Batsceba Hardy - The-Apartment

the heels worn. She didn’t look Italian either. French, maybe. Not German.
Too petite, with brown hair and white hands. She fit perfectly in into the city.
Berlin is home for those who are out of time; you see them on buses, in parks,
in clubs. And you always notice them, but you never think of them as
ridiculous or out of place, as you would if you were in Milan, or even Paris and
London where oddity is almost the norm. ese people wear the Senhsucht
net, which interweaves the lives of the city. A kind of peaceful sadness dripping
from the sky, almost always white. Unaccountable. It spills over cellars and
sidewalks. You can breathe it in parks, by the lakesides. And pass through it
with lightness, because you cannot be sadder than sadness itself.
Emma, has always come back to my Café, after that first day. She
practically lived there, notebook on her knees and suitcase at her side. She had
three dresses and she would wear them in turns. Only her shoes would never
change, even during the typical Berlin rain-showers, when only a diving suit
could save you.
I asked her name and where she was from, as I would do with any other
customer. – I’m from Milan and I can’t speak a word of German, she answered,
and then she went on talking as if she wanted to avoid any other question: –
Maybe I ended up in Berlin because there are no barriers to cross to get to the
trains and you don’t get the feeling of being part of a herd of cattle heading to
a slaughterhouse. e sound of foreign voices is like a carpet on which my
thoughts roll on with no distractions. I like this state of non-belonging. As if
your holding an invisibility license. But I have always felt invisible.
I got the message. But for the usual thank you and you’re welcome, I didn’t
speak to her again and limited myself to snooping. Leaning to serve her a
brownie and her Latte Macchiato, I would try to see what she was writing.
And I would smell her. She had the fragrance of a ginger cookie. At closing
time, gripping the handle of her suitcase, she would walk to the corner and
turn towards Helmholtzplatz, disappearing in her mystery. I couldn’t yet say
what my feelings were about her, but soon learned there was someone far more
interested in her than myself.
Between meetings, Sebastian would stop in to say hello. Sitting at a nearby
table, often right in front of her, he would look at her for what seemed hours.
He would then take his Nikon out of its case and start shooting. One, two,
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