I first met Ned in a bar, a whimsical little place called Orange (Putin's Alptraum). Most people she knew first met her in a bar. Orange, at that time, had the best cacao with rum in town, a decent wine selection (that is, a proper house red and a proper house white) and a crowd of people who studied weird subjects, performed instant art on the Hauptstrasse, generally drifted and generally dreamed of a revolution. The owner was an expat Iraqi with the face of a Persian prince and a CD-collection one was sorely tempted to kill for. The walls often served as exibit space for, I suppose, promising young artists (or people who could talk the Persian Prince into exibiting their work). The quality varied from pretty cool (a Cuban painter who almost had not copied Jack Vettriano) to such crap it was almost cool (a rather hilarious selection of black-and-white nude photos). It was a bar that was kind to loners, and a good place for a midnight conversation.
That night I went there with Matse, a friend who studied medicine and talked mostly of anatomy. He carried a plastinated mouse head in his pocket. He had preparated the head himself in the practical anatomy class and used it in lieu of a pickup line. It is incredible how many girls find it charming to be shown a dead mouse's head by a perfect stranger.
It was Matse who noticed Ned first. She was sitting at a corner table, reading, and he stopped in mid-sentence when his eyes fell on her. Look at that girl, he said. I looked.
Most women, and the least men, did not find Ned beautiful; too many assimetries. She had different coloured eyes, for instance, one grey, one brown. A broken nose, skin white like the salt rim of a margarita glass, long neck, long graceful fingers holding her book, the nails chewed out to the flesh. And a face one never got tired of looking at.
"I want to talk to that girl", Matse said.
"Perfectly understandable", I said. I saw him feeling in his pocket for the mouse head. "Not this foul thing!"
"It is absolutely beautiful", he protested. Then he glanced at Ned again. "Do you think it won't work?"
It was the first time I heard Matse ever doubting his mouse head.
"Doesn't look like the type", I said. "Why don't you ask her about her book instead?"
He squinted to see the title.
"A Dead Man in Deptford", he said, somewhat crestfallen. "You read that?"
I shook my head.
"Can't make anything of the title, and besides, if she has no interest in practical anatomy, I don't want her", he decided and strode off to her table, mouse head in hand.
I stared desperately in my beer. I still remember the song that was playing, Weißes Papier, and the way the girl´s growling laughter tore through its gentle chords.
After about half a minute, Matse slumped back in his chair.
"Didn't like it", he said. "Damn all reading girls."
Usually, he is not one to think long about girls who don't appreciate being disturbed by a man with a dead mouse, but we both got disgustingly drunk. I ordered the book the same night, the keyboard swimming beneath my numbed fingers.
That night I went there with Matse, a friend who studied medicine and talked mostly of anatomy. He carried a plastinated mouse head in his pocket. He had preparated the head himself in the practical anatomy class and used it in lieu of a pickup line. It is incredible how many girls find it charming to be shown a dead mouse's head by a perfect stranger.
It was Matse who noticed Ned first. She was sitting at a corner table, reading, and he stopped in mid-sentence when his eyes fell on her. Look at that girl, he said. I looked.
Most women, and the least men, did not find Ned beautiful; too many assimetries. She had different coloured eyes, for instance, one grey, one brown. A broken nose, skin white like the salt rim of a margarita glass, long neck, long graceful fingers holding her book, the nails chewed out to the flesh. And a face one never got tired of looking at.
"I want to talk to that girl", Matse said.
"Perfectly understandable", I said. I saw him feeling in his pocket for the mouse head. "Not this foul thing!"
"It is absolutely beautiful", he protested. Then he glanced at Ned again. "Do you think it won't work?"
It was the first time I heard Matse ever doubting his mouse head.
"Doesn't look like the type", I said. "Why don't you ask her about her book instead?"
He squinted to see the title.
"A Dead Man in Deptford", he said, somewhat crestfallen. "You read that?"
I shook my head.
"Can't make anything of the title, and besides, if she has no interest in practical anatomy, I don't want her", he decided and strode off to her table, mouse head in hand.
I stared desperately in my beer. I still remember the song that was playing, Weißes Papier, and the way the girl´s growling laughter tore through its gentle chords.
After about half a minute, Matse slumped back in his chair.
"Didn't like it", he said. "Damn all reading girls."
Usually, he is not one to think long about girls who don't appreciate being disturbed by a man with a dead mouse, but we both got disgustingly drunk. I ordered the book the same night, the keyboard swimming beneath my numbed fingers.
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