Berliner Zeitung / Feuilleton / bottom line of 7 2. 2011
The heart mop bucket
bicycle chain. Just lubricating it. Mourning rings under my nails, hands smeared with oil. No paper towels there. wiped on his pants. Pushed his way home through the city and the New Year's remains. It was death. A year before she died.
got home. Bicycle completed. Stairs. Apartment door. To. Key turned. Walked up and down, looking for a picture, I could describe. What did I know about it? That play it in the winter and would take place on the high seas. After all - a start. Skyscraper Julian Plenti in the background. Someone asked into the music, if I was suffering from vertigo. ("Are you suffering from vertigo?") That was the voice of the Italian cave guide at the Grotta del vento. Six months ago I was there, deep down, and there's more.
far out to sea, was to the place only a shadowy backdrop. We were on board a replacement vessel, a working boat, actually. The procedure provided for the burial ship could not be used because of severe weather. Welcoming the members. Promulgation of the basic parameters. Then, the vessel appeared headed to a rope, a bow along. When it was gone, the captain orange rose petals sprinkled in the sea. So, as the water.
bloomed so I had always imagined the end of the tale of the little mermaid. The cries of the gulls like distant singing. Long-stemmed roses thrown, landed in the water, spread out, and the captain gave mulled wine on a dingy tablet, a dead beetle was on the edge.
We drank. Schippert to three times the point at which the urn was lost from granules with the flower arrangement. Ship bells. A mirror formed on the surface, round and perfectly smooth. Shortly after a wave swept up, as if the sea took his gift. Everything stops. A gull floating in the water examined the flowers. No eating flew on.
I thought, nothing. Cigarette ashes into the sea. left the vessel. Body like ice, only to land, because I noticed that. Cormorants on ice floes, quite far back.
Suddenly it was yesterday. Press once more the hand.
We took an elevator to the awards ceremony, all the way up on the roofs of the city. You have to really comb times, she blamed me and threatened with the index finger. I never comb my hair, I smiled. We giggled. First met we had 1996th Z., a mutual friend smuggled us back then as potential probation officers in the prison of Moabit. There he was laid the foundation for our friendship. At first I did not understand why it was I who was chosen for it. For what? Friendship. When I was invited for the first time to her and she cooked for me, I got severe migraines, spent the night in her guest room, well supplied with a bucket beside the bed. I rinsed the next morning and disappeared. Certainly it was the first and last time that there could be a guest.
Nope. Soon we met regularly, went to the cinema, visiting exhibitions, took dog walks. And - I was further cooked. At my studio move, she held a catering, on their menu they offered an "evening canteen for employees". We were exhausted and eight. At the mobile stove she warmed soup.
My thanks was art. Who got in their very own sense. "Brain-cooking in oil paint on a bar of words written about her job is "Quetschkasten" in the display case between her mother heirlooms, a drawing with "shirts for normal" on the filing cabinet. Was in dire straits, she brought me pumpkin soup in Tupperware containers. keep your strength. Bummed rolling without a filter on the balcony and elsewhere. Eventually, they gifted me with a small heart-shaped buckets, which they had bought in Italy. For cleaning, she said. The heart mop bucket I still have. She and her pumpkin soup missing.
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