Biology

One more of these letters – handwritten in that ink on that paper, but I’ve typed it up.

My very dear Peter,

Thank you for your last long letter. For me too, the visit was something big. Too short. Our relationship is something different now. Your typing is getting very good. Perhaps I can employ you to type my thesis. It is going to be a lot of work but it looks as if it may be accepted towards a Masters. They do not yet call a degree a Mistress of Literature (or Letters) even though my subject might well be a close look at the language used by ‘The Mistress Of Irony’. So maybe you will be my sexy secretary and sit on my knee. My body is back to being bony again, so it might not be comfortable. No, I have not gone back to smoking. I have joined the rowing club. We meet every other day, after school. We are all quite serious. Perhaps that is what you would expect.

I like the way you describe your schooling. Your teachers. The history you were taught and the history you were not. I’m glad you didn’t try to steal the Stone of Destiny back when you were twelve years old. We should make a film about it in the style of Whisky Galore.

You did make me laugh when you said how you found your strict lady schoolteachers sexy. Very, very British. I did not know the Scots were like that too – I thought only English public schoolboys. But I will make you a promise now, Peter MacAulay. You will never persuade me to dress up for you in any way. You must take me as I am or not at all. But so far I must say you do seem to be just a little excited by a bare naked woman. Even if she is not blonde and does not have big breasts like in the Carry On films. Do you think I could pass a test on British culture? Have you thought about corresponding with a French woman? I think they like dressing up a bit more.

But I hope you don’t dare. Will you teach me to catch fish if I teach you to sail? Can we make a handshake on that. Very British again. See – I am learning.

To be more serious, your letter reminded me of a schoolteacher, here in Germany. He is probably still alive. He might even still be teaching. I hope not. I cannot write like Ms Austen but I will try to describe him.

This man always wore a brown tracksuit. It had a metal zip and tight cuffs. It looked like wool or cotton, something like that, from an older time, not nylon. Already everyone was wearing modern materials, polyester and strong colours, blues or reds. This tracksuit reminded me of something I’d seen before, in films. You could not be certain of the time exactly. He wore it every season, every year. Perhaps he had many suits, all the same, like a uniform. All teachers were expected to help at Sports Day. When he stood beside the older pupils you realised how small he was. He seemed to be very fit for his age, with a build like my own. I’m not exactly fat now but you know I was very thin when I was younger. Then I grew up so fast and became tall and awkward. He had hair like a crew-cut in old American films.

He introduced himself as Maskulinski. The word for masculine is a bit different in German - Maskulinum - and you would say männlich for ‘manly’. So it wasn’t so obvious at first. But he told us, when we were doing Latin, we would realise what his name really meant.

The boys would get him talking about motorbikes. That was a guaranteed break from genes and chromosomes. A machine would last if it was well maintained. That meant you needed a system, a schedule with nothing left to chance. Lubrication was the most important element so metal would not wear against metal. He kept saying, ‘Ich und meine Maschine.’ It was hard not to giggle. Even at our age, it was obvious. What do you say – a penis-extension? But he could not see that himself.

He said, if you could dismantle and reassemble a machine, it could be immortal. Some parts would wear out but you could seek replacements. If you could not find the parts but were strong in your resolve, you could make them. Usually you only needed access to a lathe.

Did we know that the speed of nearly 280 kilometres per hour, on a 500cc BMW in 1937, set a world record that stood for fourteen years? He was very proud of this as if he had built the bike or driven it himself. Did we know that the shaft-drive system was so successful in difficult conditions that these machines could continue operating in the desert. Even the harsh North African desert. These were great days for German industry.

He must have said that so often that the figures became ingrained, the way you might remember a telephone number. The way I’ve heard you quote the weight of a salmon caught by a lady on the River Tay. You could tell me her name and the river. Maybe even the date, as well as the pounds and ounces. We could see him out, a few kilometres ride from the town, if the weather was good. He would gather samples, plants and flowers. So we would watch him go past. We could see the shining chrome and black leather of the BMW. It was an old model, with polished badges. He wore high motorcycle boots but he carried a selection of flowers and grasses tied to the rack behind him.

He taught geography as well as biology. He would describe constellations and say they could be seen as bodies relating to each other. He’d pick someone with a brown jersey – the Earth. If you wore a red top you would have to represent the sun. Whoever was left, wearing a contrasting colour – they would be the moon of course. He’d have you out in front of the class and arrange you, pulling you about so your relative positions would relate to the seasons. He would be passionate, arranging and explaining. He would hold tight to your jersey.

When we did genetics, everything would happen between black, longhaired rabbits and white short-haired ones. So, with black people, negative attributes were dominant, he said. It was a long-term process but good white attributes would disappear. Think of all that tight curly hair, girls, he would say. And he would turn up his nose, make a bad face.

We would pretend to be confused and say how we could not see what was wrong with tight curly hair. Think of Art Garfunkel, we would say, quite cute sir, don’t you think? And why exactly were black attributes negative? I do not quite understand, sir. Can you explain?

He would reply that we girls were to be careful. And it was not only black people. We were not to get involved with any Turkish men. Turks were only interested in one-night stands. It was not worth it. We would ruin our lives.

We asked him if he had been a soldier. Yes, he replied. But he would not give us any details. I think I heard him say once that it was the strong men in slight frames who survived.

When I think of him in the classroom I still shiver. And I can still see him now, on Sports Day, in that old brown tracksuit. But he was a different man when you saw him out on that beautiful bike, with its quiet and controlled roar. He would be riding like a king or queen, down the roads beside the farms with his floral arrangement, like a passenger, behind him.

Well, Peter, that was a surprise for me. All these words coming out. I hope I can still fit this letter in the envelope. It will have to go surface. But I am happy with our trade. Please write another of your strange letters. I like them.

Hugs and kisses, Gabriele