After leaving the park, Walter Klemmer walks through the streets for a while, aimlessly and shiftlessly. Lack of direction and light-footed energy carry him along while others sleep. A balloon of violence floats in his guts. The balloon never bumps into any wall of his body. Klemmer may feel disoriented, but his route seems to be oriented in a specific direction, toward a specific woman. Many things strike Klemmer as hostile, but he confronts no adversary, his goal is too precious: a very special lady with talent. He wavers between two or three women, then opts for this one. He will not sacrifice her for the sake of a fight. He therefore sidesteps violence, although he will not skirt it if he meets it head on.
He takes an escalator down into an almost empty passage. He buys a half-liquid ice at a small cart. He is handed the ice lovelessly and carelessly by a man disguised with a cap; the man doesn’t realize how close his heedlessness brings him to getting beaten up. The man is not beaten. His cap suggests a sailor or a cook or both; the ageless face suggests fatigue. The ice is sucked up from the cup in two quick gulps by Klemmer’s funnel-shaped mouth. Few people arrive, few people depart. Few remain seated in the glass house of the fast-food joint. The ice was lukewarm and insipid. Persistence nestles in Klemmer’s comfortable calm. Its essence solidifies slowly; a tender effort takes shape in order to attack. All he cares about now is the end point of his trip; if he has any say in the matter, he’ll reach his destination shortly. Not without rearing for a good fight, but he won’t fight. Instead, Klemmer lopes through the streets toward a certain woman. She’s probably waiting for him, she must be. And now, immodest in his wishes, uncompromising in his demands, he is going back to her. He has something to tell her, something that will be completely new to her; and he has a lot to say. He has a lot to dish out. Klemmer, a boomerang, is drawn to nothing but this woman, returning to her with new concepts of their common goal. Klemmer looks for the eye of his mental hurricane, where there is supposedly an absolute lull. He briefly wonders whether he ought to step into a coffee shop. I want to spend a few minutes with real people, he muses. This is no small desire in a man who would like to be a human being first and foremost, but is constantly prevented from being one. He does not look for a coffee shop. Dirty rags leave sticky traces on aluminum counters, under which colorfully glazed cakes and pastries, topped with whipped cream, wait in showcases. Stagnant drops, greasy smears on the planks of the sausage stands. No morning wind as yet; it will be sniffed like a wounded deer. Rhythm is intensified. Only one cab at the taxi stop, but it’s hailed right away.
Klemmer has arrived at Erika’s building. How keen the joy of arrival. Who would have thought! Anger resides in Klemmer. The man makes no attempt to announce himself by throwing stones, as a boy does at a girl’s window. Student Klemmer has grown up overnight. He would never have guessed how quickly a fruit ripens. He does nothing to be let in. He looks up at various dark windows and silently gets his bearings. He looks up at a specific dark window, not knowing whether it’s hers. He senses that the window belongs partly to Erika and partly to her mother. He assumes it is the conjugal bedroom. For the married couple: Erika and Mother. Klemmer cuts the lovingly tightened string to Erika and ties it to something new, in which Erika will play only a featured part, the role of means to the end. In the future, Klemmer will balance work and play. Soon he’ll be done with school, then he’ll have more time for his wet hobby. He won’t desire any attention from this woman. He won’t desire anything that hasn’t been perfected. He will either attend to her or not, as he sees fit. A line of sweat digs into his right temple, quickly running down. His breath whistles. He ran for miles in rather warm weather. He does a breathing exercise that the athlete is familiar with. Klemmer notices he is shunning thoughts in order to avoid thinking about the unthinkable. Everything in his mind is quick and ephemeral. The impressions vary. The end is clear, the means are delineated.
Klemmer squeezes into the entranceway and unzips his jeans. He nestles into the maternal cavern, thinking about Frau Erika and jerking off. He is concealed from observers. Although distracted, he is concentratedly aware of his core, which has formed down below. He has a pleasant awareness of his body. He has the rhythm of youth. He is performing work in and of itself. He is the sole beneficiary. Throwing back his head, Klemmer masturbates up toward a dark window, not even knowing whether it’s the right one. He is unmoved and relentless. His feelings are unstirred as he works on himself tenaciously. The window, unlit, stretches overhead like a landscape. He is stationed one story lower. Klemmer jerks vehemently; he has no intention of ever completing the job. He works the field of his body without joy or pleasure. He wishes to restore nothing and destroy nothing. He does not want to go up to that woman; but if someone opened the front door, he would go straight up to her. Wild horses couldn’t stop him! Klemmer rubs himself so discreetly that anyone who saw him would open the door with no suspicion. He could stand here forever, as active as ever; he could also try to gain admission immediately. It’s entirely up to him. Without resolving to wait for a late home-comer to unlock the door for him, Klemmer waits. Even if it takes all night. And if he has to wait until morning, when the first person emerges from the building—Klemmer tugs on his bloated cock and waits for the door to open.
Walter Klemmer stands in the entranceway, wondering how far he would go. He now has two lusts, hunger and thirst, both together. He gives in to his lust for the woman by rubbing himself. He experiences physically, and she should likewise experience physically, what it means to play games with him, games without aims. Palm off empty packages on him. Her soft physical wrapping has to welcome him! He’ll yank her out of her lukewarm bed, away from her mother’s side.
No one comes. No one unlocks the door and opens it wide. In this changeable world, in which night has fallen, Klemmer knows only the constant factor of his feelings. Eventually, he goes to a phone booth. Aside from some decent baring, he has remained calm and disciplined in the entranceway. Awaiting late homecomers. To the outside world, he offered an image of calm without anger. Inside him, his senses are rebelling. The homecomers shouldn’t see him like that, they shouldn’t get suspicious. He is touched by his own feelings. He is moved by himself. Soon the woman will get off the high horse of Art and join him in the river of Life. She will become part of hustle and bustle and shame. Art is not a Trojan horse, Klemmer says tonelessly to the woman upstairs, who seeks content only in art. There’s a phone booth not too far off. It is instantly used. Klemmer despises the vandals who ripped the directories from their moorings. Now some life might go unsaved because a number is needed but not found.
Erika Kohut sleeps a fitful sleep of the just next to Mother, who has often treated her unjustly, yet calmly dreams away. Erika Kohut does not deserve such slumber; after all, someone is fitfully roaming about because of her. With the well-known ambition of her sex, she hopes, even in her dreams, for a happy ending and ultimate enjoyment. She dreams about the man taking her by storm. Please do so. Today she voluntarily went without TV. Yet today of all days she could have seen her favorite subject: foreign streets, into which she projects herself, wallowing safe and sound. Mostly American landscapes, endless, because America practically knows no limits. She wishes for the exaggerated attention and affection that TV people enjoy. Maybe I’ll even go on a trip with that man, Erika muses anxiously. But what will become of Mother? Not everyone can exit at the right moment. Her body involuntarily reacts by exuding moisture; it can’t always be steered by its will. Mother sleeps on, graciously unaware. The telephone rings. Who can that be so late at night? Erika is startled. She knows right away who that can be so late at night. An inner voice, to which she is related, tells her. This voice is unjustly called love. The woman is delighted by her victory and hopes for a loving cup. She will put it next to her vases, giving it the place of honor in her new apartment. She is completely liberated. Through the dark room and hallway, she gropes her way to the telephone. The telephone shrieks. Love is the only reason why she will deviate fro
m her stipulations. She is looking forward to deviating from them. What a relief. Mutuality in love is exceptional, after all. Usually, only one person loves, while the other is busy running as fast as his feet can carry him. This situation requires two people, and one is telephoning the other. Isn’t that great! How convenient. How marvelous.
The teacher has left a warm hollow in the bed, and it is slowly cooling off. She has also left her mother, who is not yet waking up. What an ungrateful child, to forget her tried-and-true companion of so many years! The man on the telephone demands that she unlock the front door immediately. Erika clutches the receiver. She didn’t expect his proximity. She actually expected the tenderest words, the announcement of nocturnal wishes and complete proximity very soon, perhaps tomorrow afternoon at three, in a small café. Erika expected a precise plan from the man in order to build a nest. They’ll talk about it tomorrow and during the next few days! They’ll discuss whether the relationship can be a joy forever; then they’ll start the relationship. The man enjoys and waits unwillingly; the woman sets up whole blocks of buildings, because in her, everything is affected in its terrible and ominous totality. That disagreeable fact: woman and her feelings. This woman instantly sets up complicated structures, similar to a wasps’ nest, in order to make herself at home inside. And Walter Klemmer generally feels that once she’s begun to build, he won’t be able to get rid of her. He’s outside the front door again, waiting for it to open, which would benefit Erika. It’s now or never! Erika pedantically weighs every last detail, then gets the keys. Mother sleeps on. In her sleep, nothing shoots through the core of her brain, because she already has her house and a daughter inside it. She finds plans unnecessary. The daughter anticipates a reward for long years of disciplined accomplishments. It was worth it. Very few women wait for Mr. Right. Most women take the first and worst Mr. Wrong. Erika chooses the very last one to come along, and he is truly the best of the lot. There’s no surpassing him! The woman thinks—almost as if forced to—in terms of numbers and equivalents. She imagines she is being rewarded for loyal service in the realm of Art. If male willpower can actually lead her away from her tried-and-true mother, then her work has been a success. Fine with me. The student will soon be getting his degree, she’s got a job with a decent salary. She decides for him that the age difference is trivial.
Erika opens the building door and trustingly puts herself in the man’s hands. She jokes that she is in his power. She swears she would rather forget all about my stupid letter, but what’s done is done. She had a mishap, but she’ll make up for it, dearest Why do we need letters? After all, we know everything there is to know about each other. We reside in each other’s most intimate thoughts! And our thoughts nourish us constantly with their honey. Erika Kohut, who would not remind the man of his body’s failure for all the tea in China says: Come right in! Walter Klemmer, who would rather act as if his body had never failed him in the first place, enters the building. Many things are made available to him, and he is flattered by the selection. Some things he’s simply going to take!
He says to Erika: Let’s be clear about one thing. There’s nothing worse than a woman who wants to rewrite Creation. A topic for humor magazines. Klemmer is material for a whole novel. He enjoys himself but never consumes himself. On the contrary, he enjoys his coldness, those ice cubes in his oral cavity. Acquiring property freely means being able to leave at any time. The property remains behind and waits. He will soon pass the phase represented by this woman; he could swear it. After all, she has rejected mutual feelings, an offer he originally meant sincerely. Now it’s too late. Time for my conditions, K. proposes. He will not be laughed at a second time; K. assures her on his word of honor. He threateningly asks her who she thinks she is. This question is not improved by repeated use.
Walter Klemmer pushes the woman back into the apartment. A numb exchange of words results, because she won’t put up with it. Sometimes she forestalls with words. During the exchange, she complains to the man that he has pushed her into her own apartment, where he is only a visitor. But then she discards a bad habit: constant nagging. I have a lot to learn, she says modestly. She even catches an excuse in her claws, and places the still-bleeding prey at his feet. She doesn’t want to mess everything up right off the bat, she thinks. She regrets making so many mistakes, most of them right off the bat. The first step is always the hardest: Erika proves the importance of a true beginning. Mother now awakens slowly, hesitantly, because of the harsh exchange of words, as she is forced to realize. Mother’s ambition is to rule. Who is talking here in the middle of the night, as loudly as in the daytime, and in my own apartment, with my own daughter? The man reacts with a threatening gesture. The two women are already laying the bricks for a counterattack against the lone man. Erika is slapped in the face before she even knows what’s happening. Did you see that?! Yes, Erika did see that. The slap was dealt by Klemmer, and successfully! Astonished, she holds her cheek and fails to reply. Mother is dumbstruck. If anyone is going to slap Erika, it’ll be Mother. A few seconds later, while Klemmer remains silent, Erika tells him to leave immediately. Mother backs her up and turns her back on them to demonstrate that she is disgusted by the entire spectacle. In triumph, Klemmer softly asks the daughter: This isn’t how you pictured it originally, is it? Mother is astonished that the man will not vanish without an argument. She’s not the least bit interested in what they’re saying, she informs the air around her. No voice is raised in loud complaint. A second slap strikes Frau Erika’s other cheek. This is no loving encounter of skin and skin. Erika keeps her whimpering down because of the neighbors. Mother perks up her ears. She is forced to realize that her daughter is being degraded into something like a piece of athletic gear. Mother indignantly points out that he is damaging someone else’s property, namely hers! Mother concludes: Get out of here at once. And as fast as you can.
The man clutches this mother’s daughter, as if appropriating a piece of equipment. Erika is still half numbed by sleep. She doesn’t understand how it is possible that love can be requited so poorly—her love. We always expect rewards for our accomplishments. We believe that other people’s accomplishments do not have to be rewarded. We hope to acquire those accomplishments more cheaply. Mother gets into gear; she wishes to involve the police. She is therefore shoved back violently into her room, where she crashes to the floor. Klemmer explains that he is not talking to her. It just won’t sink in. Up till now, Mother always had the choice. Klemmer assures her we have time—all night, if necessary. Erika does not blossom upward anymore. Klemmer asks her whether this is what she imagined. Swelling up like a siren, she says no. Mother struggles into a seated position and threatens the student with something dreadful, in which Mother will play a decisive part. If worst comes to worst, she will get help from other people, That’s what the aging saint swears. And he’ll be sorry he’s doing these things to a woman who should be treated with care, a woman who might also become a mother someday. He should think about his mother! Erika’s mother feels sorry for his mother because she had to give birth to him. Meanwhile Erika’s mother fights her way to the door, but there she is once again rudely shoved back. In order to shove her back, Walter Klemmer has to ignore Erika briefly. He then locks Mother’s room, leaving Mother inside its narrow confines. The key to this bedroom is supposed to lock the daughter out whenever Mother finds such punishment desirable and necessary. In her initial shock, Mother thinks: Locked out! She scratches on the door. She whimpers and threatens. Klemmer grows stronger in the face of resistance. Woman spells danger for the competitive athlete before a difficult competition. Erika’s and his wishes get all tangled up. Erika sobs: This isn’t how I pictured it. She says what people say after a play: Is that all there is? On the one hand, Erika is inundated by her flesh; on the other hand, by a violence that developed out of unrequited love.
Erika expects him at least to say he’s sorry, if not more. But no. She is glad Mother can’t butt in. At last, Erika can deal privately
with private things. Who thinks of Mother or mother love now, aside from a person who wants to produce a child? The man in Klemmer speaks out. Erika tries to ignite his willpower with a deliberate, if trivial, exposure. She pleads until the kindling blazes up and one can add a thicker log of desire. Her face is slapped yet again, although she says: Please, not my head! She hears something about her age, which is at least thirty-five, whether she likes it or not. She is slowly dimmed by his sexual repulsion. Her pupils cloud over more and more. The benefits of hatred are finally donated to Klemmer. He is enchanted. Reality clears up for him like an overcast day in late summer. He was not being true to his own self, that was why he camouflaged this wonderful hatred with love for such a long time. This camouflage appealed to him for a long time. But now he’s sloughing it off.
The woman on the floor regards various things as passionate desire; his behavior would be halfway appropriate to passion alone. That’s something Erika Kohut once heard. But that’s enough, darling! Let’s start with something better! She would like to see pain eliminated from the repertoire of love gestures. Now she’s feeling it personally, physically, and she begs to return to the normal version of love. Let us approach the other with understanding. Walter Klemmer overcomes the woman violently, even though she says she’s changed her mind. Please don’t hit me. My ideal is shared feelings again. Erika revises her opinions too late. She expresses the opinion that she, as a woman, needs lots of warmth and affection. She holds her hand over her mouth, which is bleeding at one corner. It’s an impossible ideal, the man replies. He’s only waiting for the woman to retreat a bit; then he’ll go after her. He is driven by a hunter’s instinct. It’s the instinct of the water athlete and engineer, warning him of depths and rocks. If the woman reaches out to him, he’s gone! Erika pleads with Klemmer to show his good side. But Klemmer is getting to know freedom.