Blue Self-Portrait

signs of weakness and for the last fifteen minutes had no traction on my leg at all, slithering down to a crumple, first a millimeter-by-millimeter creep then a more rapid centimeter-by-centimeter and finally in one go from the top of my thigh to my knee, forcing me to bend at almost every step to pull it up again, hoicking my Elegantis up the whole time while continuing to walk towards the Sony Center instead of heading to Brecht’s house, restricting me to a hobble not only unnatural but also thoroughly ridiculous, to the extent that my need for a change of Eleganti was a good deal more urgent than that for a piss. Luckily I’d found a Woolworths on Friedrichstrasse where I bought a new pair of Elegantis and some souvenirs from Berlin for those who can’t remember it because they weren’t here, I shan’t ever forget it, on seeing the Nationalgalerie my first thought was not of the melancholy exhibition but of the Nationalgalerie’s toilets and I didn’t waste a second before heading straight to the basement, going down for no melancholy reason but entirely focused on resolving my hold-up situation. Was, in a way, forced to visit the Nationalgalerie toilets instead of choosing to visit the exhibition on melancholy, we’ll go another time, I said to my sister who while waiting for me had already begun to descend into melancholy, had instinctively got herself in the mood, don’t go down, I said to her and snatched my sister’s arm before melancholy could suck her into its depths, literally snatched her from the jaws of melancholy, no time, come on, I said to my sister, there’s nothing here for us because I know my sister, she and I had the same education, everything that runs through my sister tends to run through me too like this taste for melancholy and our fascination for what lies deepest. Come on, I’d already said to my sister, there’s nothing for us here, that day my sister was not in the least radiant but clung to my arm, dangled from me, was wholly supported by me who ought to have shone at her side that day, I’d literally snatched my sister away from melancholy, led my sister back to the family home before the body was carried to the cemetery and each of us had thrown our handful of gravel on top and pronounced our last goodbyes too late but for oneself one last pointless time, for my sister it was enough to see the coffin, Papa inside it and the candles on top, enough for her to hear Fauré’s Requiem, not Verdi’s, much more of a laugh than Fauré’s, that one really gets you plumbing the depths and keeps you at rock bottom from the first note through to the last, come on I’d said to my sister, leaving the church ahead of everyone else and leaving Papa stuck there behind us, the two of us leaving together arm in arm and singing happy songs all the way home, you couldn’t have found happier ones, listen to this, I said to my sister, it’s Charles Trenet no one’s ever done happier, Y a d’la joie is nothing beside N’y pensez pas trop, I was singing N’y pensez pas trop to my sister who was hardly thinking at all by now, she’d started to go back over this day of Papa’s burial, decomposition recomposes us one way or another, the pianist might one day have explained to the girl, that was in Brecht’s house, you have to go through decomposition in order to regain composure and face everyone again, everyone else provides the raw materials for composition, what’s left isn’t the unnecessary but precisely what’s needed, what’s left after decomposition is the raw material of composure, and that composition consists of reconciling what’s left, she was in practically the same state as Papa the day of the funeral but she revived while he didn’t, I held the spoon to my sister’s lips, one spoonful for Papa, one for Maman, one for you, I sang Trenet to my sister and set her back on her feet, made her do easy little walks in the garden until she was fit to take her violin out of its case, to hold the violin under her chin and herself against it, and to start to revive by playing, leaving the Nationalgalerie my sister was walking in the evening sun and glowing in the luminous decline, water has flowed under the bridges declared my sister who can read my mind, we can breathe more freely here, I was breathing in the fresh air, walking towards my tragic destiny on the arm of my sister who was also breathing, never twice in the same river, once is enough, that’s how it was I saw the tragedy ahead, no comedy of repetition in the tragic, we keep going and that’s all. I kept going with my plastic Woolworths bag in my hand and my sister on my arm towards the Sony Center and not to Brecht’s house, tragically towards the Sony Center, going on and that was all, leaving the Philharmonic on the left and the Staatsbibliothek on the right, my left and my right I’ve never been sure of them but I’m guessing that the hand which holds her arm is the right one which is it seems the more important hand but only from one point of view, guess where I am, my sister said to her phone, guess! Outside the Philharmonic! Imagine, me right here, in front of the Philharmonic! she was glowing lit up by the setting sun which was sinking behind the point of the Philharmonic while I was walking tragically towards the Sony Center, declining towards the center, I’m going back to the B&B my sister was saying to her phone, I’m leaving my sister in good company, I’ll have a drink with her first, fire her up and remind her how she’s really