Higher Ground, Anke Stelling [historical books to read .TXT] 📗

that he has always been fascinated with how Sven and I ‘manage’, how we can bear our atrocious recklessness to bring four children into this world without financial security.

From the very beginning, Ingmar was noticeably interested in my writing and Sven’s pictures, especially the production and funding thereof. He always made a big deal about introducing us to people at his parties, explaining to friends and relatives that we were artists and nevertheless — or precisely because of this — the first people in Friederike’s circle of friends to become parents.

I was flattered by his curiosity, his reliable presence at readings and exhibition openings, and his attentiveness as a host. I liked listening to how alien our world seemed to him, and I didn’t understand that he was serious, or that he was sucking our blood. We were his borrowed plumes. I wasn’t aware of the differences in our two worlds, and thought he was exaggerating — and I didn’t understand why.

My first inkling came when I was talking to Friederike about Silas starting primary school, and she told me that Ingmar didn’t want their school to be the same boring, homogenous sociotype as the building group. That he liked that fact that Silas was friends with kids at childcare who came from underprivileged or immigrant families, who weren’t all ‘dreadful white upstarts’. It struck me that Ingmar saw poverty as a welcome distinction from himself — when he said things like ‘it must be interesting, living so close to the edge’ — which seemed utterly absurd.

Only now, six years later, do I understand: Ingmar wanted to lend us to money to have us around, to spice up the building group, so it could be presented to its members and the outside world as a social project. ‘Well, we also have low-wage earners on board, you know. Artists …’

If I’d had the merest flicker of class consciousness back then, when Ingmar sat me in his politically correct hybrid car with the plush child seats, I would have laughed at his offer and said: ‘Forget it. I’m not playing a part for you. You can’t dump your guilt or your money on me. Go and find somebody else, dude.’

But instead, I brooded and fretted, imagining over and over again how things would have turned out if we’d decided to take his money. We might still be friends with Ulf. And definitely with Vera and Frank. Money wouldn’t have played a role and we would all still be together, happy, content, and equal—

It’s enough to make you weep, Bea.

Because right now, I realise for the first time that I’m in much deeper than I thought.

If I’d had any class consciousness — not just a mere flicker, and the pride of being different and one-upmanship that goes with it, but a real, deep-seated consciousness for how the world works and my position in it — then, of course, I’d have accepted Ingmar’s offer. I’d have cold-bloodedly let him dump his money on me and would have played my part without batting an eyelid. Why should I care what purpose I serve him? He would have served my purpose! I’d have been controlling the narrative! And had a flat of my own in the city centre that no one could throw me out of that quickly, whether I was still amusing as their borrowed plume, whether they lost interest, or were even afraid of me.

All of a sudden, I am tired to death.

These things I’m telling you here, child, aren’t worth shit. Controlling the narrative, who am I kidding—

‘Mum?’ Bea sticks her head around the door. ‘Hey, be careful, you’re going to suffocate in here.’

‘Go to bed, darling.’

‘You shouldn’t smoke so much.’

‘I know. But the main thing is that you don’t start smoking.’

‘No, I definitely won’t.’

She stands in the door to my broom cupboard.

‘Can you come in a minute?’

‘Where to?’

‘My room.’

She goes off. Presumes I’m going to get up and follow her—

I’ll give myself credit for that today: Bea’s faith in my unconditional maternal devotion.

No matter what you do

My alarm clock goes off — gentle, celestial, deceitful sounds, which I swipe away. To the left, so they’ll try again in five minutes.

Lynn, though, has been waiting for my alarm to go off and now yanks the door open to ask if she can have a hot chocolate. No, she can’t. She tries bravely every morning, and I bravely refuse. Stagger to the loo, bury my head in my hands.

I can’t do this yet. I don’t want to. I don’t know how I’m supposed to wake up.

Not hot chocolate; herbal tea instead.

Herbal tea with brown bread, like in a youth hostel. I take up my position and hold my ground as the youth hostel mother, being hard on myself and all the more so on the others. For their own good, of course. Yes, that’s how it is.

And then: snack boxes and PE kits.

I can’t do this yet; I don’t want to. It’s not even properly light outside. When do the clocks go back? Sunday.

From Sunday on, the afternoons will become the problem instead of the mornings. Then it’s just gaming and the sofa, because it gets dark right after school and childcare end. What did we use to do as children on autumn afternoons? Made animal figures out of conkers, would you believe.

Kieran wants to put on shorts. Outside it’s about eight degrees; on the other hand, boys a hundred years ago used to run around all day in shorts. So, it’s just a throwback to his ancestors’ values. I tell him he can.

‘Teeth!’

I’m hoarse and tired of saying it. What would happen if I never said it again?

Nothing would happen, but nothing happens when I do — nothing, in any case, that amounts to brushing teeth. Toothbrushes hang out of the corners of mouths while hands — ‘Just for a second!’ — check game scores. Eight clan members were back online at half past midnight; ‘Addicts,’ criticises Jack. ‘And what are you?’