(from „Three Stories“, written 1995-1997 in Potomac, Maryland)
Dammit, Harry.
The first message on my voice mail today was Roemer, telling me you died yesterday, around midnight. God dammit, Harry. You can’t just die. I learned about your being hospitalized ten days ago. We were standing on the tennis court after a set of doubles. Sunday morning. Cold day, sun coming and going. Jay and Michael had just beaten Roemer and me, giving Roemer his third loss in a row. We were trying to figure out who would be playing next weekend, when Roemer mentioned that he had no news about your situation.
Something wrong with Harry? I asked.
Roemer explained. Harry is in the hospital. Liver cancer. They would treat your liver with direct radiation for ninety-six hours. If your blood showed any improvement after that they would do it once a month. If there was no improvement, they would stop the treatment.
They would not let anybody visit you during these ninety-six hours. So the first day anyone would be able to see you would be Tuesday.
I left on a short business trip for Switzerland Wednesday evening. Of course, I didn’t see you before I left. Came back Sunday afternoon, went to bed early and listened to Roemer’s message first thing Monday morning in my office. It said there will be a memorial service at the Potomac St.Francis Episcopal Church on Saturday, 11 a.m.
Dammit. Dammit, dammit, dammit, Harry. You were the only guy in our tennis group whose serve was worse than mine. I liked to team up with you, even if we lost most of the time. Now you leave me with the worst serve in the group. How could you.
I spent the rest of the morning in a gloomy mood. All those people calling to reserve their seats for the second part of our C.G.Jung Dream Session at the Embassy tomorrow. The first part was yesterday. 7.30 to 10 o’clock. It was O.K.
After showing the first part of a documentary movie about Jung we had two members of the Washington Society of Jungian Analysts, talking to the audience, answering questions. Some questions were pretty academic. You would have to have studied Jung’s complete works, plus the essential Freud, in order to understand the deeper meaning of the questions, let alone the answers. Other questions were rather personal. We had our usual mix of people. The normal ones, the normally crazy and the nuts. One lady got up in the back of the hall at the very end of the program, just as I was about to wrap up the evening.
I wanted to say something all evening long, she began, in a reproachful tone. And then a wave of words came pouring out of her as if somebody had opened a flood gate. She said: I have been a friend of Kübler-Ross and have been in several workshops with her. Then she dropped some more names of psychologists I had never heard of. I was dead, she said, I have seen the light. I was in the tunnel and I came back. People looked at each other. Some turned around and looked at the lady. She spoke endlessly. Then she sat down again. The analyst said: That was an impressive statement. Then I stood up, thanked the members of the Jungian society for their participation and the audience for honoring us with their presence and invited everybody to have a glass of wine in the lobby of the Embassy. After a couple of words with the president of the association, a very soft-spoken, kind lady, I went down to the basement to avoid being asked stupid questions by my guests. Questions like: Don’t you think Jung made a greater contribution to modern psychology than Freud? Can you read the future from a dream? Where is your predecessor now? Where is the toilet?
In the basement I found Kaspar, drying some wine glasses with a towel. Kaspar is a friend of mine. He is seventy-five. When he was younger, he worked as the Embassy’s janitor. He has seen the ambassadors come and go. The ambassadors and the economic counselors, the secretaries and the cultural counselors, the political officers and the deputy heads of mission. The whole circus.
Ever since he retired, Kaspar has helped with the catering of Embassy events. He puts on his black tie and serves wine behind the bar, looking like Freddy Frinton in Dinner for One. I like Kaspar a lot. His soul is nobler than the big shots he has worked for. I drank a glass of wine with him and we went through some of our regular jokes. Ordering another drink through your nose. Giving a tip to an invisible waiter.
When I went up again most of the guests had left. I went down again, said goodnight to Kaspar and to Greg, our guard, and left. I was home around eleven. My wife was sitting on the carpet in her room, wrapping Christmas gifts. She looked tired. We went to bed and talked. Small stuff. Everyday details. Things of our lives.
That must have been when you were seeing the light, Harry. If there is one. No more Elisabeth Kübler-Ross workshops for you. No chance to get up at the end of an Embassy function to annoy everyone with a senseless statement. No more tennis on Saturday and Sunday mornings.
Shit, Harry. Liver cancer. You had such a fine sense of humor. There is only one thing known to be more terrible than my forehand, you said last time when I had congratulated you after a splendid point, and that is my backhand.
Once the morning ended I walked down Cathedral to Connecticut and then up Connecticut towards Cleveland Park. When I crossed the bridge I had a strange sensation. It was not the height of the bridge that scared me. I am not afraid of heights, I believe. It was the trees.
When you see the bridge from far it looks like a street with some trees on both sides. Only when you approach the bridge and cross it you realize that what you saw from the distance is not whole trees, it is just the tops of giant trees. It amazes me each time, Harry. I walk over the bridge and I look into these treetops, then I look down the trunks into the ravine, where a small river flows, and I am startled by the size of these trees. I look back up at the treetops and my head begins to turn. A feeling creeps up in me that it is not right. I feel like I am violating the privacy of these trees.
Treetops are meant to be high above our heads, for birds to hatch their eggs, for the wind to play with the leaves. They aren’t meant to be looked into by humans.
When I was a kid and they had just cut the big cherry tree at the end of our cul-de-sac, I remember standing there, watching the treetop and realizing with sadness: That’s when you know a big tree is dead, when you can see the top branches.
I wanted to get a haircut, but when I passed the shop, there were already three or four bores waiting to get their bloody hair cut. I walked on and entered Starbucks, next door. I ate a Focaccia and drank a Grande Latte.
I read an article in the Washington Post about the ailing Redskins. They needed at least two out of their last three games to make it to the playoffs. After a terrific start, they had lost three out of four, recently.
But you know that, Harry. That was still in your time. What you don’t know is that Flipper Anderson will get more playing time this coming Sunday. Flipper Anderson. Batman and Robin. Roy Rogers. Where is this country going, Harry?
I guess you know Flipper Anderson. He is the eight-year veteran wide receiver the Redskins acquired in case Westbrook, their star baby receiver, got injured. Westbrook is injured. The spotlight is on Flipper now. He has been there. But can he deliver, this Sunday? Will he run his route, separate from his defender, turn around and catch the ball, or will he look directly into the light, drop the ball and be booed by the crowd? Is there light, Harry? Tell me there is light. My father, before killing himself, tried to drink himself to death. Once he almost succeeded. He said there was a bright light. Extremely bright. Blinding.
I was walking back on Connecticut when I saw that other shop across the street. Arthur’s Hairstylist. A sign in the window said We specialize in Afro-American styles.
I thought: I am a Caucasian who has just lost a friend. I am losing my hair on the top. I walked in.
A middle-aged woman was cleaning the floor. There were six empty chairs in front of six empty mirrors. Everything looked old and a trifle shabby. Is this only for women? I asked the cleaning woman.
No. Men is OK, she said.
An older man stepped through a doorway in the background, looked at me briefly and disappeared again.
He is the boss, the cleaning lady said. You have to talk to him. He is the owner.
The man appeared again.
Do you have time for a haircut? I asked.
Just give me a minute, he answered, and disappeared again.
I felt like leaving, Harry, but I stayed. After a minute or so he came back and walked up to me. He looked at me. His eyes seemed to say: not much of a challenge for a stylist.
There is a barber shop down the street, he muttered. It is cheaper there. I just want you to know.
He looked tired. Tired and sad.
How much do you charge, I asked, and I thought, why does he say that? I am wearing a suit and a tie. There are no holes in my shoes. I am shaved. Why does he insult me?
Fifteen Dollars.
Fifteen? I asked, stressing the teeeeen, to make sure it wasn’t fifty. You never know with stylists.
Fifteen, he repeated.
OK. I would like to get a haircut. If you have the time.
He led the way to one of the six chairs and asked me to take off my jacket, loosen my tie and sit down. I put my jacket on the empty seat next to me, laid my glasses on the file in front of me and sat down.
He asked me to open the top button of my shirt. He put a white collar around my neck and flung the cover over me. Then he started. Clip-clip-clip, brush, clip-clip-clip.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. I saw a man in his late thirties, his features unclear.
After a while we began to talk. First it was the usual hairdresser small talk. Then it was the foreigner bit. But from there it took a turn, quite unexpectedly.
It started with him mentioning the thickness of my hair at the sides and me replying that unfortunately on the top it was getting thin.
That’s not the worst that can happen, Arthur said.
No, definitely not, I replied, and then I added: A friend of mine just died last night.
I am sorry to hear that, Arthur said. How old was your friend?
Sixty-three, I said, realizing that I have no idea how old you were, Harry. But since you are a retired lawyer I figured you would be in your sixties. How old are you, Harry? Can I have a cigarette? They are in my bag, you would shout from the tennis court. There should be a lighter, too, somewhere in the side pocket.
I could have said I don’t know how old you are. That would have been honest. But it would have taken away from my sadness. How can you mourn for a friend if you don’t even know his age? Can you call such a person a friend, Harry?
Friends know each other’s age. They call each other on their birthdays. They visit each other in their homes and at their hospital beds. Have we been friends, Harry? I think we have. I miss you, Harry.
And you, are you British? I asked.
Yes. I’m from England.
How long have you lived here?
Thirty-three years.
That’s a long time.
It is.
Clip-clip-clip. Brush, brush. Clip-clip-clip
Have you spent most of these years here or did you live in other cities?
Most of the time here.
Clip-clip, clip-clip, brush, clip-clip.
Do you still go back to England now and then?
Yes, I do. With my kids. They have British passports. European passports, in fact. Just received them. My son just turned fifteen. My daughter is eleven. They may never use them, but maybe they will. Maybe they want to study in Europe, one day.
Is your wife from England, too?
She’s from Chile.
How wonderful (Why did I say wonderful? What is wonderful about being from Chile?)
Unfortunately we just separated. After sixteen years.
Oh… I’m sorry to hear that.
It is very sad. I didn’t want to separate. But she wanted to leave. We had long arguments. It was dreadful. I shouted at her. But I never touched her. She got a court order all the same. Got thrown out of my own house. In August. The court order said I was a threat to her. Danger of violent reaction, they called it. The police showed up. Threw me out of my house.
That must have been a terrible experience.
It was. And then the lawyers. That was even worse. Cost a lot of money, too. We must have spent something like $35,000, my wife and I.
That’s a lot of money.
It is. In the end I was so tired, so worn out, that I gave in. I gave her everything. The house, the cars, the kids. Just to stop the whole thing. Couldn’t take it anymore. Been sleeping in different places ever since. Living with friends, even customers, here and there. It’s crazy. Everything suddenly fell apart. I never thought something like this could ever happen to me.
Clip-clip, brush, clip-clip-clip.
Arthur fell silent. He looked like he would start to cry. I sat in my chair and wondered what to say. What do you say to a hair stylist whose wife has left him, Harry? What do you say in front of six mirrors, five of them empty? My hair was almost done.
She had nothing, when I first met her, you know. Not even a passport. She was in debt. I had two houses, this shop, I was established. Now I have nothing. No wife, no house, no car, no money. But the worst part is the kids. I used to do most of the things for them, you know. Brought them to school. Looked after them. Prepared their lunch. Helped them with their homework. Played with them. Everything. I was the one who really cared for them.
I hope you get to see them a lot.
No. As long as I don’t have a permanent address, I can’t see them. That’s the hardest part by far, believe me. To be separated from my kids. I wasn’t able to work for quite a while. Almost lost the shop. Now I’m better. I am trying to put my life together again.
This is a very sad story, I said. I feel very sorry for you. After a moment I added: It must be hard to go through all this. Especially at this time of the year. Arthur’s movements had become slower. Clip-clip.
December is a bad time for people in grief, I went on. All the Christmas lights. All the darkness. Arthur remained silent. He stopped cutting my hair and looked in the mirror in front of us. His look passed his and my reflection.
Many people kill themselves in December, it came out of my mouth, and I was wondering why I would say such a thing. It wasn’t even true. I had read an article, recently, saying that the suicide rate for the month of December was lower in the United States than elsewhere. Americans were too busy shopping around Christmas. No time to kill themselves.
After a while Arthur said: I won’t do that. Won’t kill myself. Think of my children. He added a few more clip-clips and a couple of brushes, then he finished cutting my hair and looked in the mirror.
Is that OK?
That looks just great, I said, putting my glasses back on. He had done a good job.
Fifteen dollars, he said, walking away from the chair towards the cash register. I got up and followed him.
I gave him a twenty and asked him for two.
Thank you, he said, and handed me the two dollars together with his business card.
Call me.
I will.
We shook hands.
Good luck to you, I said. He nodded. Then I walked out of his shop.
Out on Connecticut I made a left and slowly walked back towards the bridge. When I crossed the bridge, I felt a cold breeze on the back of my neck where the skin had been covered by hair half an hour ago. Cars drove by in both directions. Everybody seemed to know where they wanted to go and they were all in a hurry to get there. Home. The office. The mall. The hairdresser’s.
They say a dead man’s hair grows on for a while. If you need a last haircut, Harry, I know a place to go.
walters wunderbare welt 