A day on the sofa in front of the ticking clock. Nothing attempted, nothing achieved. Just waiting.
Lange Ziit the Swiss say, by which they mean both boredom and longing. “I have lange ziit for you” means “I long for you.” Only those who are bored can experience real longing. A life that never postpones will always be panting, never breathing freely.
Of course, you can therapy away all slowness, all that quietly cheerful laziness. You can become a workaholic and celebrate your birthday in the office. But that dream of freedom and fear of missed opportunities will remain. “I was eleven, then I was sixteen. Though no honors came my way, those were the lovely years,” Truman Capote once reminisced.
When I’m alone I always imagine someone watching me being alone. I act out my life for an unknown viewer. Who sits there and notices every move I make. He knows me well by now, knows my weaknesses and strengths. I do my morning sit-ups for him alone, as well as the rhythmic movements of my hands when listening to music. I would love to meet him someday, my observer. Maybe he could offer a few tips on what I could be doing better. So far, he hasn’t come forward. But I’m sure he’ll call. Until then I’m going to hang out at home a bit. Look at the dancing couples and the silent shadows. And wait.
IV
AVARITIA
THE TROUBLE IS NOT losing. The trouble is that others win. The clueless beginners, who check the first box that appears in front of their chewed pencil. Who are here for the first time and immediately think they’ve figured it out. “Exacta two and four” they call out to the lady in the betting stand, even before the first race has started.
One of them is next to the stairs that lead up to the grandstand. He belongs to the tribe of harmless barbarians of the twenty first century. He is a super daddy. The baby on his arm, the shoulders relaxed, the shoelaces of his Timberlands untied. Dress code: guileless wealth. I’m a little bit offended that they let someone like him place a bet here. That someone like that in all seriousness can say: “Ten Euros on King’s Soldier coming in first.”
Instead of pointing out the dangers of gambling addiction post facto (“Ask us about the leaflet, What to do when everything is gone. Ways to escape gambling addiction.”), there should be more warnings targeting betting newbies. A horse race bet is no family picnic. It’s for risk takers, for people who order extra-spicy on the menu—not for those who gorge on their kids’ cotton candy.
Prince of the Nibelungen, the horse I bet on, didn’t win. Well, it didn’t just not win, it came in last by a long measure. I had placed such high hopes in the three-year-old stallion from the Puetz stable. With a father named Tertullian and a mother called Nightbitch, how could you not? Such a risky mix of intellect and lewdness is bound for greatness. Except, it wasn’t. Ninth place for Prince of the Nibelungen. First place for King’s Soldier. Super daddy screamed in ecstasy.
In between the races, in the stables, jockeys sucked on orange slices. Wispy lads with milk-white skin who carry the fate of so many in their hands for a short time. For a few minutes, all eyes are on them. They become close allies. In their fluttering wind jackets, white pants and protective goggles, they look like forgotten extras from an old movie. On the way from the show ring to the judges’ tower they flirt with the stable girls who are having trouble holding the nervous horses by the halter and leading them to the race track. They’re pulled back and forth by the horses’ abrupt movement, knocked into the hedges on either side, whipped by their tails. Annoyed, they try to keep their own ponytails in check. Since for them, too, it’s about keeping composure, giving an impression of superiority, just like the jockeys, who calmly kneel on top of the fitful animals, clean their racing goggles and keep bending down to whisper into the girls’ ears: “Your bra has come unlatched, Marie,” I hear one of them say. Another quietly asks about the next massage. As soon as they’ve passed the club stands, the girls unhook their lunge lines and jump to the side. The jockeys stand up in the tight stirrups, lean forward like ski jumpers just before the release and gallop away. Their skill is to disturb the horse’s stride as little as possible, and yet in the decisive moment, slacken or tighten the reins a tiny bit. This demands maximum concentration. Their butts pointed toward the sky, almost titillatingly so, as if they were waiting for a desperate wind god to give them a slap. Potentially that’s exactly what decides victory or loss in the end.
In the second race I bet an exacta on Seagörl and Wild Approach. The British jockey of Seagörl just won with a lower-rung horse. Seagörl is a descendant of the famous Sea-family, I read in the betting magazine that I borrowed from an old man with a stiff leg. She has a first class heritage, a purebred. Besides, she’s coming from the Görls-dorf stable in Brandenburg. I seem to remember having read at some point that the stable belongs to Scientology, but I can’t remember exactly. I bet only two euros, the twenty earlier were gone far too quickly. Now super daddy has my money and is investing it in Nutella crepes for his family.
The only way to gain access to the grandstand is having a VIP ticket. But if you’re mumbling something about “business” and “important call,” the tan security lady will let you through anyway. She knows what you’re up to, but occasionally wants to take a break from being a downer. Especially because the seats in the panorama lounge are never fully occupied anyway. This is where the insiders gather, those who don’t want anything to do with the agitated novices down on the picnic grounds. Here you’ll come across old ladies with cream-softened hands, single gentlemen with sharply-creased pants. Arms loosely crossed, eyes directed downward even after the starting signal. This isn’t the real beginning. It’s too early to invest in movement. Only when the horses enter the final curve, when there are four hundred meters left to the finish line and the mob down below has started screaming and clapping, when the ground softly vibrates. Only then will they lift their gaze, scoot a little forward on their cushions and reach for their binoculars.
This is when the decision is made and we find out who managed their horse’s energy well, who can still count on a final push. Now the jockeys have lost their stiff posture. Their butts sway back and forth, their panting is muffled, crops slapping fiercely. One horse stumbles, sends his rider diving into the floodlit grass. He rests for a moment, groggy, wishing he’d stayed in the rusty deck chair by the lily pond in his father’s garden. Then he laboriously gets up and hobbles to the side. Over and out. Only an instant ago, hundreds knew his name, would have offered him anything for a victory. Now he is already forgotten.
The others gallop on as the crowd roars. That’s roughly how it must have been in the Roman arena as the gladiators begged for a raised thumb. A “like” that decides between life and death.
Two hundred meters until the finish line. “Just based on her breeding she has a good chance,” a man beside me murmurs. The key to his Mercedes hangs on his belt loop. Who is he talking about? “Who are you talking about?” Indignant “shhhhs” from the background. Seagörl is in fourth place. Wild Approach even farther down the list. No luck today. Further down I see somebody raise their fist. Super daddy.