TRAVEL ROUTES

Andrea Tillmanns

 

“Maybe more like Venice,” says Eva.

“Maybe.” Lost in thought, Laura sips her wine.

“You fall in love with Venice at first sight,” adds Eva, "and over time you realize that there is a hell of a lot of dirty back alleys in this city. Frank is just like that."

 

Nevertheless, Laura met him in Vienna, a city that takes so long to reveal its charms to strangers. She noticed him immediately, tall and dark-haired, a discreetly patterned tie visible under his heavy woolen coat, his strong hands clasping the handrails of the subway carriage unringed. When the train stops, she falls against him and is gladly caught by these hands, which later also know how to hold leather steering wheels and ladies’ jackets and fish knives. There must have been something in his eyes that blinded her, especially in the dark of night.

 

“Believe me, he’s not worth it,” says Eva.

“I know,” replies Laura. But sometimes that doesn’t help.

 

Laura has flown and driven all over half of Europe with him. A week after returning from Vienna, her phone rings, not expected but hoped for, and as his voice simply drowns out her stomach, she finds herself in Paris two days later. The city of love leaves her little time to sleep and all the more time for dreams, which sometimes come true immediately and sometimes only in the morning, after the rising sun has illuminated her way back to the hotel. On these first warm spring days, his shoulders seem narrower to her when he walks without his coat, but his hands seem even more beautiful with their light tan. They look at the Louvre and the Arc de Triomphe, walk hand in hand along the Quai d’Orsay and Place de la Concorde and every evening along the Champs-Élysées. He is one of those men who fit in with this street, who are not immediately recognizable as tourists.

 

“But the fact that he didn’t like Montmartre was a bad sign,” says Eva.

“Paris was still beautiful,” disagrees Laura.

“You just didn’t want to admit it,” sighs Eva and slumps back in her wicker chair.

 

It has only just begun in Spain. In Barcelona, they marvel hand in hand at the churches between pre-Romanesque and Catalan Gothic, standing embraced in front of Gaudí’s Casa Milá despite the heat. In front of the Plaza de Toros Monumental, she lets go of his hand for the first time when she realizes that she can’t hold him back. He seems more disappointed at how few people want to see the bull die on this Sunday afternoon and talks about tradition, where she is thinking about love and death. But his fingers, now holding hers again, are now irresistibly summer-tanned, and even in the light jacket his shoulders still look broad to lean on.

 

“You should have known by then,” says Eva. Her finger hovers indecisively over the box of chocolates before she decides on nougat.

“It was still too early back then,” disagrees Laura.

 

What’s more, everything was completely different again in Prague. In the Golden City, the evening sun burns down more significantly than in other places. They stand for a long time on the Charles Bridge and count every drop of water that the Vltava carries beneath them with kisses. They admire the medieval Powder Tower in the Old Town as well as the New Town Hall. In the Gothic church of Maria Schnee, Laura ponders whether a white dress would suit her blonde hair.

 

“Far too blue-eyed, as always,” says Eva, shaking her head with a frown.

“Better than being too pessimistic,” replies Laura. She puts her head back and looks at the summer constellations in the cloudless sky.

 

She tried this in London in vain. The reflections of nightlife outshine the stars in this city. St. Paul’s Cathedral leaves them just as unimpressed as Westminster Abbey, and after a long lunch in Hyde Park they decide to move on.

After looking down on the chessboard pattern of the New Town from the castle with Saint Margaret’s Chapel in Edinburgh, Laura dreams of other rules of the game that only allow rooks to beat the Queen. They drive further north into the Scottish Highlands. Laura soaks up the landscape, which is always too far away for him. Frank is not a man for long distances. He is not suited to Scotland’s north, where the constant wind tans his strong hands and runs through his hair and under his coat until he stands behind her, rumpled, and forgets to laugh when she holds out her hands to him. She can still laugh, even at him.

 

“You’ve waited far too long,” says Eva. “You should have finallydumped him back then.”

“Probably,” mumbles Laura, letting the last drops of wine trickle down her tongue.

“If I do tell you,” Eva confirms and goes to get another bottle.

 

They try the bridges of Limoges and the grottoes of Capri, but she sees for herself that Frank doesn’t belong here. He is a man for capitals.

Laura would have liked to go to Venice with him, but shortly beforehand she is surprised by winter and a phone call from Frank’s wife, who no longer tolerates his business trips. Frank only needs a few minutes to take everything he deems important from Laura’s apartment. Travel souvenirs are not among them. She no longer laughs, even if she is not sure later whether she has lost her laughter much earlier.

 

“You have to forget him,” says Eva and pours her friend some wine.

“Forget,” nods Laura.

And thinks of Frank, but also of Venice, because if this city is like Frank, it’s certainly worth a visit.

Andrea Tillmanns was born in Grevenbroich, Germany, in 1972 and currently lives in East Westphalia, near Bielefeld. More information about the author and her work can be found on her website: www.andreatillmanns.de.