Looking for a woman: Izvestia publishes an excerpt from Daniel Shpek's novel
Daniel Speck became famous as a screenwriter — his filmography includes such works as "My Crazy Turkish Wedding" and "Maria, he doesn't like it!". He made his debut as a writer only at the age of 47, but immediately won the recognition of readers and critics. His Bella Germania became the most successful debut novel of 2016 in Germany and was on the Der Spiegel bestseller list for 85 weeks. Shpek's new book, published in Russian by the Phantom Press publishing house (the book is presented in digital form exclusively on Litres), translated by Svetlana Subbotenko, is dedicated to the hippie era. The youth of German TV star Corinna and her husband Lowe fell in the 1960s, they traveled to India, where they met The Beatles, but there was some kind of mystery in this whole nostalgic story that affects the lives of the characters to this day. Even the daughter of Corinne and Lowe, on whose behalf the story is being told, does not know the truth. But she's determined to get to the bottom of it.
Yoga Town (fragment)
We searched the kitchen. The trash can is empty, the refrigerator is half full, and the vegetables are moldy. A sudden phone call snapped me out of my thoughts. They called a landline phone. Who can call so late? What if she is? What if she knows we're here?
— Hello.
Someone's breathing could be heard on the phone. Then an elderly female voice asked:
"Who's that?"
"And who is this?" I asked in response.
— My last name is Kirchner. I live nearby. I saw the light...
— Oh, I see. I'm Corinne's daughter.
—My God, I was thinking... Where is she?
—Well, we just came to check if everything was okay.
Lowe pulled back the curtain and peeked out into the garden.
Screenwriter and novelist Daniel Speck
— Your mother asked me to take care of the cat. On the weekend. And it's been three weeks! I don't even remember that, she was always very responsible... Lowe beckoned me over. A woman in a coat was standing outside the garden gate, talking on a mobile phone.
—I see you in the window," the neighbor said. "Can I come in for a minute?"
Lowe shook his head.
— Tell me, did your mother call or write to you? I asked in turn.
- no. And you?
"Not either.
"Do you think something happened to her?"
- no. Everything is fine. I'll call you, okay? Good night.
I hung up the phone. Lowe closed the curtain. He was grateful that there were no outsiders, and so was I. It was as if we were ashamed of something that had happened between us. And we didn't know what we were ashamed of.
"Maybe we should look at her letters." I suggested.
"Don't.
I put the letters on the writing desk in the living room. Corinne's laptop was still open, as if she had just gone out for a walk. I turned it on. Password protected.
"Do you happen to know her password?"
I turned around and saw Lowe kneeling in front of the music center. He lifted the cover of the record in surprise. "The White Album".
"She forgot to turn off the record player."
The blue light of the amplifier glowed alone. Lowe lifted the lid of the record player and thought about it. Then he abruptly got up, walked resolutely to the letters and looked through them. A request for a donation from Doctors Without Borders. An issue of Arte-Magazin. And a letter from the bank.
He tore open the envelope.:
"Read it." I didn't take my glasses.
It was the last statement from Corinne's bank account. Electricity and Internet charges, the usual boring things that didn't interest me. And suddenly — cash withdrawal. At the Hamburg branch, three weeks ago.
— She withdrew fifty thousand euros.
—What the hell."..
Terrible thoughts raced through my head. Blackmail, fraud, and all that sort of thing. I forced myself to think straight. Maybe she bought a car. And she went to the Baltic Sea.
Lowe tore open the next envelope:
— Read it!
It was a card account statement. I ran my eyes over a few lines.
— Yes, read it!
BioMarket products, cosmetics, medicines, dinner at a restaurant, clothes, books. Nothing special. And suddenly at the very end:
— Lufthansa. The ticket is for 1960 euros.
"Where to?"
— It's not written.
Lowe snatched the papers out of my hands. He flipped through the pages, trying to decipher the printed text, and suddenly he was dumbfounded.
—Damn it!
I looked at the piece of paper he was holding in his hand and saw the last line on the last page: 40,000 RS Deposit, Avis Car Rental, Delhi IGI Airport.
—India?"
Lowe stared at the white cover on the floor, as if it might answer my question. I got the feeling he knew more than he was letting on. It was a familiar feeling. India was our family legend. And a taboo topic. The year of my birth, 1968. Lowe and Corinne were hippies, went to India, met the Beatles there, and when they returned home, I was born. You could say it was a myth about the birth of our family. But even though the story looked wonderful at first glance, there was always a dark shadow on it. Lowe liked to embellish one part of the story— John, Paul, George and Ringo with flower garlands around their necks in search of enlightenment, and the other part— Mark, Lowe's younger brother—was better left out. They went to India together, but only Lowe returned. Lowe and Corinna never went to India again. They always talked about Indian culture as something very native, as if it were a part of us. At the same time, India remained a Pandora's box that could not be opened unless you wanted to be bitten by a snake living there. And now I have an uneasy feeling that Corinne's disappearance was not an accident. In yoga classes, I told my students that karma is the law of cause and effect. Everything that happens has a reason in the past and affects the future.
— What should she do in India? I asked.
"How should I know?"
I've looked through the rest of the emails. I opened one because the sender's name caught my eye:
Psychoanalysis and psychotherapy. PhD Friedlinda Osterwald Pestalozzstrasse, 11 10625 Berlin
It was a bill. For a week of sessions. There's a sticker on top, a yellow sticker: "All the best, see you Wednesday. F.O."
The bill was three weeks old.
There was something else in the envelope, and I pulled out a prescription.
- what is it? Lowe asked.
I tried to make out the name of the medicine and Googled it. SIOSZ. Selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors. It belongs to the group of third-generation antidepressants.
"Did you know about this?"
— No, she never said anything like that.
Six years ago, Corinna called me and informed me that she had breast cancer. It was said calmly, almost casually, and was accompanied by statistical data, so I didn't believe the worst for a minute. Even after months of chemotherapy. Corinna is not going to die, she is strong, she has always coped with everything, she will cope this time. And she did it. She was happy again. Carefree. Active. But there must have been some invisible trace. Or was her insouciance fake? Why didn't I notice that?
"She's taking something else, too," Lowe said, and ran around the room as if arguing with Corinne. — She has to undergo antibody therapy once every four weeks. In this state, she simply cannot go to India. Damn it! And he won't get pills without a prescription!
A pang shot through me at the thought that I would never see her again. It's unbearable. But I immediately chased her away. Corinne has always been reasonable, and it has kept her safe from misfortune—and now she is putting herself in danger. Maybe her fuses are blown, maybe she's punishing us for her loneliness, or maybe she's in some Indian hospital? And of course, he doesn't think about how we feel right now.
I unfolded the bill and resolutely dialed the Berlin doctor's number. A calm and cheerful female voice answered on the answering machine. I pulled myself together, introduced myself and asked to call back. Urgently. Thank you.
— Does she still have friends in India? I asked Lowe.
Instead of answering, he knelt down in front of the record player and put on a record. The noise of an airplane landing, and then the familiar intro. Back in the U. S. S. R.
— We were there when Paul played it for the first time, on an acoustic guitar. On Mike Love's birthday. Beach Boys style, chorus, do you hear? It's so cool, it's in the middle of the Cold War...
— Lowe. Does she still have friends there?
- no.
"Then why would she go to India?"
— How do I know!
Lowe went to the window and stared out at the garden, the music continued to play. I took out a tissue paper and rolled a cigarette. It's always like this: if the matter is urgent, he withdraws into himself. I left him and went to the second floor. I remembered a picture that hung in the bedroom. From India, from their big trip. The door was open, the bed was made. There were a lot of small photographs hanging by the window. Stages of her life. Black and white photo of Corinna as a child, Corinna in an Indian costume, Corinna on stage during the presentation of the German television award in the nineties, Corinna on her talk show, the Dalai Lama next to each other on the couch, Corinna and Michelle Obama in Washington. All that was missing was the yellowed picture I was looking for. Then I found it—or rather, the place where it was hanging. There was a nail in the wall. I've always been attracted to this photo because it was the only memory of India that Corinne hung on the wall. Lowe wasn't in the photo. And there was another girl. They stood naked, like the first people on Earth, in front of a waterfall. And they were laughing. There was no eroticism in the scene itself, in the looks of the women, or in the look of the photographer. My mother, incredibly young, shortly before I was born. The second girl had big eyes, short blonde hair, and a dreamy look. Like a fairy in a magical world. I felt Lowe's gaze on my back. He was standing in the doorway, not crossing the threshold of the room. I pointed to an empty spot on the wall.:
— Do you remember the photo from India? Lowe came closer thoughtfully.
"Who's that other girl?"
The fourth in that hippie journey, as the story went, was Lowe's first love.
—Maria,— he replied softly.
— They look like best friends in the picture.
Lowe said nothing.
"Maybe she took the photo with her."
"Or she just took it away."
— Where is Maria now?
He shrugged his shoulders.:
"I haven't seen her in fifty years.
"And Corinne?" Did they communicate?
"I have no idea."
— Could it be that she wanted to see Maria?
— Maybe she also wanted to see the Dalai Lama! Everyone, let's go home!
He turned away in exasperation and went down the stairs. Then the front door slammed. That's the whole Low. First he makes a fuss, and then he doesn't know where to put his emotions. I stared at the empty space on the wall for a while. It said more about Corinne than any of the other photos. I went downstairs, took the needle off the record, and turned off the record player. It became so quiet and creepy that I took flight.
Переведено сервисом «Яндекс Переводчик»
