{"id":18849,"date":"2022-10-13T16:00:04","date_gmt":"2022-10-13T14:00:04","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/en\/?post_type=stsp_text&p=18849"},"modified":"2022-10-14T11:53:38","modified_gmt":"2022-10-14T09:53:38","slug":"proud-pink-sky","status":"publish","type":"stsp_text","link":"https:\/\/stadtsprachen.de\/de\/text\/proud-pink-sky\/","title":{"rendered":"Proud Pink Sky"},"content":{"rendered":"

Extract for October 14 2022 PARATAXE presentation<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

When she was a little girl, Cissie had read picture books all about handsome princes and beautiful princesses; books which were, without exception, the only literature allowed that wasn\u2019t stamped with a golden cross. Once she\u2019d learned these fairy stories by heart, Cissie\u2019s parents had gifted her animated movies, and so she\u2019d watched and re-watched Snow White<\/em> and Sleeping Beauty <\/em>and Cinderella<\/em> until the videotapes were chewed into buzzing, fuzzing static.<\/p>\n

There must be some way of becoming one of these princesses, so she reasoned. She\u2019d perch herself in front of the television set for hours, her brow furrowed in single-minded concentration, and after months of studious analysis she\u2019d arrived at three conclusions.<\/p>\n

The first was, to her young mind, the most appealing. According to the movies, each princess would summon small animals to do her bidding. For years Cissie dreamed of this animal menticide, of commanding mice and bluebirds and becoming dictator to all woodland creatures. It seemed a rather more substantial prize than marriage to some willowy prince.<\/p>\n

Cissie\u2019s second conclusion was that she would need to be placed in mortal, supernatural danger. This prospect seemed quite exciting, particularly as her world\u2014which comprised, almost exclusively, of the cozy farm-style house in which she was raised\u2014seemed rather tame and limited by comparison. If there was danger, well, at least something was happening to you. Besides, were she to die she would simply reappear in the Heaven her parents so often talked about, and which surely was much bigger than their small Ohio home.<\/p>\n

Her third conclusion had been the least agreeable. There was no avoiding the fact that these stories always ended with a marriage, which in turn was sealed with a chaste kiss. Cissie could do without these princes, yet it seemed there was no way of acquiring queenhood and the corresponding royal superpowers without one. So she approached the subject with an adult pragmatism, neither drawn to nor disgusted by these boyish regents. They were simply a means to an end.<\/p>\n

These infant fantasies changed with adolescence. Ashamed of her blood-dotted underwear, she\u2019d thrown all her clothes straight into the laundry hamper, and later that day her mother had sat upon her bed, patted the ancient quilt, and told Cissie to join her. With her thin face pulled tighter than Cissie had ever seen, she\u2019d dished out opaque advice: You\u2019re a woman now<\/em> and This is our burden<\/em> and It\u2019s part of His plan for you and your husband. <\/em>The shared prayer her mother led afterward lasted longer than the talk itself, and though Cissie still had no clue as to why she\u2019d bled, she\u2019d been left with the impression it was somehow because of men. It was surely a warning, her body cautioning her away from boys. Especially handsome princes.<\/p>\n

Yet Cissie was an inventive child. Men were dangerous, that much was true, but perhaps women were safe. This led to the natural conclusion that she could avoid the terror of a prince by marrying a princess instead. So she\u2019d invited her one friend, another homeschooled girl named Susan Michaels, up into the attic and into her old playhouse; which to grown-up eyes was an ancient refrigerator box with hand-cut holes for windows. With Susan safely inside, Cissie had sealed their relationship with a kiss.<\/p>\n

Her friend\u2019s next words had opened the door to another world. You<\/em>\u2019re a dyke<\/em>, Susan had said, her little face stern with condemnation. She\u2019d told Cissie that women who kissed women were dirty and sent to a special land far away. Susan knew so because her aunt had gone there, and once you left you never came back.<\/p>\n

Of course Cissie had been surprised. The idea to marry another girl was all her own, and it had never occurred to her that someone else might have thought of it first. Questions had piled upon questions. Why could you never return from this land? Why had it never been mentioned in any of her stories? And most importantly: Where was this other world?<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Cissie had never kissed another woman, but nearly twenty years later this mysterious city would become her home.<\/p>\n

Oh, it hadn\u2019t been her idea; her youthful curiosity had been fickle, and besides, what family woman would choose to live in homosexual Berlin? Yet Susan Michaels had been right about one thing: Cissie had never returned to Ohio.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

At first she\u2019d wandered the criss-cross streets, staggering around while gawping up at the crowded overhead transit lines, a foolhardiness which twice resulted in stolen purses. She\u2019d only later learned said streets were part of Hetcarsey, one of the Berlin\u2019s two straight districts. Though it wasn\u2019t pretty\u2014in fact most of the tenements had a raw, unfinished look about them\u2014it was thrilling, and so different to the wide boulevards and gleaming art deco towers she\u2019d seen in the postcards. With millions of residents, Hetcarsey was practically a city unto itself, and while Cissie had since learned to walk with thief-deterring speed, she still marvelled at the noise, at the dizzying array of lives above and around her.<\/p>\n

After six years she\u2019d even honed her life to a fine routine. Not because she was a particularly precise person, but because the boundaries of her day allowed her to carve a cranny for herself, a Cissie-shaped hole in a dizzying, sprawling, unknowable city. After taking the kids to school (they would have a proper education, not the rote Biblical learning she\u2019d received) Cissie was left with nearly two whole luxurious hours to wander, to chart this territory, to wallow in chaotic multiculturalism.<\/p>\n

The balconies and their rows of dripping laundry; the shouts and cat-calls in a hundred languages; the neon and printed and hand-painted signs, coating every blank surface as they boasted burlesque shows and suicide hotlines and international phone cards. Whole cultures were swallowed through the nose, Cissie breathing in curries and kebabs, won ton soups and matzoh balls, scents which spilled from greasy windows and roadside kiosks. All places have their own smell, and when she thought back to the United States, it was cinnamon and gasoline. Away from the food stands, Hetcarsey smelled of detergent, and sharp perfumes.<\/p>\n

Despite her explorations Cissie always stopped at the district border, demarcated with gleaming steel rows of railway tracks.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey stick us here so they don\u2019t have to look at us,\u201d her husband Howard often mumbled, and though Cissie didn\u2019t argue with him (the city\u2019s politics were as peculiar as the city itself), she knew he was missing something important, something which had long grown precious to her.<\/p>\n

\u201cDon\u2019t get too comfy,\u201d Howard warned every single year. \u201cWhen the work dries up, we\u2019re out of here.\u201d<\/p>\n

By now it was a hollow threat; Howard loved his job. And though no family woman would willingly choose to live in the homosexual nation, Cissie had fallen in love with the sights and sounds of her neighbourhood. A Hetcarsey patriot, if such a thing were possible. In fact, so little had changed in six years that when the brewing unrest reached her district it took her completely by surprise. She learned of the city\u2019s conflicts only as they interfered with her routine. The struggle revealed itself in installments.<\/p>\n

5.<\/strong><\/p>\n

That morning, like every morning, she woke at dawn. For a few moments she lay beside her husband, straining her ears for the surrounding city clamour: the flutter of pigeons nesting in concrete crevasses; the early-morning throng of the twentieth-level skybridge. Passing just six stories beneath their bedroom window, the bridge was crowded with daybreak commuters and revellers staggering home, but Cissie didn\u2019t mind\u2014the resulting din meant the apartment was cheap, and it comforted her to rouse so early with life all around. She hated nothing more than waking to still noiselessness.<\/p>\n

After a few minutes she flicked on her small bedside lamp, knowing it wouldn\u2019t disturb Howard, who could sleep through a meteor strike. The bedsheet was bundled around his furry legs, his right arm arm slung above his head as though in victory, displaying a black nest of armpit hair. She watched his chest sink and rise, admiring his construction-worker bulk in a way she never could when he was awake. Even during sex Howard insisted on the dimmest light possible, ashamed of his fatherly belly and hair-splayed shoulders. She\u2019d tried to tell him how much she loved his body, once, but he\u2019d felt patronised. He immediately covered himself up.<\/p>\n

A drunk bellowed from below, his cries rising like a siren. Taking this as her cue to get out of bed, Cissie pulled on her rough flannel robe, crept to the bathroom, and stood over the tiny sink, washing herself with lukewarm water. The apartment was old, though not quite old enough to be charming, and built before showers had become social custom; every evening Howard would squat in the tiny tub, turning the water grey with scummy concrete dust. For Cissie it was a luxury indulged just once or twice a week. As the drain babbled she brushed her matted auburn hair, peering into the tiny mirror, her nose practically pressed against the glass.<\/p>\n

She ate her breakfast in small snatches as she cooked, Howard and the children wandering in to the sounds of sizzling and percolating, the smell of eggs and coffee. The kitchen was nothing fancy: the countertops were an unfortunate shade of beige and smudged with old coffee stains, but they allowed for an unobstructed view of the living room just as warm sun peered through the little windows.<\/p>\n

The boys turned on the television set, flicking past re-runs of gay soap operas and news broadcasts, and stopping at the cartoons. Howard kept glancing toward the set, making sure they weren\u2019t witness to anything too fruity. (Howard himself only ever watched the football, and only ever on mute.)<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019re up early,\u201d he greeted, brushing his lips against Cissie\u2019s cheek.<\/p>\n

\u201cThanks for letting me know,\u201d she teased as she placed the coffee in his hands. But he was already looking past her. His eyes were narrowed at the television, where a flamboyant pink cat danced around a street light.<\/p>\n

\u201cChildren,\u201d Cissie distracted, \u201cIf you don\u2019t go brush your teeth the tooth fairy will come and yank them all out.\u201d She turned off the set as they raced one another to the bathroom, eight-year-old Thomas easily besting his baby brother, who shrieked with indignation. Howard was about to say something, but sipped his coffee instead.<\/p>\n

He never complained about the gays outright. Instead he made his thoughts known through tuts and hand gestures, often accompanied by a small smirk or eye roll, something to indicate how well he tolerated it all. And yes, when it came to living in \u2018their\u2019 Berlin, Howard really was tolerant<\/em>: with all the quiet distance that implied.<\/p>\n

His frown lifted.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey\u2014\u201d he began, wrapping one arm around Cissie\u2019s waist. \u201cGuess who we\u2019re building next.\u201d<\/p>\n

It was always who, <\/em>not what<\/em>, and she already knew, of course she knew: it was a complex of interlocked deco-gothic towers designed by Philip Johnson. (One of the greats<\/em>, so Howard had said.) The towers would have a symmetrical network of hi-flung walkways and rail lines arcing between them. Howard had mentioned it thirty-seven times, but he always shone with such enthusiasm as he did so, and so she shrugged and listened and cleared away the dishes.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s Philip Johnson,\u201d Howard beamed. \u201cAn actual Philip Johnson.\u201d<\/p>\n

Unlike her, Howard travelled far beyond the boundaries of Hetcarsey, working on the never-ending construction of the city itself, on tenement blocks and elevated train stations as Berlin spread upward and outward.<\/p>\n

His work gave him pride. Sure, he was a construction worker and not an architect, but he could give whole sermons on each project, and Cissie knew all the names: Amaza Lee Meredith; Bruce Goff; Paul Rudolph. Howard may have been perplexed by the lives of lesbians and gays, but he enthusiastically admired their architects and planners.<\/p>\n

\u201cThey invented hi-urbanism,\u201d he lectured, the talk so familiar Cissie knew it word-for-word. \u201cWhile back in the States we were building endless wastes of cookie-cutter homes, here they were using space the best they could. Sure, Japan and Singapore might have copied them since, but nothing rivals Berlin. Twenty million people all in a single city. You\u2019ve gotta admit it, Cissie,\u201d he playfully taunted, \u201cthey\u2019ve certainly got talent.\u201d<\/p>\n

Truth was, they were all too distant for Cissie to form any real opinion either way. She had no reason to hate the gays, and in fact she too held a vague admiration for all they\u2019d accomplished, for what they\u2019d built. But they were so exotic, with all their castes and categories and rules. And she so rarely saw them in her neighbourhood.<\/p>\n

What was there to hate? What was there to love?<\/p>\n

\u201cPhilip Johnson will fire you himself if you don\u2019t get moving,\u201d she warned, whisking his coffee cup from his hands and swigging the dregs. \u201cThen what will you have to brag about?\u201d<\/p>\n

#<\/p>\n

With Howard gone, Cissie took each of the children\u2019s hands\u2014Jonah on the left, Thomas on the right\u2014and walked them to the schools. Gripping each tightly as they wound and wove their way through the morning crowds, she first delivered Jonah to the Chanting Chavvies Infant Academy, itself a small, squat building dwarfed by its peers. Then she walked a further four blocks and rode the packed elevator to take Thomas to the Gildy Journo Middle School.<\/p>\n

With his mother all to himself for a few minutes, her older son ranted and rambled, speaking with a self-important authority which was almost comical coming from an eight year old. A miniature version of his father.<\/p>\n

That Monday she took Howard\u2019s battered spare work boots for repair. With the hanging trains rumbling overhead, she meandered her way through Hetcarsey\u2019s lower streets, toward the district border. Pre-recorded chants wept from the neighbourhood\u2019s crowded minarets, and nothing at all seemed amiss until she dropped off the peeling boots.<\/p>\n

On a stretch of wall by the cobblers someone had spraypainted nonsensical words:<\/p>\n

Nix Boxes.<\/em><\/p>\n

And she thought nothing of it until she saw the same words at the ground level of the Hermannstreet station, rendered in bright blues and purples.<\/p>\n

Nix Boxes.<\/em><\/p>\n

This time it conjured a memory of herself as a little girl, climbing in a box with holes for windows. Sharing her first kiss.<\/p>\n

Nix Boxes.<\/em><\/p>\n

They were there on the shutters to a post office; they were scrawled over the side of a ramshackle mosque.<\/p>\n

Nix Boxes. Nix Boxes.<\/em><\/p>\n

Perhaps it was some local complaint, or the name of some gang of wispy-mustached teenage boys. Yet she kept walking, on into a nearby Catholic neighbourhood, and there it was. Over the sidewalk; under an ironwork bridge; on the wall of a rickety church.<\/p>\n

She asked the cobbler about it as she collected the boots later that day, but he answered with a noncommittal shrug. \u201cIt\u2019s not our problem,\u201d his young assistant replied. \u201cNot our problem,\u201d and nothing more.<\/p>\n

That evening she thought of asking Howard, who must know something, what with his working all over the city. But he\u2019d arrived home weary and dusty with concrete, so she\u2019d presented his newly-mended boots, run his bath, and said nothing.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Extract from Redfern Jon Barrett’s upcoming novel, <\/em>Proud Pink Sky (Amble Press, 2023).<\/em><\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

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