SIDEWAYS IN LOVE

DO YOU THINK I LOVE YOU JUST BECAUSE I DANCE WITH YOU?

Back in Berlin, I have my first appointment with my gynaecologist. She greets me with: “Mrs.

Hönig, I read why you are here. If this isn't good news, well then, let’s take a look inside your belly!”

The ultrasound shows me a tiny little crumb, which the doctor says is about eight weeks old. She points with a pen to a pulsating point in the middle of the crumb that I barely recognize. The heart is already beating.

As I leave the practice, I seem to feel that someone is sitting in my stomach and is tingling and wanting to grow. Maybe it was the look at the crumb, maybe it was the doctor’s words; I actually smile on the way home. The people who come toward me look serious or even grim and some complain about a sidewalk that hasn’t been cleared of slush. I don’t care about the slush and the cold. I keep smiling and jumping over puddles. I’m 26 - as my doctor said, an ideal age to have a child. With or without a father. I can do it!

To be on the safe side, she wanted to put me on sick leave for two weeks, which is neither possible nor necessary. I take her recommendation not to fly for the next two weeks to heart. This also means a probably unpleasant conversation with Dr Schlun tomorrow, on my first day at work. However, I’d rather get this over with sooner rather than later. The flight ban is even a small blessing and takes away my concern that I’ll have to go to New York again in the near future.

The conversation with Dr Schlun is surprisingly relaxed. Of course, he’s not thrilled about having to fill my position at short notice, but he also tells me about his four grandchildren and his frustration at the fact that more and more women in Germany are choosing to have a career and not have children. In the end, he spontaneously decides to hand over the responsibility for the Midwest of the USA to a newly hired employee instead of – as I would have expected – employing the experienced Dagmar Dapperheld-Dängeli again.

None of my colleagues can make sense of why I’m now responsible for internal affairs, and nobody asks. Dagmar Dapperheld-Dängeli is suspicious and is probably pondering whether my resignation has anything to do with the business trip to New York. In fact, she emails me, with an unmistakably sarcastic undertone, asking if I had a pleasant stay in Brooklyn.

For a long time, I thought about how to confront her and whether I could address her pathetic rhyming directly. I’d like to throw the two letters on her desk, with my best regards, but maybe she’ll tear them up, shocked that she’s been exposed, and then I won’t have them as evidence. A milder, good start hasn’t occurred to me so far, but after reading the mail I have an idea.

I don’t go to the trouble of looking for a suitable work of art, and I don’t like rhyming any more than Dapperheld-Dängeli. The four lines are even worse than hers, but they serve their purpose. They shouldn’t do more. My answer is:

They fit among the poets,

like an ass under their noses!

If you have a problem with me, you can tell me personally!

With a beating heart, I send the email and wait for an answer. It’s a long time coming. Neither in electronic nor verbal form does it arrive on that day or on any of the following days. So I spend an unusually quiet week in which I familiarize the new employee with his tasks, tell him about the customers and partners and help him prepare for his first trip, which will take him to Detroit and Pittsburgh.

On Friday, I switch off the computer punctually and pack my things when my phone rings. The reception number is shown on the display, but it’s Dagmar Dapperheld-Dängeli on the line. Upset, she summons me to reception because someone there wants to speak to me.

Before I can ask who that is so I can look for the relevant documents if necessary, she hung up. So I grab my jacket, scarf and bag and leave my office. In the corridor flanked by separate offices and groups of desks, Ms Dapperheld-Dängeli comes toward me. She snorts as she rushes past me and slams her office door with a bang.

The two women behind the reception desk are on the phone, and when they spot me, they rush to finish the phone call. My gaze wanders to the person leaning against the counter. I almost tripped over my own feet.

My heart skips a beat in surprise.

Sam’s smile isn’t as bright as I’m used to, more subdued. A pair of sunglasses is stuck in his thick black hair. He has taken off his mid-length winter coat and tucked it under his arm. Under the black sweater, he’s wearing a light blue shirt. His hands are in the pockets of his jeans, which sit casually on his hips and slip over his sneakers.

What’s he doing here? This shoots through my head. And what do I tell him now?

“Mr Klingenberg,” I greet him formally and stretch out my hand because our usual relaxed manner would increase the suspicion of the two women behind the counter. “How are you?”

Sam returns both the handshake and the formality. “Fabulous. And you?” He puts special emphasis on the salutation.

“Very good too, thank you. What brings you here? Any problems with the new collection?”

“Absolutely not. It’s going really well.”

“I’m glad. Very nice. Really,” I hear myself say and want to throw up. This gibberish sucks. “So you’re here because…”

“I’m passing through and I wanted to say hello.”

Oh, well, we’ve just done that.

Of course, I can’t say that. I frantically search my brain for an idea of how to get Sam out of the company. “Mr Klingenberg, I have an appointment to meet some friends for dinner. If you like, you can come with me.”

Of course, I don’t date friends. I never had time for socializing in Berlin, i.e. finding friends. Actually, I wanted to go home and eat my boring sandwiches.

Sam nods. “Of course, gladly.”

During the ride on the S-Bahn, Sam and I don’t speak a word. Seeing him like this still gives me a sinking feeling in my stomach. My head is full of thoughts, but I can’t get hold of any, and my throat is tight. This situation feels so strange, so unreal. Sam doesn’t belong here, not in this world, and yet he’s sitting across from me on the Berlin S-Bahn in the direction of Kreuzberg.

Still, in silence, we go to my favourite restaurant. I look for a table and head for it. Sam follows me. We take off our coats, give them to the waiter and sit down. As Sam puts his elbows on the table and his chin in his hands, he not only looks serious but also sad. I should say something! And right away!

“I’m sorry!” I choke out.

Sam nods. “I thought so.”

“You thought so?”

“Your departure wasn’t the good German way.”

“The good way is English, not German. We’ve made it clear that the Germans aren’t smart.”

He wants to say something but stops himself because the waiter appears to take our drink requests. Beer for Sam, tea for me.

“Honey, that was just unnecessary…”

“I know that, but are you actually here to get an apology?”

“I’m here because I had a bad feeling,” he surprisingly admits. “You disappeared without a word. I thought I persuaded you to do something you didn’t want. I don’t want you to think I was trying to take advantage of your situation. I didn’t mean to.”

“I never thought so,” I reply, startled by his interpretation. “If I hadn’t wanted it, it wouldn’t have happened.”

Sam seems relieved but has more to say.

“I don’t want it to just go haywire.”

“It?”

“This between us. It wasn’t just anything.” After a brooding pause, he continues. “I know the difference between anything and something special.”

“How does anything feel?”

Sam shrugs. “Nothing.” As he says this, an expression falls into his eyes that gives me goosebumps and tightening in my chest. I can empathize with him and I remember exactly how it felt between us. It was harmonious, perfect, magical, wonderful, intense and real - but I won’t say it. How is that supposed to help?

I shake off the thought that Sam lives in New York and I in Berlin. The word behind this thought scares me: relationship.

Not only does it seem absurd to me to think about it after such a short time, but it also goes against my reason, my conviction and my imagination.

Luckily, Sam defuses my anxiety with what he now says: “I know you like me. I like you too and I think we should somehow... somehow... stay together. The time with you was really cool. After the disappointment of your escape wore off, I missed you. But I don’t want to miss you. There’s no reason why I should miss you.”

It’s strange and a little scary how much his words match my chaotic feelings.

“It wasn’t just anything, you’re right.” I take the menu and scan the dishes on offer. Suddenly, like a load lifted, I have an appetite again. I look at Sam over the edge of the menu. “I hope you’ll do me the honour of your company in my apartment.”

Sam finally smiles the way I know him to. “Are the hotels in Berlin fully booked?”

“I don’t know, but I insist that you stay with me.”

“Deal.” He takes the menu, too, but doesn’t open it immediately. “How are you really?”

“Actually, I’m really fine.”

“And the baby?”

“The baby too. I can show you a photo.” His smile widens.

“A photo?”

“An ultrasound photo.”

“Well, I’m curious.”

After we eat we drive to my apartment. The first thing I do is kick the pumps off my feet, glad to finally get rid of them, then I show Sam around - there isn’t much to show. I introduce him to the fridge and also the couch he’ll be sleeping on.

While he’s bathing, I go through my mail and come across a familiar envelope. I tear it open hastily and read:

Sweet Danaë, go to sleep!

be good for me

How naive you are and how blind,

half slut and half child.

“What’s going on?” Sam’s voice fills my consciousness as if from afar, and I look up.

“Bad news?” he asks, stepping closer.

I hold out the note to him. My voice trembles with indignation. “I’ve already had two of these and I’m slowly getting enough!” Sam takes the paper and reads it.

“You still have the others?”

I pull the two older letters out of the kitchen drawer where I keep various last-minute paperwork and show them to Sam.

“That’s crazy,” he whispers and looks at me in shock. “Any idea who wrote these?”

At first, the words choke. After all, it’s a serious accusation, a snitch, and an admission of involvement in an embarrassing catfight. However, my irritation wins out and I tell them about Dagmar Dapperheld-Dängeli.

I’ll keep it to myself that she’s in love with Sam and that this is her actual motivation, not so much the departure from the region, but in view of Klimt’s Danaë, Sam puts one and one together.

“The woman is crazy!” he says and puts the letters away. “She should see a therapist…”

Despite the annoying situation, I have to grin.

“A therapist, yes. But who should tell her that? Me?”

“Yes. You have to talk to her. She should stop this. If that doesn’t work, you talk to your boss…”

That would be the icing on the cake of embarrassment. Go to Schlun, show him these letters and tell him about my suspicions?

“With everything that goes with it?” I shake my head. “That’s out of the question. If he doesn’t believe me, I’ll be the talk of the company.” Sam raises an eyebrow.

He’s not convinced, insisting that I talk to Dapperheld-Dängeli. I have to promise him to do that first thing on Monday.

I promise it. Partly because I’m tired and I want to end this conversation, and partly because I’ve realized that I have to do something. As we turn the couch into a bed, Sam gives me examples of things to say, even threatens her with the police. My skull will soon be pounding. I hastily button the duvet cover, fluff the pillow, wish him good night and say leave for the bedroom.

Don’t think about sleeping. The longer I lie awake, the more restless I become. Eventually, I get thirsty and get out of bed. I scurry through the living room on tiptoe, behind which is the kitchen, to get water and a piece of cheese and a couple of gummy bears. On the way back, I catch a glimpse of Sam’s camp bathed in the incoming moonlight.

For a moment, I envy his deep slumber and want to sneak on, when he turns to the other side and smiles in his dream. As his lips relax again, I inevitably remind myself that not only do they look soft, they actually are. He stirs again, raises a hand and rubs his fingers over his temples. I want to sneak away when he blinks at me.

“Am I in the museum here?” he grumbles.

Whispering an apology, I turn to disappear into the bedroom, but this time I’m stopped by his words.

“You can’t sleep, right?”

“Not really…” I stop. “I was a little hungry and thirsty. Maybe it’ll work now…”

“Would you like to come over to my place?” He holds the blanket open for me.

I hesitate. I’d really rather be lying with Sam, but I don’t want it to happen a second time. He reads my thoughts, raises his hands and promises to keep them to himself. My hands will definitely stay with me too… no matter how tempting his proximity is.

I crawl to him. He tucks me in and wraps me in a hug, kissing my forehead and resting his head on top of mine. I nudge the tip of my nose against his throat to inhale his scent. It’s reassuring, as is Sam’s warmth and closeness.

“I should wait for you to fall asleep, honey, but I’ll probably just drift off to slumberland,” Sam murmurs.

“Hannah, not honey…” I murmur back.

“Your name is Honey, so I can call you that.”

“Since when?” I c**k my head back to look at him.

“Your last name… honey.”

“It’s Hönig! Not honey! The fact that you don’t have an Ö on American keyboards doesn’t mean that there isn’t an Ö.”

“Ö or O… it’s a jacket like jeans!”

A grin creeps onto my lips. “Jacket like trousers!” Sam really likes to mix up German proverbs. “And it’s not that.” I press my face against his neck again, but I can’t stop just yet. “And even so; I’m not giving you any weird names either, or trying to translate your last name.”

“It’s not just your last name,” Sam mutters. “But also your first name. Hannah sounds like Honey. Hönig sounds like honey.” He takes a deep breath and snuggles closer to me. “Honey is the obvious choice. But I can also call you Honey Bunny.”

Honey Bunny? Honey Bunny?

“That sounds like a s*x bunny in pink lingerie with pink plush ears on!”

“Yeah, really cute…” mumbles Sam. Then his even breathing reveals that he has fallen asleep.

Despite my slight indignation at the honey bunny, I fall asleep too.

When I come out of the bathroom on Saturday morning, Sam calls me over. He’s sitting on the living room floor with f*******: open on his laptop. I lean over the screen.

“Ms Dapperdings has removed me from her friends list.” He clicks on a message box. “And she wrote a message. Read it!”

I squint to make out the tiny characters next to my colleague’s charming photo. “Dear Samuel,” I read. “I’m very disappointed in you. Please refrain from any further contact with me. Yours sincerely, Dagmar.”

Sam looks at me. “She’s crazy, I tell you. Do something on Monday!”

My colleague’s behaviour is becoming increasingly uncomfortable for me. I’m ashamed for her and don’t want to know exactly what Sam thinks about it.

“Let’s have breakfast! I know a nice coffee shop near here. And then we can go for a walk around Berlin.”

Sam closes the laptop and gets up to get dressed. Again, I have to promise him to put a stop to the Dapperdings. He’s so concerned that it even briefly comes up again during breakfast and also during the five-hour walk that takes us through the wintery cold but sunny Berlin.

In the evening, Sam and I go to a club. He thinks it’s a shame that I never danced during the year and a half that I lived in Berlin. Admittedly, I didn’t feel the need but rather felt drawn to the bars and cabaret stages. Mostly I’d go there alone, to unwind from a busy day, twice for Just Borrowed performances.

Not only have I never been to a Berlin club before, but I’ve also never danced to RnB, which is why I feel like a lumberjack on the dance floor for the first hour and fear that I’ll be kicked out at any moment.

Sam dances near me. It’s easy to see that he has rhythm in his blood.

After the third long drink, his movements are fluid and it becomes a challenge not to stare at him. I’m not the only woman who notices him, and I feel a pang in my chest when Sam engages in a dance, albeit briefly, with two women who move with similar ease. It’s overpowering now, the lumberjack feeling, and I’m just about to leave the dance floor when Sam is with me, hugs me from behind in his arms, puts his hands on my hips and pulls me to him.

The current song, unknown to me, consists almost entirely of bass. The singer’s voice creates the melody - it amplifies the impact of the bass, makes it vibrate inside me and even makes my breath tremble. It’s suddenly easier for me to move; I just adapt to Sam, who is still behind me, and let him guide me. He strokes my arms, lifts them up and wraps them around his neck. As his hands slide down my sides, I lean my head against his shoulder and enjoy the heat rising in my cheeks.

We stroll through the streets glistening wet in the moonlight from the club to the S-Bahn. Gradually, my body temperature cools down to a bearable level. The cold helps, and so does Sam, who is tipsy and jokes non-stop.

“There’s something good about being tipsy,” he says as the front door slams shut behind us. “You dare to say and do things that you don’t normally say or do, even though it’s not right.”

My goodness! I think, what’s next?

First of all, Sam approaches - and is very close. As close as he was to me at the club.

“I’m very fond of you.” He gives me a cautious, almost questioning kiss on the corner of my mouth.

“I’m very fond of you, too,” I whisper because my voice is struggling at the moment. I want to add a ‘but’ but refrain from doing so.

Sam kisses the other corner of my mouth. His eyes are awesome! If I don’t pull myself together, I’m going to sleep with him right now.

“What happened between us that night in New York…” he murmurs, hugging me, “that was good. It wasn’t a mistake.”

That’s exactly what I’d always liked to think of it as. “Sam, you know…” I gently pull away from him. “We shouldn’t repeat it.”

“So you think it was a mistake?”

A step puts the distance between us needed in this situation. “No. I’m just…” Again, I can’t find the right word.

“Confused?”

“Yes. Something like that. A lot of things are going wrong right now.” Too frequent unscheduled s*x, for example.

And menacing letters in my mailbox. “It wasn’t a mistake in December; now it would be.”

Sam’s flight to New York is Sunday at noon. The thought that he has taken the long journey to spend a day with me once again triggers very conflicting feelings in me that keep me silent the entire trip to the airport. Sam is silent too. He sighs once and mumbles that he doesn’t feel like going to New York at all.

I don’t feel like saying goodbye but would like it if he could just stay for a while.

A little later, we stand in front of the check-in and say goodbye. My sadness, which I can’t hide, makes Sam smile.

He kisses my cheek and winks. “See you, honey,” he says and disappears through security.