David's Revenge by Hans Werner Kettenbach

Author:Hans Werner Kettenbach [Kettenbach, Hans Werner]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Germany
Publisher: Unknown publisher
Published: 2009-06-29T14:00:00+00:00

Chapter 37

Erika arrived just before five on Saturday afternoon on the InterRegio line from Halle. Julia and Ninoshvili met her at the station with her large suitcase and bulging travel bag. I had already set out for a long walk at four so as to avoid the hurly-burly of greetings that inevitably accompanied Erika’s appearances. There was no danger that Ninoshvili might want to come with me. He had started preparations for a Georgian banquet to celebrate Erika’s arrival and in farewell to Ralf, and he had already spent all morning on them. Julia had gone into the city centre with him to find the necessary specialities. Among other items, they had found some Kakheti wine, a case of six bottles. I didn’t want to know what Julia had paid for it.

I walked through the woods in cold, drizzling rain, trudging over wet foliage as I climbed the narrow path leading to the Mäuseberg, a densely forested hill. There’s a view of the distant rooftops and towers of the city from the top of the hill. But today the horizon was cloudy.

I was feeling chilly. I thought of the day when I first went to Halle with Julia. Erika had been waiting for us in the restaurant of the hotel that stood on a rise along the banks of the river Saale. She accompanied us to our sparsely furnished double room with shower, inspected the shower and the sheets, even ran her fingertips along the top of the wardrobe and found it dust-free. “I should hope so too, at that price!” I had gone out on the narrow balcony to get away from her chatter and her perfume.

Twilight was falling. A light rain veiled the opposite bank and the pallid apartment buildings of Halle-Neustadt, rising ahead like a mountain range. I smelled the acrid vapours of the coal-burning stoves which had told me we were in the GDR, as it then was, when we stopped for a rest in Eisenach. I felt isolated, shut out of everything the two women had in common; I heard them talking on and on beyond the balcony door, whispering and laughing. I still felt isolated when we were in the spacious marketplace that evening—four of us, because we had been joined by a thin, taciturn man whom Erika introduced as her boyfriend and whom she never mentioned again—looking at the dark walls of the Red Tower, before going into a crowded, overheated wine bar.

When I came back from my walk a warm cloud met my nostrils: the smells of the banquet mingled with Erika’s perfume. There were khachapuri cooking, warm flatbreads with a cheese filling, a soup called chikhirtma, made from lamb and seasoned with cinnamon and vinegar, and satsivi, which turned out to be grilled chicken with walnut sauce. I heard the sound of lively conversation in the kitchen. The two women were assisting the chef, who was hard at work in a red-and-blue checked apron. Erika kissed me on both cheeks, and Ninoshvili offered me a glass of Tsinandali, which they’d opened already to taste it.

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