Of course I did not stay at the Institute. Late-night programming isn’t so great that I want to hang out in front of it all night if I’ve got an alternative. And this alternative was very interesting indeed.
Previously I hadn’t had much opportunity to study Birgit and Martin’s relationship very closely. The relationship did seem to be pretty new, generally. So quite a bit could still happen. I kept my thoughts strictly to myself so Martin wouldn’t notice I was there, and I drove with him to Birgit’s place.
She had obviously been waiting for him.
When she opened the door, her blond hair was illuminated by the lamp in her foyer, giving her an authentic halo, like in those little pictures of saints from religion class at school.
The rest was not saint-suitable. Her pinstriped pants, which I was already familiar with, were pretty frigging tight, and the white sweater she was wearing today fit her grille like such a soft coat of fur that you immediately wanted to pet it. It’s the same compulsion that overcomes every kid at the petting zoo. “A bunny rabbit, Mommy, a bunny rabbit!” and, presto, sticky kids’ hands are running over the furry curves. Martin’s hands restrained themselves effortlessly, however. I didn’t trust myself to peek into Martin’s brain because he wasn’t supposed to notice that the evening was going to be a threesome.
“Are you hungry?” Birgit asked. “I can make you something to eat.”
“No, thanks,” Martin muttered. “I grabbed something on the way over at Wedschi-Pärädeis.”
Wait a second, I thought. Did I miss something? I ran back through the events of the evening, and then I realized: “Veggie Paradise” must have been the name of that street food stand where you can get anything except for a proper bite to eat. Namely, something made of meat. Burgers, currywurst, schnitzel, half a roasted chicken with fries: that’s a proper German snack. But at the stand where Martin went there were only veggies. That has nothing to do with paradise. It should be called Herbaceous Hell. Or Parsnip Purgatory. But Birgit nodded and lead the way into the living room.
First the most important thing: there were no city maps hanging on the walls here. Also no kitschy pictures of horses with long eyelashes and wavy manes, no backlit skyline pictures, and no clowns. Hanging on the walls of Birgit’s living room were vacation photos. Hundreds of them. Some with Birgit, some not. Some of big cities—I recognized Paris right away—some of landscapes that looked mainly green. Maybe Ireland? No idea.
Martin had apparently not been here yet because he went over to the walls and studied the photos while Birgit opened a bottle of white wine, filled two glasses, and brought them over to Martin.
“Cheers,” she said, beaming at him.
“¡Salud!” Martin said, beaming back at her. Beaming through his eyes and his purple cheekbone.
They drank the way people drink wine. Sip by sip. Not like with beer, chugging the first can and yanking the second one open while you release the excess pressure produced in your system from the first. Nope, quite civilized here. When they set down the glasses, a disinterested observer might not have recognized that something was missing.
Martin had her explain the vacation pictures to him; it was Paris, and it was Ireland, and each picture had a little story to it. They laughed, sipped a bit of wine now and again, and the cautious touches grew more frequent. Sometimes they’d both point to the same picture and their hands would touch—gasp! Sometimes Martin would step ahead to the next picture while Birgit stayed put—body check, whoopsie!
I started missing my TV shows. Did he want to lay this piece of skirt or not? I had not come all the way over here to watch the G version of La boum! And apparently I had an ally in this, because right as I was about to lose my patience for real, Birgit leaned forward and kissed Martin. On the lips. Finally! I wanted to pat the bunny on her soft shoulder, but unfortunately I lacked anything to pat with.
Still, it was a start, I thought. Now surely Martin will get down to business, slide his hands under her sweater, knead her warm skin, especially over the curvy bits—and by that I don’t mean her shoulders. But on this point I’d expected too much of Martin. He didn’t exactly stay totally passive; he even kept holding Birgit in his arms after they finished kissing, but he didn’t go any further than that. In any case, not at a speed that one might perceive with the naked eye. Apparently people who drive trash cans don’t screw like people who drive Ferraris.
Subsequent overtures proceeded in slow motion. It took another seventeen minutes for the sweater to land on the couch, and another twenty-five for Birgit’s pants to land next to it. Then they went into the bedroom where Martin also took off his sweater vest, shirt, pants, and socks. And off they went under the covers. At least they left the little nightlight on; I was quite grateful for that. They made out some more, felt each other up some more, all very carefully of course—but, still, we were heading in the right direction. Even Martin was getting revved up; at least he didn’t have some kind of physical problem. I’ll admit that was something I had been afraid of, because no normal person makes out for two hours if he doesn’t have to. And you have to if you can’t, you know, proceed. It’s as simple as that. Martin seemed able and willing, though, but something also seemed to be holding him back. I took a chance and got closer to his thoughts, but I couldn’t fathom what I found in there. Martin was hesitating because he didn’t have a raincoat with him and couldn’t decide if he should ask Birgit if she had one or if he shouldn’t say anything at all and just keep going as though this question were totally irrelevant.
I couldn’t take it anymore. I said, “Martin, stop making a big deal about it, just nail her, will you!”
His reaction was a disaster. Martin winced, everything in him went flabby, and his head writhed in a chaotic mess of ideas and feelings—horniness, shock, hatred (presumably for me), shame all mixed together. He leaped out of bed, stammered some incoherent babble in which the only understandable word was “sorry”; everything else was complete gibberish. He grabbed up all of his clothes, got dressed, apologized to Birgit once more, who was sitting in the bed bewildered, presumably wondering if she’d done something wrong or if the guy was just totally cuckoo, and he left the apartment.
I stayed with Birgit to try and console her, which of course didn’t work since she couldn’t hear me. She stood up, straightened up the apartment, looked unhappy, started to cry, drank another glass of white wine, although this time quite a bit faster. Funny how everything seemed to move faster when Martin wasn’t here. She went back to bed but got up after a half hour and turned on the TV. After she fell asleep on the couch around one thirty I snuck out.
SEVEN
It was a calm, dark night as I floated through the streets of Cologne unsure whether I should go to Martin’s place or back to the Institute. I didn’t do either; instead I spirited away the rest of the night, whooshing through the city, eavesdropping on people, and trying to establish contact with them. No use. No one could perceive me, no one could hear me, no one could share their thoughts with me. I felt alone. And I felt guilty. I regretted my outburst that had ended Martin’s nice evening so unpleasantly, maybe even putting an end to his relationship with Birgit, which had just been starting to blossom. I was going to have to ask him to forgive me. That’s not normally my thing, but I would definitely have to make an exception in this case.
The next morning Martin and I arrived at the Institute at the same time; he was climbing out of his trash can, and just as he closed the car door I said, “Martin, I’m sorry about last night. Please forgive me.”