The blind side of the heart - By Julia Franck Page 0,101

still standing by the open double door. Leontine stood up, put her hand on Martha’s arm. Come along, Martha, let’s be off.

The two women left the room. They could be heard in the corridor, speaking a few soft words, short sentences. Then the front door of the apartment closed behind them. Helene dared not look at Carl. The silence between them lengthened. Carl was smoking as he sat there, and in the light from behind it his thin face looked like a little old man’s. He wasn’t used to being left high and dry in mid-conversation. Helene crossed her arms. She wondered what she could say to cheer him up, and felt at the same time that she wouldn’t be able to. He had simply ignored her protest just now; very likely he hadn’t even been ignoring her on purpose.

We could see Pat and Patachon at six, we’d make it to the cinema in time. Helene spoke almost casually. She too had now gone to the door, and hoped that he would finally stand up and follow her.

Leontine mentioned injury to the feelings, said Carl, now speaking slowly, pausing in mid-sentence. His eyes went to the chair where Leontine had been sitting. She spoke of the wish for heroes or at least heroism. I don’t like the ideas of Germanic heroism propounded by people like Arthur Trebitsch. There’s no such thing as either redemption of a Nordic race or a Jewish conspiracy. What’s tragic is that with the end of personal suffering, let’s say at the moment of death, certain ideas are never lost, perhaps we can say not one of them is lost. They go on developing independently of the individual who thought about them during the tiny span of his lifetime. It’s impossible to say who first thought of such an idea because something thought up by the human mind, moulded and impregnated by suffering, doubting itself, has no beginning and no end. Such an absence of boundaries makes me feel quite weak. There’s no limit to mankind. Man drives God off his earth, that belongs in the glowing brazier, as Kurt Schwitters says.

Carl had been talking to himself, still answering Leontine, who had gone a long time ago. Exhausted, he dropped his hands to his thighs.

How about Charlie Chaplin in The Circus? Helene crossed her arms and learned against the door frame.

Carl looked at her in surprise. It was a moment before he could answer. The cinema, he said abruptly, sobered up, yes, let’s go to the cinema. Isn’t that boxing film on? Everyone’s making movies about boxing, we ought to see one. Combat de Boxe, it’s that young avant-garde Belgian director with the unpronounceable name. Dekeukeleire. Even the name is enough for a film, don’t you think? Or that Englishman, his film is called The Ring – the local movie buffs have said it’s the world champion. Isn’t that comical? Carl was trying to convince himself of the humorous nature of his remark.

A film about boxing? Helene wasn’t sure, but she was ready to do anything to get Carl out of that chair and through the door with her at long last.

The street shimmered dark grey; cold moisture hung in the air between the buildings. The street lights were already on, and the evening paper was on sale at street corners.

Were you in love with Leontine?

Leontine? Carl dug his hands into his coat pockets. All right, I admit it. He didn’t look at Helene and she didn’t want to ask exactly what he meant by that.

Helene had run the last part of the way to the Charité Hospital. She had skipped her class that evening; the only subject discussed on the course for the last few weeks had been the questions they might face in the Higher Certificate exam. It was Easter, the pharmacist had given her the rest of the week off. Her small case was dark red and light to carry; she had bought it only a few days ago and hadn’t packed much in it. Helene was still breathing hard as she knocked at the door of the doctor’s office. Leontine opened it and they air-kissed over each other’s shoulders.

Are you sure?

Yes. Helene took her coat off. Fairly sure. I don’t feel sick at all, I just get pressure on my bladder at night.

How long ago was your last period?

Helene flushed. Although she had often changed the sanitary towels of bedridden women during her training and could remember washing Martha’s little cloths in