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 65th
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 18th 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.
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