The sun is in mourning

The springtime glitters

We have slept away wakefulness forever

STANISLAV POPLAVSKY

I couldn’t get hold of anyone in Amsterdam; they had already moved on. The next morning, when Brilka went for a shower, I snuck a look at her passport. Her tourist visa was valid for another two weeks.

After breakfast, which took her an eternity, as I’d expected, she sat out on the balcony with her Walkman and her notebook and wrote.

I trusted her, left her alone, and went to my lecture. Aman hadn’t reappeared, and I didn’t know whether this was a good or a bad sign. He had to prepare for the tour, and would have less time now.

In the early evening, I persuaded her to go for a walk with me. She kept her headphones on and trudged along behind me with an air of boredom. The next evening, I took her to the cinema. She seemed to have a pretty fair grasp of English, and we watched a Hollywood blockbuster in the original language. I had been on the internet, researching other ways of getting her home safely. But the huge distance meant that a plane was really the only option. When I explained to her that her visa would soon run out and she couldn’t stay in Germany any longer, she shrugged again and retorted in her usual insolent manner that I was clever enough to come up with something.

In her regular phone calls with Elene, she talked about me and Berlin with exuberance, laughing repeatedly, as if her stay here were an entertaining holiday. She told her about her discoveries and the things we had done together with an enthusiasm she never displayed to me. She merely accepted all my suggestions, everything I showed or told her, with a nonchalant indifference, as if nothing in the world could impress her.

*

‘You can’t hang around here forever. You have to go back, go to school or your dance classes, or whatever,’ I said, making another attempt to persuade her over breakfast, a week after she had arrived in my apartment.

She peeled a radish until the red skin had disappeared entirely, then calmly popped it into her mouth. Completely ignored what I had said. I snatched the plate from her hand and stood over her, forcing her to look at me.

‘Listen when I’m talking to you.’

‘I don’t want to go home. I have to go to Vienna. And you either have to drive me there or let me go by myself. I’ll come back, don’t worry.’

‘How likely do you think that is? I can’t let you go to Vienna by yourself. And I can’t go with you, either. Nor do I want to have to look after you the whole time. As you may have realised, I’m not that keen on children.’

‘I’m not a child.’

‘Of course, you think you’re all grown up. Besides, I promised your grandmother I’d get you back in one piece.’

‘You always say “your grandmother”, you never say “my mother”.’

‘What does that have to do with anything? Are you even listening to me?’

‘I don’t have school. It’s the school holidays in Georgia and my dance troupe is still travelling. I’m free.’

‘But I’m not, for crying out loud!’

I slammed the plate back down on the table and left the kitchen.

When I came back to the apartment that evening, I found Aman on the stairs, his saxophone case beside him. He was reading one of the free advertising papers that had been lying around on the staircase, and he looked exhausted: the last few nights, which he had obviously drunk his way through, were etched into his face. I was sorry for him. I felt unkind.

‘What are you doing here?’

‘There’s a kid in there.’

‘Yes, I expect you’re right. It’s my mad niece, who doesn’t want to go back home.’

‘I was hoping you’d get in touch.’

‘Where’ve you been sleeping all this time? You really need an apartment, Aman.’

‘I thought I had one.’

I was annoyed; I got my key out and opened the door. He placed his saxophone case carefully on the hall floor. Brilka was sitting on the balcony with a plate of peeled apples, her eyes closed as she listened to her music. She hadn’t heard us come in and thought she was alone. She was swaying rhythmically back and forth, her bare feet tapping on the floor to the same beat. In ripped shorts, her long, thin legs looked like they belonged to a grasshopper. Her hair was standing up in tufts. Her deliberate effort at relaxation was almost moving.

I went into the kitchen with Aman, made him some tea, and sat down opposite him. It was a humid evening and our clothes were sticking to us. I wanted to take him in my arms, ask him to play me something, get drunk on the sight of him or on his music, fall asleep wrapped in each other’s arms with no promises, no plans, no admissions on my part.

‘I’m a bit overwhelmed by the whole thing,’ I said, when I had explained the situation. ‘I have to get her home somehow and I don’t know how to do it. But whatever happens, I won’t be able to come on tour with you.’

‘Bring her along.’

How I hated this naivety. Everything was so simple: he had a solution for everything.

‘She’s only twelve, Aman. Come on, I can’t just take her on tour!’

‘This isn’t because of her. It’s you,’ he said, taking a sip of his tea.

‘Aman, this is too quick for me, all this.’

‘Too quick? Too quick? How long have we known each other? How long has this thing been going on between us, Niza?’

‘That doesn’t mean anything. How long you’ve known someone. That’s something else.’

‘You’re a coward. You’re just a coward.’

He lowered his eyes ruefully. The way he admitted defeat so quickly was something else I couldn’t stand about him. This maxim that he hadn’t come into the world to change anything, but to make the best of it.

‘But we were fine. We had a good thing going.’

‘No; I wasn’t fine with it.’

‘My God, Aman. I always valued the fact that you spared me all this sentimental crap, and now you go and do just what people always do.’

He turned his oily eyes on me. I hated this look. This sad, all-accepting look.

Suddenly, Brilka was standing over us. She eyed Aman uncertainly, then strode up to him and put out her hand in a very grown-up way. She introduced herself in English. Aman seemed amused; he took her hand and shook it and said his own name as well. She went to the fridge and got out one of her bottles of Fanta, which I had bought in bulk and lugged up to the apartment. She drank from the bottle, scratching her knee with her left foot as she did so. She looked like a yogi practising a Fanta meditation. I couldn’t suppress a smile.

‘Is that your saxophone in the hall?’ she asked.

‘How do you know it’s a saxophone? Did you look inside?’ I snapped at her in Georgian. But Aman had already gone out, and came back with the saxophone. He beckoned her over and showed her some of the fingering. Then he let her blow into it. I took my chance and escaped into the bathroom; I needed to be alone, to stand under the shower. I was grateful to her for coming into the kitchen just then and ending that unpleasant conversation.

When I came back out, still damp, the two of them were standing by the door ready to leave.

‘What’s going on? Where are you off to?’

‘Down to Nollendorfplatz. We’re going to make some money,’ Brilka announced proudly.

‘What? What are you going to do there?’

I cast an admonishing glance at Aman.

‘She dances like a second Mata Hari, she says, so we’re going to see if that’s true. I’ll play, she’ll dance, and if we’re good then people will throw piles of money at us. And then your niece can buy cassettes and ice cream. That’s the deal.’

They were out of the door before I had a chance to object.

For a brief moment, I felt something like jealousy of Aman. It had taken him just a few minutes to make a connection with my niece, while she put me to the test every day, stretching my patience and strength to the limit. I got dressed, initially decided to stay in the apartment and sulk, but didn’t hold out for long and went down to Nollendorfplatz. I stopped at the corner, where they couldn’t see me, and watched from a distance. They had positioned themselves outside the entrance to the U-Bahn. He was sitting on a step, playing with such abandon that it inevitably drew me in, swept me along, as he always did, even when I was listening to him not in a large concert hall but in a dingy bar that stank of urine. At first, Brilka stood off to one side, looking nervously at the passers-by. Gradually she ventured closer to Aman. When he started up something rhythmical, she finally stepped in front of him and began to dance. Initially she was tentative and uncertain, a little self-conscious and bashful, but soon her tension vanished and she too was in her element, just like Aman.

Of course, what she performed wasn’t rehearsed choreography. She was reacting to his music with her body, becoming lighter and lighter, as if she might start to float, becoming freer, more uninhibited, until something like happiness spread across her face. Captivated by the unusual sight, I stood motionless, spellbound as I watched this ecstatic, oblivious pair, wishing I had the same means at my disposal for forgetting the world around me.

People stopped, applauded, threw their coins into Aman’s case. There was an intimacy about them, as if they had been in tune with each other for decades, their light-footed tightrope act floating between two worlds.

What did she want, what should I be seeing, recognising — guessing, even? What was she hoping to find in Vienna? What would this answer mean for me?

Thinking about it today, I can’t fathom why I didn’t see the fundamental, obvious thing here; why I asked her only the wrong questions. The question I should have asked wasn’t what she hoped to find in Vienna. The question was why she was here. With me.

Watching her, I tried with my whole body to stem the flood of images. I didn’t want any comparisons, parallels, overlaps. The longer I watched her, the closer the others moved towards me again. The dead and the living. And I stood somewhere in between, still not knowing to whom I belonged.

*

Later, the three of us strolled through the streets as she ate an ice cream, coins jangling in her pocket. She kept putting her hand to them, clearly proud of her haul. She walked a little way behind us, hopping over potholes, missing paving stones or kerbs. In Genthiner Strasse she caught up with us, walked beside Aman, and hooked her arm through his. He took a bite of her ice cream. She squealed in delight and pulled it away from him. She spent the whole evening trying to convince him to take their ‘show’, as she called their joint performance, to other parts of the city where there were more people. I didn’t want to spoil the peaceable atmosphere, and relied on Aman to take an adult approach. But he was already suggesting other U-Bahn stations that might be good for playing and dancing. Maybe they could test the waters with a little gig at the club where he usually played, he said; the audience there was open to anything, and his band were sure to be just as keen on the idea, and seeing as it was a Friday, they could go there right away. Of course, she was immediately full of enthusiasm.

My attempt to intervene failed before I could even begin. I didn’t stand a chance. I protested half-heartedly, explained that there were things called child protection laws and it was too late at night to drag a twelve-year-old girl out to some smoky dive. But she was already hanging on his arm and following him around like a faithful dog. I had no choice but to pack my things and trudge after them. It was the club where I had first met Aman, where he and his band played regularly. The other band members were clearly enamoured with this cheeky creature who immediately took over the stage, working out how big it was, and wanting to see the lights. In short, The Barons agreed to the idea and kicked off their gig. The boys opened with ‘Every Time We Say Goodbye’. I thought I could see a touch of fear in Brilka’s face, but she very quickly found her own rhythm, adjusted her body to the band’s beat and transformed the melody into pure joy. She was a good improviser. People clapped and shouted bravo. She bowed coquettishly and gave Aman a kiss on the cheek before leaving the stage. We went out to get some fresh air. Side by side, we stood at the door and listened to the boys for another few minutes; they’d got into their stride and were fired up by the crowd.

‘You’re really good,’ I said.

‘I know.’

‘Modesty doesn’t seem to be one of your strengths, though.’

‘Aman’s cool. He’s much cooler than you.’

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘You shouldn’t send him away.’

‘So you’re an expert on personal relationships as well, are you?’

She looked at me through narrowed eyes and puffed air out of her mouth.

‘Why are you grinning?’ she asked.

‘You remind me of someone.’

‘Who?’

‘Your mother.’

‘Really?’

Her pupils widened. Her powerful reaction surprised me.

‘Yes, you do,’ I told her, feeling more lenient.

‘I made these shorts from Mama’s old jeans. But Elene always says I’m like you.’ She gave me a probing look.

‘Does she?’

‘Yes, that’s what she says.’

*

Aman asked if he could ‘borrow’ Brilka for a few performances. She went down really well — she could come on tour with him as well. ‘As a kind of support act,’ he said with a laugh. Brilka had already fallen asleep, and I didn’t think any of this was a laughing matter. The feeling that my life had been turned upside down overnight was too powerful for that, and I had no idea how to undo it all; I was hardly getting any work done. I started to wash up. I didn’t want him looking at me with his pleading puppy-dog eyes any more. I never wanted to feel so cruel again.

‘Do you really find it so difficult to say what it is you want?’ He didn’t let up.

‘Come on, you can see I’ve got this kid on my hands. I can’t just drop everything and —’

‘On your hands? You should be glad she wants to be here with you.’

‘She doesn’t want to be here with me. She wants to go to Vienna, for God’s sake, and only she knows what it is she wants to do there.’

‘She says it’s to do with some songs. She wants the rights for them. It all sounded very plausible, quite a mature plan.’

I leaned on the sink, unable to decide who I should be more angry with — him, her, or myself.

‘You could talk to her about it. You do speak the same language, after all. She’ll explain it to you,’ he went on. ‘Of course she wanted to come to you, Niza. She was hoping you’d help her.’

‘Okay, have you lost your mind as well now? What am I supposed to help her with?’

‘Well, maybe you should ask her that yourself!’

Just then, I heard the front door click shut, and ran into the next room in a panic. The sofa was empty and her rucksack was gone, as were the trainers in the hall. I shoved my feet into a pair of sandals and ran out into the street in just the baggy t-shirt I slept in. Luckily she hadn’t got very far: I caught up with her near the U-Bahn station and took hold of her.

‘Where are you going?’

And as she turned to face me, I suddenly let her go. Her face was streaming with tears and her chin was quivering. I wondered whether she could have picked up on what Aman and I were talking about, despite her lack of German.

‘Brilka, what’s wrong?’ My voice cracked.

‘I’m going to the station. I’ll get the train home. I don’t want to do this any more,’ she mumbled.

‘You can’t get the train home. That’s ridiculous; you have to fly, Brilka.’

‘I thought …’

She tried to walk on, but I blocked her path. ‘What did you think?’

‘I hoped you … you would keep me here with you.’

‘Keep you, how?’

‘Oh, forget it.’

‘No, wait, please. Don’t go. Wait. I’m just … I’m not used to this. I’m overwhelmed. The job and Aman and —’

‘Maybe you should find another job if you’re so unhappy,’ she said, reverting to her usual condescending tone. She wiped her nose on the hem of her shirt and lowered her head, seemingly unsure whether to stay or go.

‘Why are you so desperate to get to Vienna?’

‘Because I want to secure the rights to Kitty’s songs for my choreography.’

‘Kitty’s? Kitty Jashi’s?’

‘Yes, who else?’

‘Okay. Kitty’s songs, then. Why Kitty?’

‘Because I’m her biggest fan on this earth!’

She shook her head incredulously, as if she couldn’t believe I had never noticed this. And no, I hadn’t noticed.

‘Okay. Okay. I didn’t know. Her songs, then. You want the rights to her songs?’

‘Yes, I want to be the only one to choreograph dances to her music. I’ve already written out all the individual parts.’

I took a step closer to her. She shrank back. Still undecided as to whether or not she could trust me.

‘Written them out?’

‘Yes — in my head it’s all finished, and I wrote it in my book, too, so I wouldn’t forget anything.’

‘But why Vienna?’

‘That’s where Fred Lieblich lives.’

‘Fred Lieblich?’

I remembered Alania — he had mentioned Fred Lieblich.

‘Yes. She knew Kitty really well, and she knows the head of the foundation in London as well, Amy something, who owns the song rights and —’

‘How do you know all this?’

Alania had mentioned Amy and London as well.

‘Er, hello? Are you actually listening to me?’ She rolled her eyes.

‘Okay. Okay.’

‘What does okay mean? Are you going to drive me there?’

‘You remember, in Mödling, you said you knew I’d come to get you? You said you knew Elene would phone me. What did you mean by that?’

‘What do you think I meant? I knew you’d come and get me and that then I’d be here …’

‘Here?’

‘Yes.’

‘So you wanted to come to Berlin?’

‘Everyone says you’re so clever. I thought you’d sort it out — the song rights, I mean. You could help me, if you only wanted to.’

Three days and several visits to the authorities later, her visa had been extended.

*

I tried to smile kindly when Aman and Brilka went out in the evenings ‘to earn some money’; I tried to keep to myself the comments about streets and smoky bars being no place for a child. I wasn’t one of her official guardians, and she made that abundantly clear to me, just as Aman made it clear that I had no right to tell him what to do when I still hadn’t decided whether to be with him or not. But I didn’t want to decide. I wanted to be carried along on the banal tide of everyday events, to walk with regular, calm steps alongside everyone else. To keep my regular rhythm, not let myself be thrown off balance.

I let her go. I provided food for her. I went on buying Fanta. I extended my route home, took detours, sat in a café for a while to read a newspaper and stay out of their way for as long as possible. Them and their expectations of me.

Brilka had been with me for two weeks when Aman packed up his belongings. She threw her arms round his neck and didn’t want to let go. When I went to kiss him, he shrank back.

‘I’m away for three months. The schedule for the whole tour is on the kitchen table. If you don’t show up, I’ll take that as your answer.’

He gave Brilka a bear hug, then went out, slamming the door behind him.

Again, I sensed my annoyance with him. What was the point of this unromantic ultimatum, what was this sentimental nonsense? Why did he expect something like this from me — didn’t he know that our bond was fundamentally non-binding, and that that was the only certainty to which we could lay claim?

‘Do you love him the same way you loved Miro Eristavi?’ Brilka asked me abruptly. She slid down the wall in the corridor and dropped to the floor, her eyes still on the door as if she hoped Aman might come back at any second.

Miro? What was all this? How did she know? Without giving her a reply, I stumbled back into the kitchen. She followed me.

‘Miro came to visit us once. He brought me sweets — I was still little. Elene told me you loved him once. But Aman is better.’

She took a bottle of Fanta from the fridge and went back to her sofa.