carolina schutti arrival

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Carolina Schutti Arrival Translated from the German by Jen Calleja

A tremor. Or a clatter. Something scraping at the wall. Nadjescha sits up in bed, hears the beating of her heart, the sound of her breathing. Kneeling on the mattress, she reaches towards the foot of the bed, and opens the shutters of the small window. The full moon is above the rooftops, a cool breeze blows in her face. She rubs her forehead, her cheeks, all is quiet, the houses are moored to their foundations, the windows are dark, the balconies and terraces are empty. She listens to the apartment, it’s quiet here too, she must have been dreaming, and yet she can’t recall the dream’s images, perhaps the dream came from just a feeling, the feeling of slipping down, falling, like before, when her body, still buffeted by dreams, rolled over the edge of the bed and hit the floor hard. No, it’s nothing, everything’s quiet; her gaze wanders around the tiny room. In spite of the dusky darkness, in spite of the books she has arranged in high piles on the shelves, she can see the trophy in the corner, and make out the photo pushed right to the back, its frame covered in dust; the kid in the football kit with sweaty hair and eyes reddened by the flash. She can’t see it, but she knows about the toy figure behind the photo, the moveable plastic tail, the ammunition, the spines or horns or poison glands or arrowheads. Maybe that’s why she woke up; because she had felt like she was sleeping in an unfamiliar room, even though she’d thoroughly cleaned it; removed dust and hair from the drawers, covered the mattress with a thick topper, arranged her books and put away her clothes in the empty shelves in the wardrobe, aired out the room and hung her towels on the hooks on the back of the door. It still smells of Daniele’s washing powder, she can clearly make out the scent, she hasn’t been here long enough to have got used to it. His trousers and shirts in the right half of the wardrobe, his winter jumpers in the top compartment overhead. Whether that was enough space for her? Daniele had asked. Half a

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clothes rack, three drawers and two large chests? Room for a suitcase at the bottom of the wardrobe? What could she have said, that it was odd having her things next to his? There’s not even enough space for a chest of drawers in his room. He looked at her as if it were normal – he took a step to one side – as if it were completely normal to not only share the kitchen and the bathroom but a wardrobe too, which is why she didn’t say anything, just nodded, and didn’t mention the things on the shelves either.

When does he go in her room to get his trousers or a shirt? Does he leave the door open, or does he close it behind him? Does he check the shutters to make sure they’re closed so that her bed, right under the window, doesn’t get drenched by rain? * On the day of her arrival, she had put the note with the address on – moistened by her sweaty palm – into her shoulder bag while she pressed the buzzer; the topmost button on an elegant brass plate that contrasted strikingly with the unplastered façade, the narrow, shady alleyway, the blue rubbish bags on the corner and the pavement strewn with pigeon droppings. But the polished sheen and the elegant-sounding list of names in black, cursive script gave her hope that perhaps this was, finally, a room where she could stay, a city where she would be able to relax for a bit. The staircase became narrower with every flight until it turned into a set of short stone steps leading to a firmly secured door: she knocked, waited a while, listened to approaching footsteps, was invited in. Her first impression was a pleasant voice, a tall man, a floral fragrance inside the apartment. A small, decent room, a kitchenette, a living room, a bathroom. The man didn’t give her time to look around, he talked incessantly, as if excited, as if there was something more to the situation, but he was friendly, he smiled, gently touched her arm, and led her through the tiny room to the patio door. A mattress was blocking the doorway; she had to climb up onto the balls of her feet to get outside. Come on. Vai. Striped dark blue and grey. Her bare toes sank into it; she leaned against the doorframe and, in spite of the fresh air outside, the mattress gave off the scent of



someone else’s warmth and someone else’s night. Her hands felt sticky after the long journey, he had fortunately not greeted her with a handshake, but had placed his hands on her shoulders and kissed the air next to her cheeks instead. A stranger’s beard against her cheeks. Why Nadjescha?, he had asked her. Because Nadjescha means hope, speranza, she answered. First the terrace! Come on, vai! He told her that the terrace was the best part of the whole apartment and that it had the most magnificent view of the whole of Florence. He hadn’t been exaggerating. Nadjescha looked out over the red roofs, saw the huge dome of the cathedral, the mountain ridges on the edge of the city disappearing into the mist. The house across the street gleamed white in the sunlight, she could see through the large windows into the rooms, could make out heavy furniture, bookshelves, a piano. On a small balcony, a child sat playing with clothes pegs. Late summer heat lingered over the houses, a muted whooshing surged up from the surrounding streets and lanes. Daniele motioned towards the city with a wave of his arm: Firenze. Nadjescha smiled. Just like you promised, she said, an enviably perfect view. Behind her back she heard a chuckle, she turned around, and it was only then that she noticed the man sitting on the stone tiles between two large flowerpots. His face was half obscured by the plants. Laurel, oleander, a few bright green herbs she didn’t recognise. This is Luca. Luca waved at her like a child, with a flat hand, palm turned outwards, he grinned. A thread of white smoke rose from between his hands. Guarda! Said Daniele. His arm motion meant the terrace this time. Much more big than the rooms. She would start learning Italian as soon as possible. Daniele led her around a corner, showing her the washing line and folding chair hidden behind the ledge of a wall. You can use. Hand towels and underwear were hanging on the line. He showed her the basket and clothes pegs, almost slipping as he turned to her. The tiles behind the ledge were coated with a greasy, greenish sheen. Nadjescha thanked him, walked back to the front of the terrace, and stood at the



parapet. Daniele sat down on the ground next to Luca, both of them cross-legged, now the smoke was rising from between Daniele’s hands. Luca gave Daniele a kiss, she averted her gaze, let it wander once more over the city. As pretty as a postcard. She tried to make out where the train station was, the university, the road to the sea. Daniele and Luca talked as if she weren’t there, or as if she would naturally fit in here, after all of twenty minutes. Should she say something before she went back in? Thank you? See you later? She’d go and unpack, Nadjescha told them, far too quietly, neither of them heard her. The patio door had been left ajar, she walked over Daniele’s mattress on tiptoes. The bedcovers lay balled up on the floor. The room was tiny, no larger than a reception room, instead of a wardrobe there was just a large, open suitcase with stacks of t-shirts and jeans inside, with a closed box sitting next to it. For underwear and socks perhaps? Two stacks of books on the floor, a reading light. She closed the door behind her, she realised she had been holding her breath; she quickly exhaled, then inhaled, could feel her heart beating as if she’d done something forbidden. Breathe out. The living room was bathed in twilight; she took in the orange sofa, the glass table, interior design magazines, a glass bowl filled with oranges and apples, the television. A folded up ironing board in the corner next to the window, a hi-fi: She was permitted to watch TV and listen to music – any time she liked; she was allowed to use the orange sofa, to eat at the glass table, to iron. The apartment was empty during the day, Luca only came on the weekends. An artist had lived in her room for the last six months. A quiet man who spoke no Italian and hardly any English, who used to walk around the city with a sketchpad during the day, and then hunch over paper cut-outs in the apartment at night. Nadjescha crossed the room, stood in front of the door to her bedroom for a moment, noting that the brass handle was hanging down a little as if loose. Why hadn’t Luca just moved in?, she wondered, as she clasped the door handle. Something made her hesitate, as if she were suddenly afraid to open the door. * Her room, her own place. Maybe there’s a dormouse under the gable, maybe a shutter slammed somewhere in the building, or a door. Nadjescha pads through the living room barefoot to get to the kitchen. A windowless nook, a fridge, a sink, an old stove, a narrow shelf that they use as a



work surface. Her mineral water next to Daniele’s in the half-empty fridge, something jingles inside as she closes it again. She drinks the ice-cold water in big sips, feels the cold spreading in her stomach. She feels a draft coming from above, it seems to be coming from the stone-built chimney. She leans over the hot plates, turns her head, discovers a hole high up in the wall, she can see the sky, can make out two stars. One of them twinkles, the other one doesn’t, the other one must be Venus. Or Jupiter? Which one of them can be found this time of year? In any case, the planet’s beams find their way through the hazy, yellowish bell of light hanging over the city, like in Berlin, she thinks, like in London, like in all the places she has been so far.

Translation commissioned by the EUPL. Author‘s entry for the European Union Prize for Literature Writing Contest for previous winners of the EUPL „A European Story“



Carolina Schutti

Nervenfieber Translated from the German by Jen Calleja

I hope you become a little afraid in the black of the night when the snowy mountain peaks throw no light on the floor of the valley and no wind cuts the thick silence into the finest of shards just the right amount that you stick your fingers in both of your ears to hear the rush of blood in your head

I wear your kiss on my neck suspended over a collarless dress hunched over the table, I soon forget it surrounded by unfortunate figures countless eyes like devil’s berries you allow me to dance in this ballroom to feel the touch of greedy fingers hands that lift me straight out of my shoes encased inside a cocoon your kiss, the seal: you take me back and in the morning, gently wipe the threads from my skin



I kiss you as if I’d been over at my sister’s house feeding the cat, and perhaps watering the herbs emptying the postbox on my tongue, what‘s left of someone else’s spit and under my nails their skin I almost forgot to close the windows I tell you as you release me to pour the good wine into two, fine glasses

if you’re going to the kitchen get me some water, please pick out that one glass with the badly chipped rim the one that gave my lip a bloody scratch on our first night together



I’ve been waiting for you for twenty minutes now thinking how no one feeds the rats by the river resounding laughter at circular tables beneath artifical suns open jackets and in spite of everything there still remains the scent of cigarettes high-heeled shoes fantastic names for booze bruschetta crumbs on the cobblestones minutes spent in silence between wiping fingers a moist blink of an eye

Excerpt from Nervenfieber. Edition Laurin, Innsbruck 2018



Carolina Schutti

Under the eiderdown Translated from the German by Nick Somers

“Don’t stand at the door,” says Maja’s aunt. Maja pushes herself away from the door frame and takes a step towards her aunt. “Has it arrived?” asks Maja. Her aunt dries her wet hands, takes her cardigan from the hook and puts it on, first the right arm, then the left – always the right arm first – before rolling the sleeves up and turning back to the sink. Maja stands to the side and watches her aunt take a dishcloth and start to dry the dishes. The delicate Sunday service, white porcelain with a light-blue pattern, the freshly dried plates and cups go undermost in the cupboard. Maja then stands on a chair and her aunt lifts four plates, Maja inserting two plates together underneath the stack in the cupboard so that all dishes get used in turn, as her aunt had taught her. The cups she can manage herself. Her aunt has already put the glasses away. Then come the knives and forks. Watch out, that knife is sharp, says her aunt, as usual. Maja takes it by the handle, carefully dries the blade and, when her aunt isn’t looking, cautiously runs her finger along the knife edge before putting it in the kitchen drawer. The heavy pans are the only things she’s afraid of. She needs both hands to carry them to the table, drying first the inside and then turning them over and drying the bottoms and handles. She leaves them on the table for her aunt to hang on the hooks. The noise they make as they clang against the thick stone wall breaks the silence. Meals are eaten without talking, and when washing up care has to be taken so that nothing gets chipped. Talking is a distraction. People talk too much anyway, says her aunt. Maja hangs the dishcloth over the back of the chair to dry. Her aunt pulls down the sleeves of her cardigan and rubs her reddened hands together. “Has it arrived?” asks Maja again, and her aunt looks at her briefly and shakes her head. It’s Sunday and there’s no post on Sundays and nothing will come now anyway. Easter was three weeks ago. Her aunt shoos Maja out of the kitchen, opens the small window and pulls the door closed behind her.



(...) Why didn’t father write at Christmas or Easter, when his cards always arrived so punctually, sometimes a week or two in advance? ‘Dear all, happy holidays.’ Her aunt read out the brief greeting every time and then placed the card with the others in the box. If Maja asked if there was anything else written, her aunt always shook her head, and when she asked again why her father was no longer there and why he never came to visit and where he lived, she said that it was better to think of the future, giving Maja such a look that she had to bite her lip until her aunt turned away and left the room. You can’t cut off a slice from the past, she would often say. Her aunt knows all about cutting: she cuts bread, she cuts onions, lard, carrots, tomatoes. She cooks in enamel pots, heats up the leftovers, bakes cakes on Sundays, simple cakes made of yeast dough with crumble on top, or with fruit. Maja gets the last dry piece on Thursday after supper. Her aunt makes sure that the child is growing, that it is clean and well fed. You won’t get full from incessant questions. She will have to teach Maja that you ask questions about someone’s health or about the weather, you ask if they are hungry, if the table is laid, or if dinner is ready. It’s chilly in the room. Maja wraps the red woollen blanket around her shoulders. There are logs and paper in the stove in case it has to be lit. This tiled stove saved her father’s life, her aunt told her once. The winter in the year he was born was particularly severe, and the stove was kept nice and warm. The frail infant was swaddled in clothes and placed in a basket sitting on the tiles. But she wouldn’t discuss the cards or why her father had left just as Maja had got used to calling him Daddy. Maja’s memory narrows down to the moment she entered the house for the first time. Her father had gone ahead of her to sit at the bare wooden table. Maja remained by the door and couldn’t understand what her aunt wanted from her. Don’t stand at the door, she must have said, because that’s what she always says when Maja leans against the door frame waiting for her aunt to hand her a dishcloth or nod towards the kitchen cabinet when Maja is supposed to lay the table. It had got dark in the room. Maja counted the small windows: adzin, dva, try. She could already count to ten, but there were only three. Three small windows in thick stone walls. A woodpanelled ceiling. A lamp with a linen shade over the dining table, which gave off a weak light. Her aunt turned her back on Maja,



busied herself with the pots, cooking something on the stove. Maja didn’t recognise the smell coming from the pot and couldn’t even decide whether it was nice or not. She stood rooted to the spot in the doorway, glancing from her father to her aunt and then back again. Father’s face half in shadow. Neither looked at her. Her aunt placed a glass of milk on the table for her father and went back to stirring the pot. Her father stared at the tabletop. “So,” he said. “So,” he said again. After what seemed to Maja like an eternity, her aunt came towards her. Maja looked at the flowered apron. Her aunt wiped her wet hands on it, took Maja by the shoulder and pushed her towards the table. Maja sat down opposite her father and watched him drink his milk.

(...)

The clock in the parlour strikes three. Her aunt will be back in an hour. The tiled stove is cold, the sound of the chimes fades, the pale afternoon light makes the room seem darker than usual. Maja unwraps the woollen blanket, checks that everything is quiet in the house, places her feet on the floor and, although she is alone, makes her way softly and quietly towards the pantry. Somewhere there is a creak, a floorboard, the wood panelling in the hall. She places her hand on the door handle, hoping that her aunt hasn’t locked it. The door opens. It smells of onions and smoked sausage. Maja stands on her tiptoes to reach the light switch, which hangs loosely on a cable from the ceiling. The light flickers then stays on, illuminating the shelves, the forbidden room that only her aunt is allowed to enter. Even though there is nothing of interest to a child, only tightly closed jam jars, packets of sugar and flour, pots of dripping, vegetables, bread that has to wait three days before her aunt will cut it to make sure not too much of it is eaten. It was here that her aunt had disappeared after reading Maja the last card from her father. ‘Dear all, happy holidays.’ Maja searches the shelves one at a time, pushes a stepladder from the far corner of the room to the middle, feels along the top of the shelves. She senses something angular, hard, a solid box. Her fingertips scratch at it but she is too small and she can’t pull it any further forward. Then she manages to get hold of a corner of the lid, sticks her fingertips under the edge, gradually pulls the box towards her until she can get hold of it with both hands. It’s light, lighter than she expects. Maja places the box on the stepladder, removes the lid and takes the cards out one at a



time. She can’t read her father’s handwriting, although the teacher praised her for learning her letters so quickly, quicker than the other children, but father’s handwriting fills up the small space on the card with sweeping strokes, like tracks in the snow, entwined, illegible, pressed into the cold whiteness by falling twigs or mounds of snow dropping off the branches. Maja holds up Easter bunnies, Christmas trees and birthday cakes to the light, angling the side with writing on it, running her finger over it, breathing on it, moistening her finger with saliva, carefully dabbing the moisture on it, but no secret writing appears, nothing written and then erased. ‘Dear all, happy holidays.’ Maja has no choice but to believe her aunt. A stack of punctual wishes in an old box without a double bottom. Maja puts the box back, touches the onions, the sausages, the bread, smells her fingers, switches off the light, closes the door and goes up the stairs to her room. She lies down on the bed, hides under the thick eiderdown, making sure that no give- away strands of hair can be seen, that her legs are straight so that her knees don’t form a bulge under the cover, and that she is breathing quietly. She breathes in and out. The air becomes warm and thick, thick as syrup that you aren’t allowed to drink undiluted. She makes a small breathing hole on the side facing the wall and closes her eyes. She sees onions and bread, flickering light, imagines herself feeling the shelves, touching everything she sees. Dust sticks to her finger. She licks it off: like sugar. Why has no one ever told her that dust tastes of sugar? There is more higher up. She stretches to reach the top shelf and her feet leave the ground. How easy it is, you just have to wish for it to happen. She floats in the air, higher, a bit higher, stretches her arms out, holds on tightly to the shelf. But instead of dust she sees the birthday cakes, one after another. She wants to poke her finger in the cream, but the coloured icing is stiff and dry. The cakes are made of cardboard with hard sugar hearts stuck on them. Maja breaks one off, a dried pink sugar heart. It makes a loud snapping noise when she breaks it off. It snaps again, and again, like an echo, even though she has only taken a small piece. Sud- denly cold air streams in, the snapping noise stops, and her aunt’s wooden clogs are standing in front of Maja’s bed. She has pulled off the cover with an energetic tug. No sleeping during the day, not here, she says. The cardboard cakes, the hearts, the sugar, the floating feeling all disappear. Not here, says her aunt, not loudly, quietly in fact, but so firmly that Maja feels tears welling up. She gets up silently, shakes the pillow and eiderdown, follows her aunt, who doesn’t say another word



but nods towards the kitchen door, the kitchen cabinet, the table, a little later the bread knife and then the saucepan to boil water for the tea. That won’t do, she says when they are sitting at the table. I’ll not have idlers here. And Maja realises that she has no reason to cry. Her aunt is not shouting or hitting her, and Maja imagines the water in her eyes trickling away before it can over- flow. She concentrates hard so as to show her aunt that she is a big and sensible girl. She manages to force back the tears and promises to make herself useful, even on Sundays.



Excerpt from the Novel Once I must have trodden soft grass, awarded the European Union Prize for Literature 2015

Synopsis: Carolina Schutti’s novel is dedicated to the grandmothers. We are told this early on in this slim volume which takes us into the female narrator's world – a sad and archaic world with no place for love, joy or carefree innocence. After her mother’s death, Maja is taken in by her aunt who feeds her and gives her a place to sleep but leaves her in the dark about her past. They live in a nameless village in a remote region and in very poor circumstances. Every attempt by Maja to remember her past leads nowhere. Marek, an elderly man who speaks a strange and mysterious language and lives on his own in another remote and lonely house, is the only person who can make Maja feel at home and accepted. In a clear and poetic style, Schutti describes the situation of people who have been displaced and she does so in an entirely non-political and clear-sighted way. The search for identity, as suggested in the title Einmal muss ich über weiches Gras gelaufen sein (Once I Must Have Walked on Soft Grass), determines the narrator’s life throughout the remainder of the story. And although we’re eventually told that she is from Belarus, and in spite of the book’s referral to the past by dedicating it to the grandmothers, the theme of this novel contains a very contemporary dimension which could apply to countless regions of the world.



Carolina Schutti

Owls fly silently Translated from the German by Jen Calleja

Jakob’s mother hasn’t come home, so his father stands at the fence with him and looks out beyond the meadow towards the narrow dirt track. They would hear his mother coming before they would see her; the street sinks into the valley and the bike’s light is dim. Jakob only begins to feel afraid later, when his father impatiently paces around the garden and begins to take quick, loud breaths. Jakob can hear the breathing from the fence, even over the loud steps his father makes on the ribbon of gravel.

But Jakob continues to sleepily wait for his mother, who had gone to the doctor’s and then to her sister’s. It is autumn, but the night is surprisingly mild. Jakob only has a thin pullover on, his father wears a short-sleeved shirt. Jakob watches the sky growing darker and darker but then ultimately remain brighter than the forest, which grows up out of the meadow like a black wall.

Jakob climbs up onto the corner of the fence to have a clear view of the spruce trunks that break open the forest rank and file. Between and in front of them grow rampant shrubs – raspberry bushes – who slink their tentacles through the high grass and once a year shed their berries for those willing to sacrifice their skin.

Pale, mottled little arms steady themselves on the fence: the starry heavens lie like a quilt over the forest, over the meadow. Jakob’s head is slumped back – valiantly, his mother will pedal, valiantly, his mother will fling open the garden gate and ask his father why the child’s still not in bed, why they’re impatiently waiting for her outside: I’ve always come back. What were you doing at your crazy sister’s, we’re your family, his father will roar and his mother will walk past him and disappear into the house. In the night, Jakob will hear a rumbling, he will pull the covers over his head, put bits of tissue in his mouth and chew them until they’re saturated with spit and he will stick the wet balls of tissue deep into his ears until it sounds like the shed door when the wind sometimes plays with it.



I’ve always come back, his mother will say.

Jakob looks above: a half-moon and the evening star. More and more stars soon light up, one after the other and many at once. In amongst the twinkling Jakob looks for movement, for a comet and its tail slowly making its way across the heavens like a king with his train: all the stars around him fade when he appears. On the occasion of a comet you can make a very big wish.

Jakob had put a paper comet under his bed, meticulously cut out (on the back is the weather report, a part of it, half a sun and a bit of cloud), he leaves it where it is and won’t retrieve it because he knows it’s there, because he’s waiting for the real comet and he scans the heavens, while his father – now – begins to teeter on his heels, makes a first step in his heavy shoes, takes a deep breath.

Patience, patience.

His father doesn’t leave any footprints in the gravel, the tread of his shoes picks up a little stone now and then. Jakob scratches out the stones with the end of a paintbrush and collects them in a pickle jar. When he’s big he’ll drop the full pickle jar into the lake.

Patience, patience.

Jakob is certain that the comet will come. He searches the heavens with wide eyes and pauses as he suddenly sees a point of light, indeed without a tail, but maybe it’s just short or turned away from the Earth or hidden, but yes, it’s moving, a comet, a comet! He’s breathless, his heart’s beating in his ears, a guttural sound compels his father to turn and look at Jakob. The boy throws open his mouth, points his finger at the expanse, almost losing his balance on his tiptoes on the crossed beams of the wooden lattice fence. His father looks along his arm to the point of light, which he also sees. A satellite, a satellite, now you see what’s up there floating over everything! and his father gives him a clap on the shoulder, as if knocking him into becoming a man.



Eulen fliegen lautlos. Edition laurin, Innsbruck 2015 Alois Vogel Literaturpreis

Carolina Schuttis most recent novella Eulen lautlos fliegen (‘Owls Fly Silently’) explores domestic abuse from a young boy’s perspective that grasps what he sees through a fixation on imagery and detail and which mimics his preoccupations through masterful repetition and emphasis.asymptotejournal.com



Carolina Schutti

Kellstein Translated from the German by Brigitte Scott The moth was still twitching a bit with its spooted wings. He took a tissue, with the fold between his thumb and forefinger, cautiously pressed the two fingers together, in a way that the insect would not leave stains on the floor. With considerable pressure he crumpled up the tissue, opened the door of the bathroom and, without turning on the light, flushed the dead moth down the toilet. Then he positioned himself in front of the washbasin. For quite a while he kept standing there in the pale light from the hallway ‘til he started to soap his hands thoroughly, even though there was no blood on them, and watched the water run down the sink.

Kellstein took off his jacket. For a short moment his look was fixed on the name tag with the company logo, the color of which did not fit the fabric of the jacket. „A. Kellstein.“ If on a Monday at about eight o‘clock he was trying to start a conversation with a woman in the bar, he took off the name tag and introduced himself as Herbert Hochriegel. Despite this – to his mind – promising name, it happened rarely that a woman left the place with him, and if one did, she only stayed for a few hours. It was not because of his grooming – he could have handled that because he could change it any time – it must have something to do with his character, he would not deny any of his traits, and this insight, which he had gained after years, really offended him deeply.

It was on a Thursday. He had to take a taxi because he was too late to catch the tram. He sat down on the backseat and in a genteel voice told the driver where he wanted to go. The taxi driver did not understand him and asked again. On the way across town nothing but celebrities were grinning at Kellstein from the hoardings. Some of them as nondescript as he was, but all of the famous, no one was wearing a name tag. „Look, isn‘t that ...?“ „Can I take a picture of you?“ „Hi, have a good day.“ He would react politely, and with a soft smile on his face he would also wish people a good day, and now and then he would give an autograph to someone.



Kellstein, Kellstein. The taxi had arrived, Kellstein paid and went in to take up his place in the company. It was useless to stand upright and put a gentle smile on your face. Nobody remembered his pale face, and hardly anyone wished him a good day. Even his suit fell in with the rest of him, his tempo to the beat of all the others, his name featureless, his life likewise – except for, yes.

It was on a Thursday. He never went to the bar on Thursday because those evenings already anticipated the weekend, people met, made plans, he would listen to their conversations, let himself get caught up in their excitement and take it home and then he would not know what to do with it. Today, though, he let himself drift. Straightway he went to his regular seat. He was not even thinking of his name tag, he left it on the jacket. Now and then his right hand touched his jacket pocket, which contained something with an angular shape, as if to make sure that it was still there or to work up some courage, like when people clutch a lucky charm made of jade or any other lucke stone before an exam.

He ordered a small beer, his left elbow resting on the bar, his feet high above the ground on the foot rest of the barstool. By and by people came in, in twos, in small groups and larger groups. The air was getting thicker and the music louder. Suddenly somebody nudged him from behind. He turned his head around. „Good evening, Mister Kellstein.“ „How come you know...“ „But you‘re wearing a name tag. Are you working here?“ Kellstein was getting embarrassed, he did not say anything and just shook his head. „I don‘t want to bother you, I was just thinking... I‘m staying overnight, on business, and I thought... maybe we could have a chat.“ This was new. Kellstein was overwhelmed. Someone has addressed him even though he was not sitting upright and not smiling gently. The way he was crouching on the barstool, his legs crossed, one foot even slung round the ankle of the other one. The hair parted, the face not unfriendly, but pale, the eyes never still, the entire body seemed to be self-absorbed, as if strings were tied to the inside of his skin, like fish-hooks that converged in his stomach and were pulled together ever tauter.

„Marta,“ she said and put out her hand. She was beautiful. Elegant. And she looked intelligent. And seh wanted to chat with him. „Kellstein,“ he answered and pressed her hand. This was new. It must have something to do with his character. or it was that Marta had an eye for the really distinctive: for things which were not printed on billboards – for secret features, so to speak. She probably had an



instinct for such. And he decided to do everything right. Address Marta formally all night long. Show respect for her, and so on. They were chatting for quite a while, but Kellstein took in almost nothing of what she was talking about. Inwardly he was preparing himself for inviting her. He was waiting for the right moment. Because today he would do everything right, no inhibitions, no false bashfulness – and frankness from the start. She should know about his particularity immediately. About a particularity that no one would have guessed. And so, since Marta had nothing better to do and Kellstein seemed harmless to her, while his circumspect behavior and his apparent expertise in cultural matters had allayed her concerns, and since she was also curious about the special recording he would play to her at his home over a glass of wine, she finally went with him.

His flat was simple, but tastefully furnished. The window was open and, as Kellstein switched on the light, he spotted a moth on the wall. Kellstein closed the window, for a moment he was vexed, then he offered Marta a seat. She sat down on a chair, now she felt a bit uneasy after all. „Listen“, he said, turning his back on her. She saw him take a CD out of his right jacket pocket. Awkwardly, almost solemnly, he opened its case. Marta was sitting upright, ready to get up at any time. Hardly any sound was coming out of Kellstein‘s loudspeakers. Just a few scattered piano sounds. He was looking at Marta expectantly. She did not understand. But she politely returned his look. There was someone caughing on the recording and Kellstein instantly stopped the music. „A live-recording. Milan 1992.“ Marta gave him a questioning look. „The one who is coughing is me. There are no other recordings.“ Kellstein opened the CD player, took the disk out, put it carefully into the plastic case and then back into his jacket pocket.

For a while no one said anything. Then a sound like a suppressed laugh, the cair being pushed back – and Marta could not restrain herself any longer, she broke out into laughter, shaking her head, perhaps a bit relieved, she put her handbag over her shoulder and left without a word, without looking at Kellstein, and without closing the door. Kellstein did not move. He was standing upright in his suit, the name tag on the right side of his chest, and then after a while he killed the moth, went into the bathroom, took off his suit, and stood there washing his hands.



Johann Holzner and Alois Hotschnig, eds., Changing Addresses:

A Collection of Contemporary Austrian Writing. New Orleans: uno Press, 2012. 167 pp.

The theme of shifting images and fragmented identities is left behind with Carolina Schutti’s two stories, which are some of the most enjoyable pieces in the collection. Schutti, a researcher and Canetti scholar, displays scholarly precision in her writing, and her story “Kellstein” is full of humor and wit (it would be surprising if one of her influences were not Robert Menasse). A brief tale about a dimwit as hilarious as Grimmelshausen’s Simplicius, this story is so delightful and unexpected that it is worth purchasing the collection for the sheer pleasure of this one well-crafted story. Journal of Austrian Studies, reviewed by Carl E. Findley



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