If understanding was a destination, then our protagonist had not arrived yet. Frankfurt am Main main station was like a harbor which trains ship into, every platform a pier, even at two in the morning when our protagonist’s heart was chirping, chirping like a little bird. It wasn’t spring. It was summer. And this little bird in his chest simply would not drop dead. Something was waking up within him due to a chance encounter. A woman in her twenties had asked him about the delay of their train, not understanding the language completely. That was her difficulty. She wasn’t from Germany. She was from Albania. So they spoke English with each other. After all, the matter was urgent, as she needed to arrive on time at the airport in Bonn, a matter he, as the conversation continued, mistook for a possible flirt. If understanding was a destination, then our protagonist had not yet arrived at its station. He was far too busy boarding his train.
Forty minutes prior, he was reading the headlines of some boulevard paper, right before she approached him. Folding the affair some Hollywood actor had with his Au Pair under his arm, he assured her she would still make her flight on time, if there were no further delays. He had an idea about the time her journey might take, due to his experience. Trains were his second home, after all. When inquiry turned into conversation, time passed with increased speed. Suddenly they found themselves walking side by side toward their train. He invited her to sit next to him, while also remarking that it was absolutely fine, if she did not. If this had been a romantic movie, the feelings he felt could be explained by the special glow she had about her, a charm that enchanted him and drew him closer. Something magical, inexplicable defined in very plane terms: she was in her mid-twenties, young, still excited to explore the world she lived in, not disillusioned by past. A whole foot shorter than our protagonist, wearing a short summer dress, she looked as youthful as summer itself felt. For a short moment our protagonist stood in front of the entrance of his train, hypnotized by his own chance reflection in the window, thinking he might not look awful, after all, precisely because she was speaking with him. There was a shift in his luck, a spring in his step. There was the expectation of having good company on his journey back home.
This was not a romantic movie. This was a late night express train driving back out into the ocean of rails it had come from. She was on her way to Bonn, to board her seven O’clock plane back home, while he was on his way back home to Cologne, one stop short from her destination. What has she been doing here in Germany? Simple answer: taking a vacation. After having received her bachelor’s degree in law at her previous university, she has been looking for a local job as an Au Pair, to pay for her master’s degree in international law at a German university. That was her ultimate aim. She would work for a year or so, learning the language, saving money, then start studying. The only two things she frowned about were that she had found Germans were not fond of partying and that she no longer could walk over to the beach like she used to in the summer, inhaling the wind, and feeling the waves of the Adriatic Sea settle between her toes.
Our protagonist smiled in silence. He had nothing much to show for himself, being almost forty. A record collection perhaps, a job, but nothing of substance, nothing alive. It was a discomfort to his friends that after all these years he remained single with nothing to show, not even money. Some even felt sad for him, while others felt uncomfortable around him. There was something awkward about this man. Maybe it was the fact that the awkwardness of others around him made him feel awkward, or the way he sometimes gawked at people. This did not seem to be the case here. He felt calm, felt like he was in good company. The bird that was his heart was chirping calmly. On the other side of the aisle, a woman leaned over from her seat, looking after his new acquaintance, as they leaned back into their respective seats, smiling at each other, two friendly neighbors.
If this had been a softcore porno, their lips would have drawn closer toward the intensity of their half closed eyes. Her hand would touch his and lead it toward other places, lead him to the back of the train. He would hear her sigh in his ear, as his lips traveled down the landscape of her neck. But this was not a softcore movie. This was the late night express. “Why is that woman staring at us?,” his acquaintance inquired, talking about the Gestalt leaning forward on the other side of the aisle. “Because she is worried I might kiss you,” her counterpart assessed. The person they were talking about leaned back in her seat, relieved that he had taken account of her worries. Only the older couple sitting across from them stared at them with an angry frown. Maybe it was the expression of naivete on our protagonists face that encouraged their disgust. “Why is your arm so close to mine?,” she asked with a certain sharpness in her voice, her eyes piercing his like needles.
If this had been a hardcore porno, she would not only have lead his hands somewhere else but his entire body. Tenderness and passion would have intensified into an almost feral wilderness, ripping open each others buttons. Her hands would have loosened every piece of clothing holding him in check, allowed him to grip her with firm hands, their passion leaving fingerprints all over each others bodies, pulsating into each other with industrial thrust, while a technician modified the lighting so the camera got a good look at what they were doing. But this was not a hardcore porno. There were no cameras fixated on them, only the eyes of other passengers staring uncomfortably, and no director on set to tell our protagonist what to do, no guide to coach him in matters of intimacy. They looked at each other for a moment, let her question reverberate in his mind. “I need some distance,” she replied, turning her back on him with determination to catch some rest. Mirroring her gesture, the man turned toward the window, watched the starlit splendor of the landscape pass him by.
The bird that was his heart went still, allowing the sound of silence to flood his mind. Poor little protagonist. Had it ever occurred to him that the world did not revolve around his narrative? Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the vanilla scent of her body protruding the air. Inhaling it like one would a delusion, envisioning her body holding tight to his, the fantasy of chance. The fantasy of the moment, he was meant to seize, that everlasting moment of memory. He was disgusted at himself. The adult that he was did not know how to deal with the child that he also was. A spanking? If this had been a hardcore porno… Our protagonist bit his lip in lack of having someone else to bite it for him. Poor little protagonist. Why could life not be like the movies? Glancing at the paper he had bought at the stand, he took another look at the headlines. For the second time in the past year a world renowned actor was divorced by his wife for having an affair with his Au Pair.
It was a curious sight to see, these idealized people, their marriages crumbling in the face of reality. As if the luxury they were living in, had nothing much to say. Au Pair’s are the new chambermaids, someone once told him at a party. Chambermaid’s used to be a widely spread working class profession in the Victorian era. Living with the family they were tending to, they earned a lack of free time and low wages and often suffered sexual harassment. Their employers were seldom made responsible for their actions. If the employee suffered pregnancy due to his actions, the blame was put on her. How much consent could occur in such matters of employment? Could the fact that one man held sway over a woman’s employment factor into consent? Maybe the fact that the News Paper spoke of an affair was in itself a kind of fantasy, the kind men do not want to admit to. Being a man, after all, meant being an embodiment of capital, a certain kind of currency.
He crossed his arms to give himself a hug. The woman next to him was doing the same, him being the cause for both their loneliness. The kindness they had previously shared with each other slowly turning into a sour realization that life might always be this way, a social structure turned structure of desire. A desire that constantly backfired on itself. Seeing his reflection flicker up in the window, the protagonist gazed at the blow he had dealt himself. The first rays of light were slowly shining. “Isn’t that beautiful?,” she said, pointing at skyline. “Yes,” he softly replied, turning around, as the horizon slowly laid bare the sun, “It is.” He looked at her. She looked out the window. They both looked at something that gave them hope.
His eyes slowly dropped to her legs, as the train driver announced that they would soon be arriving at Cologne Messe/Deutz. If this had been a softcore porno… the man seated across from him stared at the protagonist with quiet disgust. The silence between them, a statement. The way that people stared at him yet said nothing perturbed him. It was exactly those types of stares that had led our protagonist to exit a party earlier the previous night. He felt like an alien in his skin.
Softly tipping the shoulder of his neighbor, he asked her to let him out. “This is your stop?,” she said looking at the clock, “Looks like I’ll arrive at the airport, punctually. The train caught up with its delay.” – “The advantage of taking the overnight express,” he replied. As she let him out, the train rolled into the station. “It was a pleasure meeting you,” she said with a soft smile on her face. It almost was, as if everything that had occurred had merely been a dream. The hug she gave him was loose and one-armed, something she was able to admit, since he had left her some space. “May I tell you a secret?,” he asked. As she nodded, his lips bowed down to her ear and innocently whispered, “I wished, I could have kissed you.”
The look in her face was precious. It was a disappointment he could not yet quite fathom. An etiquette he seemed to have broken, a certain way of doing things that he was ignorant of, completely. There was no novel way one could describe it. Everything was so minuscule, even the surveillance cameras were unable to pick it up. If this had been a romance… The train came to a stop, as she bowed toward him in response, stating, “Some things are better left unsaid.”
The softness of her words hit him like a blow. Seeing his reflection in the window, he started to look at himself as a butcher would at a pig. If understanding was a destination, our protagonist had now finally arrived at its station.
About the Author
Daniel Schulz (he/him) is a U.S.-German writer known for Kathy Acker in Seattle (Misfit Lit 2020) and publications in journals such as Gender Forum, Fragmented Voices, Versification, Cacti Fur, The Wild Word, Flora Fiction, Steel Jackdaw, The Milton Review, anthologies such as Heart/h (Fragmented Voices 2021), Get Rid of Meaning (Walther König Verlag 2022), and his chapbooks Welfare State and No Change to Abuse (Back Room Poetry 2023). IG: @danielschulzpoet
