Read Online The Taste of Apple Seeds by Katharina Hagena - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Katharina Hagena
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Not a stone, it wasn’t that hard, but it was wet, and when it bounced off his head it fell apart.
An apple.
Or, rather, the remains of an apple. The flesh at the blossom end was missing; the top half with its stalk lay in two pieces by his shoe. Lexow stood still, his breathing rapid and fitful. There was a rustling in the tree. He looked upward through the leaves, straining his eyes, but it was too dark. Carsten got the impression that something large and white was shimmering up above. There was another rustling and the boughs of the tree shook violently. When the girl jumped from the tree and landed with a thud, Carsten didn’t recognize her face, she was standing so close to him. The face came even closer and kissed Carsten on the lips. He closed his eyes; the lips were warm and tasted of apples. Of Boskoop. And bitter almonds. Before he could say anything the girl’s lips kissed Carsten’s once more and so he kissed them back, and the two of them fell into the grass beneath the apple tree, and breathlessly and clumsily removed the clothes from their bodies. Carsten’s tree nymph was wearing only a nightshirt, so it wasn’t that hard to free her from it, but when two people are trying to undress, undress each other, but also kiss and not leave each other’s arms for a second, it isn’t so easy, especially when, as in this case, neither of them is experienced in what they are doing. But they did it and much more besides, and the earth glowed around them so that the apple tree beneath which they were lying began to push out buds for the second time, even though it was June already.
Of course, Herr Lexow didn’t go into the details of what went on beneath the apple tree, and I was glad of this, but his soft yet keenly spoken words—his eyes still fixed on his mug—evoked images in my mind that seemed familiar, as if they had been described to me before, as if I had heard them as a child, maybe from an adult conversation that I had listened in to secretly from a hiding place, and that I hadn’t understood until now. Thus Carsten Lexow’s story became part of my own story and part of my story about the story of my grandmother and part of my story about the story of my grandmother’s story of Great-Aunt Anna.
Whether Carsten Lexow had cried out Bertha’s name at any point and then pushed away the girl in his arms and run, whether during their lovemaking he had realized his mistake by her large breasts and taken his hands off her, whether the two of them went on right to the end as if they didn’t know what the other knew, only afterward going their separate ways in silence, never to find each other again, I didn’t know and probably would never find out. But what everyone in the village had talked about and what Rosmarie, Mira, and I often heard was the story of the old Boskoop tree in the Deelwaters’ orchard, which started to blossom one warm summer’s night and the following morning was covered in white as if there had been a frost. But the wonderful blossoms were fragile and that same morning they had fallen to the ground silently, in thick flakes. The entire farmstead stood around the tree, awestruck, suspicious, delighted, or simply astonished. Only Anna Deelwater didn’t see it; she had caught a cold, felt a slight burning in her throat, and had to stay in bed. The burning intensified and scorched the delicate cilia in her bronchial tubes, then spread until her lungs became inflamed and finally grew weak. Carsten Lexow never saw her again, and four weeks after the apple tree had blossomed she was dead. A tragic case of pneumonia.
Herr Lexow glanced at his watch and asked whether he should go. I didn’t know what time it was but nor did I know what had happened next; we hadn’t got any further in his story of Bertha. But maybe he should go. He saw my hesitation and stood up immediately.
“Please, Herr Lexow, we haven’t finished yet.”
“No, we haven’t. But perhaps we are done for
An apple.
Or, rather, the remains of an apple. The flesh at the blossom end was missing; the top half with its stalk lay in two pieces by his shoe. Lexow stood still, his breathing rapid and fitful. There was a rustling in the tree. He looked upward through the leaves, straining his eyes, but it was too dark. Carsten got the impression that something large and white was shimmering up above. There was another rustling and the boughs of the tree shook violently. When the girl jumped from the tree and landed with a thud, Carsten didn’t recognize her face, she was standing so close to him. The face came even closer and kissed Carsten on the lips. He closed his eyes; the lips were warm and tasted of apples. Of Boskoop. And bitter almonds. Before he could say anything the girl’s lips kissed Carsten’s once more and so he kissed them back, and the two of them fell into the grass beneath the apple tree, and breathlessly and clumsily removed the clothes from their bodies. Carsten’s tree nymph was wearing only a nightshirt, so it wasn’t that hard to free her from it, but when two people are trying to undress, undress each other, but also kiss and not leave each other’s arms for a second, it isn’t so easy, especially when, as in this case, neither of them is experienced in what they are doing. But they did it and much more besides, and the earth glowed around them so that the apple tree beneath which they were lying began to push out buds for the second time, even though it was June already.
Of course, Herr Lexow didn’t go into the details of what went on beneath the apple tree, and I was glad of this, but his soft yet keenly spoken words—his eyes still fixed on his mug—evoked images in my mind that seemed familiar, as if they had been described to me before, as if I had heard them as a child, maybe from an adult conversation that I had listened in to secretly from a hiding place, and that I hadn’t understood until now. Thus Carsten Lexow’s story became part of my own story and part of my story about the story of my grandmother and part of my story about the story of my grandmother’s story of Great-Aunt Anna.
Whether Carsten Lexow had cried out Bertha’s name at any point and then pushed away the girl in his arms and run, whether during their lovemaking he had realized his mistake by her large breasts and taken his hands off her, whether the two of them went on right to the end as if they didn’t know what the other knew, only afterward going their separate ways in silence, never to find each other again, I didn’t know and probably would never find out. But what everyone in the village had talked about and what Rosmarie, Mira, and I often heard was the story of the old Boskoop tree in the Deelwaters’ orchard, which started to blossom one warm summer’s night and the following morning was covered in white as if there had been a frost. But the wonderful blossoms were fragile and that same morning they had fallen to the ground silently, in thick flakes. The entire farmstead stood around the tree, awestruck, suspicious, delighted, or simply astonished. Only Anna Deelwater didn’t see it; she had caught a cold, felt a slight burning in her throat, and had to stay in bed. The burning intensified and scorched the delicate cilia in her bronchial tubes, then spread until her lungs became inflamed and finally grew weak. Carsten Lexow never saw her again, and four weeks after the apple tree had blossomed she was dead. A tragic case of pneumonia.
Herr Lexow glanced at his watch and asked whether he should go. I didn’t know what time it was but nor did I know what had happened next; we hadn’t got any further in his story of Bertha. But maybe he should go. He saw my hesitation and stood up immediately.
“Please, Herr Lexow, we haven’t finished yet.”
“No, we haven’t. But perhaps we are done for
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