"Nothing." Your hand was still resting on my greasy sleeve.
"Nothing's wrong with me."
Then something slipped in me. Something raged through me, lava, a storm, everything went black. I invited you for a cup of coffee.
* * *
Then you were sitting across from me at the outdoor cafÈ in the garden. It was cool, but not cold, heavy clouds sat low over the city, a pair of terribly weakened wasps crawled about in the grass near my feet. I watched their death struggle and almost forgot you, was almost completely absorbed, was almost gone, but then you lifted your cup and asked, "Do you live near here?"
We talked. You had recently moved to the city to study biology. You were majoring in botany. You told me about the plants and flowers, about species and families, about names and soil conditions, about light and shadows, about blooming and seeding, about reproduction and propagation, your cheeks were red, you told me about the trees, you tied your shoelaces, you clutched your mug with both hands, you blew on it, you burned your tongue, you told me your name. Laura. And I, more worn than you, woke up, listened, drank my coffee, lit a cigarette, watched your gesticulating hands, followed your gaze out over the lawn, up to the sky, answered your questions briefly, thought no thoughts, there was only you, right before me, and you shivered, pulled your jacket closer around your body, took your hat out of your pocket again, warmed your hands in it, and then we got up and walked slowly through the garden and out to the street.
I stopped and turned toward you. "Perhaps we'll meet again." You nodded. And then that movement with your hand. I stood there watching you until you turned into the entrance of the university. Warm and cold. The rest of the day I could do nothing else but walk, relying on my steps, needing to stay in motion, and I didn't go home until long after it had gotten dark and I was so exhausted that I fell asleep right on my stomach with my head buried deeply into my stained pillow.
* * *
Maybe I had fallen down a crevasse, a sudden slide down an all-too-slippery passageway. Maybe this is it. And in this chrysalis, in this recess, in this hole I've been waiting either for life to notice me again and pull me up, or death to force me down the last few feet and away. I don't eat much. I don't sleep much. Sometimes it's as if I were possessed by a ghost, at other times it's clear to me that I've created this nonexistence that my life has turned into. I didn't meet you the following week. The wind drove hard from the northwest, the leaves rattled down and whirled around on the grass. I washed myself in the kitchen. I rubbed my member with a washcloth. I noticed my sunken stomach, pulled on the loose skin, sighed, and smoked. One Wednesday at the end of October I gave up. The night frost had made the earth hard and cold, I lay on my back behind the ferns, hidden by the bushes, I lay looking up at the drifting clouds and the tops of the trees swaying quietly from side to side. The storm had shaken off the leaves. I was heavy in my heart, limp, and numb. Maybe now. If I lie here long enough. Maybe now it'll end. But an almost tender joy sprung up in me: in that moment I was not afraid of death. Heavy and limp. Ready to give in. Then I heard crunching. Footsteps nearby. And suddenly you were standing over me, looking me in the eye for a second before breaking out in laughter. I got up on my elbows. You shook your head, smiling.
"There is something wrong with you!"
I had to get on all fours before standing up. I was stiff from the cold. We stood facing each other. Then your expression became serious.
"Do you know that bracken is very poisonous? It contaminates the ground water, it's carcinogenic." You sounded like a child reading from a book. It was unpleasant, painful to stand so close; I couldn't move my mouth to say anything.
"Come on. I'll get you a cup of coffee. You must be freezing." On the way to the outdoor cafÈ you started to laugh again. Then you stopped suddenly, as if you just realized it was inappropriate.
* * *
You told me that you often took a walk in the garden during your lunch break, that you're homesick for the fields and forest, and your brothers who still live at home. You were visiting there last weekend. You had helped your mother till the kitchen garden. You chatted, told me about a friend who was an apprentice hairdresser in a salon back home, about how you'd been enemies. Then you became silent. We both sipped our coffee. I stubbed out my cigarette with my foot. You looked at me, staring into my eyes.
"Why do you lie on the ground like that?"
Suddenly I could see how young you were. There was something sulky and innocent in your face, maybe it was the way you pressed your mouth down, maybe because your eyes were so large and clear. But there was also a defiance: the way you continued to hold my gaze.
"Come on. Tell me."
Then I smiled.
"Ah, it's not easy to explain. I think it's good for me. I just like to look up at the trees."
"You and your trees," you said, looking sad.
And then with sudden courage, I got an overwhelming feeling of being an adult and that I should reassure you:
"Take my hand."
You looked frightened, your lips parted as if you wanted to say something, you hesitated, but then you laid your white hand in mine, and I closed it around yours, encircling it, covering it.
We looked at each other, the clouds might have gathered over us because it got darker, a gust of wind blew the paper napkins onto the gravel. I caressed the back of your hand with my finger. And you still looked frightened, though you didn't take your hand away, and I could tell that after awhile you relaxed a little.
"You looked so happy that Tuesday," I said, and almost whispered: "I couldn't forget your face."
* * *
The day after, we met again. We nearly bumped into each other when you stepped onto the path near the herb beds. It was a beautiful day. The sun was shining, and the light was soft and at the same time blindingly sharp. We walked down to the pond. The willows were reflecting in the muddy green water. Some coots glided under the bridge. They whistled in the tall reeds. We watched for a while. I thought about how it felt to touch your skin. I didn't dare look at you. I had no idea what to say. You carefully laid your hand on my shoulder and asked if we should go see the tropics.
We stepped into the humid warmth of the greenhouse. You took your hat off and unbuttoned your jacket, and for a long time we stood looking at the carnivorous plants. You said, "That's a pitcher plant. It traps the insects in its sticky funnel." I pushed the heavy flower and it swung back and forth. You laughed. Then you saw a butterfly that was sitting on a fat dark green leaf flapping its wings. Delicate tiny sweat drops appeared on your upper lip. We stood so close that our shoulders touched. Water dripped gently from the palms. I was about to lean against you, but then you walked away and squatted before a twining plant. You studied the underside of one of its leaves. And then looked at me smiling, a look I couldn't decipher. Your eyes threw off sparks. That's how I remember it. When we went outside again the cold was overwhelming. You buttoned up your coat and began to walk. You found a bench in the sun. We sat there for at least ten minutes without saying anything. You leaned back and closed your eyes, and I'm almost certain that you drew a little closer, I could feel your arm pushing against mine. I held my breath, and then suddenly you opened your eyes and got up. You said you had to go, you were late already.
* * *
That night I woke up crying, bathed in sweat. I had dreamed that in one single night a hurricane had stripped the leaves off all the trees in the world. I was in despair. Bare black trunks and a trembling stillness. I cried over my loneliness, which I only now understood. And I scolded myself. How could I think that you desired my company? In the mirror I saw a pathetic figure, unshaven, half bald, gray, dull red eyes with an empty expression. I couldn't stop crying. I stayed in bed all the next day. It was Friday, I was weak and warm. I staggered down to buy a few groceries. It wasn't until Tuesday that I returned to the garden. But I was unable to enter my silver maple. It rejected me. Or was it the opposite? The tree was silent. I felt unworthy. That's how I was standing there, limp arms hanging at my sides, staring at the tree, at the yellow and light green leaves at its base, my legs shaking under me, wearing a coat that was far too big, when you walked up behind me, stood there quietly for a little while. I felt your gaze, and then saw you turn around. I saw your back. I saw you hurry away. In no way can I blame you for avoiding me. I would've done the same.