Text: smearing honey around his mouth

from bell, 24.05.09

‘Was schreiben Sie?'

She glanced up. The bar was so crammed with Friday night revelry that she hadn’t noticed him approach, pool cue still in hand. Was schreiben Sie...... What are you writing? Easy.  The answer took a little longer, but the words fell into place with the sudden jolt of clarity she loved.

'Ich schreibe meine Gedanken heute Abend’. Just writing my thoughts down tonight. She said it with a smile, welcoming the interruption and the rusty flow of German from her mouth. Berlin was a frisky minx at the beginning of the weekend, and she wanted in. 

He smiled back with crooked teeth, and pointed his pool cue toward her. ‘Ihr kleines rotes Buch intrigiert.’  Damn, too many adjectives....hang on...your little red book  -'

'Your little red book is intriguing” he laughed in English, turning off her tap of German with one swift twist. She was always embarrassed by the way her accent marked her instantly as an outsider, but hell, any conversation would be good tonight.  She slid her pen into the notebook to keep her space. 

She’d been in Berlin a month, riding the U-bahn with Nick Cave on her i-pod and the notebook on her lap, taking German lessons at the local college and putting down one tentative root at a time. But language needs ebb and flow to fully develop, and so she’d brought her books to this cosy bar on Boxhagener Platz, where the bar wenches with gingham and cherry tattoos made her feel she could be home in Melbourne, and the dark beer was rich and heavy. And where men with crooked teeth and Black Flag T-shirts were intrigued by her ink.

'I’m a chronic eavesdropper” she grinned at him. 'Keeps my German fresh.'

'What was the last thing you heard?'  He leant forward and tried to peer into the folds of her book, making her slam it closed with a laugh.

'Well, I could use your help, actually. I swear I heard that guy over there' – she nodded discreetly at a man with a sly smile and rings on every finger – 'say something about smearing honey around his mouth?'

Those teeth flashed again. 'Ah, it’s an idiom; something like ‘don’t butter me up’, don’t flatter me needlessly. It’s our equivalent....both are pretty strange, now I think of it.  What else has captured your attention?' This time the glance over her shoulder was more surreptitious, as though he could absorb the words through the cover alone.

'Well, someone in the corner booth called the barmaid a ‘Zaubermaus’..... but doesn’t that mean ‘magic mouse’?'

His laugh was deep, coming from the back of his throat, and she found herself smiling at the lines around his eyes. 'It’s something you call your girl, a term of endearment. Like....how do you say.....sweetie pie? Something like that?'

'And they say Germans aren’t romantic, hey? God, I love this language! So many quirky turns of phrase.'

'Well then, I shouldn’t tell you our word for meerkats.'

She tilted her head to the side and arched an eyebrow.

'Erdmännchen' said with a rueful shrug.

It took a moment for her to translate, but when she had it, she choked on a mouthful of beer and had to lean on the bar for support. 'Little earth men! Oh my god, this just gets better and better. Nothing like words to make me shine.'

He took a pull on his beer bottle for courage, and cleared his throat. 'In that case, maybe you’d be interested in Bebelplatz tomorrow. It’s the square near Unter Den Linden, where the Nazis burned the books.'

She nodded, a frown creasing her forehead and her hand resting on the notebook. She knew Bebelplatz well, and was often drawn there, to a park bench opposite St Hedwig’s Cathedral where she’d sit with a cup of black coffee and feed the birds burnished flakes of gingerbread from a waxy paper bag. Sometimes, she imagined the smell of burning paper carried across the square, and the ominous clouds of smoke that had risen high into the Berlin night.  Often, she’d find herself daydreaming there until dusk fell and the birds had flown.

'It’s the anniversary of the burnings' he continued, 'and each year writers hold a memorial. You bring candles, words of your own or those of others, and sit around reading to each other. Friends of mine are poets, they go every year, and I’m going with them tomorrow.'  He cleared his throat again, but the beer bottle was empty. 'You’re welcome to come along...if you’re interested, that is?'

He didn’t get back to his pool game that evening, and she didn’t write more in her notebook. She did, however, learn the glorious word Torschlusspanik, the panic brought on by the feeling that life is passing you by, and he managed to get several AC/DC lyrics translated. And as she left with their meeting place the next day inscribed in the palm of her hand, he called out one last comment as the bar door opened.

'Auf wiedersehen.....magic mouse.'

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Tags

• Writing
• berlin
• city nights
• language

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