A Fairy Tale
The ceiling does not, however, offer any clues as to what happened here. Here and there are only spots where adhesive tape or wonder glue has been around for a while.
It’s late afternoon, but outside, because the apartment blocks are so close to each other, the shadow is already making a strong twilight. And closer to the time they came home. I always looked forward to their lives.
On the other side, and upwards, are the single windows and drawn curtains. Blinds that let in crackling light at night and show people that they are at home.
When they switched on the light when I was home, they were always there: I saw from the corner of my eye, he was making the room. Other times, I sat on the couch and looked at his beautiful wife as she looked down at the window.
You could look at their movements in that dull room for a long time, a place where they were dreaming together.
She dreamed with open eyes, shaping what she saw well and correctly. Making clouds, God left sizeable fluffy cotton wool. Then fly pigeons and crows and pelicans from colourful paper to fishing line at different heights. Until the sun was there later: a friendly, 60 watt shining under the clouds while it was out of winter.
Her stomach rounded, clouds were increasingly alive. Sometimes she looked up and then it seemed as if she wanted to say something to the clouds or ask something from God now that the sky was so close.
In the cold, it gets darker between the buildings even sooner. On the edges, crisp strips of blue remain for an hour or two of metal clear. Frames become one after another cosy glass fireplace as reading lights, ceiling chandeliers or flashers begin to flash. In the cloud room, the two farm more and more. The pelicans and pigeons fly without stopping or landing.
Now that night, one thing comes to my mind: A noise is waking me up. Struggling, I get up and limp to the window where reds, blues, and yellows are bouncing against the walls on the other side. I open the window lazily. I am pleasantly surprised by the white minibus on the parking garage roof with its roaring lights and party sirens like a trumpeting elephant — sound and light toll in the round. The view is on in the cloud compartment, but it’s not the room sun, it must be from the corridor. Air is cold, and I hear as if very far away, a door slamming shut. The low light makes the cloud room look like stormy weather. The pelicans and crows and doves hang black like anchors outside the darkroom. It’s a bowl of silence in which nothing moves.
Tires were screeching — the sound and light of the bus bend around the corner of the opposite building.
And off is the light. A phone rings somewhere, and a voice recording device goes on. Suddenly the sun burns where it hangs under the clouds. The neighbour pulls the pelicans, pigeons and crows out of the sky. He has fists full of darkness later. It was raining on his shirt and cheeks. It’s as if he’s bringing a storm to himself. Then the departure was over again. After this, I succumb with dismay.
For many evenings afterwards, it is dark on the other side. I just wanted to fall asleep when I heard a murmur outside and saw an orange glow. From darkness, a balloon of orange paper rises with patterns of pelicans and clouds, gently rocking upwards. A short candle burns bright green and amber flames at the bottom of the giant glowing lantern that slowly falls to the top like an enormous inverted drop of light. Already, I can’t see the motives. The glowing drizzle splashes sweetly straight into the night, and then a breeze hollows out of sight.
I dreamed of the balloon. But my memory of it is clear. It folded away from the black shading of the floor mouldings and made the building look like x-rays of ribs in the dim light. Are the patterns my own? Were they on the balloon? Who thinks something like that?
This morning, as the balloon rises even further in my mind, I try to write a story about my neighbours. I keep looking for the right story for them, also if it’s half a fairy tale. Paper was their building material for pelicans and cotton wool; all needed for fair-weather clouds. The sun is just a switch away. The winter was unreal.
I stare at the window, barely aware of the rain falling in strays on the entire wall and the window opposite my apartment. The surrounding yellow-grey wall today shows its old paint, an excellent network of cracks.
I lay on the bed and stared out the window at the ceiling in the neighbouring apartment. I’m trying to figure out where my neighbours can be. The dome offers no clues. Here and there are patches where adhesive tape or wonder glue was.
