Vivian rented a room from an East German refugee named Ansgar. In early November, Ansgar’s girlfriend unexpectedly returned from an overseas assignment and found him in bed with another woman. Vivian hid in her room and pretended not to hear their fight, but the next morning, the girlfriend knocked on her door.
“You have to leave,” she said.
“Why? I only rent this room from him.”
“Ansgar doesn’t own this apartment. I do.”
Ansgar was secretly subletting the room to Vivian and pocketing the money. Going against everything I thought I knew about women, the girlfriend said that while Ansgar could stay, Vivian had until the end of the month to move out.
Finding an apartment in Munich wasn’t easy. In general, Germans didn’t move often, preferring to be buried near where they were born. For two weeks, we drove around, responding to ads and talking with agents. None of the options was good.
The Sunday before she had to move out, Vivian visited the last place on her list, and we returned to my apartment. The gray autumn sky matched her mood as she spread notes, advertisements, and applications across the kitchen table. Suddenly, she swept everything off the table. “Verdammtes Arschloch! (Damned Asshole!) Men only think with their Schwanz (prick). Did Ansgar have to bumsen (screw) every woman who would spread her legs for him?”
“You’re still a great German teacher,” I said as we knelt to help pick up the papers. “I just learned four new words.”
“It’s not funny,” she replied. Suddenly, the clouds parted, and a ray of sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating her from behind. As a golden-red halo surrounded her face, I saw a beautiful, sad angel who could swear like a sailor. My heart melted. An idea that had been in the back of my mind suddenly crystallized. “I have a two-bedroom apartment. It’s too big for just me. Why don’t you move in?”
“What?”
“Just think how convenient it would be. You already spend a lot of time here, and it’s a short commute to your office.”
“No, thank you, but no.”
“Why?”
“You make it sound like I would just rent a spare room.”
“Why not? Nothing else has to change.”
“Of course, things will change. You can call it whatever you want, but living together is a step, a commitment, and not one I want to make right now. We’ve gotten closer these past few months, but …”
“But what?”
“Don’t make me do this. You’re forcing me to choose.”
“Choose? Is there someone else?”
“It’s not between you and someone else. It’s between me and me. I don’t want to choose between the Vivians fighting in my head. Does that make sense?”
“No.”
“I guess it wouldn’t,” she said softly. She thought for a minute before continuing, “There’s a Vivian who knows that men make women dependent on them. Once you own us, you leave. Or worse, you stay. That Vivian tells me you will eventually betray me, as my father betrayed my mother and my grandfather betrayed my grandmother, because most men are only a slightly better version of that porteño on the train tracks.”
“I’m not …”
“Let me finish! There’s another me who wants to live for you, to make you happy. More and more, I’m that person. It makes me feel exposed, unprotected.” She paused, studied my face, and smiled wistfully. “The problem is that when I’m that person, I’m happy.”
I reached across the table. “Why is that a problem? You make me happy, too.”
Vivian took my hand. Her eyes began to glisten.
“Let’s try this and see what happens. If we end up hating each other, we’ll move on. But for now, let’s pretend that making each other happy will last forever.”
“Give me your handkerchief.” I handed it to her. She dried her eyes, blew her nose, and then handed back a damp rag.
“Thanks,” I said, setting it on the table with two fingers.
I took her hand again, and we sat in silence, the only sound the ticking of the clock. She eventually came to my side of the table and held my head to her chest.
“Flaco,” she said softly.
I’ll share the journey every Thursday. Join us.