card,’ she said, softly.
‘Don’t forget,’ you said, but you knew she would.
Then she stepped forward, took your head in her hands and kissed you hard, with a small clash of teeth, and her tongue was in your mouth, squirming, flickering. But before you could grab her she was gone, backing out of the room, with a wicked, half-suppressed smile on her face, and Tony was honking the horn of the cerise Fiesta in the street below. You heard her heels rapping the stairs.
You went and sat at your desk, trying to stay calm, thinking about Yvonne and the way she had kissed you. You knew it would be something you would never forget, that it would become one of those events that shaped and defined you as a person, a key link in the chain mail of memories woven through your life. As you looked out of the window you noticed that a slanting ray of the morning sun had squeezed between two houses and touched the higher branches of the lime tree at the bottom of the garden, turning its dusty, tired summer leaves into shimmering coins of lemon-green, making the tree seem young again, and making you think of spring.
When I arrive at the house I find it empty. Felicia will have taken Gareth out in his stroller. The day is mild and breezy, the clouds swift in the blue sky. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon but I pour myself two inches of vodka and fill the glass with ice cubes and brace myself for the row that will surely come.
I sip my drink, feeling my lips numb slowly, and look out of the window. The clouds move and a sudden angle of afternoon sun slanting over the top of the next-door house touches the uppermost branches of the old lime tree at the end of the garden. For a moment a thick wand of sun turns its tired summer leaves into refulgent coins of lemony green, making the tree seem young again and making me think of spring.
Beulah Berlin, an A–Z
Angst, ennui, weltschmerz, cafard, taedium vitae, anomie… Curious how oddly beguiling these words are. I almost don’t mind suffering from the conditions they describe. Some of the so-called ‘beautiful diseases’, perhaps. But I exaggerate: for most of my life everything was normal – I only realized I was in trouble when I went to Berlin.
Berlin gave me my name and was the making of me. Before Berlin everything was conventionally straightforward: I was born, I became a child, I went to school then college (media studies), then film school – nothing about my life was particularly interesting. In film school I wanted to be an editor (I yearned for control), but then changed my mind after a year and decided to become an art director (I was good at drawing). How do you know when your life is intrinsically uninteresting? You just do. Some people live quietly, unhappily, with this knowledge, others do something about it.
At a film festival in Hamburg, where a short film I had art-directed was being screened, I met my first husband, Georg. He was an artist and, after the festival, I suddenly, spontaneously, went with him to Berlin. I was twenty-two years old and I think I knew that this would be the beginning of everything. A month later we were married.
A man has just walked by leading a Great Dane and a Dachshund. How peculiar. (I am writing this in Amsterdam.)
Georg and some of his friends staged an exhibition called ‘Stunk’ (it should be pronounced with a German accent). They rented a floor of an office building for a month on the something-strasse and it became their art gallery. (Stunk-Kunst.) Georg asked me tocontribute and that was how ‘The Transparent Wardrobe’ happened, how Beulah Berlin came into being. After being Beulah McTurk for twenty-two years I knew that Beulah Berlin was bound to be more intriguing, altogether cooler.
Colour dominated my wardrobe in those days. I wore the brightest clothes – as camouflage. Now I wear only black, white and grey. At the ‘Stunk’ show I hung my garish clothes on chrome rails and wore nothing but a black
‘Don’t forget,’ you said, but you knew she would.
Then she stepped forward, took your head in her hands and kissed you hard, with a small clash of teeth, and her tongue was in your mouth, squirming, flickering. But before you could grab her she was gone, backing out of the room, with a wicked, half-suppressed smile on her face, and Tony was honking the horn of the cerise Fiesta in the street below. You heard her heels rapping the stairs.
You went and sat at your desk, trying to stay calm, thinking about Yvonne and the way she had kissed you. You knew it would be something you would never forget, that it would become one of those events that shaped and defined you as a person, a key link in the chain mail of memories woven through your life. As you looked out of the window you noticed that a slanting ray of the morning sun had squeezed between two houses and touched the higher branches of the lime tree at the bottom of the garden, turning its dusty, tired summer leaves into shimmering coins of lemon-green, making the tree seem young again, and making you think of spring.
When I arrive at the house I find it empty. Felicia will have taken Gareth out in his stroller. The day is mild and breezy, the clouds swift in the blue sky. It’s only three o’clock in the afternoon but I pour myself two inches of vodka and fill the glass with ice cubes and brace myself for the row that will surely come.
I sip my drink, feeling my lips numb slowly, and look out of the window. The clouds move and a sudden angle of afternoon sun slanting over the top of the next-door house touches the uppermost branches of the old lime tree at the end of the garden. For a moment a thick wand of sun turns its tired summer leaves into refulgent coins of lemony green, making the tree seem young again and making me think of spring.
Beulah Berlin, an A–Z
Angst, ennui, weltschmerz, cafard, taedium vitae, anomie… Curious how oddly beguiling these words are. I almost don’t mind suffering from the conditions they describe. Some of the so-called ‘beautiful diseases’, perhaps. But I exaggerate: for most of my life everything was normal – I only realized I was in trouble when I went to Berlin.
Berlin gave me my name and was the making of me. Before Berlin everything was conventionally straightforward: I was born, I became a child, I went to school then college (media studies), then film school – nothing about my life was particularly interesting. In film school I wanted to be an editor (I yearned for control), but then changed my mind after a year and decided to become an art director (I was good at drawing). How do you know when your life is intrinsically uninteresting? You just do. Some people live quietly, unhappily, with this knowledge, others do something about it.
At a film festival in Hamburg, where a short film I had art-directed was being screened, I met my first husband, Georg. He was an artist and, after the festival, I suddenly, spontaneously, went with him to Berlin. I was twenty-two years old and I think I knew that this would be the beginning of everything. A month later we were married.
A man has just walked by leading a Great Dane and a Dachshund. How peculiar. (I am writing this in Amsterdam.)
Georg and some of his friends staged an exhibition called ‘Stunk’ (it should be pronounced with a German accent). They rented a floor of an office building for a month on the something-strasse and it became their art gallery. (Stunk-Kunst.) Georg asked me tocontribute and that was how ‘The Transparent Wardrobe’ happened, how Beulah Berlin came into being. After being Beulah McTurk for twenty-two years I knew that Beulah Berlin was bound to be more intriguing, altogether cooler.
Colour dominated my wardrobe in those days. I wore the brightest clothes – as camouflage. Now I wear only black, white and grey. At the ‘Stunk’ show I hung my garish clothes on chrome rails and wore nothing but a black
Similar Books
