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Authors: Jonas Hassen Khemiri
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rubber coat-check tags in my back pocket, steamy smoke-machine smell, cigarette butts in overflowing toilets, cigarette packs smushed into empty glasses,
conversations in front of speakers where the only way to make yourself heard is to cup the listener’s ear. Then home in a taxi with ears ringing and waking up the next day with wrists full of
stamps and pockets full of crumpled bills and forgotten beer tickets and sweaty gum and involuntarily stolen lighters and brown flakes of tobacco and receipts from places you hardly remember being
at. But then you remember, of course, and smile at the memory. In short: it was a happy time. Maybe the happiest of my life.
*
Panther sighs and shakes her head. It hurts to think about this. The next day was a Friday. I was standing at the market in Kreuzberg, I was just about to buy two artichokes, I
had them in a thin blue plastic bag, I had my change purse out, my phone rang, I answered. Vandad told me, he just said it and then he hung up. I know I collapsed, I remember that the guy selling
vegetables seemed to think at first that I was trying to steal the artichokes, then he realized what was up and he ran out and stood near me so no one would accidentally step on me, it was crowded,
the cobblestone street was full of vegetable bits and black water, there was a sound, it wasn’t crying, it was an animal, a mewling primeval animal, I squatted there, I don’t know how
long, the vegetable seller stood there waiting for me to get up, he borrowed a bottle of water from a colleague, he handed it to me, I took it but couldn’t drink, shoes and unshaven shins
walked by me, two German guys with guitars were talking loudly about pineapple tomatoes which were apparently like regular tomatoes but in the shape of a pineapple, they tasted the same as other
tomatoes but the shape was totally different, and one guy said “then what’s the point of them” and the other answered something I didn’t hear because they had walked past
me, they were already gone, after a while I could get up, the man with the artichokes wanted to give them to me but I paid, I didn’t want anything for free, I took the plastic bag and walked
home, fifteen minutes later I realized I was going in the wrong direction, I turned around and walked home, I had bought artichokes, the sun was shining, German guys were talking about pineapple
tomatoes, a truck was unloading lamps and dressers outside a furniture store, beer was glittering in plastic glasses at an outdoor restaurant, it was a nice day, people were happy, bikes wobbled
by, taxis honked, cats meowed, the city was alive, but Samuel was dead.
PART II
LAIDE
THE LIVING ROOM
Did you come straight from the airport? Was it hard to find? You’ve lived in Paris, right? This neighborhood was probably pretty different back then. These days
it’s super quiet. Or almost super quiet. But it’s lucky you didn’t come last Tuesday because the RER drivers and Air Traffic Control went on strike. I thought we could sit in
here, will that work, sound-wise? Do you want tea or coffee? Milk? Hot or iced? Foam or no foam? Why don’t you tell me a little more about what you want to know while I get it ready?
*
Then came the autumn when Laide and Samuel met for real. And that’s probably what some people (like you, for example) would call the beginning of the story. And others
(like me, for example) would call the beginning of the end.
*
Should I just start talking? Okay. But I’m going to trust that you’ll turn what I say into something that works as a text. I mean, like, take out when I say like
“like” and “um,” because I know how spoken language looks when it’s written down word for word, it’s totally bizarre, you seem like an idiot and I don’t
want to seem like an idiot, I want to seem like me.
*
In the spring of two thousand ten, I noticed that Samuel was changing. At first it was little things. Like when we did a toast together, more
conversations in front of speakers where the only way to make yourself heard is to cup the listener’s ear. Then home in a taxi with ears ringing and waking up the next day with wrists full of
stamps and pockets full of crumpled bills and forgotten beer tickets and sweaty gum and involuntarily stolen lighters and brown flakes of tobacco and receipts from places you hardly remember being
at. But then you remember, of course, and smile at the memory. In short: it was a happy time. Maybe the happiest of my life.
*
Panther sighs and shakes her head. It hurts to think about this. The next day was a Friday. I was standing at the market in Kreuzberg, I was just about to buy two artichokes, I
had them in a thin blue plastic bag, I had my change purse out, my phone rang, I answered. Vandad told me, he just said it and then he hung up. I know I collapsed, I remember that the guy selling
vegetables seemed to think at first that I was trying to steal the artichokes, then he realized what was up and he ran out and stood near me so no one would accidentally step on me, it was crowded,
the cobblestone street was full of vegetable bits and black water, there was a sound, it wasn’t crying, it was an animal, a mewling primeval animal, I squatted there, I don’t know how
long, the vegetable seller stood there waiting for me to get up, he borrowed a bottle of water from a colleague, he handed it to me, I took it but couldn’t drink, shoes and unshaven shins
walked by me, two German guys with guitars were talking loudly about pineapple tomatoes which were apparently like regular tomatoes but in the shape of a pineapple, they tasted the same as other
tomatoes but the shape was totally different, and one guy said “then what’s the point of them” and the other answered something I didn’t hear because they had walked past
me, they were already gone, after a while I could get up, the man with the artichokes wanted to give them to me but I paid, I didn’t want anything for free, I took the plastic bag and walked
home, fifteen minutes later I realized I was going in the wrong direction, I turned around and walked home, I had bought artichokes, the sun was shining, German guys were talking about pineapple
tomatoes, a truck was unloading lamps and dressers outside a furniture store, beer was glittering in plastic glasses at an outdoor restaurant, it was a nice day, people were happy, bikes wobbled
by, taxis honked, cats meowed, the city was alive, but Samuel was dead.
PART II
LAIDE
THE LIVING ROOM
Did you come straight from the airport? Was it hard to find? You’ve lived in Paris, right? This neighborhood was probably pretty different back then. These days
it’s super quiet. Or almost super quiet. But it’s lucky you didn’t come last Tuesday because the RER drivers and Air Traffic Control went on strike. I thought we could sit in
here, will that work, sound-wise? Do you want tea or coffee? Milk? Hot or iced? Foam or no foam? Why don’t you tell me a little more about what you want to know while I get it ready?
*
Then came the autumn when Laide and Samuel met for real. And that’s probably what some people (like you, for example) would call the beginning of the story. And others
(like me, for example) would call the beginning of the end.
*
Should I just start talking? Okay. But I’m going to trust that you’ll turn what I say into something that works as a text. I mean, like, take out when I say like
“like” and “um,” because I know how spoken language looks when it’s written down word for word, it’s totally bizarre, you seem like an idiot and I don’t
want to seem like an idiot, I want to seem like me.
*
In the spring of two thousand ten, I noticed that Samuel was changing. At first it was little things. Like when we did a toast together, more
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