Funeral for a Dog: A Novel (10 page)

Is this what your research looks like?

The peculiarity of this situation: I’m standing in a puddle of water on the floor in front of the fridge, a small, pretty woman in a short green nightshirt is making coffee, and I’m watching her. What order do these pictures belong in? I ask, as if Tuuli should know such things (her bare feet). The passing thought that I won’t fulfill my assignment in such a naïve manner (the contents of medicine cabinets, the smell of Polaroids). Tuuli doesn’t answer, instead she sets the boy on a chair, opens cabinet doors carefully and closes them loudly, until she finally finds an espresso pot. She cleans it, searches for coffee, opens the fridge (another flood of condensed water on the tiles), then she pours some spoiled milk into the sink and curses in Finnish. She lights the gas flame. I observe her without saying a word (I never gave Elisabeth an answer either). Tuuli’s fingers are not at home in this kitchen and in this house, she keeps returning to the boy and reaching into his hair as if she doesn’t want to leave him alone here. I’m fond of her delicate movements, her tentativeness, her care (she and the boy belong to each other). Only when the coffee is on the stove does she turn to me. On the table in front of Tuuli her cigarettes are still lying in the same spot where she was sitting yesterday evening (I’m still standing in the same spot where she found me a short while ago). She takes the picture from my hand and hangs it back on the fridge. She lights a cigarette and tosses me a dish towel (her breasts under the green nightshirt). Dry your feet,
Manteli
, she says, wet feet make you sick.

The Hotel Lido Seegarten is beautiful

It’s the subtle condescensions of Elisabeth the successful journalist that I can’t bear, her didactic interjections and motherly comments on consistency, discipline, and tallying expenses. Elisabeth will stand up from her seat at the conference table and say loudly and clearly that she is responsible for the department, including the budget for freelance writers. We shouldn’t forget that (by which she means me). She will rebuke me professionally for the fact that the booked and prepaid stay in the Hotel Lido Seegarten has elapsed, and above all she will take it personally (then she’ll later want to forgive me my transgression).

Interview (Tuuli & Manteli)

my main informant

Tuuli’s smoking and looking at her toes. We’re standing barefoot by the large windows and watching the boy, we’re drinking coffee. Tuuli’s leaning casually against the pane, her toenail polish is chipped. The boy circles the dog, occasionally he shouts something I don’t understand. Elisabeth polishes her nails only in spring, she’ll be in the office now and will be asking whether I called. It must be about eleven in the morning, I have to leave in three hours at the latest, my questions are waiting, 3,000 words are waiting, my superior is waiting (the airplane won’t wait). Tuuli is breathing directly on the glass door, on her right and left the cigarette smoke is shining in the sun. She comes much closer to me, her hair still unwashed, the imprint of the pillow still on her neck and left cheek. For participant observation, it’s necessary to use all the senses. We observe the boy: he is now kneeling next to Lua in the grass. The dog has stopped coughing, he’s twice as big as the boy (Samy). The child touches the animal with all due caution. Is the boy not afraid of dogs? I ask, are you not afraid for Samy? Tuuli doesn’t answer, the dog doesn’t move. She stubs out her cigarette in the window putty. I’m sorry,
Manteli
, she says, turning to me. She looks up into my eyes and smiles (the last of the smoke in my face; it’s impossible not to notice her nakedness under the nightshirt, her small breasts). She’s sorry that she’s interfering with my work. Tuuli puts her hand on my chest. The boy is now playing with the chairs by the shore, he’s kneeling in front of the broken printer. No, I say, I’m sorry, if someone doesn’t belong here, then it’s definitely me, as a journalist and ethnologist in this private milieu I’m a foreign body. I just have a few brief questions for Svensson, as I’ve already mentioned, it’s about Svensson the man against the background of the children’s book (I’m talking too much). Tuuli’s reply: Poppycock. She takes a step past me and sits down on the large table in the middle of the room (I could have moved). She crosses her legs, takes another cigarette out of the pack, and lights it with a match. Then she undoes a hairpin and puts it down next to her on the wood (golden for blonde hair).
Okei
, she says, what do you want to know,
Manteli
? Well, I say, but then words fail me.
Karvasmanteli
?

Manteli/Karvasmanteli

Tuuli’s not the first. I’ve gotten used to comments and jokes about my name. My father was from Prague. My mother didn’t choose the name Mandelkern until after his death (patrilineality, matrilineality), otherwise I would have been born and entered in the records as Daniel Mandler. I’ve looked myself up: To treat epileptics in the first half of the previous century neurologists removed the amygdala (the
Mandelkern
), the part of the brain responsible for emotional attachment to things, people, and situations, but also for fear and panic attacks. The amygdala is almond-shaped (the Greek
amygdal
means almond, just as my last name literally means “almond kernel”). My father was a lawyer in the Ruhr area. When the first Carolina left me, Pfeifer laughed and said: What a kick in the nuts for Mandelkern! The otherwise unimaginative Hornberg insisted for years on my resemblance to Marc Almond, he spoke of separation at birth (the idiot still sings “Tainted Love” whenever we meet). My mother’s mother is named Röther, she was born Hülsmeier and is from Hamm, in Westphalia. My pediatrician laughed as he diagnosed me with inflammation of the amygdala when I was sent to him with my first acne (
Mandelkernentzündung
).
Karvasmanteli
means bitter almond. Elisabeth thinks that only characters in novels and journalists should be named Mandelkern. The name sounds like it means something special, she says, your name leaves tracks (I have to disappoint her).

Interview (author or illustrator?)

Tears and Blood

Half an hour later Tuuli is cursing in Finnish. She carries the crying boy into the kitchen and opens the medicine cabinet. The boy is bleeding from a wound on his hand, his light blue T-shirt is stained, but he calms down quickly as Tuuli wipes the blood off his hands and the tears from his face. Was it the dog? I ask, but don’t get an answer. I don’t know how I can help. In her anger Tuuli’s cheeks glow and her hands move faster (blood now on her nightshirt too). By the water the dog can be heard still coughing. No, Tuuli finally says, not the dog. It was Svensson. For years I wrote him e-mails, he read them and didn’t reply, then I announced our visit and when he got that message,
idiootti
, he threw his computer out the window. No more computer, no mail, for days no power: Poppycock, she says, Svensson wants to be alone here. Lua forgot how to bite a long time ago.

Le silence est l’aîné de la parole

Around noon Svensson is standing in the doorway again, sweaty, an army rucksack full of groceries on his back, in his hand a yellow children’s fishing rod wrapped in plastic. He ignores the blood and Tuuli’s nimble fingers, he avoids the bandage on the child’s hand. Here, he says, for tonight, to celebrate the occasion. Svensson bought bread, cheese, and wine (Taleggio & Barolo), he unpacks the groceries into the kitchen cabinets. Tomatoes, onions, peppers. Tuuli and I watch him. Svensson unwraps three fish from wax paper and lays them on the table, the eyes of the fish stare in my direction. He holds the fishing rod out to the boy:

Here, for you!

But the boy doesn’t take it, he leans on his mother’s leg and looks at Svensson. To celebrate the occasion? Tuuli asks Svensson, to celebrate the occasion? She turns around, takes the boy’s hand, and leaves the room. I’m standing in the entrance to the terrace, and want to focus on Svensson, on the questions I should ask him, on his answers. Svensson arranges his purchases on the table: fishing rod, cigarettes, three fish. What’s the matter with her? asks Svensson (the plastic-covered children’s fishing rod next to the fish, the bloody paper). Svensson lays an oleander flower in front of his still life. Silence is the older brother of the word (the fish is decomposing in the wax paper). Finally I ask: Are they self-caught? As if I were in Svensson’s house on the lake to talk about delicacies (as if I wanted to get to know him from the ground up). I don’t know what’s keeping me from asking my questions or simply leaving. I should ask Svensson to bring me to Lugano on the boat, I think, I could also set out on foot toward the village on the other side of the woods (Osteno or Porlezza). There seems to be a footpath, Svensson has just returned from shopping, and from there I could hitchhike to Lugano. Yes, he says, self-caught. In answer to my question as to whether we could talk now, time is running out, Svensson looks at me. Then he pushes me through the kitchen and out of the house. Come with me, Mandelkern, he says.

against himself

Do you play basketball? he asks. He fetches the ball from under the Ping-Pong table, looks at me, and turns to the sycamore. He shoots. The ball flies in a high arc through the air, falls through the hoop, bounces three times in the tall grass, and then comes to rest. Svensson looks me directly in the eyes: he’s stronger than I am, he made the shot. I could pick up the ball, I could say: okay, Svensson, here’s the deal. I’d have to make a shot to get answers to my questions (dramaturgy of sports). But Svensson nailed the basket to the sycamore with his own hands, Svensson has the home court advantage here (his house, his lake). I wouldn’t win here, my questions would remain unanswered. So I stand in the knee-high grass, searching for an explanation for my “no,” but Svensson has apparently not reckoned with any resistance. He pulls down the second half of the table (on it a swastika in red spray-paint). Ping-Pong. He always plays only against himself here, the Italians in the area aren’t suited to it, says Svensson, pointing to the swastika (the Italians must not like him). Svensson tightens the net. And the dog is ultimately no use as an opponent either, he says, brushing dry leaves off the table, the dog’s missing his paddle hand (my polite laugh). From the looks of you, it could be an interesting game, Mandelkern. Svensson positions himself at the table, under it two paddles and a yellow Ping-Pong ball (Schöler + Micke). Okay, I say, Ping-Pong, but I have to leave today, so it’s really important to go through a few questions, that’s the reason I traveled here from Hamburg, after all. My return flight is in a few hours. Best of three, Mandelkern, says Svensson. If you win, I’ll answer all your questions.

between the sets

It’s been years since I’ve held a Ping-Pong paddle in my hand, but I can play (five years Eimsbüttel Sports Club). Svensson wasn’t expecting that, and Elisabeth for her part used to take it as a joke (Mr. Mandelkern’s Ping-Pong past, she said, an endless back-and-forth). Lua’s now lying by the water again and coughing. I win the first set, we play silently and intently (the ticking of the ball a clock). Svensson plays close to the table and slams the yellow ball fiercely, in contrast I stand a few meters away from the table and return the ball slowly and with backspin. Svensson keeps track of the score. My shirt is soon sweaty (my luggage is waiting in Hamburg, Frankfurt, or Lugano). If Svensson mastered the drop shot, he’d have the advantage. I wonder if he can play against himself with such ferocity, alone against the raised half of the table. The 21–19—you–Mandelkern after the first set he states with pointed calm, sweeping a withered oleander flower off the table with a professional hand movement. He takes off his cap and wipes the sweat from his forehead, he suddenly looks distinctly older than his 32 or 33 years. This isn’t going to get me any answers, I think, I should let him win. Tuuli and Samy are lying on a rusty deck chair under the oleander and watching us. Svensson gives me the blue and apparently worse paddle. Changing sides means changing paddles, Mandelkern! I nod and let him regroup (I let Svensson hit one past me). I’ll give him the second set (be polite and get this over with). Svensson accepts my offer: he slams and slams. When I congratulate him on a successful point (14–7) and remind him once again of my questions (of his answers), he puts down the paddle and takes off his T-shirt.