quick as a flash, then they’d sit on the sofa in his living room, close together, he’d explain the infinity of numbers and Miss Kerner would recite a poem.
Thirty-three, eleven, forty-four years. A series that almost fit together. He leaned against the windowsill and saw Juli among all the other girls, lining up in several queues, raising their arms and moving their torsos, Mrs Bräuninger in front of them, the silver whistle in her mouth. He had invited Miss Kerner to dinner back then, but she’d just smiled and said, ‘How nice, thank you,’ and told him she couldn’t come. Somehow, even the pupils had got wind of his rejected invitation, odd nasty remarks now and then, ‘K and K, Kerner and Krein,’ his colleagues smiled about him and in his mind he drew huge circles, with a giant set of compasses, huge intersecting circles, and he had to calculate the area of the cross section. And now they were whispering behind his back again after so many years, a different school, a different town, gossiping in the staff room, ‘Fatty and Juliana, something’s not right there,’ and he saw her down there on the playing field, and when she raised her hands above her head she seemed to be waving at him.
He stood in his living room, not knowing how long he’d been standing there, not quite knowing what day it was, not quite knowing what time it was, still seeing Juli, her light blue tracksuit getting paler and paler, and he shook his head. He looked over to the window; it was still light outside. It was summer and the days were still long. Then he remembered the cutlet in aspic that had splatted onto the kitchen floor, and suddenly he knew there were exactly eight days to go until her twenty-first birthday. And then he knew why he was standing in the living room in front of his cabinet. He took a couple of steps towards it, turned the key and opened the small glass door. The class photograph and the dog made out of conkers. Ever since he’d stopped taking the bus to school, he’d often stood in front of the cabinet in the morning – he still woke up at the same time – and looked at the dog and the photo through the glass, not opening the little door. She was in the last row at the back. She was smiling. He picked up the photo, for the first time in years; he had to squint and hold it right up to his face – he must need glasses. She was smiling. He was standing to one side. His bald head was shining and he was red in the face. ‘My dear Mr Krein,’ the headmaster said, ‘my dear Mr Krein, you’ve been teaching your syllabus very well for years, you’ve been popular for years with your colleagues and pupils,’ the headmaster hesitated, probably aware that wasn’t quite true. ‘My dear Mr Krein,’ he started in again, and Mr Krein interrupted him – even years later he was amazed at his courage, but actually it hadn’t been courage, it was sadness, the onset of sadness, for he knew what was coming. ‘Please stop all this “My dear Mr Krein” business,’ said Mr Krein. ‘Just get to the point and stop it, will you just stop it …’ Then he almost shouted, ‘Get to the point, will you, for God’s sake!’
The headmaster flinched, leaning forward so their heads were almost touching. ‘It’s about the thing with the girl, Juliana. Her parents came to see me. Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?’
‘I’m not getting myself into anything,’ said Mr Krein softly. ‘I’m not getting into anything at all.’
He put the photo back in the cabinet and reached for the conker dog. As he stretched out his arm the pain came back, but he took no notice. He held onto the dog with both hands, took a few steps back and dropped down onto the sofa. Four times they had sat here. The textbooks and her exercise book in front of them on the table. A large bottle of juice and a bar of chocolate. She took the dog made out of conkers out of her satchel and put it on the table between the books and the
Thirty-three, eleven, forty-four years. A series that almost fit together. He leaned against the windowsill and saw Juli among all the other girls, lining up in several queues, raising their arms and moving their torsos, Mrs Bräuninger in front of them, the silver whistle in her mouth. He had invited Miss Kerner to dinner back then, but she’d just smiled and said, ‘How nice, thank you,’ and told him she couldn’t come. Somehow, even the pupils had got wind of his rejected invitation, odd nasty remarks now and then, ‘K and K, Kerner and Krein,’ his colleagues smiled about him and in his mind he drew huge circles, with a giant set of compasses, huge intersecting circles, and he had to calculate the area of the cross section. And now they were whispering behind his back again after so many years, a different school, a different town, gossiping in the staff room, ‘Fatty and Juliana, something’s not right there,’ and he saw her down there on the playing field, and when she raised her hands above her head she seemed to be waving at him.
He stood in his living room, not knowing how long he’d been standing there, not quite knowing what day it was, not quite knowing what time it was, still seeing Juli, her light blue tracksuit getting paler and paler, and he shook his head. He looked over to the window; it was still light outside. It was summer and the days were still long. Then he remembered the cutlet in aspic that had splatted onto the kitchen floor, and suddenly he knew there were exactly eight days to go until her twenty-first birthday. And then he knew why he was standing in the living room in front of his cabinet. He took a couple of steps towards it, turned the key and opened the small glass door. The class photograph and the dog made out of conkers. Ever since he’d stopped taking the bus to school, he’d often stood in front of the cabinet in the morning – he still woke up at the same time – and looked at the dog and the photo through the glass, not opening the little door. She was in the last row at the back. She was smiling. He picked up the photo, for the first time in years; he had to squint and hold it right up to his face – he must need glasses. She was smiling. He was standing to one side. His bald head was shining and he was red in the face. ‘My dear Mr Krein,’ the headmaster said, ‘my dear Mr Krein, you’ve been teaching your syllabus very well for years, you’ve been popular for years with your colleagues and pupils,’ the headmaster hesitated, probably aware that wasn’t quite true. ‘My dear Mr Krein,’ he started in again, and Mr Krein interrupted him – even years later he was amazed at his courage, but actually it hadn’t been courage, it was sadness, the onset of sadness, for he knew what was coming. ‘Please stop all this “My dear Mr Krein” business,’ said Mr Krein. ‘Just get to the point and stop it, will you just stop it …’ Then he almost shouted, ‘Get to the point, will you, for God’s sake!’
The headmaster flinched, leaning forward so their heads were almost touching. ‘It’s about the thing with the girl, Juliana. Her parents came to see me. Do you know what you’re getting yourself into?’
‘I’m not getting myself into anything,’ said Mr Krein softly. ‘I’m not getting into anything at all.’
He put the photo back in the cabinet and reached for the conker dog. As he stretched out his arm the pain came back, but he took no notice. He held onto the dog with both hands, took a few steps back and dropped down onto the sofa. Four times they had sat here. The textbooks and her exercise book in front of them on the table. A large bottle of juice and a bar of chocolate. She took the dog made out of conkers out of her satchel and put it on the table between the books and the
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