "You don't have to come if you don't want to!"

As if he had heard a long-awaited gun shot, he braced himself to get up. He was the last, had come twice a year only because of one of his wife's last wishes: "Roko, promise me to look after Olga a little, at least on our birthdays - she has no one else!"

And whose fault was that? Ever since Olga had sold her business in Berlin and moved to Salten - how long ago was it: ten or hundred years? - she had been nothing but a nuisance, always knowing everything better and talking for hours about how she would have done it and about all she had accomplished, she, one of the first self-made businesswomen in Germany: successful, without a husband, alone and strong, yikes. Why hadn't she at least stayed in Berlin, where cars were still allowed to pollute the place? He had never believed it was because of Elisabeth, who insisted Salten was the only location she could live like a human being. Olga still loved driving, first thing she did after moving was to get a disability card and an electric motor under the bonnet of her old small Mercedes to excuse the 'emergency' of having to drive through the city now and then. Who had convinced Elisabeth about Salten in the first place? Right: Olga, the lady, who had no one else, but always at least three lawsuits running, as far as he knew. In Salten. Three. He had a glimpse in her office through the open door in the hall: folders everywhere, piles of papers, files on tables, chairs, even on the floor - as if she still had thousands of clients and was leaving it to the thirty employees she once had. Was that sick or was that sick?

If Olga felt like it, she could dim her megaphone-like voice down to the soft purr of a cat: "Well, at least finish your coffee," she said with a smile that reminded of the charming hostess she used to be. [Before I started this story, I felt like writing something with strains of me-too and ambition, as usual ignoring a main and important rule: don't write about things you know nothing about. So I grabbed a piece of real life: "Olga". I got to know her when my second daughter was pregnant with her second son, I had a job in Hamburg at the time and didn't mind going back to Lubeck, when she seemed to need help. Of course I was broke, so I threw little notes: "Have a jungle in front, behind or underneath your house? Call me!" in several (real) mailboxes and so got to know Ursula Laabs, who from then on used to call me when it burned: flooded cellar, garden a mess, cat kidnapped, computer/fax/whatever not working, sanding her parquet floor, hole in the outside back wall of her house 20 meters over the ground. In the beginning she used to cook for us, when I came, later she left that to me. She died a year before Mom did: dementia. Whatever you do, wherever you go - there'll always be somebody not coming along].

He sighed. And sat down.

"Well, spit it out!" she said triumphantly. "Andrieux is not a common name in Salten - have you run across another one of the sort?"

That didn't sound alarmed - it flashed through Roko's mind, that she might know who he was talking about.

Automatically Olga reached for the inhaler next to her cup. Since her second attack seven years ago she insisted she could smell it coming in advance. "Count on my nose!" she always droned, although she had lost her ability to smell in her birthplace Hamburg, a result of several nights spent in air-raid shelters as a child. Elisa used to accuse her friend of using her inhaler to bribe people: "so everybody obeys you - pronto!" 'Pronto' - who uses such words in this world, in which a few influencers pre-chew all thoughts? Shit, did she miss that old girl, men usually died faster - why couldn't Roko have made a run for it instead? Stubbornness no doubt. Tz.

The stubborn man had continued his inspection of the Dutch oven, convinced the news about the existence of the young person laying in his clinic would upset her: why must he witness that? Why hadn't he just informed Olga by phone? Or wrote her a letter? Elisabeth's voice in his ear: "Sadly, your hands got most of the sensitivity, Roko - better leave the verbal part to me, dear," he cowardly and clumsily dodged away as usual: "Nasty business, this Corona!"

Real success doesn't rain through an open window by being charming now and then, hard work, intuition and tenacity, if not being a pain in the ass are helpful. Right: "Ro-ko!!" Olgas voice seemed to bristle and mow his eardrums straight up to the brains at the same time.

Dismayed, Roko got up, snatched a brown envelope from the inside of his jacket, tossed it on the table, and went down those stairs and out of the house as fast as his age allowed: that's what you got for being good-natured - to hell with the darn old pisser.

* * *

"How long have you known?" Olga wanted to know without much ballyhoo, when he picked up the phone in the evening after several hours of telephone terror.

"Not long," he swept the question away from himself. "Wanted to make sure first."

"Does she know about me?"

"You mean?"


Damn, he should change his phone number or emigrate - anyway, who had landline telephone nowadays? "Geez, Olga, not everyone has time to mess around with others all day - I work full time," he reminded grouchily.

"It was in the news often enough, that we are gradually running out of specialists, even in Salten people are not always paid decently, but at least it doesn't drip into those big pots for dividends, managers and football players, never leaving a single coin in one's own city. Shhh. But hey, don't you mind, not everyone can afford to quit with dignity when the time comes. Besides, a little birdie told me you've only been doing things any nurse could do just as well since a few years - the clinic needs your reputation, not your doddering hands," she added heartlessly.

"I can hang up, ya know!"

"Right! And why don't you? So the memory of our one-night stand before you married my best friend is not entirely lost?" came as dryly from the phone as if she was quoting an old plumber's advertisement from the yellow pages.

He was so shocked, he hung up, only to call back after a brief inquiry at the clinic and some calculating:

"She's my granddaughter?!" it came timidly and yet with brutal force.

[Each time I get to this part, for some reason I have to think of your "WHO ARE YOU???!!!" with huge letters, question marks and exclamation marks from one side of the e-mail to the other, when you started realizing this silly woman pestering you since days might be sane and even your sister - I believe it was after my fourth or fifth (or seventh or tenth) mail; yes, sometimes bits of my memory fall in front of me like lucky bird shit. The first mail I remember well, my original intention to congratulate you to your fiftieth birthday was quickly done, your site was easy to find and your thanks came fast. However, the satisfaction of having done the right thing after decades of silence didn't last long; I became aware I wanted you to know who I was, and, after 30 years of absence, was in need of a low slope, so I started with neutral questions, asking you which motives had pushed you to become a sculptor for example, gradually getting up the slope and lifting the curtain now and then. Just a little. This "WHO ARE YOU?!" in your maybe seventh mail hit me (the trustworthy head of a family that I was) hard, not knowing I had been murdered several decades ago - I was bewildered and even a bit affronted. The reaction I had expected was: "Where the hell have you been all these years?" or maybe even "Go to hell, sis, we've been doing nicely without you!", but not disbelief and even mistrust.]

"And mine," she confirmed coolly. "So what are we going to do? Think of something and in eleven hours I'm expecting you for dinner at my place! We'll have pike-perch in mango sauce with young potatoes, cooked by hand and with love - from the restaurant downstairs, don't worry. Bis die Tage [antique greeting, meaning as much as 'bye' or 'same time, same channel' or what ever you prefer]!", she ended the conversation the way Elisabeth always used to.

"Stop!" he shouted into the hooting receiver.

The bitch had hung up.

III. in between I & II
(almost caught up)

One night, as soon as her health was restored, Kim slipped into the cellar, tightening some of the screws of the cellar door and loosening others, so that the heavy door, once closed, could no longer be opened from the inside. She had dragged all the tools out of her cellar rooms into the Holzkiste the day before: the mouse trap was ready. She was the only one in the house who actively used the stuffy former bunker, a disturbance seemed unlikely; to be on the sure side Kim had waited for the quieter weekend. There were no windows down there: a musty crypt without network reception and only one door fourteen stair steps underneath the ground floor. To ba able to hear anything, you had to flatten your ear on the door and even then only vibrations could be perceived; she had tested that years ago to be sure the noise level a carpenter makes was tolerable. To protect the tools and electricity, her rooms were well insulated, almost comfortable and had an air conditioner. Pretty cold. She had fought some battles with her conscience, but then decided to leave her door open and a good sleeping bag on the old foldaway. This weekend she would not be home, was visiting her sick father, the only person who shared her vague reservations concerning Mike, which excluded a coming along of this omnipresent 'relationship'. Hallelujah.

The only problem was how to lure the man out of his comfort zone, difficult without a good bait: moving around just for fun violated his basics. But here she had found what she thought was an elegant, almost ingenious solution: he would not be able to resist a fake burglary with all of those treasures he had boasted to have down in the cellar. He was not only proud of everything that was his, but also nosy, so a quick look was the least - that was as certain as that the next government in Germany would be a green one [was wrong there, alas, didn't feel like using that worn out Is-the-Pope-catholic? idiom. These mixed governments seem democratic, but they're also a 'valid' alibi for compromises, sometimes another definition for dropping one's principles].

Saturday morning she was ready to go, two books, phone, smartphone, charging cable, small bottle of water and a snack in her backpack [each story I write seems to need a backpack, similar to the one I had with me, when I left home at the age of sixteen, shy to the bones, scared stiff, but determined, because I thought this was the only way and not knowing, that you can't simply leave parts of yourself behind] and looking forward to a relaxed weekend with Paps and without him, and of course excited about her prank and its consequences: one and a half days of solitary confinement in unclean and gothic surroundings should turn even the laziest Goofy into a berserker and shoo him off, thus relieving naughty little Kim from his presence... right? She knew there was plenty of his sweet wine down there, which also kept warm, but wanted to be sure the right person got locked in before disappearing: cheers and goodbye, honey bunny!

It was almost lunchtime, when she heard him puffing up the stairs at last. Up? she had time to wonder before the doorbell rang: What? She opened, could only move her mouth like a carp, while he breathlessly covered her with hurried staccato sentences:

"Ah, you're still here, thought I heard you! Just got a call from my sister - must leave immediately - you don't have as far as I do - could you please show the policemen my cellar room before you go - they're supposed to be here any minute - am afraid my cab will get here faster" - from below the ringing of the house door seemed to verify this - "ha, there's the devil - here are the keys - don't do anything I would and keep your paws off my stuff, hear me! Took some days off and will be back in exactly one week. Greetings and good wishes to Mr. Andrieux - kissy, my little honey bunny!"

And off he went, leaving her with a bunch of keys and a stupid face: police? Oh. What now? Of course, she had to get the trap out before leaving, snatching a maggot screwdriver and her backpack, she locked her door and raced down the stairs. After opening the cellar door, she kicked a piece of wood underneath to keep it open: how about a peep into his cellar, such an opportunity wouldn't come again so fast. Little side prank maybe? Better than nothing, postponed is not canceled.

It happened when she was trying the fifth key: in her back it went "whuuii" and some door behind her closed heavily. Automatically, without turning around, she turned the last two keys in the key hole: they didn't fit. Had she expected something else - honestly? Slowly, as if in a dream, she strode to the bunker-thick, well-locked cellar door... [Corona makes even me lazy, I used the cellar scene from "gesiebtes brot" (= sifted bread, 2015), written when taking care of Mom after her accident, and during the refugee crisis. I suppose everything that bumps me over kickstarts my brain into creative vibrations, a weird version of "learning by doing", gluing me to the desk to untangle the ball of words in my head for months and years. The brain fog was pretty hard during this time, I could hardly distinguish between my fog and Mom's dementia starting to spread out - so the descriptions in "sifted bread" - and the title! - should be damn realistic]

Kim discovered the first tiny cam by chance while searching remnants for her self-made "sewage construction", a multistorey wooden construction. She had already grazed her own rooms and was now acting as the burglar she had invented, looking for more scraps to filter out as much "poison" as possible from the - except for the tiny bit of water her air conditioner produced - only drinkable liquid down there. Picking solid locks without proper tools was no small feat, and the lack of liquid and oxygen was beginning to show - exhausted, she had lowered herself to the floor, and from there looked directly into the first cam, hidden inside the lamp illuminating the short length of the T-shaped corridor - lens toward the bunker door. Once alarmed, she focused her attention and found another one in front of the last door, overlooking the entire length of the long corridor; the third and fourth she discovered in his rooms, which were filled with bulky waste and red wine; his door was the only one she had been able to open up without tools, the lock being a joke from another century. After the vandalism last year, she had considered installing a mini-surveillance cam in her cellar and done some research, and was therefore sure the cams had motion detectors - undoubtedly with a direct connection to Mike's computer. Good camouflage, expertly installed: nothing like an expert doing a good job. Right?

According to her useless smartphone it was eleven o'clock in the evening, the mere thought of Mike sitting somewhere, watching her rage and despair, kept her from taking the cameras down one by one and smashing them against a wall. Slowly, she made her way to her own rooms and sat down at the old carpenter's table, resting her head on her arms, face down. She needed to think, and she wanted to do it without digital witness:

First of all: He must have watched her tamper with the cellar door via camcorder and suspected the burglary was a fake.
Second: she knew he would stick to his plan, visit his sister, who had always been more or less unwell for years, and stay there for a week - meaning another four days. God knows he wasn't stupid, why should his alibi be less good than hers?
Third: except the few drops from her conditioner there was nothing liquid down here, only wine from his cellar: very sweet and very red and very undrinkable.
Fourth: she would have to drink it - aversion and allergy or not.
And fifth: she hated the man with a viciousness so unusual, it scared the shit out of her. The sooner she pulled herself together and did something, the better; brooding would only drive her crazy and didn't make the rooms warmer. Looking for tools to pick the Fort Knox locks left, she discovered a fifth camera: even smaller than the others and cleverly placed underneath a shelf.

In. Her. Cellar.

Her mind raced backwards: like most of her neighbors she had replaced her old lock by a sturdy one, after some rowdies had broken in and smashed everything to bits, and this new lock had not one single scratch on it. So it was safe to assume that the tiny camera - it hit her worse than a slap in the face - had been installed before the episode with the rowdies and before her acquaintance with a certain computer guy. So far, so bad. As a neighbor and computer specialist a look into her online habits should have been cinchy for Mike: the forums and chats she frequented, her literary and - in this case - musical interests. In retrospect, it explained his e-mails before they had even met, his responses always matching with her opinion and world view, her likes and dislikes; my God, how impressed she had been when he had even almost guessed her birthday... All lies. He must have based the entire strategy of his scheme 'How to conquer Kim Tiara Andrieux?' on these informations. And she dope had felt so exposed and helpless all the time, like someone struggling with invisible obstacles, while he had taken all the hurdles without effort and had broken into her life without leaving her the slightest chance of defense.
He had known everything [imagine a great corporation sucking up all the infos we willingly and without even thinking give away, using our data to make money, data that will do a lot of damage to our children one day, who grow up with it. "I have nothing to hide" is the most often used excuse of people whose imagination is stuck in their own bubble] - everything.

Much later, she added another point to her enumeration:
Sixth: she would kill the son of a bitch, if it was the last thing she did.

* * *

They brought Kim to the St. Mary's Hospital a few blocks away: She was unconscious. When she opened her eyes days later - who was sitting at her bedside, his face a wholesomeness of innocence and worry?

"Tiara! Darling! You're back at last, I'm so glad and relieved!"

Her mouth twisted uncertainly. "Where am I?" And then, pulling her hand out of his: "Who are you? Get out!"

"You heard it, my granddaughter needs her rest!" bawled a voice from nowhere. It belonged to a white-haired lady, who had played the watch dog several days, sleeping on a comfortable divan in front of the window. After hustling the unsympathetic young man out of the room, the old woman sat down on the vacated chair and stated with a beam: "You're so right, Kim, men can be such a nuisance!"

"What about sons?" it came tonelessly, then: "GET OUT!"

* * *

Main chorus of the few visitors who dared visit Kim in spite of the stricter Corona rules and the infected French patients laying in the same hospital: "How could this happen?"

And: "What a pity - Mike is a swell guy and you were such a nice couple - and you really can't remember anything?"

Stupid question. Kim would have rather heard something from Paps or Daniel. Each time her conscience floated up, all sorts of films ran through her head: the absence of one was strange enough - but both?

Their relationship had always been a close one. Her father had just finished his apprenticeship when she was born, her mother was very young and had disappeared after her birth. There was enough room in their house directly in front of Salten's back fence, it seemed natural to offer the new apprentice a home a year later, when this young girl became pregnant and it showed up their boss had no intentions of changing his married status. Many years later, he transferred the carpentry to the young couple.

Thus undramatic and simple life can be. Sometimes.

* * *

Three days after throwing Mike and the old lady out, her brother sat next to her bed with an old backpack on his lap, waiting for her to open her eyes. "Thought you might need some underwear and books." The circles under his eyes were darker than usual and even his mask was black.

Kim felt her blood circulation vanish out of her head as if sucked down: "Paps?"

He swallowed and nodded.

"Spit it out, I'll find out anyway."

"Heard about your" - he grimaced - "cellar adventure and even read about it in the newspaper. You are now famous, sis, congratulations. I would have visited you days ago, but there's Corona going on and the doctors assured me you're well, something Paps was not. I just came from the cremation..." He hesitated before adding laconically: "It wasn't Corona, but it wasn't a mere cold either - he should have stayed in his bed."

She frowned: "He actually got up - why...?" and broke off. Her father had raised them both almost by himself, Daniel's Mom died when they were five and seven, aunt Klara had never been healthy and passed away fifteen years ago - their little family hadn't been exploding the population up to now. These blows multiplied the sense of responsibility their father had already, forcing him to look after his own health almost as nitpicking as he did after his children.

"Because of me," she answered her own question, barely audibly.

"You didn't show up, we couldn't even reach you," he defended himself, as if he could have prevented it, or perhaps even had to. "We were all looking for you like maniacs - wasn't typical for you to simply disappear, especially when Paps is sick. Even Mike had no idea where you were..."

"Who's Mike?" it came automatically over her pale lips, while her mind raced in the opposite direction.

Daniel decided to change the subject. "Ran into your grandmother in the corridor, she introduced herself and seems to be watching your room like the Swiss Guard - you have contact?" he asked incredulously.

"Grandmother? Our grandmother was our aunt and died fifteen years ago, remember?" she muttered, before losing her conscious again.

IV. might as well start

Lockdown number two shut Germany down two days later, much later than Salten's shutdown, which was decided on an extra citizens' meeting via several thousands of computers [Salten was starting to conquer the internet in 'the mole', written 1992 or during that other crisis, when asylum homes were burning, those first beautiful human "Lichterketten" against hate and #racism started spreading throughout Germany - I don't remember if other countries did that sort of thing. Remember those hollerith cards Mom used to take home? It was an advantage to be the daughter of probably one of the first non-nerds to learn how computers work - and she was over fifty, chapeau!], smartphones and tablets ever since Corona had popped up; the same majority had also consented to take care of a number of very ill French Corona patients in the smaller St. Mary's.

Bewildered, the brand new grandparents decided to play on the safe side and get 'dat girl' out of the hospital despite the holes she was always falling into, pushed by a bothersome young man luring around, insisting they were engaged and making energetic, almost desperate efforts to ship Kim off to his sister. Fortunately, a prominent grandmother with the same name weighed more than a puny pseudo-fiancé who had evidently been thrown out by the patient herself, as soon as she had laid eyes on him; nobody had witnessed the grandmother follow a few minutes later.

Without much ado, Olga had borrowed the employees of the restaurant downstairs to clear and clean up the apartment upstairs (solarium, massage room, sauna and refuge of her Persian cat, Julia), so all the old man [had to mentally detox my brains, when I noticed my mind had pocketed women over 80 or even 60 as old, but not men] in white had to do was organize and guard the transport of their unconscious granddaughter. Chance seemed to know what it was doing for a change by getting Kim exactly those grandparents the very moment she needed them, and since no objections came from her brother, the girl was as safe as in a bank: whoever wanted to get up there, had to pass a noble restaurant and a hag, who was determined not to risk anything and had hired a security service with cams outside and all over the stairway.

To get her head free for (Olga with eyes as bright as a cafeteria:) "important things, and anyway, I have a family and no time for business as usual", the old lady had finished off her juristic wars step by step or paragraph by paragraph, throwing some detectives on that strange 'fiancé' instead, who was on the verge of bankruptcy and had applied for support from the government as a "corona victim". Woah. Well, she still had connections and didn't mind using them. She soon heard he was the infiltrator of a big international company and had been sent to push some real business into town. He had a bad start trying to force a little plastic in the shops, first of a long list of failures, the last being electric scooters: you'd think that should be no problem since cars were not welcome in Salten, but no, Salten's (or Pete's) prime eco rule was unbeatable:

"If it can't be reduced, reused, repaired, rebuilt, refurbished, refinished, resold, recycled or composted, then it should be
restricted, redesigned or removed from production."
(Pete Seeger).

Her office now resembled Houston's home office for beginners, she had even bought a computer with a real nerd coming in now and then to show her how to use it, and was in constant contact with her 'spies', as she lasciviously called the hired detectives, who had found out the main reason for Mike's failure in Salten: trying to "buy" people. Oh. Even she knew this was the worst thing a businessman could do in this city and had no scruples passing everything to the Saltener officials she knew, although squealing was the second worst thing. Never mind, her reputation was ruined anyway. After an informative video conference on her new PC with Kim's best friend, Olga shifted the tasks of her spies and found out the "subject", as she called the young man without moving her lips, had canceled his lease and cleared his cellar rooms. Afraid of sinking even deeper in Kim's opinion, she asked her brother before "borrowing" the keys to her apartment: they found two bugs with parts of fingerprints. Kim only had to sue the man to push him down the plank of no-return.

But would 'da girl' appreciate it?

V. boys gotta have fun

It was not planned. He wasn't criminal, just a businessman - one of the best by the way. The cellar episode was something else: a reflex, a reaction - that's all. Okay, a bit crude, but wading in a cesspool with orient carpets, antique furniture, genuine vintage tableware for hours - and then the shoe collection, his pride and joy: what was that, pillepalle? And the oh-so-lovely innocent Tiara had obviously planned it many weeks. Same thing with the cellar story: he was supposed to be locked up in a dark tomb for days - seriously now: was it his fault Tiara's parents had been so shamefully lax with their spankings? Such things were not usual in a relationship, but nevertheless concerned only these two, were personal. Private.

True: the trip with her brother was a bit different. Yet also in this case he had somehow slipped in. It was not planned. His friendship with Daniel had been good from the beginning, they were buddies and had done various things together without female company - what men do when a pandemic is going on, time doesn't move and women don't feel like it or have no time: watching men's stuff on his really good home cinema, drinking together, that sort of thing. Not exactly one heart and one soul, but agreeing on some typically masculine things and in relationship matters loyal enough to keep the collateral damage minimal. Women did it like that too. He had helped Tiara's younger brother with some electronic stuff, and received some insider tips from the banker in exchange: a win-win situation. Until Corona came. He didn't blame Daniel, who had lost some money himself, though not as much as Mike. Daniel was not really interested in things like #stockmarket, investment etcetera. Called it baby stuff:
"These things happen, shit happens, Mike ol' boy. It's only baby stuff, ya know - like #monopoly. You should play for fun and not to make money."

What happened in Bavaria had nothing to do with revenge or anything of the sort. Not at all. Sure, if people thought he had nothing better to do than pour water down a mountain slope for weeks to make a cabin on the other side of the country slide prettily down the slope with himself inside? Come on, he hadn't even known the name of the place until Daniel invited him to come along. Okay, it was not exactly an invitation, he himself had wanted an open talk from man to man – so what? His work, his relationship, his whole life was running, even racing straight into a stone wall; several debtors were after him despite Corona. Come on, everybody needs an empathetic ear now and then. And a place to hide. Admitted, there was this tiny idea of borrowing some money in the back of his head, but that was not the motor of it all.

Officially, Daniel Andrieux' plan was to check up things down in Bavaria and unofficially to drink all the booze he could lay hands on. The hut had belonged to the family several years; Paps had inherited it and grabbed his kids now and then to get them all some healthy mountain air as long as they were young or small enough to let it happen; later Kim started her own life, Daniel was too lazy and their father didn't enjoy it alone - their last time was a "coronal" exception, as Paps called it, accepting his two kids had left the nest. There was was not much resemblance between Kim and Daniel: from a distance, from the side, and from behind; they were both of the same stature and had the same hair length and color. For some reason the girl had sucked all of the power, leaving Daniel hanging over some fence all the time. Or on a couch. "They must have switched chromosomes somehow," the proud father used to joke, when his emancipated daughter was not near. Daniel's eyes were brown, dark and soft, framed by raccoon-like shadows, falsely suggesting he should sleep more, work less or both - the contrast to her glow couldn't be bigger. During the whole shutdown Daniel had been on the verge of quitting his job in Hamburg. Every. Single. Day. Even if his bank let him work at home all the time: why the hell was he doing a job he didn't like - for the money? He had pricked his ears last year, when Salten was considering an #UnconditionalBasicIncome [I have some doubts: isn't basic income still about money; and a home for everyone perhaps the better solution?]; this arrogant sting would then be gone: how many people could afford working without payment? Taking care of the old, growing your own food, walking the dog or cooking for others - wasn't that work, more important even than playing monopoly? And he owned half a carpentry, half a mountain hut and half a house, where they had all lived until Kim moved out. He hoped, no, expected her to move back to the home, where five people had lived once, plenty of room. Kim loved teasing him, but accepted him the way he was. Why couldn't folks just stop pushing each other around? Lots of people could do his job better and maybe needed the money - so what the hell? Paps had invested a lot in the house, his goal being an autark life: they had two wells, sustainable water and a drainage system that used and cleaned the water several times, masonry insulation, solar panels; five years ago a girlfriend had added a garden, he enjoyed taking care of ever since - his pumpkin bread was delicious! He was thinking of adding some goats to mow the grass and make his own cheese. Kim was the same, her few employees shared the work and the money and were not rich, but happy. Pap's stamp all over - maybe only possible in a place like Salten. The self-criticism in Pap's will didn't change anything, he was sure his sister would see it similar, at the same time dreading to hand it over and determined to wait until she was fully recovered. Another point they differed was his dislike of being alone. Sadly, he loved active and independent women and exactly these had problems accepting his tendency to be comfortable, frugal and not interested in any competition whatsoever, which was why he was forced to change them every few months, depending on how long they endured him; this had got him the undeserved status of a Casanova - and of a lone wolf ever since Corona. The energy it took to find a new one was too much. Everything was too much for him right now: Pap's death and testament, Kim's "accident"... Of course looking after things in Bavaria was an excuse to get away, it wasn't really necessary and he knew it. He had lost his father, almost his sister. Mike's popping up seemed a hint, even if the man whined around rather a lot.

"Oh yeah, pretty rotten time for you - but do you know what?" Daniel started beaming. "Why don't you come along? A little company sounds good, and we can take turns driving. You gotta decide right now though, I'm going this minute and will stay a couple of days - we can stop at your place, if you hurry." Kim being the biggest part of Mike's whining, he concealed his plan to take care of his sister, when he was back - pictures of chicken fertilizing his garden and an egg for breakfast each morning on his mind.

Did Mike have a choice? Salten didn't want him, Hamburg wanted money he didn't have - he was a pariah. He knew the Tiara rocket was in outer space, but in the foggy state of nothing he was at the moment: why not try to find things out, for example about her amnesia, was it real, and if so, was it irreversible? Except for the two bugs in her apartment, which he hadn't been able get to, there was no evidence of his sniffing around, he had removed the cams in the cellar and run over all files several times. Actually, all those actions had been necessary, despite her temperament, she was a reserved person, had never left her keys to him or even let him alone in her apartment; in fact: he had only been there two times. Two times! He had never experienced anybody so mistrustful, was quite different himself: open minded and all that. So the big question remained: what did she know and was she going to use it against him? In the meantime, he had a bit of time to plan his next steps: America?

After the first four hundred kilometers Mike's almost physical pain to drive so slow began to fade away, perhaps because there was nobody to be faster than, the streets being empty, looking like ghost towns stretched out on several long, sometimes connected to each other rubber bands; the few cars were oddly modest, making themselves small, as if they were doing something indecent or had their grandma folded in the trunk. Daniel was happy to leave his mourning cape in Salten, got silly and loud. They took turns driving, sang aloud to the music, and had food brought out twice on the way. It was nice. For himself too. No slime this time, he was as happy and silly as Daniel. Really. Nevertheless both were relieved to get out of the car, after climbing hundreds of mountains and finally reaching the end of the muddy small road to the cabin, looking snug with it's whole logs. It had three rooms and a big bathroom with shower upstairs, and a tiny WC downstairs, squeezed between two more rooms, a kitchen and a large pantry. All looked tidy and neglected at the same time, smelling musty; some of the supplies were expired, the last thorough overhaul being quite a while ago. There was no network, not even a landline; Mike discovered a transistor radio and a small TV with an antenna upstairs under one of the beds - what was that: keep the dangerous life outside? Never mind, all he needed was alcohol, quickly heated canned food and a bed.

The landslide took place two days after their arrival. Thanks to the solid carpentry work the cabin slid compactly almost thirty meters down the slope, Daniel's sports car tailing behind like a puppy on the leash. They had both been asleep and woke up hours later. And now they were stuck, without the possibility of getting help. So it seemed. Like his sister, electronic frippery didn't impress Daniel, this and Mike's unwillingness to spoil their good mood with bad news that buried everything these days and normally started with a C, had kept him from taking out his phone and showing off in the first place. It was the latest and could receive and send “even from the bottom of the Pacific” bragged a slogan. He had kept his mouth shut and let it happen - nothing criminal about that. Nobody could blame him for the landslide or prove he had contact to the rest of the world in the first place - how? His smartphone had several numbers that could be suppressed, and best of all: the GPS had never been on. Whew, that was almost an invitation. Sure, he could have mentioned it after the landslide, but they were fine: nobody was hurt, Daniel had a box filled with vegetables from his garden with him, the pantry was filled with canned goods and water, tea and coffee, alcoholic beverages and whatnot. Even if one of them had been injured, there was no law that said you must call for help, if you didn't want it.
As Daniel himself had said once: "These things happen. Shit happens - baby stuff..."

He had sent the first SMS while "chopping wood", an activity he had voluntarily taken over; the neatly stowed wood piles at the side of the hut must have been somebody else's work, Daniel knew nothing about. The message was simple and short, could mean anything and nothing. And was just for fun:
"Hello lady, how much is your brother worth?"

He had deleted it from his phone as soon as it was sent and then switched it off. Without a trace. No one would ever be able to prove it had been from him, and even if: what exactly? Nothing had happened. It was a spontaneous test balloon, he hadn't committed anything, not even a plan. A little like burping in the snow. On the road Daniel had done a lot of babbling, so he didn't expect a speedy answer with Tiara laying unconscious most of the time in her grandmother's house, a very successful lady with heaps of money - good to know. The country being all locked up once more and Daniel not even having mentioned his Bavaria plan - with all those red carpets being unrolled almost at once, who needs a plan? Whether they stayed here or in Salten, in Hamburg or on the Philippines, what difference did it make? Neither of them would be missed, and they hadn't been controlled one single time on their way down. Why should they? Except the sick French people in Salten's smaller hospital, there were hardly any infected people up there. Couldn't be better if he had planned it for weeks.

Daniel took the slide down the slope from the light side, being infectiously silly. They were on a Robinson Crusoe trip, using dice to find out who would be Friday when it was only Tuesday, if Saturday had been killed and why Monday was double. That sort of stuff. Nice.

* * *

The message came when Kim was furiously stuffing her clothes back into the rucksack, Daniel had brought her in the hospital. She was shaky on her legs, but determined to end this granddaughter farce the very same minute she woke up: who the hell did the old lady think she was? The professor was also present, had, in fact, slept next door in the massage room; both witnessed every ounce of blood leaving the narrow face of their granddaughter with the abruptness of a lousy elevator, when she read the message.

"What happened?!" honked Olga alarmed, while Roko gently directed the girl back to her bed.

The young woman was aware this was too much just now, she knew it was Mike and that she would need help. She had no choice: Okay, let them take over - I'm off! flashed through her mind, at the same time handing her phone to Roko like a sort of rapier. And off she was.

The preference was a slap in Olga's face, but didn't burn long: a chance was a chance - probably her last. She was determined to do and put up with everything, always had been, and was ready to answer every question truthfully - questions she had turned over and over in her mind for years, nay decades [the older you get, the more: "now what does that remind me of?" moments pop up. I had been doing this too, wondering how you were all going on, but sure I would not be missed after a while of bewilderment. Why? How can you miss somebody you don't know? With enough of Mom's pragmatism (or maybe her post war syndrome, I dunno, the realization of traumas being passed from one generation to the next is very present in "sifted bread", 2015, written during my stay at Mom's after her accident), my main goal during these years was to keep my kids from having my own bad school time - perhaps with the same self-control Mom needed to bring up five kids after a horrible war? In the meantime I know it wasn't just the school, nothing is that simple: in this copycat world most people seem to hear (and listen) to the loud ones, who put money, good looks and long nails above character, consume in front of ratio and suggest every government needs lobbies and not science, humanity and common sense to show the way. It's America's messed up dream (did you read Miller's "nightmare"?), insinuating success and money are Siamese twins and freedom is a SUV], waiting, almost hoping for something awful to get the opportunity to answer.

And the questions came. At the moment, there was nothing to do but wait anyway. And talk. Although Kim was recovering fast, she knew she was not up to the task. The blackouts were more physical than mental, so she stayed in her bed and did everything the nurse told her, falling asleep after almost each pragmatical question she asked, yet Olga noticed the young woman was listening intently, almost inhaling her journeys in the past:

"We were two cousins with only one study place, and from the beginning on it was clear I would be the one; Klara had always been more domestic, a light allergy also made her life like a piece of hell as soon as she had to go somewhere. She trusted especially my ambition and that I'd be successful. We were the last of a small family; I was sent to an orphanage in the nearby Salten after the war, from where I looked for her and arranged everything from then on - she was not up to it. Years later we heard of the study place awaiting one of us and made an early agreement I would study and in exchange support her later. Unlike me, she was modest and didn't need much: a little house in the country was all she needed. Even before I got pregnant, we settled everything in a contract..."

"Heard they call that sort of thing horse trade", Kim interjected, her eyes flashing greenish out of their narrowed slits.

"I wouldn't call it that", Olga hadn't even batted her lashes. "After my unplanned pregnancy popped up, funny enough the contract seemed unnecessary and wasn't mentioned anymore: like bulky chunks falling in their holes by themselves when someone thuds on the table. She knew I'd be all the more after it, and she was thrilled by the prospect of raising a child on her own without having to deal with 'unpleasantries' like sex, birth and going to work. Handicaps like that make you lonely, you know. My new part was not to meddle and make the extra task affordable for her as well as I could. Nobody had money or parents with money at that time - not in our circles. The study place was from an aunt, the eldest sister of Klara's and my mother, who had emigrated to Sweden at an early age; she had a business with her Swedish husband, that went well enough to put aside money each month. Like many at the time, she had wanted to study and later saved it for her son, who died young. We were her only relatives. That's how it was. You accuse me of abandoning your father out of career lust - my honest answer: no and yes. To my defense I can only say Klara definitely was the superior mother and the financial opportunities your father had through me were better this way: without a lil financial help life is an asshole. You'll have to puzzle the rest together yourself."

"What opportunities are you talking about? A normal school education and afterwards an apprenticeship? Paps and Eleanor got the carpentry from Daniel's biological father."

"Is that what he said?" The question came from Roko, who had dropped all reserve and milked Olga ever since he knew who Kim was.

"Let's just leave it that way," it came brashly from Olga, who had enough and disappeared downstairs to her own floor, her robe and hair flying.

"Yeah yeah, go on and run away, when something doesn't suit you!" she heard her granddaughter croak after her.

Olga felt herself too old for "No, you didn't, yes, I did" games - even with her own granddaughter. She said as much when Roko came down later.

"What you call games can rob other people their peace of mind, ya know," he orated. "Has the successful all-knowing Olga Andrieux ever thought about that yet?"

"Says the right man!" she snorted.

He blushed despite professorship and old age: "Don't forget, Olga, you didn't leave me any choice!" He puffed himself up a bit, before he added: "Honestly, I hold that against you - that was not correct!"

"Really?" she sneered. "Of course you would have confessed the alcoholic slip to Elisa and then taken care of the boy all by yourself? Be glad I saved you the illusion of always behaving correctly for decades, you coward!"

This time it was his turn to stalk down the stairs in a huff, remembering he had a home of his own.

"Yeah yeah, go on and run away when something doesn't suit you!" Olga couldn't resist throwing after him, cackling over her own silliness.

* * *

"Roko?!" she yelled to his answering machine half an hour later, dropping her habit of dialing until a human being picked up. She still had to plan the trip and pack, damn it, why couldn't the fool just get on the phone like everybody else? Roko needed his habits, she knew he was at home. "My spy just called. We traced the last sign of life from the smartphone of Kim's missing brother and it came from a town south of Garmisch-Partenkirchen. Plain text: we have his location and are about to jerk off in my car, stopping at your place beforehand in case of the unexpected honor that you intend to accompany us. Tudelu! [= bye; the internet denies knowing a word like that and thus refuses to translate - machines are so stubborn.]"

Of course he wanted to. Wanted to? He had to:

The last time Olga drove the three of them was decades ago, Salten had just started to create barriers on the streets [I had to come back to the Netherlands 2006 to realize these barriers I wrote about in "the mole" were no imagination of mine, but copied from life, probably not only #Bilthoven had started cutting down the autocracy of cars long before I left 1975. Oh well, I also wrote about being able to visualize yourself inside of games in "the icemakers" (2008) before they invented it (if that's not true, don't tell me, I needn't know everything). A youth book for my grandkids, my only science fiction, written during this for parents uncertain time: fun or addiction, useful or babysitter, why are those fools closing youth centers and libraries? It's about kids who saved the world with their Game Boys and then went swimming.] in front of their houses to stop the racing, but it was still possible to drive your car if you knew where. They had come from a cultural event in Hamburg and were still bathing in the topic; Olga was so focused on getting her point right, that she rammed a very old building, having left the street more than usual. It was always like that. Elisabeth had insisted on reporting the accident to the police and hadn't spoken to her best friend for weeks, because Olga refused: "Monument protection, my foot, that's the government's alibi for not having to mend old broken things with our taxes! I bet my money goes directly into one of those trees or other obstacles they put in the middle of the street, so nobody can drive on 'em. If it makes you happy, I'll donate to the local orphanage!" So she did, sending Elisa the slip. Since the latter's eyesight was getting worse, Roko was misused as a chauffeur from then on...
?And this crazy hag seriously thought he'd let his only grandchild bounce with her all over the country?

The officials had laid hands on Olga's disability card several months ago, after finding out the old lady didn't need one. She persuaded the nurse to pick up her car and stay inside in case someone came: a nurse was as good as a doctor, right? Except for emergencies, cars were banned out of the city and citizens used the local and free transport service [you can't possibly imagine my bewildered pleasure, discovering the Netherlands had organized exactly such a service for all those, who needed it, when I accompanied Mom to wherever she had to go in Utrecht. After one decade in the USA, several in Germany and only seven years in the Netherlands: I'm pretty Dutch, huh?]. The old lady had pushed the back seats down and thrown all the blankets and pillows she could find behind in a hurry, a wheel clamp being due after getting copped too often. If Kim got suffocated, they would hear it. She hoped. And anyway, Roko was also there.

When Olga's car stopped in front of Roko's house almost half an hour later, the Professor was standing on the pavement, holding an aluminum suitcase in addition to his traveling bag.

"I hope there are no dueling pistols in there?" Olga snorted.

"Excellent plan, good man", Kim praised dryly, whose head had appeared in the gap between the front seats like a jack-in-the-box.

"Take it easy, ladies - as some people may know: I'm a working man and..."

"Nobody asked you to come along", Olga's words guillotined his, although she dreaded the long trip with a sick person, who fell asleep every few minutes.

"...so I had to", Roko lifted his voice slightly to finish his sentence, "agree to take a few samples for the Munich clinic with me."

"But on the way back!" determined Olga ungraciously, looking up and down the street, but not wanting to admit her dread of traffic cops: she needed her car, damn. "We're in a hurry, old man, hop in!"

"All right", he slyly pretended a defeat, putting his luggage down as if he had plenty of time - he knew about Olga's traffic dilemma. "Are you letting me drive?"

Her face twitched. She hated being the copilot, especially since those years when Roko drove, whistling and butting in their conversation: "Psst, I can't concentrate" now and then, whilst they were sitting behind like two naughty girls. Men could be such ass holes. But then she shrugged, opened the door and went around the car: Bavaria wasn't next door, he was not twenty and they also had to drive back, right? In her car. With a dishonest scowl she gave Roko the exact address.

Kim had fallen asleep again. They thought. "So," the young woman said with a voice that sounded familiar to Roko and seemed to throw all arguments out of the closed window. "How come you know about the cabin?"

Roko raised and lowered a shoulder, which seemed to both indicate his innocence and his inability to focus his attention on anything other than the vehicle below, in front and behind them.

"Signed it over to my cousin at some point. With those masses of children, she had better use of it than me."

"Masses?" it came indignantly from behind, the oldies needed to see neither the raised brows nor the crossed arms to realize them: "The house in Salten too?"

"Tz," snorted Olga. "I had agreed with Klara to fill in when and where I could. Didn't I say that already?"

"And in return you want me to kiss your feet?"

Olga slipped out of her shoes and lifted her left leg with for her age remarkable agility, using both hands to push her stockinged foot backward between the seats. "Help yourself. They had other fetishes in my days though."

They heard Kim suck in all the air the car had, before bursting into laughter, in which Olga promptly joined. Trying not to grin, Roko's facial lines quivered: two silly people is all a single car should endure.

"Goodie," Olga commented, after they had laughed their tension off. "Was prepared for another battle, my staircase is kind of missing as a fall back option. So", she continued her report without being asked. "As mentioned earlier, your brother's smartphone was last located in that area. Daniel picked up the last meal about 250 km north of the cabin, along with a man whose description strongly resembles the subject - so I just put two and two together and got four, that's all. Nothing Miss Marplish about that."

"Shouldn't we notify the police?" came from Roko.

"No!" the two women disagreed with one voice.

"Furthermore," Olga continued, as if Roko was some puny fly on her back window, "I found out that the slope on which the cabin stands has slid some 30 meters downwards, thanks to excessive rainfall after a long dry period. Welcome to the #climatecrisis."


After a while, from behind: "Suggest you two be quiet, so I can figure out a text that demands a sign of life without sounding desperate."

"Excellent plan!"

Minutes later they heard it beep, then soft snoring sounds. The seniors lowered the volume of their conversation, trying not to smile. Occasionally they stopped at a gas station and filled the car with things they thought young people might like: from chips to rusks, cookies and cola. The oldies were careful not to eat or drink too much themselves, as Olga put it: "If I can't see if the thing trickling down my back belongs to myself, squatting outside is nothing for me - can catch up later."

"Next time I'll buy a caravan with autopilot," she grumbled, after Roko had driven through the night and it started brightening up. She had slept well and was bored. "Do you want me to take over? I don't want to be fussy, but you missed red again, and that wasn't a crosswalk earlier, it was a hedgehog that was faster than you."

"I didn't", Roko barked back softly.

"All right, that was a flying saucer. Roko, pull over - there's a bus stop up ahead. Pronto!"

He muttered something as he opened seat belt and door, and decided to close his eyes after changing places without much ado, the best attitude when things seemed unalterable. He fell asleep immediately.

"Oh", he said several hours later. "Did I nod off? Anything happen?"

"The object sent a photo of Daniel sleeping in front of #KlimaVor8 [= nonexistent and very important daily news about the climate in all main TV channels all over the world - instead, we get #wallstreet junk]. Tzz," Olga bobbed her head, "if Klara knew: TV in the hut, oh boy."

"Aha, he has mutated from a subject to an object - how gratifying. And hm-mm?" he inquired cautiously, jerking his head backwards.

"Hm-mm," it came from the indicated direction, "is fine."

"Fine," Roko repeated satisfied. "How far are we?"

"About ninety minutes to go. Will you take over?" Olga stopped at the side of the road without waiting for an answer. They were driving on a country road with hardly any traffic. "My fingers are falling asleep - und mein Arsch stirbt gerade!" [= and my ass is about to fall off. In the German version Olga had the habit of speaking English, when she thought it appropriate, an option I lost by translating this - so now and then she'll curse in German,so I can translate it for you].

"Olga!" Roko snarled, as if Kim was only seven, quickly getting out of the car before the witch could change her mind.

"So", came a hard voice from behind as soon as they had picked up speed. "Now let's talk plain turkey: We all assumed a banker was Pap's biological father - how does that match?"

The car swerved, but was under control in time to let a green little Trabant [= tin can car made in East Germany before the Wall fell] pass, who showed gratification with his middle finger.

"Ol-ga!" the driver repeated, this time from a deep grotto.

The old lady laughed heartily. "Excuse me, as a student you were not exactly the Bank of America, but my lover was exactly that - had more money than was good for him. The fact that he was sterilized didn't matter, there was a stigma on unmarried Moms at the time, the scandal would have broken his neck, so he decided to help out. Voluntarily, by the way - I didn't even ask, just to put that straight. It may also be that he liked me a little, the relationship lasted over eleven years and was one of my best. The money was for the birth and to cover up the first rounds for my cousin and your Paps. Next to economy I also studied philosophy to balance things out, so I'm sure even Confucius would have agreed it's better for your mind, soul and everything else to milk a banker than to rob his bank. I never took a silly penny from him for myself! Yes," she reluctantly admitted, as if there had been objections, "he helped me get the initial credit for my business, but that was official, I paid it back with interest etcetera - banks weren't in the habit of giving a Mrs. let alone Miss Nobody a loan at the time. Not even today, I bet..." She turned around to Kim with difficulty, her back not being as agile as her legs: "Klara used to say that: 'Now let's talk turkey.' We knew: she can do this, and I can do something else. But Klara was afraid I'd take over and insisted on playing with her own deck of cards, otherwise I would have loved to come over as an 'aunt' or whatever, but she loathed dishonesty and I had bad cards. What can I say besides I'm sorry you don't approve our arrangement? It was the best solution, damn it!"

"So I am after all?" muttered Roko. It didn't sound sad.

"That's too high for me," Kim was not through with the topic. "Why did the banker get that job in Hamburg for my brother and promote him all the time? What did he get from that? Why?"

"Oh," Olga went on nonchalantly. "I had asked him, we remained good friends as long as he lived. How do you know? Not even Klara, who was fussy about such things and hated asking for favors, knew about that. I thought it was top secret."

"Ha!" crowed her granddaughter in the same tone. "It was top secret."

"Apropos secrets," Roko threw in, as if to imply that he was still there. "What happened between you and that Mike guy? Was it so bad?"

The oldies heard the already familiar sounds of their granddaughter sleeping.

"A 'mind your own business' would have done the job", the driver shrugged his left shoulder.

"Liebe Tante! [= dear aunt; German idiom meaning the contrary]" Olga finished the sentence elisabeth-like, raising her right shoulder.

VI. bavaria blues

The cabin was made of not too thick whole tree logs their father had almost carved every time they were there and put together as if it was a japanese wooden puzzle: what was he a carpenter for? It had torn a wide and messy swath, as if a giant had forgotten his age and rolled down the slope on his side. The kids had used the slope for years as a slide, the bushes and shrubs on the half-steep had softened and slowed up the ride, but had there been two or three trees in the way, the hut probably would not have survived in one piece. It took the trio a while to scramble down: the partially hidden craters, branches, bushes and roots, the mud, the age of the seniors and Kim's lack of stamina kept them up as if ten times the distance.

It was lunchtime when they entered the hut. They found both men on the couch downstairs, fed up with too much food, alcohol and too little movement and sleep. Mike eyes went open like popcorn, jumping into his pants, he played the innocent card, while Kim began frisking his things, ignoring his monotone protests:
"Tiara, honey bunny, what are you looking for?" And with a dirty grin, as she felt the pockets of his pants: "You sure missed me, huh?"

"Keep an eye on the object!" the bunny ordered before heading upstairs, not even looking at him. The cursing and rumbling above their heads directed four pairs of eyes like a slow tennis match, it sounded like somebody was trying to create his own landslide upstairs. After almost thirteen minutes she came back, snow-white and wrinkles all over her face.

"Kim," the brother said gently. "You should lay down. Please."

"And who's going to look after" - her head bobbed at Mike - "him?"

"All of us!" assured Olga. "Which room has a key?"

"Wait a minute," Mike's amused composure began to shake. "What gives you the right...?"

That was as far as he got. At the sound of his voice, Kim's spirits bubbled up like a volcano spitting the last load out, and without further hullabaloo she twisted Mike's arm behind his back and maneuvered him into the little WC, giving him a push and turning the key around twice.

"Will you please keep searching and think about where he might have hidden that phone of his?" she asked before curling herself up in a blanket on the couch and making the already familiar sleeping noises: "Might be important."

The oldies looked from themselves to Kim and then back again.

"What kind of a granddaughter did you get us, jeepers?!" Roko wanted to know, eyebrows all the way up.

"Don't pretend you don't like it," she answered, chuckling. She turned to the brother of this sensation: "We're looking for his smartphone. How about it, where was he when you weren't together: outside, on the roof, getting fresh air?"

He slapped his forehead: "Right, he always went to chop wood voluntarily, Mrs. Andrieux, although according to Kim he's even lazier than me. Shall I show you where...?"

"No dear", Olga interrupted the young man. "Squeeze your mattress in front of the WC door and sleep. Your sister will make a mess of all of us if he slips away, but first we need that phone. And we are on first name terms here, hear me: we are family ['we are family' is almost a proverb in Germany and doesn't need translating; the real one used to recite poems longer than Joe's legs]. Have a nice nap... Coming, Roko?"

They found the phone in a well closed freezer bag between the chopped wood on the right side of the cabin. Roko had paid special attention to this corner, as apparently being the place where the wood was chopped. The smartphone was locked. Neither of them being tech-savvy, they decided to wait in the dining room until the siblings were awake again. They didn't need much sleep, they had time.

So they thought, when a discreet knock at the door made them freeze in midair. Dismayed, they looked at each other and hurried to open, hastily closing the door behind them from the outside.

wo young police officers stood in front of them, probably exactly two meters away and correctly equipped with face masks: "That must have been quite a downhill ride", said the smaller one with a smile, after they showed their badges and introduced themselves [it was hard not to make a burlesque out of this, it reminded me of the one I caused at the police station several years ago in Utrecht, trying to get my identity back. I had left my 'temporary' (indeed, 30 years is very temporary) Deutschen Fremdenausweis* in Lubeck on purpose and stood there, rucksack on my back with the usual book, pajama, toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo, t-shirts, comb, socks, underwear and oil. My goal was to make the officials hurry up and arise me from the dead, the plot was getting arrested, so they had to do something. I was stuck on several levels, desperately trying to get myself back. Why they hadn't arrested the gray haired lady, who declared to be there illegally, had no papers and even threatened to pull out the plants growing in the middle of the vast building, is still one of the most incomprehensible - and afterwards funniest - things I've ever experienced with officials. They had called you later, after being forced (by me, incredible!) to get a boss with more competence than themselves, which wasn't much use either. I remember your face, when I later tried to explain something I didn't understand myself at the time: a mix out of 'has she gone mad?' and 'what happened to the shy girl, who used to sit in a corner and read books?', at the same time trying to look as if that was a jolly good idea. I knew you hadn't understood, so I'll try and explain it here. After being pushed to do things I normally never - neither as Monique nor as Nicki - would have done to get my identity back, I thought a little initiative from my side was due - probably was in the puberty by then, trying to kick my way out of a nightmare. It was confusing enough to experience thirty years dropping off each time I went to the Netherlands: Monique was 16 and lost, the grown up Nicki was still in Germany and didn't have much chance. Subconsciously I defended my grown-up self by refusing to be called Monique, still pushing away my girlish self, my deafness, my inability to communicate. I know, you had always offered to come along and help, but I was aware I had to it alone: a grandmother aged 16. Even as a kid I had the habit of sitting on my own shoulder and watching: from a distance, even amused, I call it my deaf bubble, it was such a good self-protection - and I was starting to lose this ability. The highlight was the trial in Utrecht, which lifted my status as a dead person: I was shaking all over, my self control, even my humor was gone, but I had done it.
* in this passport for foreigners my nationality was 'ungeklärt' = unsettled, unsolved, unclear; during the forced isolation caused by corona, I sorted papers, found the passport and became aware it had pushed me in a sort of nobody's country: I had left the shy girl, but not really - not being allowed to publish books or do an independent job because of this "ungeklärt" was a small part of it. It would have helped if I had protested against this discrimination, because it was a discrimination, but I didn't feel like I had the right to, was apathetically accepting a doom nobody had cast on me but myself. Of course, I could have gotten a German passport incl. German nationality, but I believe we all have the right to be anywhere and thought it wrong to "buy" myself a right that was wrong, and, although I have the Dutch nationality in the meantime, I still think so: nationalities draw lines of borders, psychological, financial, and ethical borders, getting thicker the more we let money or the market rule. First thing my daughters did when 18: they applied for the German citizenship, the handicaps this 'ungeklärt' caused were too much, and they were born and had been living in Germany all their lives].
"Are you all right?"

The masks inspired Roko to introduce himself with his full name and title before answering the question honestly: "Not exactly." Holding a warning finger in front of his pursed lips, the scholar moved further away from the house - the uniformed couple almost tiptoeing behind him, always at least two meters between them. Flattered, Roko took a deep breath to make a speech, but noticed the telltale twitch around Olga's mouth in time and hastened to explain, he was down here on behalf of the Corona Group.

"I have some virus samples of the French, who are laying in our clinic in Salten, this much I'm allowed to reveal, it'll be in the newspapers anyway. It would be good if you would nevertheless keep people away for safety's sake - we have everything we need. Oh, and please notify the Munich clinic that my grandchildren kept me up a bit, but I'll come as soon as possible. Thank you!"

Enthusiastically, the officers saluted, spun around on their heels and started almost running up the slope again.

This was too much for Olga, with her quiff flying, she hurried to close the door behind her, before bursting into a roar of laughter. She almost knocked over her granddaughter, who wanted to know what was going on, reluctantly grinning.

Roko, who had followed more slowly, listened to Olga's dramatized version with his head shaking.

"Virus samples?" Kim's eyebrows went up. "People believe everything when someone waves a title in front of their noses - I thought that stopped since it showed lots of docs are only copycats."

The professor defended himself against the insinuation of having lied: "There are indeed samples of the French in the aluminum suitcase, Munich would like to compare them with the ones they already have. Ever hear about mutations? - By the way, is this what you've been looking for?" He held the smartphone between two fingers like a dirty tissue. "Unfortunately locked."

After a brief inspection, Kim explained the phone could only be unlocked via fingerprint. "Mike's fingerprint, to be more specific - I remember seeing him do it several times. I hate violence, but no problem," she added, eyes flickering, "we'll put some of my grandmother's pain drugs in his wine."

Olga brightened up, when she heard the word 'we', ignoring the 'grandmother' part, while Roko once again wiggled his head, lifted both hands and started counting his fingers: "Not bad for one day: illegal parking, assault, unlawful detention and imprisonment, poisoning..."

"So what?" Olga reluctantly cut his list off. "Give it to me, I'll do it - I'm too old to get locked up anyway."

"They don't care how old you are, Olga," Roko put in.

"That only counts for men," she hissed back. "Ever since #metoo and the climate crisis are official topics, people seem to like ladies better and have decimated you men to mere #boomers, ramming down everything in their way!"

Kim found it difficult to keep her face straight: "You two are impossible, really. I'll get the stuff, it's old, but probably OK - and anyway, it's tasteless. Klara's last few weeks would have been very painful without." She had to raise her voice to drown out the racket now coming from the WC.

They looked at each other.

"Well, he probably doesn't want to go on the toilet," Olga guessed. "Let's let him out and tie him up! What about the car keys, are they in a safe place?" she added. "The nearest den is half an hour by car, he won't make it walking - especially not at night."

Kim's obigatory: "How do you know?" was drowned by Mike, who was now using something hard to attract attention, and her brother's: "Let's have some breakfast first!" The young man was standing in front of them, hands on his hips and looking very hungry.

It became a late but plentiful breakfast. Because he had come first, Daniel seemed to consider himself the host and went back and forth several times, simply putting everything edible on the table. Mike's ankles had been tied to the front chair legs with nylon stockings as a precaution.

"Ehem," the object/subject gave a little cough. "You do realize, I hope, that this will have nasty consequences - I mean: for you guys nasty consequences? It's only a matter of time before the police will show up, a number of friends know exactly where I am and will start worrying" - he took a glance at his expensive watch as if some countdown was about to start: "just now!"

Nobody laughed.

"Well, I don't know about 'you guys'," Olga announced, "but I'd like to finish my meal in peace - maybe it's more convenient to lock up noisy people hanging around and pestering everybody and being of no use whatsoever..."

It was not necessary.

The atmosphere was peculiar: they were extremely polite and yet extremely greedy - like comedians at a children's birthday party. Olga seemed to be additionally amused about something, giggling and even kicking randomly under the table, which got her grouchy looks from all sides - even from Mike, who sat demonstratively silent between Olga and Daniel, not keen on being locked up again. Every now and then the old woman got up, dancing to and fro with a glass or a wine bottle.

"Olga," Roko said reproachfully.

"Yes, Professor - what can I humble creature possibly do for Your Majesty, the King of Corona?"

"Perhaps you should rethink your drinking habits a bit?" he suggested stiff. "The wine has lots of sugar and..."

"You are sooo right," she interrupted, holding up her glass: "Cheers to all the sugar beet farmers of the high north!" And after a while: "So, you beautiful creatures of Salten!" the old lady cried, enjoying her own buffoonery. "I hereby declare that the object still refuses to reveal the location of his doohickey, and suggest we lock him in the WC again - do 'you guuuys'" - she tried to imitate the subject's voice, "agree? All those who don't raise their hands will be locked up with the guuuy, hick."

"I guess that was another word with X [nothing = nix]," Daniel announced. They were sitting around the dining room table again, after washing and cleaning up, this time without Mike. He added consolingly after a glance in Olga's direction: "No reproach, I can smuggle a bottle of red wine in the toilet later, along with some blankets and pillows - after all, we were alone on an island together once, maybe he trusts me."

"Why?" Olga wanted to know.

"Well, up here it's rather cold at night."

"I meant the word with X - 'nix' I suppose? Do you really think he's stupid enough to drink anything but water straight from the tap, or even snack a stick of butter without having us lick it first? Didn't you notice his snitching from my plate or swapping glasses, whenever I disappeared to get some more wine?"

"Meaning?" asked Roko impatiently. "Plain talk, please, Olga - I'm sure the young people would like to catch up some sleep."

"Meaning that all the red wine merely moistened my lips and my fortunately red blouse - I don't like that sweet stuff", Olga tried not to look too triumphant.

"Is it enough?" her granddaughter was the first to understand. And then: "No reason to kick me under the table though. Really!"

"Sure it's enough. The object doesn't need blankets, pillows or nylon for the time being. Let's wait until he falls off the toilet, just to be on the safe side, okay? - Oh, was that your leg?" she grinned mischievously at Kim. "Had to look real somehow, the drunken fidgeting and kicking was also a good distraction."

Kim rolled her eyes. "Now I understand why he was more stodgy than usual at the end and even went to the bathroom without wincing. Wake me up when it rumbles, please. Good job", she added reluctantly, before getting up, yawning, and curling up on her regular spot on the couch without another word.

"Can you do that too?" Roko turned to the brother of this falling asleep sensation.

"No," the latter had to admit enviously. "But be careful, she can still listen when she's asleep."

"You're not really tired yourself, right?" asked Olga, hope in her voice.

"I'm fit - haven't been cooped up in a cellar for a week."

Olga clicked with her tongue, disappeared upstairs and returned with four photo albums: "Founders keepers, losers weepers!"

A few minutes later they heard it rumbling next door and hurried out, Kim in tow, whose ears were apparently really on continuous reception. The contents of Mike's cell phone were a positive disappointment. He had heaps of acquaintances - Kim noticed with a snort that he had adopted all of her friends in green -, but no private stuff. Chatting seemed to float on the same wave as flee markets - not even with his sister. The last almost personal message was five weeks ago and went to the old woman, who cleaned up his apartment once a month and was grandiloquently called 'my housekeeper': he had fired her without notice, demanding his keys within 24 hours. The rest came from people who lent him money, and had been either muted or turned away. No private notes, no photos. Just appointments with mysterious abbreviations. Not even birthdays.

"You had a relationship with someone like that?" Daniel turned his head around to his sister, almost horrified. "A catalog with underwear for old people is more exciting."

"Not so hasty, young man," Olga purred her best imitation of Mae West, slowly tracing her figure with both hands.

Kim, who had been looking over her brother's shoulder and reading along silently, looked at Daniel indignantly. "Do you ever listen, when people talk to you? 'A bore, a cretinous peasant' I've been trying to tell you these months, or did you drag him to Bavaria to exchange stickers with old people's underwear?"

He raised both hands above his head, "Okay, take it easy, sis, I fell for him too."

"Let's sleep at night like other normal people and put the emperor", Kim looked at the slumbering man, who laid spread on three chairs like a big doll, "back on the piss pot where he belongs."

"The comparison limps," Olga objected. "Not the fisherman was the culprit, it was his fru [very old German = Frau = wife/woman]. What are you up to, o Ilsebill [ = wife in 'The Fisherman and The Little Fish', nice fairy tale about greed and ambition]"

"Good night."

It took some time before 'the piss pot emperor' woke up; Kim used this time as usual, while the oldies got their grandparental missing pieces inserted by means of the photo albums and Daniel. Roko's interest in the childhood and youth of his only son and granddaughter wasn't smaller than Olga's, but at some point his storage was full. After two hours of sitting he stood up with a little groan, using both hands to straighten his back, and asked Daniel what Kim's favorite dish was.

"Spaghetti bolognese!" Daniel almost screamed it. "The tomatoes and herbs in the kitchen are from my own garden in Salten and fresh. In the pantry are cans of beef that desperately need to be opened - please use them all!" he added with bright eyes, chewing in advance. He loved vegetables, was almost a vegetarian, but when invited, was too polite to say no.

After the tomato sauce had sizzled gently for a while, Kim joined Roko in the kitchen, sniffed, and said: "Hm hm."

"I can do this," Roko assured, after realizing she was here to stay.

"Am I interrupting?" It didn't sound concerned. The old man silently thanked his son - my God, he had a son! - for having provided his children with self-confidence.

He didn't bother to answer, tasting the sauce with a tilt of his head and making smacking noises as he did so. "I used the fat in the canned beef to fry the onions and the beef, took the beef out and was thinking of throwing the pieces back in before we eat. Good you're here, Kim, except hours of simmering, something is missing again," he took a clean spoon and dipped it into the sauce, holding it out to Kim after several seconds of puffing: "Knock knock!"

She obeyed, smacking her lips in turn, holding her head as if listening to something inside: she was his granddaughter and beautiful - how soon would he have another opportunity to enjoy that? "Well?"


He slapped his forehead. "Of course! I've been trying to recreate that dish for years and just couldn't figure it out." He looked around the spice rack, found the cinnamon, seasoned and tasted. "Was my favorite dish too, my wife cooked it perfectly, mostly when I was about to keel over."

She had surveyed him with the same unabashed attention as he had her. They smiled at each other.

"That lady out there told you about me only days ago, I heard - honestly: How would you have reacted as a young father?"

He sighed, understood what she meant immediately. The question had been on his mind ever since he knew he had a son. "Olga is not wrong. Did you know we got acquainted through my wife, Elisabeth?" he seemed to change the topic.

"Elisabeth? Didn't she like nicknames?"

He smiled again: who but his own flesh and blood could ask such a question - not even Elisabeth had ever asked him that. "She gave everybody nicknames, even our car. Don't tell me," his smile widened to a broad grin, "you too?" Without waiting for her response, he continued his circuitous answer to her question: "In Berlin they had shared a room and unbelievably got along as if they were sisters from the very beginning. I seldom met two such different women. Elisabeth was one of those quiet, though by no means gray girls, who were always somewhere in the background reading or sewing; actually she liked knitting best, but thought the noise might disturb. The exact opposite of Olga, in other words, who likes to push others around - for their own good, of course. Our marriage was a good example: Elisabeth would never have quit school to marry me without her purposely meddling in, although she was hooked to my wife as if she was a lucky charm and missed her afterwards. Probably that's why I kept contact after Elisabeth's death: we both miss her." He had not been idle, filling the electric kettle with water, switching it on and pushing the sauce pan over the smallest gas flame to make room for the spaghetti. He looked at her, a question mark in his face.

"Go on," was all she said.

"You want to know how something like that can happen - it was actually a very drunk accident. Elisabeth had gone home for a few weeks to prepare our wedding - those sort of things never suited me, and she was happy doing it. Her family had originally planned something else for her: she was to study and then become a civil servant like her parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles - all of them were civil servants, it was tradition. She had never said anything against this plan and let herself swim in whatever direction the waves came from."

"Wasn't it usual in those days to throw everything overboard as soon as a male came along with serious intentions and a business plan?" She had fetched a pot out of a side chamber and poured the boiling water inside, refilling the kettle.

Roko lightened up the two rings underneath with a long match, it was a huge pot. "Yep. But not in this family, she was the black sheep, had never enjoyed being a student, although she loved learning things. Feminists or Blaustrümpfe [actually bluestockings = highly educated, masculine women, probably an invention of scared men] first bewildered, then bored her, but she would have finished school and afterwards waited for me until I got settled. Olga thought it very stupid to study without passion and said as much; on Elisabeth's next trip home she simply came along and rearranged Elisabeth's life with the family. Just like that. You should have seen or heard the stones that fell from Elisabeth's soul! And mine", he admitted softer. "She was completely focused on family life and children ever since, especially during our first years of marriage she was overjoyed: our home was always a garden of Eden, no matter how small or big it was. Thanks to Olga her goal had always been Salten - of course I'm aware of Olga's double intention now."

"And then?"

"Three miscarriages." He had to swallow, pushing away the emotions that came up with those two words.

"I'm sorry. Adoption?"

"Adoption was out of the question, she thought children deserved a whole mother, was also religious and believed it was a sign from above she had to accept. I did my best to talk her out of it - in vain. Can you fetch the spaghetti and throw it in, please - hope we have enough. But I'm straying off, the point is that Elisabeth was very jealous, one exception: Olga, who indeed was her only real friend and vice versa. I'm not sure she would have ever forgiven Olga" - he hesitated before adding: "or even me."

"How did it happen?" she repeated patiently.

He hunched his shoulders. "Some of us, including myself, had their diplomas at last and the not so extraordinary wish to drown themselves in alcohol. We were both drunk and very sad, missing Elisabeth awfully and comforting each other - I only remember scraps and for decades thought I'd merely dreamed it. Olga had another year yet to study and a relationship with a banker at the time and never said or showed anything, not even a hint. Nothing. Olga must have gotten your father during the summer vacation, when Elisabeth and I spent our honeymoon in a tiny hut at the Baltic Sea - it was Olga's present: “for the next birthdays, Christmas, Easter and whatever – you are not getting anything from me the next ten yours, so enjoy'!” Two months later I got, wrong: Elisabeth got my first job as an assistant physician in Salten and we didn't have much to live on, Elisabeth filled the holes with small jobs and was busy creating our first paradise in two tiny rooms and helping people as usual. Olga was our bridesmaid and had always been there, when Elisabeth needed her; I called her behind my wife's back after each miscarriage, Olga being the only one able to soothe her."

His grinned embarrassed, before admitting: "Yes, Your Honor, Olga made it easy for me, for all of us - it's true." He raised a hand, when she opened her mouth: "And again, yes, you're right, including herself. She doesn't even deny it, but I believe she really thought it was the best solution - whew, who'd have thought I'd ever defend the old witch?"

The elder looked at his granddaughter: "You are the most beautiful thing that happened to me for a long long time, I am infinitely sorry not to have known your Paps, my son. And a third yes, I think in retrospect Elisabeth would have been pleased too and buried you with love. Can you live with that?"

"He's awake!" Daniel broke into the tete-à-tete. "That's not why I'm here though, to be honest. The whole house smells like heaven, and if something doesn't happen soon, I'm going to start singing."

His sister's reaction to this threat suggested it better to hurry up, they almost forgot to fetch Mike, who was still drowsy, out of his den. As they ate, Kim placed her hand grenade on the table without emotion, like someone who had a job and announced the job was stupid, but never mind:

"One of us won't leave this cabin alive."

For a while, no one said anything. They continued to eat, as if slowly chewing what they had just heard over their palates like an exotic dish.

"I see," Olga was the first to give a sign of life.

"Hmm," Roko immediately joined in.

"And why, may I ask?" inquired Daniel grumpily, who hated having his digestion disrupted midway: couldn't his sister wait like everybody else?

"Exactly!" pounced Mike, relieved someone was on his side. "I didn't do anything to you, that little joke in the cellar was cooked up by you and originally intended for me." He took a breath, "Nice to hear, by the way, that your so-called amnesia has dissolved itself, but if you think..."

"What little joke?" Olga cut him off like the butcher a pigtail.

Kim explained in a few words, face and body stiff with reluctance, but determined to get over with it. She added, a little croaky: "My prank wasn't supposed to outlive the weekend, not even two days - not a whole week!"

"So it's thanks to you," uttered Daniel, who had gone pale, "that Paps died? You knew he was sick and you still took off without a word, you asshole!"

"Did he know you were allergic to red wine?" the medic wanted to know tight-lipped.

"Yes, he did," Mike hastened to forestall further accusations. "But how was I supposed to know there was no water in the cellar?" He looked from one to the other with a mixture of eagerness and arrogance, as if selling a new product nobody could possibly resist.

"I suppose you think I didn't find the bugs you placed all over the cellar?" Kim shot back. "Not one step, not a single breath could I take without you absorbing it ever since you moved in."

"Prove it!" jumped Mike to his feet despite his shackles, triumphantly looking down at her.

"Sit down!" barked Olga, giving him a shove to support it. "What my granddaughter says is good enough for me. People with mere initials and no birthdays in their address book are as trustworthy as a one-dollar steak."

"Correct!" seconded Roko.

"Exactly!" came from Daniel at the same time.

"What?" Mike's laugh had a false pinch in it. "So you guys found my phone and cracked it. This is going to cost you money money money - what are you going to do: push me down a glacier, Ötzi [ ancient mummy found somewhere between Austria and Italy] the Second or what?" He laughed again, longer this time, as if to show he could.

"Covid 19," was all Kim said.

Olga, Roko, and Daniel stared at her, at each other, and then at Mike.

The latter seemed to take that as a prompt. "Covid 19?" he repeated with a sneer. "You want me to be judged by a virus? You must be completely out of your mind! I demand that you hand over my smartphone on the spot, and then you guys can get ready for the greatest rumble ever. I have my connections in Hamburg, and believe me: when I'm finished with you guys, you'll be on your knees, whining for mercy!"

Roko slowly stood up. "Tie that sucker up a little tighter, but please go back to using old unlined nylons, the marks disappears better and faster, and put them flat over his clothes," he gave his instructions politely and precisely. "I started in the pathology and had to stay there several months - nice it's good for something at last ," he added, heading for the stairs. "Be right back."

Mike limbs were tight as in a cocoon, when Roko trodded down the stairs with the heavy steps of an undertaker, putting the aluminum suitcase on the table with a solid thump and opening it. The old man seemed to have all the time of the world and even enjoy it. "Here you are," he finally held up a gray, sealed ampoule, beaming in the attentive round like a magician. "This one should do the job: high virus level, meaning it's quick and thorough. Eh?"

"What? This man is not only responsible for the death of my son," Olga's voice trembled, it was the first time she had passed her son off as her son, "he almost killed my granddaughter - if I had the choice between fast and slow, I'd choose the snail."

Roko's eyes moved from Olga to his granddaughter, both of them radiating determination; shrugging, he bent over the case again, hesitated and swapped the ampoules. "So. We need a plan. I want you all out of the way, or does anyone want to get in touch with this" - he shook the ampoule carefully – "highly contagious virus? Suggestions?"

Mike had been looking from one to the other, starting to realize they were serious, his mouth twitched, but his self-confidence withstood: "How are you guys going to explain a missing or empty ampoule? Do you really think you can get away with it? That would be murder if it worked - after all, I can survive, I'm young."

Kim: "Wouldn't count on it if I were you. Good health and fitness are advantageous, a big trap rather not. On the contrary."

"How sweet," this time Olga had both brows up, "the lil scoundrel is worried about us."

Roko was not in the mood for jokes: "Don't need much. A swab in here" - he stared at Mike, lifting the ampoule - "and then up your nose, pretty high up by the way, but don't worry," he reassured, "I'm experienced and careful - nobody will notice anything."

"Even kids know each mutation has it's own stamp," Mike insisted. "Can easily be traced to Salten."

"Let me worry about that," Roko grew impatient. "Could you shut up for a while, or would His Majesty prefer getting back on his pot? We have some adult matters to settle."

Quietly, the little group discussed what had to be done, while Mike sat there as if he had crossed his arms, a posture impossible thanks to the nylons. Then he slumped away.

"Oh really, Olga!" Roko frowned, waving a reproachful index finger in the old lady's direction. "Did you give him something again? Not that this sort of thing becomes a habit."

"Only a little," she admitted, sending silent thanks to her cousin, wherever she was, for the nice supply she had already stowed in a bag, together with the albums. She got to her feet. "So we can pack in peace, cover our tracks and such things - that's what they do in crime stories," she insisted, nodding her Alf up and down.

Roko seemed to be thinking. "You mean: infect the fool, untie him and simply leave him here?" Tilting his head, he looked questioningly from Olga to Kim, "Not a bad idea, is it? We could get rid of everything edible and drinkable and turn off the water so he can't turn it back on. Compensatory justice, I believe they call it. Perhaps he has enough brain cells to stay in the hut instead of wandering disoriented through Mother Nature, who can be very cruel to city people - but that's up to him. Can you do the part with the water, Mrs. Handyman?" he looked at Kim.

She could.

He cast another sidelong glance at his granddaughter, handing out Mike's phone like a sort of rapier: "Whether you want to leave him some wine or whatever is completely up to you."

* * *

They stood around the car, admiring Daniel's herculean work. Something must have stung the young man to jump over his own shadow, he had moved with such verve, that everything was stowed away within one hour.

"Great! Get in everybody, let's go - shall I drive?" Olga blurted out her relief to leave the rustic place. She was not Klara.

"No!" came unison from Kim and Roko.

"Tz," she went around the car, got in, stowed the bag with the albums between her feet, put her purse on her lap and moved her seat all the way forward to give the young people more space. "Wer nicht will, hat schon!" [German idiom = it's your own fault, stupid, don't blame it on me if something, no, everything goes wrong and you regret it, you snoopy plum pie!]

"Kim?" Roko kept his granddaughter from getting into the back of the car, where her brother had already stretched his limbs.


"Are you sure?"

"I understand completely, if your Hippocratic Oath is in the way." She seemed to have expected the question, pursing her mouth a bit before adding: "I studied medicine a few semesters, before deciding I like stabbing wood better than bodies - shall I do it?"

He shook his head: "A little practice is not bad sometimes, if nobody's to know what you do or did - but that's not what I meant. Get in the car and rest, please, I'll be with you in ten minutes," he added in a firm voice, before he went back to the house.

The decision to take Olga's car was none. Daniel's car was not only too small for all of them, it had slid down the slope a few meters further than the hut: the tires were buried and the car didn't even start. Trying to keep his head empty, the young man had stumbled up and down, nevertheless thinking of the different tasks laying ahead of him: calling garages, dealing, comparing prices, haggling and driving leased or borrowed cars back and forth to check things. During a pandemic. He had obsessively maneuvered Olga's car via flattened cardboard boxes as close to the hut as possible and marked a path from one to the other, mentally pushing the monster task around his own car away at the same time, and had also voluntarily gotten rid of everything edible and drinkable in the hut - either into Olga's car or into Mother nature, running around with such a dreadful face, nobody dared get in his way. This unaccustomed double burden: psychic and physical - made his jaws crack uncontrollably every few minutes. "The boy is thinking of moving," Paps used to grouse when he heard these sounds. "We'd better get out of the way."

On the road Daniel bathed in lustful self-destruction, pondering over ads like:

"For rent: cabin and hybrid sports car, circumstantially located
on a picturesque hillside in rustic surroundings in Bavaria.
Enjoy not having to keep distance for a change with
a cabin right next to the car. Please pick up and repair
the slightly damaged car on your own and don't pester
me with details, thank you."

His sister wouldn't help him, was currently in no condition to do anything in the first place, and had always told Paps not to constantly spoil the boy and let him do things by himself. Yes, Paps - up to this moment Daniel had not been aware that the man, who had always been there for him, would not come back. It hit him hard: never again.

With half an ear he listened to Olga trying to persuade Kim - god, yes, she was a girl, you have to help girls, sure - to stay in her house: the bad memories, the cellar, the police showing up all the time.

"No worries," his brave sister cockily rebuffed. "Paps has left us a carpentry with a little apartment on top - so I'll be fine, thank you very much."

That was too much for Daniel: "Nothing like that, dear sis. Nothing Paps," it spilled out of him, "Olga got us all those beautiful things: hut, cottage, carpentry. Pretty logical if you come to think of it, you ought to know what a carpenter can and can't afford financially. So you might as well move to her place, it's all the same and hers anyway!"


Then, with a suffocated voice: "How do you slacker know that?"

Slacker? He was not sensitive and even enjoyed being teased by his sister, but something like that just now, after all the work he had done and when he was in such an absolute state of alarm - and then in front of witnesses, these witnesses - that was too much. Damn. "It's all in Pap's will, just you imagine that," he snapped. "In it he asks us to forgive him for being silent so long - he had missed the right moment. Also mentions a large sum he got from your often scolded grandmother, when it turned out his precious daughter's biological mother was determined to abort you."

"Wait a minute," Olga interrupted him. "At the time, he didn't know the money came from me; my cousin didn't tell him until very late - just before she died, if I'm correctly informed."

"Stop the car, please!" Kim hissed it: "Now!"

Daniel's jaws seemed to try a tango, in the clammy silence, it sounded like a desperate woodpecker: Sure enough, they were on the freeway, now go ahead and stop the car, sis. Before the next exit Roko put on the blinker.

"Don't!" protested Olga. "Damn it, Roko, she's nowhere near to health yet!"

Roko left the freeway, looking at some invisible point on the window pane in front of him.

"Please!" added Olga wearily. She sat there, one hand clutched in the car door as if looking for missing coins. [this scene reminds me of the red haired Tony in "convoy II" (1989) driving an old bull truck straight into a veranda, next to her another Professor, who clutched... Never mind, always happy to discover my memory is not so bad after all. Wrote it not only because nobody had predicted the fall of the Wall, especially the resemblance with a rich dude, offering a poor widow his help made me twitch all over: friss oder stirb ( = it's sink or swim) - sometimes you have no choice, not only women should stick together.]

The sound of somebody trying to open the door behind him made Roko frown. "Olga," he said softly. "As you said when it was obvious that Elisabeth would not survive the day: 'let go, let go!'"

"Very funny!" she snorted. "My whole life is one single let-go!" Angrily, she unlocked the child locks in the back with a double "tock, tock."

One hundred and sixty three years sat in the front of the car, without words, without even moving, while their granddaughter got out, threw her backpack over and left.

"Don't worry!" came Daniel's voice ruefully as soon as she was out of sight. "I'll keep an eye on her, I promise. What a shitty day," he added apologetically, getting out and also shouldering his backpack.

"Your car is a problem?" whispered Olga, who had been talking to the young man during Kim and Roko's interlude in the kitchen. "Leave papers and keys here, mail me a blank power of attorney and I'll take care of it. And keep in touch - you have my number."

Still too upset to even turn around, the odd couple heard something being deposited on the back seat: couldn't that lout have waited with the stupid will, hell and damnation?!

"Thank you, Olga!" it seemed to come straight from the lout's heart. "Bis die Tage [in case you forgot = antique greeting, meaning as much as 'bye' or 'same time, same channel' or what ever you like!]"

"Did you teach him that silly old greeting?" Roko wanted to know, after they drove along for quite a while as if sitting in two cars.


"'Bis die Tage!'" he quoted, imitating her croaky voice.

Without looking, she heaved her purse at his chest. "I'll tell Elisa."

VII. dump it in the pond

Salten is a beautiful city. Like thousands of others - maybe quieter and cleaner, and with so more space without all those cars. Like Ghent, Amsterdam, Hydra, Lamu, Zermatt, Fes el Bali, Venice, Helsinki and many more to come. What made it special was the people. Which town can claim that - and if so, does it speak more against the place or for it's inhabitants? At some point of their life most people bump into a crossroad: the conscious decision between two contrary paths [mine was the decision to try to leave my cocoon when I was 16. I had the choice between several years with this everybody-in-one-box bastard called school, maybe an even worse office job and that's it, always inside this shell. Or leave like someone who can't swim, jumping into an unknown deep water, without even knowing if it works. I don't recall everything, but must have been desperate, because I'm not brave unless it's crucial. Am not Helen Keller either, eyes and ears are important and most people use them without even noticing it; in the podcast they suggested my deafness was the crux for all that happened to me and everybody else who cared. Yes and no, the walls of my cocoon were a sort of one way street, and I'm not really sure it had to do with the hearing part in the first place, who knows? Psychology is another hobby of mine, the soul being the most important part of us – mine was and is fine. I was always interested in too many things and people, reading them like the books I love: underneath was a lively and loving person, sucking everything up and talking: in my head. Of course I was lonely (as most of us are, if we're honest), because nobody could see or hear me (which is the reason why I thought I would not be missed after the first excitement) inside that cocoon. Not even me - until I sat down and wrote about it - I spent three days pondering over this paragraph and digging deep, so if you don't understand, Marion, I can't help it, maybe my next try makes more sense; there's no such thing as a bad reader, just have to find the right words] - this is not reserved for human beings. Salten's crossroad was the story of the Huf [=hoof]:

Before the Second World War the Huf was part of one of the largest castles in the high north, with turrets and drawbridges and all the quirky castle inhabitants belonging to it. Until a small bomb, originally intended for Hamburg, hit the castle, showing the way for more bombs, till only the servant's and children's part was left, thanks to the U-shape it was soon called the "Huf of Salten". Still imposing and ancient enough to glue historic preservationists to the spot, the building was in the hands of a foundation, looked over by the city, a kadootje from the last childless lord, who had not dreamed of causing so much confusion. His plan had been to provide Salten's cultural assets, at that time rotting away in an old, dilapidated museum, with a more sophisticated background, and enlarge it with the castle inventory. What he had not planned was to die before his three significantly older and suddenly "disinherited" aunts, who were angry enough to swear they'd prefer sinking the castle inventory into the pond, but by no means would their treasures ever pass the threshold of that godless castle. Period. Considering the seventy percent that had to be culturally occupied, that was a lot of empty space to be taken care of, even after the reduction 1945 a tough nut [which was cracked in "the mole". I admire your idea of occupying empty buildings with art - was that the same time I wrote "the mole"?]. Without the aunt's heritage, Salten's culture could not fill even a fraction of the essential 70% - burying the lord's plans to make Salten the attraction in northern Germany or indeed sinking it in the pond. Dumm gelaufen [= shit happens - really? look what happened to poor Venice, decimated to a mere touristic money machine without the Venetians, who can't afford to live there].

Having to consider those 70% all the time made an everlasting nuisance out of it, dividing the town in Lords and Aunts and splitting even families [reminds of the bullying against 'not vaccinated' people or the rants against refugees and other groups incapable of defending themselves: looking for culprits - what a waste! Did you know Wikipedia and Merriam call this sort of thing mobbing?]; at some point Salten was divided and overthrown to such an extent that nothing worked. It took a nasty incident to make the Saltener realize they had frozen relationships, denied friendships and ignored relatives for decades for nothing and nothing whatsoever, the awareness that the moon looks different all the time, depending on where you're standing and who you are. As if that same ol' moon had suddenly fallen on everyone's toes. This was the time the monthly citizen meetings started, the inclination to communicate and settle their affairs by themselves, the reluctance, almost disgust for shouters and elbow mentality. They had experienced firsthand how not to quarrel; if one of them forgot, he was reminded and brought to his senses by one simple sentence:

"Jau [= a very dry & snotty 'yeah'], let's sink/drown it in(to) the pond!"

Although living in Salten these last almost fifteen years, this had not yet sank into Olga's conscience. Therefore, she could only put a question mark on her face, when she heard Roko say it: "Excuse me?"

Patiently, Roko told her the story of the castle, the lord and his aunts.

"Oh, I see," was her comment, as if he had made her an indecent proposal. "Gad, so that's why I can't get any lawyers here?!"

"They are busy doing important things. We Salteners think we can and should settle our affairs by ourselves - if things don't work out, we have arbitration boards: mostly heads of families over eighty years old with a hell of a lot of experience. If you come to think of it: in most cases lawyers [there is an URL to that topic on the global page, it's not a coincidence most governments have so many 'people of law' and officials, who have nothing to do all day than make new and 'better' laws for people they know nothing about. If a government is supposed to represent the people - how does this match? Yes, I know freelancers and officials can arrange leaving their job a couple of years better, and nurses have more important (and worse paid) things to do anyway, but we have bits and bytes (how much % of all jobs did automation cut by now, and why are most governments getting bigger all the time?) and should be able to think and arrange things new - you cannot bribe algorithms and they are more transparent] are only after the money and righteousness often depends on how much money you have."

They were sitting on Olga's front balcony, separated by a table covered with decaf coffee, five different soft drinks, chips, chocolate, cake and as a bonus the borrowed photo albums, with three sticks with slide shows on it: "You want me to leave serious matters to goths drooling away? Have you got your brain open, dear?"

The door bell saved the professor from answering something spicy. Olga grabbed the railing, pulled herself up, waved, and called out as if they were on the highest tree in the #Hambacherforst [one of the many forests they cut down to make money, at the same time roaring indignity about what's happening to the #rainforests - my admiration and respect go to all of the activists sitting on trees and elsewhere for months]: "It's open! Come in and walk up, disinfectant and masks for inside are downstairs in case you think the expensive air filters all over the place do a bad job!" She settled down with a groan and reached for an apparently full pot under her chair with another groan. "Tea," she explained redundantly. "Kim doesn't drink coffee."

Olga had rounded up "the family" as she delightedly called the quartet now sitting on her balcony. The topic was irresistible: attempted murder, assault, false imprisonment, breach of medical duty of care, abuse of authority. Among others.

After his Bavarian adventure, Mike had fled to Salten and from there to Hamburg, after discovering out Saltener lawyers had no time. The indictment covered almost five DIN-A1 pages and described, among other things: shortness of breath, fatigue, joint pain and a number of other complaints that had not disappeared to this day and were of a chronic nature; the young man was allegedly incapacitated for work and looking for a handsome lifetime pension. His lawyer had heard about Olga enough to dismiss her as too heavy, and Mike had his own reasons for not suing the two siblings; a professor had more to lose anyway, especially since he had wielded the "murder weapon" himself. Olga was eager to launch a counter-suit and burning to do it with her granddaughter, Daniel had already declared he wanted nothing to do with it.

"Let's dump the whole thing in the pond," Roko offered Salten's mantra for the second time, eliciting an immediate response from the young Salteners.

Olga saw it. "But that looks like a confession, like guilt!" she argued indignantly. "Do we really need that?"

"We?" repeated Roko, amused. "The fool is broke and has some creditors tailing him, I wouldn't even say hello to; he's only after the stupid money. Everyone involved was registered in Salten at the time, so Hamburg can kick and scream as it likes - as soon as his lawyer realizes there's nothing to get, he'll drop the scoundrel like a rotten potato. - Kim?" he looked directly at his granddaughter. "What do you think? This is your decision, we'll do whatever you want." Roko looked around and couldn't resist adding a spicy: "If this is too private, we can discuss it elsewhere...?"

Olga opened her mouth as if to protest. And shut it again.

Her granddaughter saw it and pursed her mouth, waiting for something.

"Okay, okay, I'm gone," Olga tried to get out of chair gracefully. "Will make us some excellent fresh tea in the meantime."

Kim's mouth twitched, "Sit down, please, Olga."

"Oh!" the latter obeyed at once, grinning from ear to ear. "On the other hand, I'm also excellent at keeping my mouth shut."

"If you come to think of it," came Kim's brittle voice after a while, "only one sentence from me would have done the job and Paps might have lived several weeks longer. No matter how unpleasant for both of us, a sincere: 'get the hell out of here, you asshole!' would have been enough. But no, I had to take revenge, I'm such an idiot!"

"No, Kim," Roko calmly objected.

She raised her brows and looked at him: skepticism with the willingness to be persuaded.

"I looked through all of the medical files and talked to the attending colleagues: his lungs were unalterably lost. Looking for you distracted him, yes; and anyone who has ever run out of air before knows how unpleasant only the constant fear of it is - the distraction was not bad. Advanced lung cancer is incurable, Kim, especially since there had already been metastases everywhere at that time; it would have been over after two months at the latest, if he would have done everything required: from operations to chemotherapy. You knew him better: would he have gone to the hospital, would he have let us cut out some of his organs for a few more weeks of poor life? Honestly: I wouldn't."
Seeing Kim's brows had lowered a little, but her doubts had not, Roko took a breath before adding: "He was my son and I'm a scientist in the end, so I wanted to know all facts and was especially interested in his last days and even hours, so I didn't only squeeze Daniel. Do you want to hear it?"

Now he had her: she nodded.

"Your Paps dismissed it as a cold, bronchitis at the most, but he didn't go out in the pouring rain, nor had he overexerted himself. He was worried about you, true, but he didn't drive himself crazy. Bed rest doesn't cure cancer, you know. It doesn't even slow it down." He raised a hand as if expecting an interruption: "I know you both tried to talk him into getting a proper check-up, but I think he suspected it was useless and wanted the 'short cut' as a certain lady would put it" - he threw a sideways glance at Olga, who had not only kept her mouth shut, but was sitting as if underneath an invisibility cloak.

"I don't know your attitude," he continued, "mine is that love without respect is not love. I think..."

Kim raised her head and finished the sentence, "...that he would have preferred to spend his last days with his two children, but you're right: He hated hospitals and would have chosen the short cut."

Roko looked into a pair of eyes, just as red as his own, "All right?"

"All right..." It was her turn to dither, before she asked, "You didn't really inject the virus, did you?" The question mark was vague.

"What do you think?" he smiled.

"No," her voice was steady. She added: "It's okay, I wouldn't have done it either if I were you - and a murderer as grandpa? Nay, not really."

"Verfluchtes Weichei [= 'candy-ass'? oh wow, what a delicious word]!" it was impossible for Olga to hold herself back any longer. "I would have preferred an honest murder!" Suddenly she threw back her head and laughed long and heartily, before she confessed: "I read his medical records too, he actually thought he was dying and felt tremendously sick for weeks, but didn't dare go to the hospital! Unfortunately, one of the policemen came back three days" - Roko gave his granddaughter a brief questioning look, Kim shrugged and grimaced her confession - "after we left, not at all surprised to find this dung beetle. How ever sick he thought he was, the egomaniac had wisely concealed in order to be chauffeured to the railway station as the alleged grandson of the famous corona professor they thought he was. Imagine that: he actually risked the health of others - only that's reason enough to sue the man. Well, you can do it with us tax payers!"

Roko had listened disapprovingly: "Where did you get that from this time...?"

That was as far as he got. "But Kim!" Olga turned enthusiastically to her granddaughter: "So the other side has nothing at all in their hands! Gosh, we could litigate the guts out of that jackass!"

The young woman smiled, wryly, but she smiled. "No." It sounded final.

"Hölle und Pest! [ = hell and pestilence!]", it passionately slipped from the lips of old lady. "Warum pisst ihr nicht alle in euren verfluchten kleinen Teich, sapperlot?! [Why don't you guys piss in your fuckin' lil pond, damn it!]"

"OL-GA!" it came out of three throats like a stacattissimo from Mozart.



Luebeck, 2020, me and corona - take care of yourself, love ya'll!

I thank my family - Dutch, American & German - for their love, help and patience, and would be delighted to add some Indonesian to the long list, my Mom's name was Anna Elisabeth Henriette Jacobsz, born 1920 in Yakarta.


(Added the preface March 2022 and decided it disturbed, so now it's all the way in the back (we have May 2023) – yes, I enjoy changing my apartment now and then: please sit down, I'll fetch us a cup of tea.)

Reactions to "off the beach", a rather special translation of "corona blues", suggest my communication is awful. Nothing new. The mess I (voluntarily!) create in my head, searching, sorting out and sometimes finding words to write down (or worse even: to say), what to me is so simple and clear in the first place, is such a pointed step, a bow towards others, usually I think that's enough. Usually. Perhaps it's a good idea to add this preface for a bit of background (so that's what prefaces are for? good I found out). Tell me if it's not enough, thanks, and here we go:

My name is Monique Jacobse, I started hexandthecity 1994 as a concerned human being in a world, racing dumbfoundedly down the money aisle: the witch house or global page was born. The name hexandthecity seemed logical after adding three maps with information about the beautiful city I live in: #Lubeck. Instead of the autobiographical little pink or blue donuts, less introverted people elegantly drop now and then, I added short stories, episodes, riddles etc. We Dutch prefer oliebollen anyway. So here I am, abusing a corona present to fill those gaps, because - like most people - I enjoy being understood, but please let's not exaggerate.

Ecological disasters popped up, blown up by ignorance and greed, pandemics and wars tailing behind - often nagging or blaming those, who were/are forced to abandon essential things, so others can fire yet another rocket to mars or build their sixth house. The market wants it that way? I see. When the 'refugees welcome' (2015) period happened, I, in the habit of mockingly sitting on my own shoulder anyway, was in the middle of my third life, trying to combine part one (Monique) and part two (Nicki) like some algebraic formula, traveling back and forth between the Netherlands and Germany by train or #blablacar, starting to understand bits of my own story, which had to do with being deaf and stuck and lonely in my own cocoon, running away at the age of 16, coming back thirty years later. And getting officially murdered in between. The connection to the girl, who was murdered and the one who disappeared was a permanent hand on my shoulder these last years, but not enough. So they say.

In the meantime my hair is almost white from trying to grasp myself (probably old age), which is not easy in spite or because of all the digging and connecting these last years, nay: decades. Most people simply live. I am an onlooker, who realizes things by writing them. This always seemed a problem - the question is: is it mine?

* * *

epilog (2022)

"I am an onlooker, who realizes things by writing them. This always seemed a problem - the question is: is it mine?" - after adding so much stuff and thinking about myself in this kadootje: not really. The balance act of trying to do the right thing and the awareness, that you don't always like it, is not always easy though. Not only for me, but also for my family, who was used to my keeping things peaceful; these last years I often lost my path and this made me insecure. I suppose you also have this blind faith, when working on a sculpture, Marion – this faith is back again, the people around me will have to get used to my "no"s concerning my own life from now on. However, this insight took long, let's not do that so fast again, please - in 5 years maybe? No, 10 should do the job. After checking everything on this site, it's time to pull up the private drawbridge. Maybe I'll start throwing lil notes in mailboxes again. Yours?

contact: FB or a gmail for hexjacobse

©hexandthecity 2022
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 marion jacobse  heulmeisje