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It had rained that day, but not a satisfying rain, not a rain that starts abruptly and pours itself out long and hard and passionately until it empties the clouds and fades to a drizzle and ends, leaving everything feeling refreshed and clean. No, this was an indecisive rain. It would start with a sprinkle and come to a drizzle, then stop. Then the air would grow thick and humid and sticky. After a while, the streets would begin to dry up, and it would begin to sprinkle again. No, it was quite a pitiful rain, indeed.
He lay there on the ancient quilt, which he told everyone was made just for him as a baby, which wasn’t true. He lay there and smoked and thought of the sweet young German girl who was not beautiful and whom he certainly did not love.
He began to think of the train ride to Cologne. He remembered the blue, woven seats and the luggage racks above and the wine vineyard-covered hills moving slowly past the windows as the train pulled away from its stop in some small village and trudged along the winding track, gaining little speed before stopping again. He remembered the small, crumbling castle, barely standing a bit more than mid-way up a hill. He thought of the people rushing on and off of the train and their strange greetings or departing words to loved ones, and the way she had lain her head on his chest, whispering a reminder of their stop before drifting to sleep. He remembered feeling content to glide with the train, slowly along the winding track, not caring if it ever reached Cologne.
A bottle crashing into the side of the building and the sound of drunken shouting pulled him from his thoughts. He slowly got up and unhooked the chain that held the window open and pushed it shut. One last gust of that stifling, humid breeze brushed his face, and he turned and climbed down from the loft and walked across the room. He turned on the air and walked to the large, almost empty refrigerator, retrieved a bottle of juice and climbed back up the ladder to the loft. Sitting down again on the bed, he opened the bottle and lit another cigarette.
Seven months had passed since his discharge from the army and his promise to the girl to return soon to Germany. Back in America, he had been determined to do just that for most of a month. He had begun to work and grew depressed. The money he had sworn to save for his return trip was easily squandered on alcohol and other useless things. Within a short time, he had gained a new, black Ford, the loft, a dog, and enough debt to secure his permanent residence in the United States. The letters to the girl became less frequent and then nonexistent. He thought about this and shook his head in disgust as he inhaled the cigarette and stretched out on the small bed, gazing up at the cement ceiling.
His thoughts slowly drifted back to Cologne. Once the train had stopped, he woke her and they walked together into the crowded street. The air was cool and sweet, and clouds blocked the sun. The day was pleasant. The street merchants lined each side of the walk strasse, and there were performers scattered about the square. He remembered stopping to watch the four-piece orchestral band and the chalk artists. He remembered watching the unicyclists juggle rings, and enjoying it until she pointed out with a laugh, that the old man on the tall unicycle wore nothing under his kilt. She laughed, smiled and held his hand, as he turned in disgust. They walked on together and enjoyed the wasted day. They stopped in a small corner café for coffee and dinner, eating quickly and in silence and then went out to the patio to drink coffee and smoke. It was evening then, and the merchants began to pack up and go home. The pace of the streets slowed and the crowds thinned out rather quickly as they watched from the patio table. Finally, they got up, and he held her hand as they walked along the street in search of a hotel.
The pain between his fingers pulled him again from his thoughts. He cursed and snuffed out the cigarette stub in the ashtray and lay back down.
He began to wonder how many lies he unintentionally told to others and to himself. He had never considered himself a liar, but he had certainly told a great many lies. He wondered if it was even possible to deceive oneself, or if a person knows himself far too well to believe all of that trash but simply wants to believe; needs to believe in order to feel justified or not so foolish or even to feel human. To be led on by others, he thought, is perhaps foolish or naïve, but self-deception is nothing short of vanity in its worst form. Perhaps truth, he thought, is found only in regret. He didn’t want to think about it. He tried to think of Cologne.
Once inside their room, they had put down their shopping bags and returned to the bahnhof to retrieve their clothing bags from the storage lockers there. It wasn’t too far, so they decided to walk. On the way, they stopped in a large restaurant to have a drink on the balcony and look down into the square. The merchants were all gone home now, and most of the tourists and shoppers had disappeared to the pubs and discos. The restaurant was somewhat crowded and only one small table in the corner of the balcony remained open. They ordered their drinks and hurried to the table before it was to be snatched up by someone else. The view was nice and the air refreshing. The waitress brought their drinks and scurried off to serve other patrons. She had a red wine, the name of which was unfamiliar to him, and he had a tall glass of hefewiesen. He had never developed a taste for wine. He remembered looking at her with the balcony lights behind her and thinking she looked radiant. He remembered leaning over and kissing her and feeling completely content.
After they left and returned to the bahnhof and claimed their bags, they walked up again toward the hotel, and it began to rain. The rain was sudden, and in moments, it was pouring down. The hotel was at least five or six blocks away, and they were running when a taxi turned onto the street. They quickly got inside and rode back to the hotel. When they came to a stop, he reached for his wallet, but she had already paid the cabby and was tugging at his arm to go inside. They were both soaking wet, and the rain was still pouring. He remembered showering and lying down with her on the big, soft bed and listening to the rain. It had been a glorious rain. He remembered lying there with her and feeling truly happy and drifting off to sleep. It had been a marvelously wasted day.
Now he lay there on the small bed, alone and far from sleep. He sighed and rolled over to look down at the dog sleeping on a rug on the floor. Germany was now a fantasyland and his happiness there, only a dream. He didn’t know what had happened or what was to come that would change his dreams. He was tired of lying to himself, but knew that he wouldn’t soon stop. The fond memory had made him sick. It was a reminder of his lie to the girl. He rolled over and tried to sleep. But he did not sleep. Instead, he lay there on the tiny bed staring at the ceiling. He lay there and thought of the sweet young German girl who was not beautiful and with whom, he now realized, he was pitifully and hopelessly in love.
Sour Grapes and Everyday Lies
That night, he lay there atop the covers on the twin-sized bed on the loft by the window, thinking. The warm, humid breeze brought in the noises of the freeway and the voices of the drunks as they passed. It had been a terrible, wasted day.
It had rained that day, but not a satisfying rain, not a rain that starts abruptly and pours itself out long and hard and passionately until it empties the clouds and fades to a drizzle and ends, leaving everything feeling refreshed and clean. No, this was an indecisive rain. It would start with a sprinkle and come to a drizzle, then stop. Then the air would grow thick and humid and sticky. After a while, the streets would begin to dry up, and it would begin to sprinkle again. No, it was quite a pitiful rain, indeed.
He lay there on the ancient quilt, which he told everyone was made just for him as a baby, which wasn’t true. He lay there and smoked and thought of the sweet young German girl who was not beautiful and whom he certainly did not love.
He began to think of the train ride to Cologne. He remembered the blue, woven seats and the luggage racks above and the wine vineyard-covered hills moving slowly past the windows as the train pulled away from its stop in some small village and trudged along the winding track, gaining little speed before stopping again. He remembered the small, crumbling castle, barely standing a bit more than mid-way up a hill. He thought of the people rushing on and off of the train and their strange greetings or departing words to loved ones, and the way she had lain her head on his chest, whispering a reminder of their stop before drifting to sleep. He remembered feeling content to glide with the train, slowly along the winding track, not caring if it ever reached Cologne.
A bottle crashing into the side of the building and the sound of drunken shouting pulled him from his thoughts. He slowly got up and unhooked the chain that held the window open and pushed it shut. One last gust of that stifling, humid breeze brushed his face, and he turned and climbed down from the loft and walked across the room. He turned on the air and walked to the large, almost empty refrigerator, retrieved a bottle of juice and climbed back up the ladder to the loft. Sitting down again on the bed, he opened the bottle and lit another cigarette.
Seven months had passed since his discharge from the army and his promise to the girl to return soon to Germany. Back in America, he had been determined to do just that for most of a month. He had begun to work and grew depressed. The money he had sworn to save for his return trip was easily squandered on alcohol and other useless things. Within a short time, he had gained a new, black Ford, the loft, a dog, and enough debt to secure his permanent residence in the United States. The letters to the girl became less frequent and then nonexistent. He thought about this and shook his head in disgust as he inhaled the cigarette and stretched out on the small bed, gazing up at the cement ceiling.
His thoughts slowly drifted back to Cologne. Once the train had stopped, he woke her and they walked together into the crowded street. The air was cool and sweet, and clouds blocked the sun. The day was pleasant. The street merchants lined each side of the walk strasse, and there were performers scattered about the square. He remembered stopping to watch the four-piece orchestral band and the chalk artists. He remembered watching the unicyclists juggle rings, and enjoying it until she pointed out with a laugh, that the old man on the tall unicycle wore nothing under his kilt. She laughed, smiled and held his hand, as he turned in disgust. They walked on together and enjoyed the wasted day. They stopped in a small corner café for coffee and dinner, eating quickly and in silence and then went out to the patio to drink coffee and smoke. It was evening then, and the merchants began to pack up and go home. The pace of the streets slowed and the crowds thinned out rather quickly as they watched from the patio table. Finally, they got up, and he held her hand as they walked along the street in search of a hotel.
The pain between his fingers pulled him again from his thoughts. He cursed and snuffed out the cigarette stub in the ashtray and lay back down.
He began to wonder how many lies he unintentionally told to others and to himself. He had never considered himself a liar, but he had certainly told a great many lies. He wondered if it was even possible to deceive oneself, or if a person knows himself far too well to believe all of that trash but simply wants to believe; needs to believe in order to feel justified or not so foolish or even to feel human. To be led on by others, he thought, is perhaps foolish or naïve, but self-deception is nothing short of vanity in its worst form. Perhaps truth, he thought, is found only in regret. He didn’t want to think about it. He tried to think of Cologne.
Once inside their room, they had put down their shopping bags and returned to the bahnhof to retrieve their clothing bags from the storage lockers there. It wasn’t too far, so they decided to walk. On the way, they stopped in a large restaurant to have a drink on the balcony and look down into the square. The merchants were all gone home now, and most of the tourists and shoppers had disappeared to the pubs and discos. The restaurant was somewhat crowded and only one small table in the corner of the balcony remained open. They ordered their drinks and hurried to the table before it was to be snatched up by someone else. The view was nice and the air refreshing. The waitress brought their drinks and scurried off to serve other patrons. She had a red wine, the name of which was unfamiliar to him, and he had a tall glass of hefewiesen. He had never developed a taste for wine. He remembered looking at her with the balcony lights behind her and thinking she looked radiant. He remembered leaning over and kissing her and feeling completely content.
After they left and returned to the bahnhof and claimed their bags, they walked up again toward the hotel, and it began to rain. The rain was sudden, and in moments, it was pouring down. The hotel was at least five or six blocks away, and they were running when a taxi turned onto the street. They quickly got inside and rode back to the hotel. When they came to a stop, he reached for his wallet, but she had already paid the cabby and was tugging at his arm to go inside. They were both soaking wet, and the rain was still pouring. He remembered showering and lying down with her on the big, soft bed and listening to the rain. It had been a glorious rain. He remembered lying there with her and feeling truly happy and drifting off to sleep. It had been a marvelously wasted day.
Now he lay there on the small bed, alone and far from sleep. He sighed and rolled over to look down at the dog sleeping on a rug on the floor. Germany was now a fantasyland and his happiness there, only a dream. He didn’t know what had happened or what was to come that would change his dreams. He was tired of lying to himself, but knew that he wouldn’t soon stop. The fond memory had made him sick. It was a reminder of his lie to the girl. He rolled over and tried to sleep. But he did not sleep. Instead, he lay there on the tiny bed staring at the ceiling. He lay there and thought of the sweet young German girl who was not beautiful and with whom, he now realized, he was pitifully and hopelessly in love.