feeling braver, I go down to the front door of my house and I walk as far as the station, telling myself over and over: Katharina, don’t be silly, it doesn’t matter if the streets are empty, just walk quietly along and don’t think about all those things they write about in the papers, because the newspapers exaggerate everything, they almost seem to enjoy talking about murdered women and all that. But I’ve barely finished thinking this than I’ve turned around and I’m back home.
The other thing is that I feel a bit embarrassed going out for a stroll on my own. A neighbor told me I should buy a dog and that way when someone said to me: “What are you doing out for a stroll at this time of night?” I could reply: “It’s the dog, you see, I can’t let this lazy lump just lie around all day and get fat and ugly.” And the dog would act as protection too, because when it came to buying one I’d choose one of those specially trained dogs, the ones that go straight for the throat, a Doberman, or something like that.
If it didn’t rain so much in this city, that’s the solution I’d opt for, the dog I mean. I’d call it Clark and it would want for nothing, it would have rice and meat to eat and a comfortable place to sleep in. But the days here tend to be rainy and cold and it’s impossible to keep pets, and I don’t want to buy a dog only to have it fall ill for lack of exercise.
So I have no alternative but to forget about going for a walk and go to bed instead, but not to sleep, just to lie quietly and enjoy the last breath of the day from there. In fact I have my time very well organized. First I correct the exercises from the private math lessons I give the children. Then I turn on the radio and I read one of those magazines that tell you all about the love life of the Aga Khan and things like that. Daft magazines, I know, and terribly superficial, but just the thing when you don’t want to think about anything serious. Later on, at about two o’clock, I start knitting a sweater, knitting it or unknitting it, because I’m one of those indecisive types and I find it very hard to stick with whatever color or size I’ve chosen.
Even when the radio programs finish, I still find lots to do, I get on with my own things, with my knitting or whatever, in no hurry to go to sleep because, since I give private lessons in the afternoons, I don’t have to get up early. And anyway there’s the train, above all there’s the train.
I often deny it to myself but, if I’m being honest, it’s true, I am usually waiting for the train, and in the end I do what I do because of the train, that’s why I don’t sleep and all that.
The train passes through the city at twenty-five to four. Up to that moment I’m usually on the alert, listening to the noises of the night, the voices and sounds that have grown familiar through repetition. So, for example, the last bus stops on the corner shortly after three and its one passenger gets off, a man, it seems, who loves to whistle, and sometimes he whistles the same tune all week. Then, at about three fifteen, the street sweepers arrive. At half past three it’s the turn of the man I call Fangio, because he usually speeds by about then and the noise his car engine makes is first like a roar and then later, when he’s far off, like the moan of an animal that’s wounded or in pain. Then, at last, after a few more minutes, the train arrives.
The iron bridge warns me of its arrival. Up to that moment I can’t be completely sure, because you can be mistaken and confuse the train with the sound of the wind or with something else. But the iron bridge never lies, it acts like a loudspeaker, and, besides, the train makes a loud hammering noise when it crosses it.
Mostly it arrives on time, at twenty-five to four. But there are days when it’s late and then I can’t help but get nervous. I start counting every second, I listen as hard as I can, and even get up to look out
The other thing is that I feel a bit embarrassed going out for a stroll on my own. A neighbor told me I should buy a dog and that way when someone said to me: “What are you doing out for a stroll at this time of night?” I could reply: “It’s the dog, you see, I can’t let this lazy lump just lie around all day and get fat and ugly.” And the dog would act as protection too, because when it came to buying one I’d choose one of those specially trained dogs, the ones that go straight for the throat, a Doberman, or something like that.
If it didn’t rain so much in this city, that’s the solution I’d opt for, the dog I mean. I’d call it Clark and it would want for nothing, it would have rice and meat to eat and a comfortable place to sleep in. But the days here tend to be rainy and cold and it’s impossible to keep pets, and I don’t want to buy a dog only to have it fall ill for lack of exercise.
So I have no alternative but to forget about going for a walk and go to bed instead, but not to sleep, just to lie quietly and enjoy the last breath of the day from there. In fact I have my time very well organized. First I correct the exercises from the private math lessons I give the children. Then I turn on the radio and I read one of those magazines that tell you all about the love life of the Aga Khan and things like that. Daft magazines, I know, and terribly superficial, but just the thing when you don’t want to think about anything serious. Later on, at about two o’clock, I start knitting a sweater, knitting it or unknitting it, because I’m one of those indecisive types and I find it very hard to stick with whatever color or size I’ve chosen.
Even when the radio programs finish, I still find lots to do, I get on with my own things, with my knitting or whatever, in no hurry to go to sleep because, since I give private lessons in the afternoons, I don’t have to get up early. And anyway there’s the train, above all there’s the train.
I often deny it to myself but, if I’m being honest, it’s true, I am usually waiting for the train, and in the end I do what I do because of the train, that’s why I don’t sleep and all that.
The train passes through the city at twenty-five to four. Up to that moment I’m usually on the alert, listening to the noises of the night, the voices and sounds that have grown familiar through repetition. So, for example, the last bus stops on the corner shortly after three and its one passenger gets off, a man, it seems, who loves to whistle, and sometimes he whistles the same tune all week. Then, at about three fifteen, the street sweepers arrive. At half past three it’s the turn of the man I call Fangio, because he usually speeds by about then and the noise his car engine makes is first like a roar and then later, when he’s far off, like the moan of an animal that’s wounded or in pain. Then, at last, after a few more minutes, the train arrives.
The iron bridge warns me of its arrival. Up to that moment I can’t be completely sure, because you can be mistaken and confuse the train with the sound of the wind or with something else. But the iron bridge never lies, it acts like a loudspeaker, and, besides, the train makes a loud hammering noise when it crosses it.
Mostly it arrives on time, at twenty-five to four. But there are days when it’s late and then I can’t help but get nervous. I start counting every second, I listen as hard as I can, and even get up to look out
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