Kairos

by Jenny Erpenbeck

A long time ago, the papers in his boxes and those in her suitcase were speaking to each other. Now they’re both speaking to time.

By playing her his music, he is putting himself in her hands.

He isn’t bored for a second in her company, even when they don’t talk and just look at each other. And when words are exchanged, it’s not so much about the words themselves as the manner of them and the pauses in between.

As he speaks, his mouth is so close to her that his words seem to touch her.

The page she is holding will always be missing from it. That gap, she thinks, is the first trace of her in his world.

Only he suddenly feels empty, turned inside out, and poured over himself, a bag of bones. He can feel his organs and flesh, pressing down on his neck and shoulders.

Can it be that she too is only herself where no one knows her, where she is a complete stranger?

there’s nothing quite so titillating as what’s possible. More than what actually happens? Much more, he says, because it’s only the imagination that has everything, and no deficits.

For a few weeks now, she has adopted his use of lowercase nouns, no word is to be accorded more importance than another

She sees him every day, they can talk. Yes, he says, but what really matters can’t be said.

If one knew the whole truth about everything, could hear what was unsaid, and see what was parked in the shadows — then would there be any sense in wanting anything at all?

If only an embrace would permit each party to completely dissolve and mingle, as though they were both made of water.

So it does exist, she thinks, happiness. So it does exist, he thinks, happiness.

Was he just looking for a more attractive mirror for himself in her young flesh? In his solitude, someone who can answer back to him? Or did he really share all that out of love? She was the cause of his banishment. Love, love, love, he says to himself, all at once the word seems quite empty.

She will see what he’s made of. And he will look at himself from the outside, through her eyes.

Time feels so sticky, it’s as though it had lost all capacity for passing.

To the ideas light/ to the hearts fire/ to the fists strength.

Is it always the same battle, or is it different each time? How long does it take for a war to end?