promised. The rider ignores the requests of his less-privileged colleague. You don’t see these scooters in other neighborhoods anymore, Erika muses to herself. Once she got one as a present and she was so happy. Unfortunately, she couldn’t ride it because the street kills children.
The head of a four-year-old is thrown back by a mother’s slap of hurricane strength. For a moment, the head rotates helplessly, like a rolypoly that has lost its balance and is having a hard time getting back on its feet. Eventually the child’s head is vertical again and back in its proper place. But now it emits horrible sounds, whereupon the impatient mother promptly knocks it out of plumb again. Now the child’s head is marked by invisible ink and ordained for a much worse fate. The mother has heavy bags to struggle with, and she’d much rather see her little girl vanish down a sewer. You see, in order to mistreat her daughter, she has to keep putting down her bags, which only adds to her drudgery. Yet the extra effort seems worthwhile. The child is learning the language of violence, though not willingly. At school, she likewise picks up very little. She knows a few words, the most necessary ones, even though you can barely understand them among her sobs and tears.
Soon the woman and the noisy child are way behind Erika. After all, they keep stopping! They can never keep up with theswiftness of time. Erika, a caravan, marches on. This is a residential neighborhood, but not a good one. Fathers, straggling home late, lunge into building entrances, ready to pounce on their families like dreadful hammers. The final car doors slam shut, proud and self-assured, for these tiny autos can get away with anything, they are the darlings of their families. Glittering amiably, they remain behind at the curbside, while their owners hurry to supper. Anyone without a home-sweet-home may wish for one, but he’ll never manage to build one, even with the help of a generous mortgage. Anyone with a home around here, of all places, would much rather spend most of his time somewhere else. More and more men cross Erika’s path. The women, as if having heard a magic formula, have vanished into the holes that are called “apartments” here. They do not venture outdoors alone at this time of night, unless accompanied by family members—adults—to have a beer or visit a relative. Their inconspicuous but so necessary activities are pervasive everywhere. Kitchen odors. Sometimes the soft clattering of pots and scratching of forks. The first early-evening sitcoms seep bluishly from one window, then another, then many. Sparkling crystals to adorn the gathering night. The building fronts become flat backdrops, behind which there is probably nothing: All these birds are of one feather. Only the TV sounds are real, they are the actual events. All the people around here experience the same things at the same time, except for some loner, who switches to the educational channel. This individualist is informed about a eucharistic congress, provided with facts and figures. Nowadays, if you want to be different, you have to pay your dues.
You can hear bellowing Turkish vowels. A second voice instantly enters: a guttural Serbo-Croatian countertenor. Gangs of men, on tenterhooks, small troops, hurrying here in dribs and drabs, now turning left underneath the roaring elevatedtrain: A peep show has been set up under one of the viaduct arches. The space is exploited so efficiently, down to every last nook and cranny, no centimeter wasted. The Turks are, no doubt, vaguely familiar with the arch shape from their mosques. Maybe the whole thing recalls a harem. A viaduct arch, hollowed out and full of naked women. Each woman gets a chance, each in turn. A miniature Venusberg. Here comes Tannhäuser, he knocks with his staff. This arch is built of bricks, and so many men have gawked at so many beautiful women here. This little shop of whorers, in which naked women stretch and
The head of a four-year-old is thrown back by a mother’s slap of hurricane strength. For a moment, the head rotates helplessly, like a rolypoly that has lost its balance and is having a hard time getting back on its feet. Eventually the child’s head is vertical again and back in its proper place. But now it emits horrible sounds, whereupon the impatient mother promptly knocks it out of plumb again. Now the child’s head is marked by invisible ink and ordained for a much worse fate. The mother has heavy bags to struggle with, and she’d much rather see her little girl vanish down a sewer. You see, in order to mistreat her daughter, she has to keep putting down her bags, which only adds to her drudgery. Yet the extra effort seems worthwhile. The child is learning the language of violence, though not willingly. At school, she likewise picks up very little. She knows a few words, the most necessary ones, even though you can barely understand them among her sobs and tears.
Soon the woman and the noisy child are way behind Erika. After all, they keep stopping! They can never keep up with theswiftness of time. Erika, a caravan, marches on. This is a residential neighborhood, but not a good one. Fathers, straggling home late, lunge into building entrances, ready to pounce on their families like dreadful hammers. The final car doors slam shut, proud and self-assured, for these tiny autos can get away with anything, they are the darlings of their families. Glittering amiably, they remain behind at the curbside, while their owners hurry to supper. Anyone without a home-sweet-home may wish for one, but he’ll never manage to build one, even with the help of a generous mortgage. Anyone with a home around here, of all places, would much rather spend most of his time somewhere else. More and more men cross Erika’s path. The women, as if having heard a magic formula, have vanished into the holes that are called “apartments” here. They do not venture outdoors alone at this time of night, unless accompanied by family members—adults—to have a beer or visit a relative. Their inconspicuous but so necessary activities are pervasive everywhere. Kitchen odors. Sometimes the soft clattering of pots and scratching of forks. The first early-evening sitcoms seep bluishly from one window, then another, then many. Sparkling crystals to adorn the gathering night. The building fronts become flat backdrops, behind which there is probably nothing: All these birds are of one feather. Only the TV sounds are real, they are the actual events. All the people around here experience the same things at the same time, except for some loner, who switches to the educational channel. This individualist is informed about a eucharistic congress, provided with facts and figures. Nowadays, if you want to be different, you have to pay your dues.
You can hear bellowing Turkish vowels. A second voice instantly enters: a guttural Serbo-Croatian countertenor. Gangs of men, on tenterhooks, small troops, hurrying here in dribs and drabs, now turning left underneath the roaring elevatedtrain: A peep show has been set up under one of the viaduct arches. The space is exploited so efficiently, down to every last nook and cranny, no centimeter wasted. The Turks are, no doubt, vaguely familiar with the arch shape from their mosques. Maybe the whole thing recalls a harem. A viaduct arch, hollowed out and full of naked women. Each woman gets a chance, each in turn. A miniature Venusberg. Here comes Tannhäuser, he knocks with his staff. This arch is built of bricks, and so many men have gawked at so many beautiful women here. This little shop of whorers, in which naked women stretch and
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