The Losing End - 1. Cheap Perfume and After Shave

Well, a kind of first chapter. Comes right after the prologue. I hope I won't get into trouble for quoting Tracy Chapman.

Cheap Perfume and After-Shave

Starting from zero got nothing to lose
Maybe we'll make something
Me myself I got nothing to prove

Tracy Chapman - Fast Car

Like almost every great thing, it started with music.

I remember sitting in the living-room, listening to music and letting the party drift by like the lulling landscape from the windows of a slow-moving train; I remember the smell, cigarette smoke and alcohol mingled with cheap perfume and after-shave, I remember the high ceilings with the stucco decoration (after the third beer, I'd spent an indefinite amount of time studying the stucco patterns); I remember the posters on the wall (most clearly Quentin Tarantino, holding a gun to his head in order to appear hip and existentialistic, and - even more important " in order to make his fans appear hip and existentialistic), I remember people talking about the FIFA World Cup in South Africa, it was the summer of 2010 and German patriots were running out of control, German flags everywhere, be for them or be against them, rumours spread that, after all, there might to be something to the theory of certain demographic groups sharing certain genes (a theory put forward by a an old man suffering from chronic contrition), it was hot and it was sticky, I'd been working in a warehouse all day and I remember the music, of course.

I've never been one of those who are able to let music pass unnoticed. On this evening, the music was surprisingly good. But, most of all, I remember Elena.

Like me, she seemed slightly apart from the rest but, very unlike me (I'm touchy as hell when I get the feeling that I'm being excluded; probably some protracted childhood thing), she didn't seem to mind at all. She seemed peaceful and content, listening to the others, sitting cross legged on a seat cushion. I can't say whether is was love on first sight, can't even say whether I believe such a thing existed. What I do know is that I found myself unable to take my eyes of her; most of all it was the peacefulness that impressed me and draw my attention, her unwillingness to engage in the usual bragging and performing, which seems to be a fundamental component of parties. She had dark hair (sometimes it seems to be black, sometimes dark brown, depending on the light), eyes almost as dark as her hair, huge eyes that seem to absorb everything in its surroundings, an impression that was strengthened by her passivity. She was frail and gracile and was wearing a casual dress. I felt the strong urge to put my arm around her shoulders.

I blamed it on the alcohol, I've had a few beers. Alcohol has a way of making me sentimental and more introverted than usual and I'm introverted and sentimental to begin with, even though I wouldn't have admitted it back then. Someone handed me another bottle, which I took gratefully.

Trying to distract my eyes from Elena, I scanned the room. There were about two dozen people in the apartment and I asked myself, how that was possible; it should've been too small for so many people. But it worked: One dozen was gathering in the quite big living-room, sitting in groups of three or four people, the rest of them had to be somewhere in the kitchen or in the host's room, whose name I had forgotten. I was having problems recollecting how I ended up there. It wasn't that alcohol made me forget things, it was just that it made my mind slow and lazy. Not an unpleasant thing, actually.

They even had a DJ, standing in the corner of the living-room. A few minutes ago I'd requested Springsteen´s The River.

“I'll see what I can do about it,” he'd said, as if it was some complex surgical operation.

But there was no way of denying it: My focus was on Elena. When I looked at her I realized she was looking at me, smiling only the slightest bit.

I felt that I was turning red and tried to pretend to listen closely to the group of three guys next to me. When I caught a glimpse of Elena again, she was still smiling at me. It was no flirting, seductive smile, it only showed interest and a slight bemusement.

I felt insufficient, a feeling I knew too well and I guess a central problem indeed for many people. At least I have a fashionable beard I thought, while wading through self-doubt and a puddle of beer on the linoleum. Clumsily I sat beside her, there was barely enough space on the cushion for two people. I noticed she had two different socks, same as me.

“Hi,” I said, reaching new levels of triviality.

Her smile broadened. I´ve become addicted to that smile ever since.

“Hi,”, she said looking at her toes and moving them contently like a cat stretching its back.

I took a sip from my beer.

“You want some?” I asked.

“Sure.”

She drank and gave it back to me. It was good old Heineken and she left her fingerprints on the cool, steamed-up glass.

“Why do you have two different socks?” she asked me, nodding towards my feet.

“Do you wanna have the cleverly constructed lie I tell to impress other people or the truth?”, I asked her trying to sound dead-pan.

“Cleverly constructed lie.”

“It´s an expression of my resistance against norms and conventions I regard as useless and conservative.”

“Hm,” she said, keeping a straight face.

“What´s your reason?” I asked her in return.

“I´m lazy”, she said.

“Fair enough.” I said.

When it wasn't love on first sight it damn sure was love on second sight. What can I say, she really got me, as the Kinks would've said.

Furtively I tried to catch glimpses of her face from the near distance. I noticed her dry lips which in a way made her all the more beautiful and her gesture of touching her nose slightly with her hand. Maybe she was uncertain too. Springsteen began singing about innocence lost.

I let out an involuntary sigh.

“What is it?” she said for the first time turning to me facing me directly.

“Well, you know, sometimes...” I trailed of.

“Yeah? Talk to me.”

“Sometimes, dunno, alcohol makes me kinda sentimental and then this song, you know, great song.”

There was nothing to reply to that, I guess. So we listened in silence and it must have been about halfway through Springsteen´s lament, she came the tinniest bit closer to me. Or was it just my imagination?

I know that sometimes memory is a tricky thing. Sometimes we tend to plate memories with a sweet, rather unhealthy mixture of nostalgia, wishful thinking and images borrowed from our favourite books, we romanticize, we make memories appear like scenes from a movie with beautiful actors, the perfect soundtrack and great camerawork and editing. And I am aware that I´m doing the same thing now. But, let me assure you: I don´t have much to do; only a little straightening out here, a tiny bit of leaving out there but mostly it's pretty straightforward, as Huckleberry Finn would've said.

We walked through the city, it must have been about four in the morning. The shops had their lights on, even at that hour hoping to attract customers to marvel at whatever they sold, it was still warm enough for t-shirt and jeans and the city was empty but for some homeless guys sleeping in front of shops, a few drunk teenagers and for the two of us. I found myself paralysed by the sight of a spider hanging lazily in its cobweb under a streetlight that made the web shine and sparkle.

“Have you ever realized that there are people living above these shops?”

Elena asked after a while.

She was right. Above each shop there were two or three other floors where obviously people lived.

We went for a while in a contented silence. One thing I've always liked about her was that she can fill silence with a certain warmth, which always makes me feel easy and comfortable.

We had no clear destination; subconsciously I had headed vaguely towards my apartment.

We walked close to each other, me all the while suppressing the urge to take her hand in mine. We walked slowly, taking deep breaths, enjoying the fresh air. Tomorrow will be another hot day. Suddenly I felt insecure; was she feeling bored? Did I have to do something?

“Elena, tell me something about you!”

Since the question sounded kind of harsh I added for ironic effect: “Special interests. Guilty pleasures. Favourite colours. Favourite brand of chewing gum. You know, all that application form stuff.”

She laughed. “You´re funny.”

“Only when under pressure.”

“You are under pressure?”

“Yeah.”

“Why would that be?”

“I´m walking through the city with a beautiful girl, that´s way smarter than me and, at, like four four am, you know, I´m really not used to that kinda situation, cause, you know, don´t wanna sound too pathetic and all, but most of the time I tend to walk alone, not that I´m complaining you know?”

Looking back, I´m not sure if I got it all right and accurate what I've said but it must have been something along that lines. I wonder why she didn't just turned around and walked away.

I saw that she turned slightly red; her face illuminated by the Douglas shop we were passing. Looking back, I think this is the moment I find myself returning to. Sometimes, not very often, there're moments when you're able to catch a tiny glimpse on something which is normally just out of reach, just around the corner, a sensation you strive for, but which is always one state of mind away, always gone when you're there. The feeling that you might sometimes get when you're listening to the exact right song at the exact right moment; pieces falling into places, tender and effortless and easy, instincts taking control over your body, thinking reduced to a minimum and mind open wide and ready to start.

“Strange. You look kind relaxed. I hadn't expected such insecurity,” she said after a while.

“I've heard that before. People tend to think I'm some kinda Buddha or something. I'm not.

What were we talking about? What´s your special interest?”

“Architecture.”

“Guilty pleasures?”

“The music of Toto.”

“Well, that´s okay. Kinda like them too. Favourite colours?”

“White and blue.”

“Chewing gum?”

“Those extremely sour ones.”

“Okay, now let me analyse your answers for a while.”

We walked in roughly concentric circles heading west, where the moon was sinking. We passed the city centre and entered a neighbourhood with mostly old buildings, where I had my flat at that time.

Of course, we talked about other things. I found out that her father worked for a forwarder since her parents came over from Russia, that they owned a “modest house” (her words) in a modest town a few kilometres away and that her mother was a housewife. She had an older sister, who was a lesbian. She mentioned this because this was one of the major controversial subjects within her family; especially her father was not too happy about the fact that his daughter was a lesbian. Russian men seemed to have problems with homosexuality, she said. I assured her that German men have problems with that too, especially with male homosexuality, whereas female homosexuality seemed to be some kind of manifestation of a wet dream. She sniggered at that.

She said that she was 23, three years younger than me at that time. She was working part time in a spice-factory after having completed her Abitur, intending to study social work in the next semester. Actually she just wanted to relax, but her father pushed her to work. Another Russian tradition, she said.

All the while she looked fairly beautiful. I liked the calm and reflected way she talked, the way she treated her father with a patient and loving clemency, but still being able to point at his faults. She still lived with her parents but was actually looking for an own place to live.

Eventually we arrived at my flat; the cobblestone-road lay deserted in the early morning, the moon was already setting in the west, in front of us, the pigeons had already started their agitated brawl.

I had not thought about how to proceed, I had been fully contented with walking beside her and listening to her. Now it dawned on me that this is the awkward moment, seen in countless movies; the moment were all the embarrassing stuff is bound to happen.

“You wanna come in?” I asked her.

“Yeah, sure,” she said.

Sometimes life is beautiful and simple.

I'm happy that I don't have to annoy you with this Henry Miller stuff: Longish descriptions of who kissed whom when and where and for what purposes, what I felt, when she did that or that. For one: I´m not particularly good at describing sex. For another thing: I didn't happen. We slept in a bed, alright. But we did not even touch each other but for a handful of involuntary events.

We simply undressed and lay beside each other. We had to share a blanket which I must've snatched after about five minutes later. At least she said so afterwards.

I slept until noon and watched Elena in the bright daylight coming through the windows; I had no blinds or anything, since I was an early bird, I hadn't mind putting any on. I remember breathing flatly in order not to destroy the moment. The moment passed and I got up to make coffee.

While the water was boiling, I had enough time to feel slightly ashamed for the mess that was my apartment. I shrugged that off, since I didn't want to spoil the morning by such burdensome thoughts. Mao, my black and white cat, looked at me from the cupboard, cosily between dishes and boxes of cornflakes. I fed him, trying not to confuse his dried fodder with my cornflakes.

Elena came into the kitchen while I was drinking my coffee. Her eyes were slightly swollen and she had put on her clothes.

“Do you know that you have the body of a sixteen year old boy?”, she said to me as she sat down.

“Kinda heard that before. Especially when I was a sixteen year old boy. But I hope a particularly muscular, well-trained sixteen year old boy?” I asked, making it sound ironic, but hoping for the best.

“Yeah, particularly,” she said, smiling.

“Why did you look at me while I was undressing?” I asked in playful indignation.

She waved her hand to dismiss the question.

“May it be, that you don´t enjoy talking about yourself? I know nothing about you,” she said.

“You want a coffee?” I asked her. She just looked at me, unwilling to be distracted.

I said: “Hm, no. I don't enjoy talking about myself. But I could make an exception for you.”

It wasn't supposed to sound arrogant, but sometimes I end up talking like some jerk. I was a good deal younger back then, is all I can say in my defence. I tried to be cool, sarcastic and in control, but, at the same time, trying to give enough clues that I´m not cool and sarcastic. It was walking on a tightrope and I happy that I'm done with it.

“Hm, let me think. Do you think we can enter some inquiry response circle? Would make matters easier for me.” I said.

“How old are you?”, she asked.

“26.”

“Do you often take women home with you to sleep with them in your bed?”

“Nope, not on a regular basis.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Do you have a boyfriend?”

“No.”

“What´s your current occupation?”

“I work for a parcel service.”

“Do you ask yourself why I came here with you?”

“Yeah.”

She hesitated, as if she was asking herself the same question for the first time now.

She talked very quietly now and she wasn't looking me in the eye anymore.

“I dunno. You just looked nice. And… decent, maybe. I felt good around you. I still do. You have a way of not putting people under pressure. And you're funny.”

All I could do was to stare at my hands folded on the table. I wasn't good at dealing with compliments; threats, accusations: alright, but compliments killed me. I was searching for something to say.

“Don't think that I think you are one of those girls who get taken home by every man.”

“What do you mean?” Her voice suddenly was alert, her look a tiny bit hostile.

“You're an idiot,” I thought, addressing myself.

“I'm an idiot,” I said, for once speaking what was on my mind.

Conversations can be minefields, people are full of tender spots.

She suddenly took my hand and held it in a surprisingly tough grip.

“No you're not,” she said with a sudden urgency.

“You wanted to be nice. It was nice. You got two nice hands. If you got a body of a sixteen year old boy, you got the wrists and hands of a sixteen year old girl.”

I couldn't think of a witty reply. So I kissed her.

Reviews

[Kaliope]

I kind of accidentally read the last line first and instantly fell in love with it. So I was hoping that the chapter would live up to it - and I'm so glad it did :-) Even though the setting is not necessarily my favorite, I just love well written characters, and this protagonist is awesome. The dialog is fun, witty and sounds perfectly plausible.
On a technical level I think I spotted a few minor grammar errors, but better have a native speaker double check that. You might also want to keep an eye on sentence length. In German a sentence with more than 30 words is not an issue, in English that's considered too long, at least according to all my correction tools and information sources (struggling quite a lot with that limitation myself ;-)). Also, I'm not too sure if a professional editor would give the parentheses a pass.
But never mind those nitpicks, I immensely enjoyed this chapter. I adore the characters and look forward to seeing more of them!

[Bobby Garfield]

Thanks once again for your review! That thing about sentence length has been bothering me for some time; there seem to be quite a few people who say that the sentences have to be shorter in English. I don't know, most of the time it is no problem because I also very much like short sentences but sometimes, well, I get carried away and end up with a rather long sentence.
But it's great that you enjoyed it!