By Karin Bachmann
WHEN the coffin was carried outside, they all stood there. Some faces I’d never seen before. Others seemed vaguely familiar. Like in a film, you knew you’d seen that actor, but in what role?
Years ago, this anonymity had almost killed me. Three blocks of flats, each with 16 four-room apartments, a playground and a party-room in the basement, plus a parking space guaranteed.
I moved here after Walter died. All of a sudden, our cottage had seemed strange, too crammed with memories and too big anyway. Our daughter lived in New Zealand and visited about once a year. Without Walter, I didn’t want to stay.
The playground and party-room caught my fancy when I went to see the flat on a Tuesday morning. The silence didn’t bother me then. The other people would be at work, the children at school. From my balcony, I overlooked the playground and imagined how I would carry down a table and chairs to drink coffee with the mums while the children horsed around.
And I often sat on that garden bench, occasionally talking to Walter, but mostly just staring at the daisies. There were only a few children. In some flats, you could see the telly flicker all day, sometimes from six in the morning. When the weather was hot, some children played on the balconies. At first, I tried to persuade them to join me in the garden. But they only looked down at me through the railings, like monkeys in the zoo peering through cage-bars, and whispered to each other.
One day as I sat on my bench, I missed Walter and must have been crying. Suddenly, a voice said, “Cherry liqueur.”
I looked up. A lady of about my age was sitting beside me. At first, I saw only her profile as she stared at the laundry door opposite. Ramrod posture, her hair tied in a severe-looking knot, old-fashioned handbag on her knees. Momentarily, I thought she must be mad.
Still, I dried my eyes. “I beg your pardon?”
“According to my grandmother, the best remedy for melancholy.”
She turned towards me and smiled. “Would you like one?”
I nodded, confused.
Abracadabra, she opened her bag and conjured a bottle and two cut-crystal liqueur glasses onto the bench, filled the glasses and lifted hers. “I’m Louise.”
“Rose.”
It tasted heavenly, and suddenly I had to laugh.
“Are you sure your name’s Louise and not Mary Poppins?”
“Quite. Why?”
I pointed at her handbag.
Louise grinned. “There are two Muffins inside as well.”
From that day, we often met for tea, cake and liqueur. We went on excursions and dined together on Sundays. Well-travelled, Louise had studded the walls of her flat with pictures from around the world.
“My Pedro died last year,” she said. “We had no children and hardly any relatives left in Mexico. I have family here, so I came home.” She snorted. “Everybody makes mistakes. It’s cold here.”
Louise told me how she’d med Pedro in Guatemala. She’d participated in an agricultural expedition. The freshly graduated agrobiologist had fallen head-over-heels in love with a daring botanist on the scent of a rare orchid. Soon they married.
Pedro’s people welcomed his bride into their family, but Louise’s relatives never accepted her choice of husband. Her parents even refused to attend the wedding.
It was great listening to Louise talk about her trips through South America, Africa and Asia. “In many warm countries, life happens after sunset on the streets,” she said. “You put a few crates as tables on the pavement, some chairs, and then the entire neighbourhood turns up. Everybody brings a dish or a bottle. You gossip, eat, laugh.…”
We tried to organize neighborhood-meetings, but nobody else turned up. We didn’t mind. We still had each other. Often, I wondered what the other people thought about the two Grannies who had picnics on the lawn and even used the seesaw or the slide if the fancy took them.
Louise and I remained friends for nearly five years. When she became ill, we transferred the picnics to a living-room carpet. Instead of our trips, I read to her. On the day she gave me her grandmother’s cherry-liqueur recipe, I knew she was ready to go.
And so we stood there on that Saturday afternoon. Louise would have found the hubbub amusing. At last, the neighbours showed some interest.
Her relatives took care of everything. I felt helpless and superfluous, another onlooker who watched the cheap coffin disappear into the undertaker’s car.
A distant niece came and handed me a bottle. “There was a tag with your name,” she said.
Through tears, I couldn’t read the label, but I knew what it was.
Then they took Louise away, and the neighbors went about their business. I gritted my teeth with determination. I remained fit and free to see the world. There was my daughter to visit, or Mexico. What fun to see Louise's country! This time, I wouldn’t wait for loneliness to kill me.
I only noticed two youngsters standing there when the girl asked, “You were her friend, weren’t you?”
“Yes.”
The boy said, “Your picnics in the living room were cool.”
His girlfriend, or what they call it nowadays, explained, “We moved in a few weeks ago. From our flat, we can see directly into yours.”
“I’m Sven, and that’s Mel,” he added. “We would have loved to meet you under different circumstances. You’re not as petty as all the rest. Would you like a tea or something at our place?”
Instead of packing, I found myself toasting with Louise’s cherry liqueur to old and new friends.
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