‘I really don’t know why you’re so down on this place.’ Susanne held her face up to the sun and to the breeze that played unimpeded by shadow or obstacle on the vast levels of Wattenmeer mudflats that stretched, unbroken, from horizon to horizon. They walked where the sandy beach began to smudge into the glossy black of the mudflats. The wet, muddy sand seeped between the toes of Susanne’s naked feet as she walked. ‘I think it’s wonderful.’
‘And it has so much to offer.’ Fabel’s smile and tone were mock-enthusiastic. ‘Maybe this afternoon we can all go to the tea museum, or to the “Ocean-Wave Wellenpark” for a swim.’
‘Well, both sound good to me,’ she protested. ‘There’s no need to be so sarcastic. I think, deep down, you don’t hate this place as much as you pretend.’
Another group of Wattwanderer passed them and there was an exchange of ‘Moin, Moin’ greetings. These were more serious mudflat explorers, led by a local guide, and they wore shorts above naked legs that were sleek and black with the rich mud of the Watt. Susanne looped her arm through Fabel’s and drew him closer, resting her head on his shoulder as they walked.
‘No,’ answered Fabel. ‘I don’t hate it. It’s just the thing we all have about the place where we grew up, I suppose. A need to escape. Especially if it was provincial. I always felt that Norddeich was as provincial as you can get.’
Susanne laughed. ‘All of Germany is provincial, Jan. Everyone has their Norddeich. Everyone has their Heimat.’
Fabel shook his head and the stiff breeze ruffled his blond hair. He was barefoot too, dressed in an old denim shirt, a faded blue windcheater and chinos that he’d rolled up above his ankles. His pale blue eyes were shaded by a pair of sunglasses. Susanne had never seen Fabel dressed so casually. It made him look boyish. ‘Maybe that’s why fairy tales have endured in Germany longer than elsewhere – because we heeded the warnings never to wander far from the known and easy and comfortable . . . from our Heimat. But, anyway, this isn’t my Heimat, Susanne. That’s Hamburg. Hamburg is where I truly belong.’ He smiled and steered her gently around in a wide sweep until they faced the shore, where the colour of the sand changed from glossy brown to white-gold, and where the horizon was defined by the thin green ribbon of the dykes. ‘Let’s head back.’
They walked in contemplative silence for a while. Then Fabel pointed to the dyke ahead.
‘When I was a boy, I used to spend hours up there, looking out to sea. It’s amazing how much the sky and sea change here, and how quickly.’
‘I can imagine that. I see you as a very earnest little boy.’
‘You’ve been talking to my mother.’ Fabel laughed. He had been anxious, for reasons he couldn’t define, about bringing Susanne here; about her meeting his mother. Especially as he had decided to combine it with his weekend with his daughter. But, like the evening with Otto and Else, Susanne’s beauty, easy manner and charm had been as winning as ever; even when Susanne had commented to his mother that she still had a hint of a charming British accent. Fabel had flinched inwardly: his mother liked to think that she spoke perfect, accentless German and, as kids, Fabel and his brother Lex had learned not to correct their schoolteacher mother when she got an article wrong. But, somehow, Susanne had managed to make his mother feel as if she’d received a compliment.
They had driven here together from Hamburg. Susanne and Gabi had spent most of the journey making good-natured jokes at Fabel’s expense. The journey, and the weekend here in Norddeich, had pleased and disturbed Fabel in equal measure: for the first time since his divorce from Renate he had experienced a sense of something like a family again.
That morning, Fabel had got up first, leaving Susanne to sleep on. Gabi had headed off early into Norden, Norddeich’s ‘parent’ town. He had made breakfast with his mother, watching her carry out the same kitchen routines that she had when he’d been a boy; but now, despite her fast and almost complete recovery, she moved more slowly, more deliberately. And she looked frailer. They had talked about Fabel’s dead father, about Lex, his brother and his family and then about Susanne. Resting her hand on Fabel’s forearm, she had said: ‘I just want you to be happy again, son.’ She had spoken to him in English, which, since his childhood, had been the language of intimacy between himself and his mother. Almost as if it were their secret language.
Fabel turned to Susanne and confirmed her observation. ‘You’re right, I was an earnest little boy, I suppose . . . Too earnest. Too serious, as a boy and as a man. Last time I was here, my brother Lex said the very same thing: “always such a serious kid”. I used to sit up there on the dyke behind the house and look out across the sea, imagining the Angle and Saxon longships sail out towards the Celtic British coast. For me, that defined this place, this coast. I would face the sea and be aware of the vastness of Europe behind me and the open sea before me. I suppose having a British mother had something to do with it too. So much began here. England was born here. America. The whole Anglo-Saxon world from Canada to New Zealand. They gathered here, the Angles, the Jutes, the Saxons . . . all the Ingvaeones . . .’ He stopped, as if what he had said had taken him by surprise.
‘What is it?’ asked Susanne.
He gave a bitter laugh. ‘It’s just this case. This “Grimm” thing. I can’t seem to get away from it. Or, more precisely, I never seem to be far away from one or both of the Grimm brothers.’
‘I hope we’re not drifting into shop talk.’ Susanne exaggerated the warning tone in her voice.
‘It’s just what I was saying, about the Ingvaeones: “the people of the sea”, the children of Ing. I suddenly remembered where it was that I first read about them . . . Teutonic Mythology by Jacob Grimm. You scrape anywhere on the surface of German linguistics or history and you expose a Grimm connection.’
Fabel made an apologetic gesture. ‘I’m sorry. This isn’t really shop talk. It was just that I was talking to the author, Gerhard Weiss. He says we all think we’re unique, but we’re all just variations on a theme; and that’s why fables and fairy tales have a constant resonance and relevance. But I can’t help feeling that the Grimm tales are so . . . so German. Even if some have origins and parallels outside Germany. Maybe it’s like the way the French and the Italians have an instinct for food. Maybe we have an instinct for myths and legends. The Nibelungenlied, the Grimm Brothers, Wagner and all that stuff.’
Susanne shrugged and they fell into silence again. Once on the wide swathe of white-gold sand and dunes, they made their way to the enclosed wicker Strandkorb double seat where they had left their towels and shoes. They sat down in the shelter from the breeze and kissed.
‘Well,’ said Susanne, ‘if you’re not going to take me to the wonderful water world of the Wellenpark, or to appreciate the cultural riches of the Teemuseum, then maybe we should go back and take your mother and Gabi out somewhere nice for lunch.’