Emotions Rule. Ira Lav
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shut up,’ hissed Yulya.
After the lectures the ladies went to one of the canteens. Picked a bunch of food. Salad, soup, cabbage pies, coffee with a chocolate bar. Instead of a prayer before meals they promised to each other not to take so much ever again. Their habitual promise. And finally they sat down to the girls’ talking ritual. Katya was the first to begin.
chapter 8
Katya’s Story: her Stay in Germany for Three More Weeks
I
‘So where do I begin? Our German course was finished. You went to Paris and London. And I went to Leipzig to see Sarah, a friend of mine.
Being there already a week I was missing Berlin and was constantly texting to Mr. Curly Hair. One evening I wished him sweet erotic dreams, just for fun of course. I got a reply with ‘ja, feuchte Träume. Schlaf gut, Mädchen’. I had no idea what feuchte Träume were supposed to mean.
Next morning while having breakfast with Sarah’s family, with an innocent face, not suspecting anything, I asked the whole table what that German word-combination meant. You should’ve seen their face expressions when I uttered those magic words. The big brother started giggling. Sarah’s Dad almost spitted out the coffee he was drinking.
Sarah’s mother wondered, ‘I’m sorry, what again?’
‘Feuchte Träume,’ I repeated naïvely though already suspecting something shady.
Then she managed saying with her pitying eyes, ‘Who told you this?’
‘Some guy from Berlin texted me this yesterday,’ I confessed. The mother wondered what message I wrote so as to get such a reply. I made an even more naïve look and pronounced, ‘I simply wished him Good night. Somehow my head treated equally Good night and Sweet erotic dreams. But I swear, I did NOT mean anything by that. I just was in my silly mood, I guess.
‘Well, wet dreams mean-,’ the mother started finding her words to explain properly.
But Sarah interrupted, ‘Mum, it’s ok, I’ll explain her later,’ she stood up taking her cup and plate into the sink and waiting for me to finish up.
I understood my friend’s gesture and gulped up the rest of my coffee at a go, cleaned after myself and took leave.
As we reached her room she burst out laughing, took my hand and produced in a lecturing tone, ‘To have wet dreams means to have dreams about sex. When a person has such dreams, he or she normally takes them real and actually gets wet even when he or she is sleeping.’
Mhm, definitely a good explanation, in no Webster edition I could perhaps find such… a thought like a creeping line ran through my head, ‘How come, I didn’t guess it myself yesterday when I looked up the word feuchte – wet in the dictionary.’ Perhaps, because I didn’t remember myself getting wet in dreams. If Annie Lennox had sung Wet dreams are made of this instead of sweet, I would not have been in this stupid situation then.
Soon I was to return to Berlin. While texting to Filip I never mentioned when I was coming, only teasing him that soon and wondering if he was actually missing me.
‘Sure, I miss ya, I have no one else to fight with. Come back, Katenka!’ came the response.
Pretending to be his wife I answered, ‘Sweet heart, I forgot my keys at home. Could you leave the door open tomorrow, so I could get in before you come home?’ Why was that when you were not taking things catastrophically seriously but playing your part well everything seemed so easy?! Maybe because Shakespeare was actually right writing,
All the world’s a stage,
And all the men and women merely players:
They have their exits and their entrances;
And one man in his time plays many parts…
‘Alright, darling, let’s make lasagna for dinner. I’ll be waiting for you,’ he responded playing his role of a loving husband quite well too.
The next day on arriving to Berlin I called Filip asking when he was finishing his job. A moment of silence followed. Then his voice produced, ‘Where are you?’
‘In Berliiiin, of course! I was telling you yesterday that I was coming,’ I responded in a protesting but happy voice.
‘I thought you were joking,’ he pronounced in a disbelieving voice.
‘I never joke,’ I lied and kept on, ‘So what time should I come? We will cook lasagna tonight, won’t we?’
‘Not on earth lasagna. Something else…I’ll be home at half past seven,’ answered Mr. Curly Hair with a fading voice, ‘gotta go, see ya.’
I put my tooth brush and pajamas pants in my seemingly small bag, just in case, you know. And sharply at half past seven I appeared at his place. Playing was over and seriousness creeped upon our faces. Why was there no one to approach and help, at least by shaking and slapping us to awake from silly fears that held us apart from each other. And who had actually frightened us with the fact that life was very serious and hard?! Parents? Teachers? Therefore, no wonder that by the age of twenty or even more we were scared to death to perform anything we long for but hesitate so as not to make another mistake. Since there was not a soul around to yell, ‘God, help these serious kids to relax!’ we proceeded in the same way.
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