Ivan Dobnik - Vilenica

Angelika Reitzer · 231
are wrinkling their brows or looking right past her, she doesn’t want to see
it. The caller is on the platform, they haven’t seen each other for at least
two years, they greet each other with a handshake. Amazed, he says, you
look really good. They drive together to the country inn where the party is
to take place. In the car he wants to retract his amazement, but it’s too late
now. Clarissa felt good. Somewhat. He doesn’t mean it that way, surely
he doesn’t. Her skin feels pimply, she knows exactly where she should apply
more cover-up and she can feel a burning on her chin, surely there’s a
big red spot there in spite of the make-up. He fiddles with the radio dial,
wants to call someone that can’t be reached. He leaves no message. Her
hair is stringy even though right before leaving she washed and dried it.
Maybe she should have worn a dress. Maybe she should change right after
arriving. When Clarissa changes the station without asking, he looks at
her for a moment, shocked. Then he grins. He talks about work, the many
appointments, responsibility and weight on the shoulders, and as they are
getting out, Clarissa suddenly thinks that perhaps he means her work, and
that confused her at first, and when she addresses him about it, carefully,
as if in passing, he hands her a small folder with information about the
area and its modest attractions, a pamphlet with the programme points
for the meeting; she’s calm for a moment, as if she were up to speed, as
if she knew what was now coming. Clarissa wants to ask him about the
list of participants, but doesn’t. Point one (individual arrivals) and Point
two (short walk in the nearby pine woods, discovering and re-establishing
family relations) are already taken care of. But dinner, boat trip, volleyball
game, free time in the indoor pool and sauna are still ahead of her, and her
driver now takes her hand and laughs broadly in her direction and their
heads bump together. While he still helps, what remains is only a sense of
disturbance. Her driver looks at her and earnestly retrieves her bag, now
he’s the porter and if she asked him to he would go into the foreign kitchen
and fetch bread for her or juice or a piece of cake from the locked display
case and so on. He carries her bag upstairs and pulls her behind him, and
right away lets go of her hand, and that’s the way it was before, he always
did everything for everyone and no one thanked him and he went right
ahead doing it and sometimes he reminded someone of some greater deed
and then he was the one with the bad conscience. And yet at the same time
he can also slight someone and then act as if he didn’t notice it, as if he
had not realized that he had just badly insulted someone. He can outfit his
broad face with a grin or with complete harmlessness, which is a bit hurtful.
It suits him perfectly. Only when he is taking about what he can do well
is he serious. When he knows for sure what the other person now wants,
that right now he is doing the right thing, then his look, no, his gazing, is
truthful. That’s him. He stands on the small balcony of her room and gives
a report on the morning, seems cheerful, entirely natural; he himself has
already driven twice to the train station and back, she is the third person