His fingers were now on the keypad of his mobile phone, gradually tapping out a text message, lip bit down. At the same time images of the past came to him; his Uncle’s farm in the Sauerland; the image he always saw when reading Von Kleist, of him walking the broken-up fields struggling to do up a tie. Only years later had he learnt to do it properly. It was ein hartes Brot; a hard bread, as the Germans said; no, as he would say.

Germans, he thought, assimilated well into other cultures because they had so little of their own to betray, or, at the very least, their betrayal was seen as less despicable by their fellow countrymen; but here, he felt, he was making a defiantly obtrusive, expatriate gesture. “Hands off Maria you stupid Wichser (wanker in German)”; he finished the text message, signed it “K.B.,”and, his ludicrous rival’s number selected, sent it.

He had known from the instant
he had sent it that his charm,
and hence his effect on her,
had been lost.

Minutes later he began to regret the decision but it was too late. The phone gave a harsh beep in reply: a terse message that brought him little comfort. He re-seated himself and worked at his books until the phone beeped once again, upon which, with a quick glance over the body of the text, he absorbed the answer in silence. He had known from the instant he had sent it that his charm, and hence his effect on her, had been lost. And he had sent it to her phone.

The television was flickering in the half-light that Saturday afternoon. Bodo, Richard’s flatmate — nicknamed so because of his similarity to Elijah Woods’ character but with a “b” instead of an “f,”due to his bodacity — was silently working a weed grinder over some newly imported Amsterdam skunk. Dope, more than Memling or the novels of Sebastian Beetjes, was the main Dutch cultural influence in Richard’s life. He himself was finishing his last joint now, feeling the last toxins disperse through his nostrils.

Bodo was busy typing away at his blog and, joint finished, Richard sought distraction in the form of that most old school of diversions, a book. He picked up the leather band volume and worked his eye over the lines: difficult, martial rows of High German, declining and alternating among themselves with the steadiness of a wrought-iron fence. He squinted; occasional words and phrases made sense to him, and he tended to mark them in pencil, little life buoys of understanding that he grasped onto while flailing across a sea of incomprehension.

He was just about to turn this into understanding when the doorbell rang; the button in the street had been pressed. Rich put down the book gently. He liked holding books in his hand. Bodo continued typing undisturbed, listening to his iPod. Richard went to the door. “Yes?”

Maria said, “It’s me.” She had visited once before for a party at the start of term. He paused for a moment, then let her in.

She had been there again too as of a few nights ago, appearing unexpectedly with a bag of clothes under her arm; she had sort of moved in. Richard had done nothing to her, just smoked his skunk joints and pretended to read in the corner of the room; but then, unexpectedly, she had kissed him on the lips — she standing, he reclining in the old wicker chair with her hands around his head and her solid homely thighs level with his chest. Then they had spent a session touching, caressing and exploring each other.

But today Maria looked different; the rain was fresh on her dimpled cheeks. He stood up, joint in his hand, and was left hovering alone as she walked past and into the bedroom.

“Bodo — ein Minute,” he said, moving frowningly on.

Maria was leaning forward packing her things into a travel bag. “Eine Minute,” she said smilingly. “The feminine minute.”

“Genau, exactly,” he said. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“No. Listen, I’m going to be away for a few days. I’m packing up,” she indicated her various possessions; makeup, books and clothes.

He paused, “You know, I’d like a cup of tea.”

“Make yourself one — I’m a bit busy here.”

“You can leave your things here.”

“No — I need them.”

“Oh well, if you need them,” he said, and moved a step closer to the curtain. His hand was shaped as if to touch her, but paused in the air. “Rainy day today.”

“Yes, my hair got very wet while I was pedalling to the library.”

“You work on a Saturday — that”’s so cool,” he said.

“No, it shuts at one and I needed to get the books back in time.”

“It shuts at one? Really?”

“Really.” She placed the final object into her bag and brusquely zipped. “There. Auf gehts.”^[19]

“Are you coming back?” he asked, flat.

She had stood. One of her hands went to his face and pushed at a single lock of hair.

“You’re stoned, right?”

“Yeah a bit but … you can still stay. Watch DVDs and Bodo’ll cook rice.”
Maria shrugged her shoulders. “Give me a few days, okay? I need to think.”

“About — what?”

“I”m going to stay with my friend Stacey in Waterford. For a few days, I’m not going to think about anything but — trees.”

“I like trees.”

“I like trees too.”

“Well, have fun with them. And with Stacey;” and he cracked a big,
lusty smile.

“Right!” she said and kissed him on the cheek.

He now hanging about in that slightly wriggly state of high-spiritedness those in love enter into while building up to the last of a series of goodbyes. As she turned to go out, her blonde streaks ordered for action, he spoke more volubly than before. “Say — I’ll be here. What I wanted to say … You know, you could always give it a shot. I mean, in football, there’s the loan system. It could be like — you give it a go for six months, and if you don’t like it, we break it off. I mean — you could decide.”

Maria, paused with her back to the door, said, “Rich, what are talking about?”

“If you wanted to — give it a go. You couldn’t lose.”

Maria smiled and said loftily, if not accurately, “I couldn’t lose,” and went out the bedroom door; he followed sheepishly behind.