Sorry. Shaun Whiteside
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It is set in the style of a high-class obituary, the death of a head of state or something. Eye-catching. The text is literally as Tamara wrote it during the night. It embodies Kris’s idea perfectly.
SORRY
WE ENSURE THAT NOTHING
EMBARRASSES YOU ANY MORE.
SLIPS, MISUNDERSTANDINGS,
DISMISSALS, ARGUMENTS, AND ERRORS.
WE KNOW WHAT YOU SHOULD SAY.
WE SAY WHAT YOU WANT TO HEAR.
PROFESSIONAL AND DISCREET.
Under the advertisement there is no homepage or e-mail address. They unanimously decided against it. Frauke only put in Kris’s landline number. It’s a gag. She wanted to see who would call, whether anyone would call, and what he would have to say.
The first day nothing happens.
The second day nothing happens.
The third day they get four calls.
By the weekend it’s nineteen.
Without understanding how it’s possible, they’re in business.
THE CLICK OF THE NOZZLE wakes me. I’m standing next to the car, leaning over, arms on the roof. I must have gone to sleep. My calves are trembling, it’s a wonder that I haven’t fallen over.
I walk into the gas station shop and get coffee from a machine. It’s eleven in the morning, it’s the second day, and I feel like a pinball that’s being bounced noisily from one cushion to another, never coming to rest. An hour ago I drove past Munich and set my course for Nuremberg. I’m thinking from one city to the next. I don’t know where I’ll go after Nuremberg. Only Berlin is out of the question. As soon as I see the next exit, I’ll switch on the indicator and look for a destination. Life can be reduced to the most elementary things. Filling up, drinking, sleeping, eating, peeing, and driving. Driving, time and again.
“Will there be anything else?”
The cashier has an eyelash on her cheek. I tell her. She laughs and wipes the eyelash away. She could’ve made a wish, but she doesn’t look like someone who believes in wishes. She hands me my change. I look outside. A man wearing blue dungarees and holding a bucket stops by my car. He sets the bucket down and starts cleaning my windshield.
“Wait, your coffee!”
I’m already on my way outside and turn round. The cashier holds up my paper cup. I take the coffee and thank her. When I leave the gas station shop the man has finished the windshield and is on his way to the back window.
“No!” I shout.
“It’s free,” the man says, setting the bucket down on the ground.
“Even so …”
I put the coffee on the car roof, rummage for change in my trouser pocket, and press two euros into his hand.
“No offense,” I say and wait until he goes. Then I get into the car and drive off. Fifty yards away from the gas station I stop in the car park. My hands are trembling. I look in the rearview mirror. The window behind me is brown, I left the coffee on the car roof. I burst out laughing. I just sit in the car for a few minutes and try to calm myself down. My hands are trembling, and although I’ve just been to the bathroom I feel pressure on my bladder.
“It’ll all be fine,” I repeat, resting my hand on the tailgate and enjoying the silence beneath it.
TAMARA
“TAMARA, I don’t think that’s funny.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises. It’s far too cold for surprises.”
“Take the blanket.”
“You think the blanket will help? What’s it even made of? That’s not wool. That’s barbed wire!”
The day is gray and overcast. Tamara has picked her sister up from the jetty at the Ronnebypromenade. It was only when she appeared behind her that Astrid noticed her and clutched her heart in alarm.
“I thought you were going to pick me up?”
“I am picking you up.”
“Tammi, it’s winter, and that’s a bloody rowboat!”
Tamara pointed to the seat opposite. A blanket and seat cushion lie there waiting.
“Come on,” Tamara said, tapping the cushion. “Get in, before your makeup runs.”
“My makeup won’t run, it’s far too cold, in case you haven’t noticed,” Astrid replied, and got into the boat. She sat down opposite Tamara and pulled the blanket around her shoulders. Since then they’ve been on the water, and Astrid’s mood isn’t improving.
“I hate open water,” she says.
“It’s the Wannsee, not the open sea.”
“Still.”
They drift under the Wannsee Bridge. There’s a hint of rain in the air. It’s the mildest winter for ages. Tamara likes the feeling in her hands when the oars part the water. She looks very contented.
“What are you looking so pleased about?”
“I’m happy to see you.”
“That could have happened ages ago, if you’d bothered to give me a call. I’m your big sister, can’t you imagine how worried I’ve been about you?”
“I was going to call you …”
“You didn’t, though. You disappear for six months and no one knows where you are, and then all this …”
She points across the Wannsee as if the lake belongs to Tamara. Tamara goes on rowing and grins. Astrid doesn’t find that at all funny and kicks Tamara’s leg.
“Ouch!”
“Did that hurt?”
“Of course it hurt.”
“Good. So what was up?”
“I was busy.”
“Busybusybusy.”
“You could say that.”
Astrid lights a cigarette and looks at Tamara through narrowed eyes. They drift past the tram depot and approach the brightly lit hospital.
“Do I have to worm it out of you?”
“I was working.”
“Aha.”
“I’ve made some money, Astrid. A lot of money.”
Astrid’s mouth opens.
“You haven’t robbed a bank or something, have you?”
“Nothing like that,” Tamara says, holding the oars in the water to stop the boat, then points to the shore.
“Look, over there.”
The house is overgrown with ivy, and looks unassailable. The garden seems like a botanic experiment, but that’s just the first impression. If you look more