Thank God Jo’s voice is still guiding me, up from the sofa and out to Sven on the balcony, where I become her. I stand next to Sven and smell the rain, the wet city, Sven’s smoke, and the smell of baking in my hair and clothes. I sway a little, gingerly half-sit on the windowsill, and lean the back of my head against the pane. That’s good. I take a deep breath.
Sven rolls me a cigarette.
I smoke.
Sven and I smoke and suffer together in silence.
Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday.
No broom cupboard.
No words.
No opportunity to transform.
I practise existing. I think of meals, of the ingredients for them and whether I should buy them in Lidl or go all the way over to Aldi. I’m glad I have enough money to go shopping. I remind myself that none of us has to starve. I tell myself that none of the kids is hurt in the strict sense of the word — or will be just by hanging around, watching YouTube videos and eating chocolate.
I constantly tidy up but stop myself throwing away cuddly toys or other things that don’t belong to me.
I keep moving and force myself not to be annoyed that I’m always active while others are lying in bed.
I force myself to cook meals just for myself that I eat alone. I only force the others to put their encrusted muesli bowls into the dishwasher.
I keep going.
I force myself to accept that we barely talk to each other.
I practise being silent.
I force myself to accept that my desire is ebbing away.
I practise abstinence.
I fight back wishes and ideas until I no longer know what I want; I practise being disoriented, wander about in a room, forget what I wanted to do there, go on the balcony and smoke.
I am totally exhausted.
I go to bed at the same time as Lynn.
Something in me becomes calmer.
Something in me completely stops working.
I feel like gambling. I play dice games with Lynn and Kieran for hours.
I get addicted to Candy Crush, Farm Heroes, and 2048. I ask Jack to download them on my phone. I like the fact that Jack can do this and the way he looks when he does.
Every single one of my children seems more confident than me.
Lynn lies on her back, practising sucking in her stomach and then ballooning it out as far as she can. Kieran builds a tower made of Lego taller than he is.
Bea says: ‘If I manage not to imagine something, because the image is probably a lie and unattainable anyway, and it only puts me under pressure — like cool holidays, beauty, or a happy life, all that — then how do I know that “living in the moment” isn’t just another construct too? Another way of pressuring me and making me feel small? Huh?’
The leap
I’ve been awarded a prize. A whole bunch of people like the book I’ve written. My publisher calls and says they’re going to print a second edition. A journalist calls and asks for an interview, if we can find a quiet place to meet.
I say: ‘It’s the half-term holidays.’
And she says: ‘Tell me about it.’
She no longer has a desk since her department was merged with another; I think of the clerk at the housing-benefit office who said, with pursed lips, that she was in the same boat, as she too lived in an incalculable shared household and didn’t get a cent because of it.
I say: ‘Okay, then, let’s meet on the quietest possible street corner.’
The journalist laughs, and although I think it’s wrong to joke about these things, I realise that I’m able to joke again, draw parallels, and remember stuff.
The journalist really does look like me. We meet in an almost empty money-laundering café in Mitte, where there’s no music playing, and the staff are mostly making private calls. When I arrive, the journalist is on the phone to her daughter, who’s not doing the school holiday programme, but is alone at home.
‘I’m turning my mobile off now!’ she says decisively and slips off her rain jacket, which doesn’t go with her skirt, because waterproof jackets always look too sporty. At least the ones in our price range.
‘So,’ she says, stealing a look at her mobile, then at the questions she’s prepared.
‘As a mother of four, how do you do manage to write successful novels?’
I stare at her. She smiles back, but she’s serious about her question; at least she doesn’t slap her thigh or laugh out loud over her great joke. My chest tightens. What am I supposed to do now? She must know how it is! She’s in the same boat!
My thoughts race. I could just stop the interview. Sven would: and everything else is patronising. She’s an adult woman, and I have to presume that she means what she says. And therefore has to take the consequences.
But I can’t. Instead, I think up excuses for her: it’s the autumn holidays, so she couldn’t prepare herself. She’s confusing herself with me, just like I’m confusing myself with her. She didn’t formulate the question properly, and of course she knows the difference between production and reception, market forces and artistic criteria, and anyway, she didn’t necessarily want to talk about my situation as a mother but was told to write a profile, not a review. And that’s why she wanted to meet me; otherwise, it would have been enough to read the book. She has to find out what kind of jacket I wear, who I am.
And I’m vain: a missionary. If I explain to her how life works, we’ll change things together! ‘Yes, we can!’
‘I don’t manage,’ I say. ‘It’s impossible to manage. “How do you manage?” isn’t a question; it’s a way of creating distance, it’s phony praise. Just think of Obama and Merkel and Bob the Builder,
