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

couple to our right, the same age as us and quiet, probably are bothered; perhaps they’re thinking that Ulf and I are a couple having an argument, and Ulf would do better with one of the bubbly twenty-somethings to our left instead of putting up with the hysterical old lady.

I drain my glass and slam it down on the table. ‘Embarrassing, isn’t it? To get upset and scream in public. And to do it in front of an entire christening party as well. Willi dared, but I didn’t. What if I’d misunderstood something? Or I was the only one who felt the way I did? What if no one stuck up for me? Then I’d rather bail on Willi, even though I knew he was right. “Brother?” What a load of crap. “I don’t know him!” Exactly. But you need guts to be that honest.’

I imagine jumping into the aisle between the two pews and pulling Willi from Frank’s arms. And that’s where the problems start, because Frank is obviously stronger than I am. But the element of surprise would be to my advantage — Frank would let go of Willi, and Willi would run away, and me after him. Frank wouldn’t. He’d sit down at the back near the hymn books, take deep breaths, and try to calm down.

Ulf pays for his beer. Pays for my wine too, puts his jacket on, wraps his scarf around his neck.

That’s what I like about him: he just leaves and doesn’t need to make a big speech about it.

We trudge alongside each other through the neighbourhood on this dark, wet autumn night.

In the place where the homeless sat for years outside the supermarket, there’s now a huge hole. There’s no sign saying who is going to build here. Ulf will know, but I don’t ask him. The tarpaulin covering the hole flaps in the wind. Drizzle shows in the light from the streetlamps. My face is wet too, but I don’t mind. I like walking around here with Ulf.

Willi and me. Outside the church.

There are some low shrubs planted, and Willi disappears into the thicket. I wouldn’t normally dream of going into such a place because of the dog shit, but perhaps around a church, it’s okay. So I follow Willi into the bushes. He’s sitting there, cowering under a conifer. Huddled in a hedge. His legs and arms are crossed, and he’s holding himself tight.

‘Hey,’ I say. He doesn’t look up.

I copy his posture: huddle down too, and hold myself tightly. It doesn’t feel bad, but it’s pretty tiring at my age. But I’m no longer my age, I’m like Willi now: I have the courage to yell my head off, make a fool of myself, stop something happening, and be wrong.

‘What was so awful?’ I ask.

He doesn’t answer. I wonder if I know the answer.

‘The pastor had a stupid voice. But he was taught to speak like that. At his pastor’s training, when he learned how to speak in God’s name in front of so many people.’

Willi still doesn’t say anything. I can only see his hair, which is covering his face. His head is bowed down, and he’s silent. His hair is matted and tangled: he doesn’t like having it combed. I pull out my hairband and try letting my hair dangle in my face too. And in between my teeth.

‘Fucking idiot,’ I say. ‘I don’t care what they taught him, the stupid fucker.’

I let myself fall over. Lie there with my hair in my face and my cheek in the earth among the shrubs with their hard needles and leathery leaves. It smells mouldy and unpleasantly pungent. There’s no dog shit, but there’s bird poo and bugs.

‘Maybe the pastor pissed in here?’

I can hear Willi breathing. Otherwise he doesn’t make a sound, just sits very still. He won’t look at me, ever, because he knows I’m not on his side. Saving him once is not enough, and maybe he would have managed to get away on his own. Would be sitting here anyway, without me.

‘I didn’t do it for you,’ I say. ‘I did it for me. Singing songs together and chanting is all very well, but not if you don’t feel like it. And it’s twice as annoying when you have to do it for the sake of others. They can make their circle, keep their new baby, and have their party without me. I don’t want to be told where to sit. It’s all so silly and predictable. So rehearsed, even the improvised parts. They don’t even know how to improvise.’

‘What did you say?’ Ulf has stopped walking.

I hug him, pull his head towards mine. He acquiesces, and we kiss; we can still do this, even though we haven’t for decades. Ulf’s lips are familiar, incomparable, warm. I want to unbutton his jacket, but he’s already doing it. We learned together how sex works, and it took a long time, and wasn’t made any easier by our terrible lack of confidence. ‘Whatever turns you on,’ was the saying when we were growing up — the mantra of the sexual revolution and the biggest lie of all. Because shame was still doled out in massive portions. I’m full of it, up to here, and can’t move for fear that it’ll spill over. And now Ulf realises what we’re up to, and doesn’t want to, and shakes himself free and walks away. I stay where I am: I can’t and mustn’t be the pissing woman next to the lift. And I certainly can’t fuck Ulf standing up outside on the pavement, even if it’s the only meaningful thing for us to do. Instead, I watch him put his key into the lock of the glazed, white solid-wood door, which he commissioned a carpenter friend to make, and I turn back to the other door, whose key I have to hand in soon. Speaking of which, how many keys do we have? How many did Frank give us? Fucking