Message in a Bottle
written by: Patrick McAteer
I left the examination centre pushing a letter into my bag as I walked the street. It was needed to confirm that I had taken the test. The secretary had placed it flat in a plastic envelope, but it was now having to contend with the irregular shapes of a bottle of water, pencils, a lunch box, and a jotter. The Job Centre however needed confirmation that I was making efforts to find work.
I had finished quicker than I had anticipated. The last part of the exam went well but the listening comprehension went so fast, and we were only offered the one opportunity to hear the recording. I was left staring at a table trying to recap what the man in the second conversation spoke about. Blast it. I can’t remember anything.
The way to the train station was now etched in my mind. Having arrived by tram, I disembarked and waited at a pedestrian crossing. A twelve-year-old with Middle Eastern features stood beside me waiting. He held a tennis ball in his hand and held it before him to rub against the tram as it passed. I felt glad to have him cross next to me.
It was just the same as my oral. I, a fifty-nine-year-old, was paired up with an eighteen-year-old Frenchie. We were both given two separate sheets containing a statement to read aloud. I granted her the opportunity to go first. Her statement was about the necessity of language for travelling. Having read it she asserted that in her view, as long as a person knows English they can get by in any country. The two adjudicators were sitting to our side.
I answered saying: I partly agree but think that one should learn at least two expressions from the local language, namely ‘thank you’ and ‘hello’ as a mark of respect to the indigenous population. I went on to speak of the former German president Richard Von Weizsäker; I pointed out that this one word had resolved an awkward situation and went on to explain: Many years ago I saw him being interviewed on the telly. He was standing in a street in Poland. A stranger approached and began to speak to him, disrupting the interview. Von Weizsäker calmly uttered the word, ‘Dziękuję’. The man smiled and made his way onwards.
Before I could say anything more, I heard: That is fine, I think that is a good point to finish up on. I looked at my script. They had not asked me to read my statement. I grabbed my things and made my way out of the sun-drenched classroom. As I made my way through the corridor and down the stairs, I thought about my response. This had been the result of thirty years of German and so I had a big advantage on the Frenchie. I kept rerunning it in my mind as I crossed the road, amazed that I still remembered the Polish word for thank you.
I entered the train station and followed the S sign before stepping once more into a metal frame. It was a relief to discover it was heading in the right direction as the S Bahn as it proceeded to pass the German Bundestag and over the river Spree. I arose and disembarked at Alexander Platz. Then a fog of confusion engulfed my mind. I was not sure whether it was the number two or number four I needed. The number two came to a halt and so throwing caution to the wind, I climbed on board. As it made its way onward, I realised it was heading in the wrong direction. I needed to get off at the first stop and make my way back to the crowded Alex.
Having arrived I crossed to the other less lucrative side of the station and ran to catch the number two. I found a seat and waited. It did not leave for a good five minutes but thankfully it was heading in the right direction. I needed to keep an eye out for my stop as I did not want any further mishaps. I disembarked. I had taken a photo with my mobile phone of the Doner Kebab shop next to where they live as I always have issues finding the place. Having arrived, I pressed on the buzzer Schemmerling / Jahnke and soon detected Jutta’s voice above the drone of street sounds behind me. I said hello in my usual high pitch, and she buzzed me in.
Making my way through, I glanced at the array of letterboxes, one of which still had a postcard image of the German artist Joesef Buoys from the last time I had visited. I was impressed the first time I saw this but realising now that Buoys had some right-wing views his image was not so appealing. I pushed through another door and made my way through the small yard laced with greenery. I opened another door and passed two more heavily glossed ivy-green doors before making my way up the stairs.
As I waited, the place began to resonate with an air of resignation. The dusty thick green door seemed to have the sheen of a place which had long since been left waiting. It seemed as if two cataract eyes opened slowly for an instant before closing once more. Jutta pulled the door ajar, glanced at me before retreating. I entered the dark of the interior.
We sat in the kitchen and then Angelo appeared, staring ahead of him as he felt his way with his hands before collapsing onto his chair. I spoke about the exam and my son. Our conversation was marred by a dog barking outside. Angelo looked towards Jutta and asked if there was still coffee in his cup. He then tapped the table feeling for the cup and placed it before him.
I asked about the dog outside and Jutta said she had never seen it but said it barks sporadically and sometimes at night. Angelo said the sound comes from within a wide range and so the doggy has a considerable space to roam. His hearing is more acute than the average person and he is able to localise sounds as well as pick up on sounds most people would not hear.
Jutta mentioned a couple who often seem to argue but again she has never laid eyes on them. She said it is the woman who does most of the shouting. She then pressed her lips together as she uttered something she had heard. ‘Get up off your lazy arse and get yourself a job.’ She went on to say that two builders were once doing a job close by and one said to the other, ‘Hans, your next job is to go down there and adjudicate between those two.’
Jutta finished making the Schnitte (sandwitches) and a salad and we began to eat. She provided the requested salmon, cheese, and salami on Angelos’s plate together with two limp sausages. The salad was refreshing and the wholemeal bread enabled one to continue talking whilst chewing.
The theme Artificial Intelligence arose, and Jutta said: ‘Artificial Intelligence is a software.’ Angelo now leaning with his lower arm on the table countered: ‘No, Artificial Intelligence is hardware.’ I interjected: ‘I think it is software.’ Jutta was not having it, ‘ich lass das nicht auf mich sitzen’ and duly went to google it on her phone. It turned out it is both, hardware and software. I began to feel regretful that I had taken Jutta’s side.
Angelo is a tall well-built man of about sixty-five. His bearded face is pale as he rarely stirs out of the flat. There is a large grandfather’s clock which has long since stopped ticking standing in his room. It is the main thing that catches the eye when one enters the apartment as his door is always open.
“Angelo, I am going onto the balcony for a smoke, is there anything you want?” Angelo had already got to his feet and sucked in the air through the corners of his mouth. His tired deep gravelly voice left the room, and I stepped out into the hall wondering where to go. Jutta led the way, and we were soon sitting on the balcony overlooking the yard.
A pine plant on the table had turned brown with it was about to shed its leaves. The bottom part was a luscious green. When I expressed wonder, Jutta pointed out the bottom part was artificial. A range of sounds came from the yard, birds, children, footsteps, and the banging of doors. She lit a cigarette, and we talked about folk I had seen at a birthday party in their flat some twenty years before.
After a lull in the chat, I noted there was a line of tubular bells which acted as a wind chime hanging on the railings. There was no wind so I ran my fingers along them allowing one refreshing sound to momentarily lift the heavy evening air. The cat appeared in the doorway. Jutta suggested we go back inside as Angelo was most likely wondering about us.
Back to the kitchen, and the conversation was getting sparse. I looked at my beer bottle and said: “It is funny, all I seem to get these days is junk mail landing in my e-mail box. One time you could write a note and put it in a bottle and throw it into the sea.” There followed a moment of silence, and then they both uttered the word ‘Flaschenpost.’
Jutta went on to speak: “As a child, I used to go to the Baltic coast with my parents two weeks before school officially finished. The last two weeks of schooling were dedicated to learning how to swim, so I missed out on that. Neither of my parents could swim so it was not important that their daughter learn to swim. Thinking back now, they must have been very brave going to the seaside. We stayed in a room in a guest house which was very spartan in furnishing. Just three metal beds and a wooden crucifix on the wall. This figure of a suffering Christ gave me the creeps, but as the weather was nice, we were able to spend most of our time outside, down at the sea.”
“One day my mother encouraged me to write a note with our address and put it in a bottle. It was corked up and then thrown out to sea. Five weeks later a letter arrived from Denmark. It needed to be translated. Once this was accomplished, it turned out the recipient of the Flaschenpost was a Danish fisherman who had written a little about his life. He lived alone on an island. Correspondence thus began between a ten-year-old and a forty-year-old until one day a letter came, and the fisherman wrote that he had been called up to join the Danish Royal Guard. As such, communication would have to cease (I was living on the wrong side of the Iron Curtain back then). He thanked me for the companionship and wished me well.”
Jutta then arose and put several of the sandwiches into a zipper bag and handed them to me. I opened my bag and pulled out a small painting my sister had done of a young woman surrounded by birds. She took it and asked who the artist was and then asked if she signed it. She then asked what it meant. I said that my sister has a close relationship with birds, and these can also be seen as messengers from the afterlife. She placed it on the dining table facing her, leaning against the wall. There was a tiny angel hanging just above on a shelf.
Angelo asked me what time it was for the third time, and I arose and bid farewell.
Outside, I looked back at the street and the multitudes of folk passing. The tram took me away once more.
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