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Leseprobe:

CHRYSANTHEMUMS

On a usual day, Bruno stepped in his pyjamas at six a.m. through his front door and complained about the weather, whatever that happened to be: sunshine or grey, cloud-covered sky. He came back inside, sat down at the kitchen table, and turned the pages of the daily paper. First off, he muttered curses aimed at the politicians of the moment, then turned to a detailed study of the TV program listings.

When Mimi refilled his cup with milk coffee for the third time, he folded the newspaper neatly and handed it to her.

Only on Sunday, she snatched the travel section away from him.

During her afternoon nap later that day, she would dream of graceful dancers in Bali in gold-yellow silks, of a musher’s sled drawn over the ice by a team of yelping huskies, of a night in the Serengeti, and of leopards whose eyes glittered in the moonlight. And she dreamed of people in all the countries they would visit in their travels, who would open their doors to them and invite them into their homes. After each siesta she woke up with rosy cheeks and felt the blood coursing through her veins.

Today, though, everything was different. Instead of complaining, Bruno stormed through the house they had called home for the past thirty years. He looked out over the garden. His only joy, thought Mimi, her eyes fixed firmly on him. Long ago, they had a plan: when children arrived, they would move to a home with large, sunny rooms. But the children never came.

He hadn’t touched the paper, had jumped to his feet after the first sip of coffee; now he was leaning against the sink, looking straight at Mimi with bright blue eyes: “Suggestion!”

The exclamation point in his voice made her look up. As she looked at Bruno in anticipation, the Travel Section seemed to subside between coffee mug and toast, seemingly of its own volition. The stubbles of Bruno’s beard reflected to morning sun; his fingers busied themselves with the collar of his pyjama top; Mimi cleared her throat as though wanting to help him find the right words. The corners of his mouth seemed to attempt a smile – a smile? Mimi asked herself. How long had it been since they last laughed together? Age had made a quibbler of him, humourless and stale.

Bruno scratched at his throat, took a deep breath.

Mimi could barely contain her curiosity, but the fear that he might again withdraw into himself if she should press him, was too great.

“I’m listening?” She tried to keep her voice as calm as possible.

There, in a blink of an eye!

“Yesterday, we got a letter - you were out, shopping. The house is paid off.”

Bruno extracted a folded paper from his pyjama pocket, smoothed it out, held it up to the sunlight. Then he crumpled it into a ball: “Be back in a minute!”

Mimi rushed to the window and watched him proceed to their only tree, spade in hand. After he had buried the letter, she saw him make the sign of three crosses in the air.

Now he sat with folded arms on the drainage board of the sink and nodded like the little dachshund nodder by the back window of the old Simca. “Wedged in between the neighbours’ houses, you can hear every fart,” he groused.

Mimi bit her lip.

Now his eyes moved to the flower-garlanded rim of the old kitchen clock.

How long would it take to get rid of the house, how far would we get? – Mimi asked herself.

Bruno jumped down from his perch and moved to the table. He got hold of the Travel Section. “Look what there is in this world,” he said, and put his finger on the photo of a gleaming white house with blue window frames. “Crete” was printed below.

Mimi reached for her coffee cup; the china rim clinked against her teeth.

“And when we run out of dough, we won’t have to worry, either: we’ll simply sleep under the stars and lie on the sun-warmed sand and catch fish in the sea.” His eyes twitched nervously.

“Bruno,” Mimi whispered.
(...)

Hier zu bekommen:
https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/152521
 und
https://www.amazon.de/dp/B007VBSJ22