Almost
art by Marc Angel
from Siiigns by Samuel Hamen
Translated from the Luxembourgish by Rob Myatt
It wasn’t always easy growing up the son of government employees. Most people can’t imagine what it’s like. Or they don’t want to imagine, as is my right, mind your own beeswax, they shout, talking about us like that, you moron. But, I respond, taking this opportunity to write back to them, it’s just as much my right to counter your narrative. Either way, while most of them say it’s about their rights, how they don’t want to have to imagine, the reality, in my opinion, is that it’s about their incompetence: they don’t want the ability to imagine.
So, here I’m talking about imagining something that’s different. Most people have blinders over their eyes and wrapped round their ears, and they’re huge these blinders, they’re enormous, as big as a pair of amputated flippers sliced off a humpback. Or like the floppy ears of an old African elephant mom. The N14 highway, now that’s a good example, but not the Asian elephants, those are the smaller ones and their ears aren’t big enough to explain the ignorance and the idiocy in this country. Alright, so, the N14, running between Dikrech and Steeën, it has this long bend, running directly behind Mouschbierg hill, and to the left of that bend is a forest and to the right is a wild meadow and Dad built it all.
He, Dad that is, he has a strand of spaghetti stuck between his teeth like a flaccid piece of straw. That’s the picture that’s stuck with me: the spaghetti between Dad’s teeth and the teeth and the spaghetti between Dad’s brain goo. All round the kitchen table.
Mum always sucked up her spaghetto all in one go. Like everything with her, it was a project. The spaghetto – is that what it’s called? A single strand of spaghetti? Never mind – her spaghetti always twirled through the air, the creamy sauce hanging from it would spray over the table, sometimes I got it stuck to my face, oh and the noise, sheesh, so much slurping and hoovering and smacking, as if a fleshy little earthworm that had burrowed its way out of the squelchy ground, as if it were being dragged back in by the earth, by a vacuum or something, bing, bang, boom and the spaghetto was gone.
Meanwhile, Dad’s first spaghetto of the day was still hanging out of his mouth like a beat up snake. In the time it took Mum to guzzle up nineteen spaghetti like some sort of machine, Dad had chewed a single strand. Bit by bit, the spaghetto got shorter and shorter, Dad’s lips were pursed, and slowly but surely the pasta crawled into his mouth – once a week this happened. Once a week we had spaghetti, every Tuesday, and you’ll see it’s just like I told you, it sure wasn’t easy being the son of a couple of government employees.
My head feels like a tiny little attic space. Dusty, pitch black and pointless. It’s my Dad’s fault, it’s definitely his fault. He pumped my head full of these memories of God-forsaken Éislek. Dad worked at Ponts et Chaussées, Mom always just called it Pauvres Chaussées, which I never understood as a kid and, to be completely honest, don’t really understand now, either. In any case, Dad’s work had something to do with roads. The N14 was one of his projects but Dad didn’t build the road, no, he got people to build it. When he was working, he would often stand in front of this tall desk and paint broad or dotted or perfectly straight lines on huge sheets of paper. For years I had to stand on tiptoes to see anything but naturally I grew taller and so did my tiptoes. And eventually, when I was around thirteen maybe, I could see exactly how Dad held the rulers in his hand. He had seven different rulers lying on the desk, square ones with crisscross patterns, a set square (obviously) with yellow lines on it, then two rulers with indents, one of which was completely orange, while the other had a silvery handle. That was his favorite ruler. I could tell straight away. It was the way he touched it, caressed it, before using it to draw a long line across a few small circles, maybe through a forest.
Black tea should be left to steep for no more than five minutes, maybe five and a half depending on what sort of tea it is. Not a second longer, though, no seriously, otherwise it turns bitter and who on earth wants to drink bitter tea? We’re at the kitchen table again, everything in our lives starts round the table. It’s early morning and the day before the cleaning lady had had to clean the windows specially, as if Mom had known that gazing out the window as a fresh-faced boy was going to be so important to me years later – meaning now. Gazing up at the fells, down at the fog, that morning in September. Pine trees, everywhere pine trees that had gotten lost over the other side of the valley in a dreadfully dreary landscape. The world was steeped in hunter green, such a typical color, the green of that Land Rover the highfalutin’ doctor drives, the bigwig with a belly full of dough who knows everyone, always heading out for a battue, going off to shoot a deer or wild boar or fox to shreds.
That was the green I encountered that morning, as I peered out the impeccably polished window. It was precisely twelve minutes after seven, I still had thirteen minutes before I had to catch the bus to school. There was routine in my chaos: I would jump out of bed in precisely nine minutes, almost knocking over my hot cocoa, only ever almost, my life has always been one long list of almosts, and then Dad would say again: almost don’t get you no cigar. Which on that morning would sound to me like the pastor letting me have it with his fucking Lord’s Prayer.
But it’s still twelve after seven, thirteen now, and the little sack of black tea has been suspended in Dad’s cup for eight minutes. I’d checked my Casio when he dunked the tea in the water, with every second his stupid tea was getting colder and more bitter, as bitter as bile, just like his life, brown like shit, I think to myself now. He left that to stew as well, the layabout, didn’t do a thing until it was all lukewarm and bitter, did you? I ask him now, you lazy ass, but of course he doesn’t answer and I think to myself: At least today isn’t Tuesday, at least there’s no spaghetti this afternoon.
Later, the only comfort I was able to find in this scene was the thought that not eight hours later, in New York, there would be planes flying into towers. On the TV, it looked like a crow, over there to the left of the trail, flying too fast into that there pine tree. There are always images that break everything up into colors, movement and comfort, and that afternoon MTV was playing the new Nelly video. I’d only properly discovered my wiener quite recently, late to the party, I know, and the song was called Hot in Herre. Seriously, look it up if you don’t believe me. Suddenly, my uncle calls and says: The World Trade Center’s exploding. That’s all I managed to hear, he says it a second time, maybe even a third, then hangs up as if he dialed a wrong number. And now I’m stood here, and there’s chicks all around Nelly, dancing, and I’m sweating and sweating, and Nelly’s singing: The roof is on fire, and they’re getting more and more naked, and if I’m being completely honest, now I would tell my uncle: It’s not the tower that’s exploding, you jackass, it’s the planes that are exploding in, or to be more accurate, on the tower. But he’s also dead, at least that, and because of him I flip over to RTL or ARD now and then and see little specks tumbling down against a gray background, as if the screen is busted in a few places. On MTV, there are more and more chicks thronging around Nelly. When it was finally all over, I turned off the TV and contemplated whether I should use my t-shirt or a tissue to wipe up the jizz.
The problem wasn’t really the pasta or the N14, and the black tea in itself would have been harmless. I just can’t get rid of them anymore, I can’t get rid of anything, and the question remains: Why are my parents stuck in my head like flies on one of those sticky ribbons? Are they skulking around up there because they can’t fly? Did they not spend enough time up there back in the day, is that why I’m going on about them so much now? Maybe my troubles started with a stupid idea, round the table, bien sûr. And that bend.
I’m little and someone is feeding me. I remember the scene, I was maybe three years old, and it was for sure an oeuf à la coque, a boiled egg. Dad slices through a bread roll, tearing the two halves into small morsels the size of his thumbnail. He starts arranging them one by one in a circle around a deep porcelain plate where my egg is waiting, and even at that age I knew that the beige thing and the white and yellow stuff inside was just for me. I probably flail my arms around wildly at the thought, maybe I giggle a bit too, as drool dribbles out of my mouth. In any event, there’s no distracting Dad, and now he’s laid out all the pieces of bread and so we begin: take a knife and decapitate the egg, grab a piece of bread, push it straight down into the white jelly, one deep dunk, pull it out straight again, let one, two, three drops of yellow fall from it before it soars in my direction. From above, from the invisible cloud, it rains down salt from his other hand, always right on the yolk. My mouth is already opening wide, I’m already biting down on the bread, on the thumb, on my childhood.
I had come up with my own naïve rule: My Dad broke down the big wide world into manageable chunks. His hands – so the promise went – weighed, broke up, tore apart, sorted and prepared everything until in the end all that his son could see were crumbs and small piles. That was the way Sundays would go, for how long I couldn’t say.
Well at least I can speed down Nordstrooss without his voice and his pridefulness in my ear, but on the N14, along the entire stretch of the CR308 or taking the N10 past Stolzebuerg, throughout the whole of Éislek in fact, Dad is sat there next to me in the passenger seat. That bit there, he says, we had to buy that land off Jäng Schmitt or Rosch Hirsch, he wouldn’t sign – I change gears while still in this dump – the contract until each and every one of us had drunk four shots of schnapps with him. And it was only nine thirty. And here, there’s already been nine accidents on this bend, that was Serge’s project, and I can feel the car letting up on the bend and give it even more gas. Serge was a good-for-nothing, I hear my Dad saying, like one of those goddam automated voices on the radio that switches on automatically for a traffic update, he wasn’t any good at drawing, yeah, I know, Dad, wasn’t a good person, either, that Serge, you know?
And on it goes, he’s with me always, his tired voice, his tired gaze, his eyelids heavy as a pair of brocade curtains. It’s almost too much to bear, it’s almost fit to burst, but let’s not forget: almost don’t get you no –
It was actually because of the roads that my troubles first began. Dad drew them and then got people to build them and then a few years later, or sometimes after just a few months – on one occasion it was out of my government employee parents’ hands – it was time for Mom to get her show on the road. She was a coroner, she got called out to crash sites to manage proceedings. I think. In any case, she, or to be more accurate, we would get phone calls at three in the morning whenever there’d been another collision.
Luckily, I didn’t go to sleep all that late at that age but it would often happen that during the evening or at night the phone would ring and I would wake up. Whenever I heard it, that abrupt bleeping melody in that amplified silence, my slumbering heart would begin to race. I would wiggle my toes and rub my body long and slow against the bedsheets which the cleaning lady had tucked in tightly from the hips down, and I found immense pleasure in imagining what the car must look like right now. Had it sped into a tree or a wall – or even another vehicle? I cast the image onto the dark ceiling of my bedroom, these two vehicles which now found themselves in a final embrace of steel and aluminum, their two hoods smashed together forever, their bodies twisted and splintered and then the red, white and blue of the EMTs, the police, the fire service. Only then could I get a good night’s sleep. I was going to find out everything the next day anyway, but this here, alone in my bed, that was the best time and my sleep was always deep and without dreams.
Back at that same table, the one in the kitchen, and then the discussion the next day, it might have been a few months after hunter green season. The window had gotten dirty again, apparently Mom didn’t want me looking out of it today. Well, son, there are more important things this morning than the landscape and the lives outside, you know, and besides it’s been snowing. Éislek always gets this shitty kind of snow. BMWs often come in white but it’s too sleek and shiny, that white, the slush here has always been gray, never pure like in the movies, never like whisked egg whites, no, the color of this snow has a hint of mud to it. There isn’t a car anywhere in the world has that typical Éislek color.
I didn’t know exactly where, not at that moment, but it was a nice and pleasant thought that morning to think that somewhere in Éislek, maybe it was in a narrow ditch next to a field, or maybe in a furrow between the carrot stalks, in any case somewhere out there in this remote backwater, was a square foot of land where, on that December morning, at almost gone seven thirty, the snow had been adorned with a speckled trail of blood. Sadly, too early: look at the time, almost hot cocoa o’clock, Dad, just like that it’s time for the bus.
He had ashtrays in the car, a whole box full of ashtrays, she says over lunch, and obviously the box wasn’t strapped in, I mean who would strap in a box of ashtrays? Mum asked the room which smelled of burnt trout. Behind that bend with the barn, that’s where he crashed. The rest, she said, picking up a tiny shrimp with the middle of the five prongs on her fork, well, you can fill in the rest yourselves. She always did that, on this particular occasion with a dead thing between her teeth, that pause, as if that was the end of her scheduled programming. If things were going well, my Dad would get his chance to shine, too, over one of these lunches. On good days, during that pause is when he would chime in. Well, that is, Dad always spoke his words very delicately, ready to take them back at any moment, like when he would gently touch his hand to the stove to see if it was still hot. And in this pause and in that fish stink, he chimed in precisely in that same delicate manner: Is that the CR331 by Nacher? It was Serge did that one, the big dumb ox.
Last winter, I drove to the Cactus Drinks Shop. I must have been really desperate that day. I went in, bought myself a couple of cases of Rosport, the yellow ones with the green bottles, obvs, and then went and stood by the cash register, with some idiot in front of me with three cases of Orangina and four bottles of Spontin, and then I put them, my cases of Rosport, in my car on the seat next to me. Bottles don’t talk, I thought, if there’s something occupying that space, then Dad can’t make an appearance there on the seat next me, he can’t make chitchat and waffle on and on at me. The seatbelt warning light, triggered by the weight of the cases, has been an immensely reliable source of comfort for me ever since. I only listen to the radio very occasionally.
From behind him, out of the trunk like a boomerang, said Mom, breakfast still on the table. Actually, she didn’t say ‘boomerang’, she said ‘bomerank’, but I didn’t say anything, I was just happy the place smelled of coffee now, instead of white fish. But then she said it another couple of times: They whooshed forward like a dozen bomeranks. Whanged right into his front windshield. And three of the bomeranks, she’d told me this yesterday already, three of them, I can hear Mom telling me, word for word: Three bomeranks, WHAM, into his head. Split the fella’s cranium right open. And then I said it, and I was rather proud of myself before I’d even opened my mouth. I waited until Mom had brought the coffee cup to her lips, took a deep breath and in the clearest voice I could muster said: It’s boomerang, not bomerank. Plus, you probably mean a frisbee. Boomerangs usually come back. Frisbees, on the other hand, do not. And I can’t imagine the ashtrays flew back around and clocked this fella in the chops a second time, can you?
She must have finished her cup a long time ago. That much coffee would never fit in such a dainty little porcelain cup. She didn’t say a word, neither did I, and we didn’t need to even look at Dad over to our left. And now she’s wobbling her head, like some old-timey aristocrat, wobbling her head and smirking. I can see her lips curling upward from the cup on either side.
It’s like with the fork she was holding last time. There’s the broad handle, the things we’ve done so far, our lived life, right? And then there’s the prongs, those are the alternatives. In English, you can make ‘fork’ into a verb, you can say ‘the path forks’. Luxembourgish can’t do that, obviously, this patchwork vernacular, this blob of a language that’s always limping along behind like some lingua francensteina. But picture this, imagine the possibilities of a verb ‘to fork’ in Luxembourgish. The future that would open up. Suddenly, there are crossroads, suddenly different paths are possible. My Mom knows this, it’s precisely the reason she’s smirking. I’m turning fourteen the day after tomorrow and all of a sudden I realize that this is her giving me her blessing. Her smirk and her eyes which for once really understand me, really see me, not like a piece of faded wallpaper but as an exquisite oil painting, right here in front of her, that’s what I am now. It’s her giving me the green light to keep on getting older and more grown-up, to get stupider and sadder, and I want to react somehow but I just rub my toes against the tough leather of my Doc Martens. Then Dad steals his way into our moment. Marlboro or Maryland? he asks. At first, we try to keep our private understanding for ourselves, my Mom and I, but then Dad asks again: Marlboro or Maryland? And after a pause: Were they at least Luxembourgish ashtrays that offed your fella?
‘Bal’
Vun Zeeechen
Et war net ëmmer einfach als Bouf vun enger Staatsbeamtin an engem Staatsbeamte grousszeginn. Dat kënne sech déi meescht elo net virstellen. Oder si wëllen et sech net virstellen, dat ass och mäi gutt Recht, mir näischt virstellen ze wëllen, wat geet dech un?, bläre si elo, sou iwwer eis ze schwätzen, du Dëlpes. Mee genee sou ass et mäi gutt Recht, schreiwen ech hinnen hei an elo zeréck, de Contraire ze verzielen. Iwwerhaapt mengen ech, datt déi meescht zwar soen, et wier hiert Recht, et net mussen ze wëllen, mee a Wierklechkeet ass et hir Inkompetenz, et net kënnen ze wëllen.
Bon. Ech mengen elo, sech eppes virzestellen, dat anescht ass. Déi meescht Leit hu sech Scheiklappen ëm d’Aen an ëm d’Ouere gewéckelt, an dës Scheiklappe si riseg, se sinn enorm, sou grouss wéi amputéiert Flosse vun engem Buckelwal. Oder wéi déi schlabbereg Ouere vun enger aler afrikanescher Elefantemamm. Nujee, d’N14 wier elo ee gutt Beispill, awer net déi asiatesch Elefantenzort, dat sinn nämlech déi méi kleng Elefanten, an deenen hir Ouere sinn net grouss genuch fir d’Ignoranz an d’Idiotie hei am Land ze erklären. Also, déi Strooss tëscht Dikrech a Steeën, se huet eng laang gezunne Kéier, direkt hanner dem Mouschbierg zitt sech dës Kéier, a lénks ass Bësch a riets eng wëll Wiss an de Papp huet dat alles gebaut.
Hien, de Papp, huet eng Macarono tëscht den Zänn stieche wéi ee labberege Stréihallem. Dat ass d’Bild, dat hänke blouf: tëscht den Zänn vum Papp d’Macarono an tëscht dem Gehirjelli de Papp mat den Zänn mat der Macarono – an dat alles um Kichendësch.
D’Mamm huet d’Nuddel ëmmer an engem Zock eragesuckelt. Et war ee Projet, wéi alles bei hir. D’Nuddel, also déi eenzel Macarono, heescht dat esou?, de Singular, egal, hir Macarono ass ëmmer wibbeleg duerch d’Loft geflunn, d’Ramzooss, déi drunhoung, ass iwwer den Dësch gesprutzt, heiansdo hat ech se am Gesiicht pechen, nujee, an dann dat Geräisch, sou ee Schlürfen an Zéien a Schmatzen, wéi wann ee fleeschege Reewuerm, dee sech duerch de mätschege Buedem no uewe gewullt hätt, wéi wann deen zeréck an d’Bannescht vun der Äerd gezu géif, duerch iergendee Vakuum oder sou, flang a flatsch a fort war d’Nuddel.
Beim Papp houng deen Ament déi éischt Nuddel vum Dag nach ëmmer aus dem Mond wéi eng gevreckte Schlaang. An där Zäit, an där d’Mamm nonzéng Nuddele wéi eng Maschinn a sech eragesuckelt hat, hat de Papp eng eenzeg Nuddel ugeknat. D’Macarono ass Stéck fir Stéck méi kuerz ginn, d’Pappelëpse waren zougepëtzt, a lues a lues ass d’Nuddel an de Mond eragekroch – an dat eemol d’Woch. Eemol d’Woch gouf et Macaroni bei eis, all Dënschden, an dir gesitt, et ass, wéi ech scho gesot hunn, nawell net einfach gewiescht, de Bouf ze si vun enger Staatsbeamtin an engem Staatsbeamten.
Wéi ee butzege Späicher kënnt mir mäi Kapp vir. Verstëbst, stackdäischter an onnëtz. Et ass dem Papp seng Schold, definitiv ass et seng Schold. Hien huet mäi Kapp zougedrätscht mat deenen Erënnerungen un de verschassenen Éislek. De Papp huet bei Ponts et Chaussées geschafft, d’Mamm sot ëmmer just Pauvres Chaussées, ech hunn dat ni verstan als Kand, a ganz éierlech: Och elo verstinn ech dat net wierklech. De Papp hat numol iergendeppes mat Stroossen ze dinn. D’N14 war ee vu senge Projeten, mee de Papp huet d’Stroossen net gebaut, nee, hien huet se baue gelooss. Hie stoung bei der Schaff dacks viru sou engem héijen Dësch an huet breet oder gestréchelt oder poulriicht Linnen op riseg Pabeiere gemoolt. Ech hu laang Jore missen op d’Zéiwespëtze goen, fir eppes ze gesinn, mee ech si jo méi grouss ginn a mat mir meng Zéiwespëtzen. An iergendwann, vläicht sou mat dräizéng Joer, konnt ech ganz genee gesinn, wéi de Papp seng Linealer am Grapp gehal huet, hien hat siwe verschidde Linealer um Dësch leien, véiereckeger mat Karoen, natierlech ee Geodräieck mat giele Linnen, dann zwee Linealer mat Zacken, een dovunner war ganz orange, deen aneren hat ee sëlwerege Grëff. Dat war säi Liiblingslineal. Ech wosst et direkt. Et war d’Manéier, wéi hien en ugepaakt huet, e geheemelt huet, ier hien domat ee laanggezunnene Stréch laanscht e puer Kréngele gezunn huet, vläicht laanscht ee Bësch.
Schwaarzen Téi soll maximal fënnef Minutten zéien, jee no Zort vläicht fënnefanenghallef Minutt. Mee net méi laang, nee wierklech, soss gëtt e batter, a wie wëll da scho batteren Téi drénken? Mir sinn nees um Dësch, bei eis fänkt ëmmer alles um Dësch un. Et ass fréie Moien, an den Dag virdrun hat d’Botzfra extra missen d’Fënster botzen, wéi wann d’Mamm gewosst hätt, datt mäi Kannerbléck eraus aus där Fënster, genee un deem Moien, Jore méi spéit – also elo – sou wichteg wäert gewiescht sinn. Mäi Bléck vun deemools, eraus op den Hiwwel, eran an den Niwwel, am September. Dännen, iwwerall stoungen Dännen, déi sech op där aner Säit vum Dall an enger freeschlech latzeger Landschaft verluer hunn. D’Welt war a sou ee Jeeërgréng gezappt, déi eng typesch Faarf do, déi vum Land Rover, dee vum bonzegen Dokter gefuer gëtt, deen een dichtegen Typ mat der Panz voller Goss, dee jiddweree vun eis kennt, ëmmer ënnerwee fir op eng Klappjuegd, fir e Réi oder Wëllschwäin oder Fuuss vreckt ze schéissen.
Esou ee Gréng stoung mir an den Aen, wéi ech deemools zu där impeccabel poléierter Fënster erausgekuckt hunn. Et war genee zwielef Minutten op siwen, ech hat nach dräizéng Minutten, fir de Bus an d’Schoul ze kréien. An enger routinéierter Hetz géif ech a genee néng Minutten opsprangen, mäi waarme Schocki géif ech bal ëmstoussen, ëmmer just bal, bei mir ass zënter ëmmer alles just bal geschitt, an de Papp géif dann nees soen: Bal ass nach laang keng Maus an der Fal. Och un deem Moie géif dat fir mech kléngen, wéi wann den Deche mir säin houert Vater Unser un de Kapp geheit hätt.
Mee nach ass et zwielef Minutten op siwen, elo dräizéng Minutten op, an de Säckelche mam schwaarzen Téi hänkt zënter aacht Minutten an der Taass vum Papp. Ech hat op meng Casio gekuckt, wéi hien den Téi an d’Waasser geluecht hat, mat all Sekonn ass säin dommen Téi méi batter a méi kal ginn, batter wéi Gal, genee wéi säi Liewen, brong wéi Schäiss, denken ech elo, dat huet hien och stoen an zéie gelooss, ouni sech ëm iergendeppes ze këmmeren, dee Fainéant, bis alles wootlech a batter war, gedu, froen ech hien elo, du lidderegen Topert, mee natierlech gëtt hie mir keng Äntwert, an ech denke mir: Wéinstens ass haut net Dënschden, wéinstens gëtt et de Mëtte keng Nuddelen.
Den eenzegen Trouscht, deen ech duerno aus dëser Zeen zéie konnt, war d’Virstellung, datt knapp aacht Stonne méi spéit zu New York Fligeren an Tierm fléie wäerten. Op der Tëlee huet dat sou ausgesinn, wéi wann ee Kueb dohannen, lénks vum Trëppelwee, ze séier op deen een Dännebam duergeflu wier. Ëmmer gëtt et Biller, déi alles opléisen a Faarwen, Beweegung an Trouscht, an op MTV ass deen Nomëtten den neie Video vum Nelly gelaf. Ech hat eréischt viru kuerzem mäi Jeep richteg fir mech entdeckt, spéit, ech weess, an d’Lidd huet Hot in Herre geheescht. Dat ass kee Witz, kuckt et no, wann dir mir et net gleeft. Op eemol rifft mäi Monni un a seet: De World Trade Center explodéiert. Méi kréien ech net ze héieren, hie seet et nach eng Kéier, vläicht souguer eng drëtte Kéier, dann hänkt hien an, wéi wann hie sech verwielt hätt. An da stinn ech do, d’Mossen danzen ëm den Nelly rondrëm a ginn ëmmer méi schweesseg, den Nelly séngt: The roof is on fire, si ginn och ëmmer méi plakeg, a ganz éierlech, haut géif ech dem Monni soen: Net den Tuerm explodéiert, du Blani, mee d’Fligere sinn an oder fir ganz genee ze sinn: un den Tierm explodéiert. Mee hien ass jo och dout, wéinstens dat, a wéinst him zappen ech also heiansdo eriwwer op RTL oder op ARD a gesi Strécher virun engem groe Fong erof trëllen, wéi wann den Ecran op e puer Plaze futtigefuer wier. Bei MTV schäre sech ëmmer méi Mossen ëm den Nelly. Wéi alles bis eriwwer war, hunn ech d’Tëlee ausgemaach an doriwwer nogeduecht, ob ech de Jitz mam TShirt oder mat engem Nuesschnappech ewechwësche sollt.
De Problem ware jo net d’Nuddelen oder d’N14, och de schwaarzen Téi wier u sech harmlos gewiescht. Ech gi si einfach net méi lass, näischt ginn ech méi lass, an d’Fro bleift: Firwat hänke meng Elteren a mengem Kapp wéi Mécken u sou enger pecheger Rull? Wibbele si do rondrëm, well si net gutt fléie konnten? Ware si net dacks genuch do, deemools, an dowéinst braddelen ech elo ze vill vun hinnen? Vläicht goung de Misär mat enger dommer Iddi lass, um Dësch, bien sûr, och dës Kéier.
Ech si kleng a gi gefiddert. Ech erënnere mech un déi Zeen, vläicht war ech dräi Joer al, mat Sécherheet war et een Oeuf à la coque. De Papp schneit ee Bréitchen op, déi zwou Hallschechte rappt hien a kleng Stécker, grouss wéi den Nol vu sengem Domm. Hie fänkt un, se eenzel am Krees rondrëm eng niddreg Porzeläinsschuel ze leeën, an där mäin Ee waart, a schonns deemools weess ech, datt déi beige Saach an déi wäiss a giel Saache bannendra just mir gehéiere wäerten. Wahrscheinlech schloen ech no deem Gedanke wëll mat mengen Äerm, vläicht kickelen ech och e bëssen, därbaants de Spaut mir aus dem Mond leeft. De Papp léisst sech dovunner op jiddwer Fall net ofbréngen, elo huet hien all d’Broutdeeler dohigeluecht, an da fänke mir un: d’Ee mam Messer käppen, ee Broutstéck an de Grapp huelen, riicht vun uewen erof an dee wäisse Jelli drécken, eng Kéier déif eranzappen, nees riicht erauszéien, eng, zwou, dräi giel Drëpsen eroffalen an et dann a meng Richtung fléie loossen. Vun uewen, aus der onsiichtbarer Wollek, aus senger zweeter Hand reent et Salz, ëmmer präzis op d’Eegiel. Scho geet de Mond op, scho bäissen ech an d’Brout, an den Domm, an d’Kandheet.
Mäin naiivt Gesetz hat ech fonnt: Mäi Papp huet aus der ganzer grousser Welt Portioune gemaach. Seng Hänn hunn – dat war d’Verspriechen – alles gewien, auserneegeholl, zerrappt, sortéiert a preparéiert, bis um Enn just nach Grimme len a kleng Kéip virun den Ae vu sengem Bouf loungen. Sou goung dat all Sonnden, ech weess net wéi laang.
Mee wéinstens iwwer d’Nordstrooss kann ech rennen, ouni seng Stëmm a säin Houfert am Ouer ze hunn, mee op der N14, der ganzer CR308 oder der N10 hanner Stolzebuerg, eigentlech duerch de ganzen Éislek erduerch sëtzt de Papp nieft mir um Sëtz. Kuck elei, seet hien, deen Terrain hu mir missen dem Schmitte Jäng oder dem Hirsche Rosch ofkafen, hie wollt – an ech wiesselen nach am Kaff de Gank – de Kontrakt nëmmen ënnerschreiwen, nodeems jiddweree vun eis véier Drëppe mat him gedronk hat. An et war eréischt hallwer zéng. An hei, an dëser Kéier si schonns néng Acci denter geschitt, dat war dem Serge säi Projet, an ech spieren, wéi den Auto sech an d’Kéier leet a ginn nach méi Gas. De Serge war kee Gudden, héieren ech de Papp soen, wéi sou ee schäiss Speaker, wann de Radio automatesch wéinst der StauInfo ugeet, hie war kee gudden Zeechner, jo, ech weess, Papp, an e gudde Mënsch war hien och net, de Serge, gedu.
Sou geet dat weider, hien ass ëmmer bei mir, seng midd Stëmm, säi midde Bléck, d’Aendeckele sou schwéier wéi Rideauen aus Brokat. Et ass bal net auszehalen, bal fir ze baschten, mee mir wësse jo: Bal ass nach laang –
Mat de Stroosse selwer huet de Misär jo eréischt ugefaang. De Papp huet se opgezeechent an du baue gelooss, an e puer Jore méi spéit, heiansdo och schonns no e puer Méint, dat loung mol eng Kéier net an den Hänn vu menge Beamten elteren, war et un der Mamm, fir lasszeleeën. Si war Untersuchungsriichterin, si ass op Plaze vun Accidenter geruff ginn, fir d’Prozeduren anzeleeden, mengen ech mol. Si, also fir genee ze sinn: mir kruten nuets op jiddwer Fall um dräi ugeruff, wann et nees geknuppt hat.
Glécklecherweis sinn ech deemools ni allze spéit ageschlof, mee et koum dacks vir, datt am Laf vum Owend oder der Nuecht den Telefon geschellt huet an ech waakreg gouf. Wann ech se héieren hunn, déi abrupt piipseg Melodie an där opgebauschtener Stëllt, dann ass mäi verschlofent Häerz méi séier gaang, ech hu mat den Zéiwe gewibbelt a mäi Kierper laang a lues géint d’Decke geriwwen, déi vun der Hëft u fest vun der Botzfra opgezu gi war, an et war ee grousse Genoss, mir virzestellen, wéi den Auto elo genee ausgesouch. Op e géint ee Bam oder eng Mauer gerannt war – oder souguer géint een anere Won. Un den däischtere Plafong vu mengem Zëmmer hunn ech dat Bild geheit, déi zwee Ween, déi sech an enger leschter Stol a Blechëmaarmung fannen, hir zwee Capote fir ëmmer aneneegedrätscht, d’Karosserië gediebelt an auserneegesprong, an dann déi rout, wäiss a blo Luuchte vum Samu, vun der Police a vun de Pompjeeën. Eréischt duerno konnt ech richteg gutt schlofen. Den Dag drop géif ech jo souwisou alles erausfannen, mee dat heiten, hei eleng am Bett, dat waren déi beschte Stonnen a mäi Schlof war ëmmer déif an ouni Dram.
Um selwechten Dësch, un deem an der Kichen, dann och d’Gespréich um nächsten Dag, vläicht e puer Méint nom Jeeërgréng war dat. D’Fënster war nees méi dreckeg ginn, apparemment wollt d’Mamm net, datt ech haut erauskucken. Et gëtt, Bouf, un dësem Moien numol méi wichteg Saache wéi d’Landschaft an d’Liewen dobaussen, gedu, a souwisou läit Schnéi. Am Éislek läit ëmmer dee verschassene Schnéi. BMWe gëtt et dacks am Wäissen, mee dat ass ze blénkeg an ze glat, de Schnéimatsch hei ass ëmmer gro gewiescht, ni propper wéi am Film, ni wéi Eeërschnéi, éischter mat engem Zoch an d’Faarf vu Bulli. Keen Auto op der ganzer Welt huet dës typesch Éisleker Faarf.
Ech wousst deen Ament zwar nach net genee wou, mee et war ee gudden a schéine Gedanken un deem Moien: Iergend wou am Éislek, vläicht an engem schmuele Gruef nieft enger Gewan, gouf et, vläicht och an enger Kaul tëscht Wuerzelstrénk, op jiddwer Fall gouf et an där wäitleefeger Merde hei ee bestëmmte Quadratmeter, op deem un dësem Dezembermoien um bal hallwer aacht eng Rëtsch Bluttflecken de Schnéi dekoréiert hunn. Leider ze fréi: d’Auerzäit, bal de waarme Schocki, de Papp, grad esou just de Bus.
Hien hat Äschebecheren dobäi, eng ganz Këscht voll mat Äschebecheren, sot si du beim Mëttegiessen, an natierlech war déi Këscht net geséchert, wie séchert da schonns Äschebecheren?, huet d’Mamm an d’Loft eragefrot, déi no ugebrannte Frelle gefacht huet. Hanner där Kéier mat der Scheier, do huet et du geknuppt. An de Rescht, sot si an huet eng butzeg Crevette mat der mëttelzer vun de fënnef Forschettsspëtzen opgepickt, de Rescht kënnt dir iech jo denken. Sou huet si et ëmmer gemaach, haut ebe mat engem doudegen Déierchen tëscht den Zänn, déi Paus do, wéi wann hir Sendezäit elo eriwwer wier. Wann et gutt gelaf ass, konnt och nach de Papp bei sou engem Mëttegiesse brilléieren. An d’Paus era sot hien op gudden Deeg, also de Papp huet seng Wierder ëmmer ganz lues gesot, hie war all Ament prett, se nees zeréckzezéien, sou, wéi ee seng Hand virsiichteg op d’Kachplack leet, fir ze kucken, ob se nach waarm ass, a genee sou seet hien an d’Paus an an de Fëschgestank eran: Ass dat d’CR331 bei Nacher? Déi huet de Serge gemaach, dat dommt Kallef.
Leschte Wanter sinn ech an de Cactus Drink Shop gefuer. Deen Dag muss ech wierklech verzweiwelt gewiescht sinn. Ech sinn eragaang, hu mir zwee Cageote Rosport kaf, natierlech déi giel mat de grénge Fläschen dran, an du stoung ech virun der Keess, viru mir een Idiot mat dräi Cageoten Orangina a véier Fläsche Spontin, an déi, also meng RosportCageoten, hunn ech dunn am Auto op de Sëtz nieft mir gestallt. Fläsche kënnen net schwätzen, duecht ech, wann iergendeppes op där Plaz ass, da wäert de Papp net hei optauche kënnen, um Sëtz nieft mir, da wäert hien net mat mir braddelen a pote re kënnen. D’Warnsignal fir de Gurt, dat duerch d’Gewiicht vun de Cageoten ausgeléist gëtt, berouegt mech zënterhier immens zouverlässeg. Ech lauschtere just nach ganz seele Radio.
Vun hannen aus der Mall wéi ee Bumerang, dat sot d’Mamm nach beim Kaffi. Fir genee ze sinn, sot si net Bumerang, mee Bomerank, mee ech sot näischt a war just frou, datt et elo no Kaffi an net méi no wäissem Fësch gericht huet. Mee du sot si et nach e puermol: Wéi zwielef Bomeranke si se no vir geflunn. Flang an d’viischt Glace eran. An dräi vun de Bomeranken, dat sote si mir gëschter nach, dräi dovunner, ech héieren d’Mamm et Wuert fir Wuert soen: Dräi Bomeranke sinn him ratsch géint de Kapp geflunn. Se hunn dem Männi d’Hirschuel gespléckt. An du sot ech et, an ech war schonns houfreg, ier ech et iwwerhaapt ausgeschwat hat. Ech hu gewaart, bis d’Mamm d’Kaffistaass un hir Lëpsen ugesat hat, hunn déif Loft geholl a mat méiglechst klorer Stëmm gesot: Dat heescht Bumerang, net Bomerank. An iwwerhaapt: Du mengs wuel ee Frisbee. Bumerange kommen normalerweis zeréckgeflunn. Frisbeeë par konter net. An ech mengen net, datt d’Äschebecheren dem Männi nach eng zweete Kéier vu vir géint seng Gladder geflu sinn, oder?
Hir Taass hätt scho laang missen eidel sinn. Sou vill Kaffi geet guer net an esou eng butzeg Porzeläinstaass eran. Si sot näischt, ech och net, an no lénks, a Richtung vum Papp, musse mir net mol luussen. Da wackelt si mam Kapp, wéi eng Aristokratin aus iergendengem Joerhonnert wackelt si mam Kapp a schmonzt. Ech gesinn, wéi sech hir Lëpse lénks a riets vun der Taass no uewen zéien.
Et ass wéi bei där Forschett, déi si virdrun am Grapp hat. Et gëtt de breede Still, dat, wat mir schonns ergraff hunn, eist geliewtent Liewen, jo? An da gëtt et d’Spëtzen, dat sinn d’Varianten. Am Däitsche kann een aus Gabel ee Verb maa chen: sich gabeln. Dat geet am Lëtzebuergeschen natierlech net, an dëser Mëschtsprooch, dësem Batz vun enger Sprooch, mat där een de Saachen ëmmer hannendrunhippt wéi een Zongekrëppel. Mee stellt iech et vir, d’Méiglechkeete vum Verb sech forschettéieren. Domadder léisst sech d’Zukunft oppicken. Op eemol gëtt et Kräizungen, op eemol sinn ënner schiddlech Weeër méiglech. A genee dat Wësse läit an der Mamm hirem Schmonzen. Iwwermuer wäert ech véierzéng Joer al ginn, an op eemol weess ech, datt dat heiten hiren Accord ass. Hiert Schmonzen an hir Aen, déi mech mol eng Kéier richteg erfaassen a gesinn, net wéi eng verblatzten Tapéit, mee wéi ee schmocken Tableau direkt virun hir, dat sinn elo ech. Et ass hir Lizenz u mech, ëmmer méi al a méi erwuessen, ëmmer méi domm a méi traureg dierfen ze ginn, an ech wëll iergendwéi reagéieren, reiwen awer just meng Zéiwe géint dat zéit Lieder vun den Doc Martens. Dann ass et de Papp, dee vun der Säit an eisen Ament eragrätscht. Marlboro oder Maryland?, freet hien. Mir probéieren eist privat Versteesdemech nach weider fir eis ze behalen, meng Mamm an ech, mee da freet de Papp nach eng Kéier: Marlboro oder Maryland?, an no enger Paus: War et wéinstens ee Lëtzebuerger Äschebecher, deen däi Männi erschlo huet?
Samuel Hamen was born in Dikrech, Luxembourg in 1988. He currently splits his time between Germany and Luxembourg, writing stage plays, prose and lyric poetry, and also publishing literary criticism. He was awarded first prize at the 2019 Concours littéraire national au Luxembourg for a detective novel and the Servais Prize for Literature 2024 for his German-language novel Wie die Fliegen (Like Flies). His 2020 graphic novel, Zeeechen (Siiigns), illustrated by Marc Angel, won the Luxembourg Book Prize in the Literature category. He has previously been Author-in-Residence at the Théâtre national du Luxembourg.
Rob Myatt is an award-winning translator, working from Luxembourgish, German, Polish, Russian, Danish and Swedish into English. His translations from Luxembourgish include lyrics by Luxembourgish rapper Nicool for her Projet Liewen and an investigative podcast for radio 100,7. His literary translations from other languages have appeared, among others, in Subnivean, The Dodge, Turkoslavia and Your Impossible Voice, and he was a contributing translator to Earliest Stories: Chekhov's Complete Collected Works. He won the 2023 Goethe-Institut Award for his translation of an excerpt from Dog Wolf Jackal by Behzad Karim Khani and he regularly collaborates with leading European publishers, such as Granta, Ullstein, Rowohlt, Hanser, Cyranka and Politikens Forlag, to bring great European literature to English-speak audiences. He lives and works in London, UK.
Marc Angel was born in Dikrech, Luxembourg in 1960 and studied graphic design in Cologne. He continues to work as an independent artist, graphic designer and publisher, while also writing lyrics, composing music, providing vocals and playing guitar in several bands. He writes and illustrates his own prose, poetry, comics and graphic novels, and also works as a translator and illustrator. He illustrated Samuel Hamen's 2020 graphical novel, Zeeechen (Siiigns), which won the Luxembourg Book Prize in the Literature category.
