Clara Mavellia
It’s cold, windy and dark outside but I need something fresh and healthy to eat.
Warm trousers, stepped boots and thick winter jacket aren’t enough against Berlin’s winter. I wrap a voluminous scarf around my neck and inside the jacket.
As soon as I am on my way to the next BioCompany – the organic supermarket is at walking distance – I put on hood and gloves.
Inside the supermarket isn’t much going on at 8pm, so I have time to choose the bananas I like – not too yellow, not too green. Also the right mixture of müsli needs concentration nowadays – with or without sugar, gluten, nuts or berries.
The yoghurt is quick done, I like the sort ABC, meaning with three different lactobacilli: Acidophilus, Bifidum and Casei. A few years ago while preparing a talk for a conference on Ethics and Health I have learned that the best yoghurt-bacteria are the one delivered by the lactobacillus bulgaricus. That’s why I actually prefer the bulgaricus, I can even recognize the taste blind. Recently I was invited to speak at a conference in Athens (Greece); at the Hotel breakfast lounge they didn’t write on the yoghurt label the sort of lactobacillus they used. As the waiter apologized for the missing information around the lactobacillus his eyes and eyelashes looked so fascinating sad, only then I wondered how German I have become.
Unfortunately at BioCompany in Berlin they don’t sell yoghurt with lactobacillus bulgaricus and nobody apologizes for that.
Now the eggs. I go straight to the corner where they are usually placed, but can’t find the one I like, meaning the one produced where the male baby chickens stay alive, they aren’t killed soon after birth as they usually do in poultry farms.
Today there are even new egg brands. Carefully I take one package and read the details – where, when, how the eggs were produced. Without glasses I really have to concentrate.
Suddenly a hit (bump), a scream.
„Oddio!“ (OMG!) I scream in Italian, and as an hand grasp my forearm I speak loud and firmly in German: „Nicht anfassen!“ (Do not touch!). The man isn’t tall, a hood covers his head, forehead and eyebrows. He stinks of smoke and stares at me.
I leave the eggs and turn away to the exit.
The guy finds his voice: “ Signora, sono io, il gelataio!“ (Signora, it’s me, the ice cream man!) he says in Italian. He takes off the hood and as his grey hair and the ponytail slowly appear, I recognize the ice cream store owner where in summer I buy the original Italian ice cream.
“How are you, Signora?” he asks.
“I’m fine, I have to decide which eggs are the best.”, I say quite distant.
“You are my favourite client!”, he adds.
“I guess this is what you say to all your customers.”, I answer.
“I remember you always order strawberry and lemon!”, he affirms, meaning he knows me.
“True.”, I confirm.
“You look great!” he says enthusiastically while his eyes are gazing at my jacket.
“Are you living in Berlin also in winter?” I ask him trying to distract his attention.
“Yes, very close to the Supermarket. I was on holiday, in Costa Rica: warm weather, hot women! Shall we travel together to the summer?”, he tries that register. He smiles, I can’t believe it.
“You are really playing the Italian man…”, I reply.
“I remember you are traveling because of work, conferences, I could accompany you!”, he insists.
I see him entering with me a plane, an hotel, an university hall: What a horror vision!
“I really have to go now.”, I say firmly and walk away.
I stay in line at the check-out desk, and put down the products I’ll pay for. I see my jacket, stuffed with the scarf, and suddenly realize that it looks like huge breasts. I have to lough. And here he comes, waiting to pay.
“What’s your name?”, he asks.
“Mira”, I say without smiling.
“See you soon again!”, he comes closer and tries to hug me.
I don’t say a word but look at him nearly unfriendly. All my non-verbal communication shows that I’m not looking forward to seeing him again. Unless it is summer and I want an ice cream. I take my stuff and go away.
In the next days when I think of ice cream and scarf and Costa Rica I must laugh but also have this young girl feeling, as in the never ending days of the summer holidays, when boys smiled and said something funny, too shy to openly express attraction.
But I really can’t stand smokers, and what he is doing in Costa Rica with the hot women, does he buy their favours with the money he earns with ice cream? Stop it, I couldn’t care tuppence for him.
Work is always waiting, keeping me busy, leaving only a little summer stripe here and there.
Saturday evening, it’s still cold and snowy, but in Berlin there is anytime and in any weather so much going on.
At the cinema near where I live they are showing the film: ”The Favourite”, a comedy-drama by Yorgos Lanthimos. It’s a story about Queen Anne, Sarah and Abigail, about women in power, Tory’s intrigues and Whig manoeuvring.
There are only few seats left, the first of the raw is already taken by a male spectator so I take the third, and leave the second empty. I enjoy the free space.
The scenes are extremely well done, the historical details of building, furniture, clothing, reproduced with attention and the award winning actresses – especially Olivia Colmann, Emma Stone and Rachel Weisz – are outstanding performers. Unfortunately the plot is not historical accurate, some episodes are completely imagined, such as sex and the lesbian relationships of the female triangle. Queen Anne’s devastating loss of pregnancies and children is accurate, but her remembering them by keeping a domestic zoo of seventeen pet rabbits is not.
All in all a technical masterpiece, with a touch too much a male fantasy. This reminds me the recent days and Brexit, what else! The similarities are quite unbelievable: Tories intrigues, Whigs manoevring, women in power, lies…
At the end of the movie I say loud: “Just like Brexit!”.
The guy sitting next lough and reply: “You are so right! Brexit is only good for a few Tories, but devastating for the rest of the UK!”.
“And they won the referendum thanks lies, fake news and social media manipulation.”, I recall the news of the last months.
“These are also the reasons why Trump was elected.”, he adds.
“Don’t forget the impact of Russia on both Brexit referendum and US election!”, I suggest.
“Let’s hope that this year populists won’t win the European Election!”, he notes.
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
We exchange some more remarks on politics.
As the lights go on, he helps me with the jacket.
“Would you like a drink?”, he asks quite suddenly.
“Why not.”, I hear me answer. “There is a pub on the next street.”, I suggest. Meaning: So I can leave quickly if I don’t feel comfortable.
He is in his fifties and still slim – 60% of men over 40 are considered overweight – has some grey hair, blue eyes, a melancholic glance and a warm voice. I even like his coat, not too long (like a granny), not too short (like a gangster), just right.
In the pub he talks, he asks, he listens. Fortunately he doesn’t smoke. He drinks bier. His children are adults and live abroad, the ex-wife found someone else, his mother died. Actually a perfect match if you are looking for a man. While describing the course of his scientific carrier, he draws the ups and downs with his finger on my arm.
“Would you like to spend the night with me?”, he whispers.
I see him entering my home, sharing intimacy, discussing closeness and distance.
“Not really.”, I reply brusquely. “It’s late, I have to go now. I’ll pay my bill on the way out.”
He doesn’t reply, nor even stand up.
At home I brush my teeth, take off clothes and underwear and go to bed. I don’t miss sex or caresses but enjoy with arms and legs the whole space, the fresh sheets, the silence.
“But why is the Queen of the Night coming to me so often?”, I wonder. “What does she wants if not men, juices, emotions?”
Work and men are always there to keep me busy. My old flame – writing – is still waiting and doesn’t give up.
Last year at writer’s write someone said: “If you are a writer, you write. If you don’t write, you are not a writer. Stop bothering the environment.”
The 12 Short Stories challenge starts again. “May I participate?”, I send a mail. The reply comes soon “You are welcome!”
Clara Mavellia
Berlin, 26.01.2019
