Chapter 1 - A Sofa Tale of Family and Friends

Royally Screwed - My very own annus horribilis

It was the end of August; the end of summer and unfortunately it was one of those days. Without nearly enough sleep I was forced to drag myself off the lumpy old sofa, where I had spent the previous night. The night had not brought the relief I had hoped for, it didn’t chase the frightful visions of failure away. As my thoughts chased each other through the darkness, I felt myself cowering before an almighty paralysing emotion that threatened to choke me.

By the end of October my I could already draw a conclusion from this year. It was my very own annus horribilis of failure after failure. Never once seemed my life so bleak. I had always been the odd one out, but growing up an outsider and a loner, you can in fact stop listening to their insults and tell yourself you are special, you are different. But in the end, when it all comes tumbling down like a house of cards, it is the memory of their voices that hollers their derision the loudest. And no matter how much of St. John’s Wort I infused my body with, it didn’t take away the feeling of inadequacy, the disenchantment and the violent rupture of my self-styled image. Reality was a harsh taskmaster, and I fled from it, retreating into my own mind, losing myself in the process. Shakespeare may have heard his characters whisper in his ear, Goethe was surrounded by their phantoms and I am driven into madness by their constant presence. The voices, the spectres are their spirits in my ear. They shout at me, angry now, I tried to drown them out. Enraged I have ignored their desires for so long. I am but a blunt instrument, the involuntary plaything to their whims, the mechanical tool doing their bidding. Now, they punish my insolence, fill my head with noisy nonsense and yet, all I am, the essence of my being, solely depends on the gifts they so graciously bestow on me. Yet, I am neither Shakespeare nor Goethe, but I would give up an entire kingdom to be like them.

This day was no different than the day before, nor would it be any different from the day thereafter. The perpetual hum in the back of my mind never quiets. The Salieri’s  symphonies are chased by Polonius’ dying sibilants, during supper last night’s news report echoes in my mind, while in a different corner, my mother’s voice reminds me not to forget an umbrella: “It looks like rain”.

So I snap out of it, get up to pour myself another cup of tea. Mother’s hair is still wet from the shower. It’s dark outside and doesn’t look like anything. She sips contently from her steaming hot cup of coffee and looks at me, scrutinizing, judging. It is four o’clock in the morning and Mother is getting ready for work. Once again I had slept, rather badly, in the living room. Maybe I just couldn’t bare the cold emptiness of my own room. Maybe I needed another person with me, to connect, to find some warmth. Ever since I returned from France I had retreated into a shell, turned my back on friends and family because I was disappointed, because I didn’t believe in any of it anymore. Mother tells me to go ahead and sleep for a few more hours. As I retreat back into the dark wasteland of my dreams, I feel her warm breath on my brow, she leaves, like every morning, with a whispered I love you.

Through the mist, I could hear my cousin’s booming voice downstairs, probably praising her two-year-old toddler for one thing or the other. Apparently new mothers did that. Risking a glance at the display of my cell phone I realized it was not even eight o’clock yet. What were they doing here this early? Nadia would not leave for work until at least nine o’clock.

I fought to stay awake and busied myself in the kitchen with the cattle. A sardonic voice snorted, as if a cup of strong Earl Grey would make any difference. While I went through the obligatory morning ritual, sipping from the fragrant tea, trying my hardest not to burn myself, I mentally compiled a to do list for the day in my head. Obviously it would be a long Friday.

Rushing downstairs, I greeted my grandfather who had taken his customary seat in grandmother’s the apricot coloured kitchen. Not even properly dressed for the day, still in his white fine rib vest and cotton tracksuit pants that had seen better days, he prepared breakfast for Nadja and his great-grandson Nate, short for Nathaniel. Eating with the grandparents was defiantly the easier way to start your day. Nate, who was securely placed upon mommy’s lap, held a new I-phone 5 between his all to tiny hands, cooing happily at the gadget while mommy dearest was trying to shove little pieces of bread and honey down his throat. Generally everything that made some sort of noise was useful to the little tyke. Never mind other people’s nerves for listing to the same antiquated cassette tape over and over again.

“Where is grandma?”, I asked.

Wrong move on my part, all of a sudden I found myself with an arm full of toddler and an ear full of enthusiastic squeals. Don’t get me wrong, on good days I really love to be around my pseudo-nephew. On bad days, not so much. Apparently, Nadia was early today and grandma had just gotten up, she was in the bathroom trying to sort herself out, preparing for the day. For the rest of the morning Nate would monopolize my time, turning the radio on and off, throwing Lego bricks through the entire living room, drawing not only on paper but also on the furniture – grandma nearly had a stroke when she saw the lime green scribbles all over her beautiful oak parquet floor – he made me his best friend, his baby sitter, his companion and the person he shares his chocolate with. Granted, its mostly me sharing with him, whatever I eat.

Nate came as a surprise to all of us, and of course all of us are involved in his life somehow. Mother was his nanny until she was called back to work, now, his grandma Pauline is there three days a week and his great-grandmother has him for the other two days. The weekend usually belongs to family time, unless some celebratory event is in the way, a birthday, a party, a dinner or a folk festival in town. Then I’ll get a text message saying something like, we have just gotten an invit. U free 2night? Granted they would never trust me with their precious little burden but when mother is not too stressed from work or has any other plans it means a short night for us while Nate’s parents go out and party. So today is like any other Friday when a text disturbed the fragile peace of Mother’s mind. Nate would be here at six p.am. that leaves Mother about four hours to go shopping for grandmother, tidy up half grandma’s flat while I would be responsible for getting our humble abode into working order. Of course, like every other weekend they are not on time, Nate had yet to have his evening meal, his bath and bedtime story, but Nadia is already saying goodbye to her little darling, be a good boy for Auntie, and than she’s gone.

During breakfast the other morning Mother would often repeat, something like when I had you, I didn’t go out every weekend. But I was older when I had you. I would smile and nod, as if I remembered, take a sip from my Earl Grey and try to wrestle Nate back into his seat. Generally she doesn’t mind taking him, he’s a nice little boy, even though we seem to house him every weekend since the beginning of the summer break. And people wonder why Mother was stressed out.

Breakfast with a 2-year-old was a challenge, especially if said toddler refuses to eat, unless you share one plate. While the kitchen table was littered with various foods, sweetened and non-sweetened, he was the first to leave the table in search for new adventures and mischief.

            As Nadia stealthily hurried out of the kitchen, closing the door behind her, I turned to Grandfather: “I thought he wasn’t supposed to be here today”. He didn’t look up from his meal but mumbled something about asking Grandmother. I had a rather impressive list of chores today, but of course Mother did not factor in a toddler who needed to be the centre of attention, when she made me head of Grandmother’s birthday-planning-committee.

Every year it’s the same drama. The well rehearsed line from last year, and the year before that, seems to be all but forgotten buried deeply under the excitement. As if Grandmother wanted to say I’ve made it another year, let’s get all together and celebrate. Her vow to not celebrate anything anymore, is actually code for, the more the merrier. It took us a while to understand that, but than again, we should have known right from the get go, you can take nothing in this family face value. It all could have been so easy this year. Originally the plan was to host a small family get-together with coffee and cookies. The week after her birthday my grandparents would have occasion to celebrate their 65^th wedding anniversary, not a party they would want to miss. The major would want to be there, a simplified cliché version of their romantic love story would be printed in both regional daily papers and the minister would send a calendar.

But by the time grandma’s big day had rolled around she decided Carpe Diem, why would I be interested in what I said yesterday, let’s celebrate. So her second oldest son and his wife came a day early to help clear the deck. That day Grandma’s obsession with cleanliness was only rivalled by her obsession with baking cake. So while Edmund and Marianne cleaned the house from top to bottom, I was drafted to kitchen duty. In the end it came down to six different cakes – Viennese chocolate cake, two different apple tarts, crumble cake, cheese cake and a poppy seed cake with cherries – unfortunately one more difficult than the other, especially, if you are forced to improvise on the receipts. I distinctly remember grandma stressed, this year will not be a big affair. The first guests arrived at two in the afternoon and the last ones left happily toasted at 9.30 at night. Compared to that my birthday celebration was a relatively Spartan affair, we didn’t even bother with one cake let alone six. Granted I was not in the mood to celebrate and Mother always liked to repeat the mantra, you don’t go anywhere than why should people come to your big day. Then again, 32 weeks out of 52 I am just not at home to celebrate with anyone. So at one point right around my 18^th birthday we just stopped ushering invitations, people stopped coming and I was supposed to be ok with that. This year Father was there, Nate and Nadia stopped by, I got a call from my godmother and a ton of e-mails from my acquaintances.         I do understand Mother’s reluctance to celebrate my birthday, she reluctantly invites guests to her own party and with all the extravaganza grams usually insists on, planning two parties, this year three, would stress her out to no end.

            This year Mother was lucky enough grandmother did not wish for two separate parties – one on her actual birthday and the other on the following Saturday – so she had to work and I had to bake, organize and serve. Being the perfect hostess slash maid is probably trained behaviour. May I take your coat? Please do be seated. May I offer you something to drink? I remember to smile a lot, nodding here and there at some innate comment, usually we talk about the weather. Indeed, it’s unnaturally warm these past weeks. While they make you feel like a snobbish servant, you try not to lose an overview of the entire affair. Grandmother has long since given up to greet her guests or take care of their needs, even Aunt Marianne enjoys her role as guest better than that of the helping hand. She’s got it all under control, there is a certain hint of derisive pride in her voice. And while Marianne is actually my godmother I never really warmed to her. Usually she makes me feel inadequate, somehow she is disappointed by my failure to do something or other. So I juggle bear for and coffee, cake and finger food, while topping of Uncle Edmund’s coffee, he takes is black, I bare his snide comment about being born for servitude. Mother usually excuses his sarcasm, that’s how he is, but he is the only one of my brother’s who once in a while asks if he can help me. The conclusion I will have to draw from mother’s lecture concerning family matters is rather simple, grow a back bone, say something witty or shut up and bare it for my sake because non of the other family seems to care about us or your grandparents unless it’s a celebration.

            While the family gorges themselves on cake and coffee, I ignore my stomach’s grumbling. As the old cuckoo clock in grandma’s livingroom chimes five o’clock, Mother carefully eases herself through the door. Her face betrays nothing until she sees me hovering in the background and a tiny happy smile steals itself on her lips. Maybe she was relieved this year, her daughter had taken her responsibilities, maybe she was happy to come home and find everything was still in one piece, maybe she was happy to see me, but where else would I be after I was expressedly told to help grams with the organisation of her grand feast. She does what she is told, grandmother’s odd comment the day before felt less than praise more like a slap in the face. The docile little servant girl was never the role I would have cast myself in, but of course grams would never think twice about giving her expertise on any given subject, education, politics, driving and me. I was one of her favourite practice targets.