Venice
Datum
Venedig, Abdruck einer Projektionsfolie aus der Performance Venedig, Lightpainting-Farben auf Papier, 42cm x 29cm, Düren 1995
There are women whose beauty takes its time. Carona was one of them. Big brown almond eyes, a strawberry mouth, a few extra ounces in exactly the right places, and long black hair, so black it seemed to hide the deep blue shade of Mediterranean nights. Naturally, she saw things rather differently. A laughter line here, a little too much there, her bottom, her belly, her legs – there was always something. He, on the other hand, would have been hard pressed to say where the problem was. A little extra in the right places was pretty much what he had always wanted, though he thought it wiser not to tell her so.
By contrast, Carona could find nothing wrong with her character. Why should she? She was who she was. If someone didn’t like it, they didn’t have to marry her.
They met on a tram in Karlsruhe and by that same evening had decided that each of them was an excellent idea. Exhausted, they lay wrapped around each other on the futon in his city apartment and, with Carona’s still rather broken German, slowly began to get to know one another.
Caro told him about her Venice, very early in the morning, when the city still belongs to the people who live there, before the tourists take possession of everything. “Venice isn’t Venice any more,” and he took her hand – and understood her.
Weeks of young happiness flowed through the apartment building. Never before had he been greeted with such warmth when he went downstairs for his newspaper in the morning. Buying rolls at the bakery became a joyful procession, and whenever they went out, everyone around them seemed to turn wonderfully friendly. Her fits of jealousy, delivered as only Italian women can deliver them, struck him at first as refreshing thunderstorms. Giving some “slut” a tip and smiling at her as well, offering a female friend a chair and actually pulling it out for her – reasons were easily found. Then the Italian would come pouring down, loud and fierce, followed by a tender round of making up. It didn’t bother him. At first.
Did he notice that he was being trained? In any case, from then on he gave tips while smiling at Caro, and pushed a chair invitingly forward without getting up.
Living with a woman brought all manner of junk from flea markets into the apartment. This time it was a particularly pretty Tiffany lamp, for which he intended to gather everything he needed at the DIY store to install it permanently into the apartment’s lighting concept. He wanted to do this with concentration and, above all, alone. With a practised flutter of the eyelashes, Caro planted herself in his way and begged to come along. She swore solemnly, by the Virgin Mary and all twelve Apostles, that she would not disturb him in the DIY store.
“Everyone goes by themselves and we meet at the checkout,” she said in her enchanting accent.
And so they did. He found cable, a socket, plaster, a little mixing bowl, a scraper and all the stuff you need when all you really want to do is hang a lamp.
They met again at the checkout.
He had everything.
Caro had a set of bathroom scales.
They brought everything home, the scales went into the bathroom, and that evening they went out for dinner. Caro ordered only a salad. Why not.
The next morning he was sitting over his first cup of coffee, leafing through the newspaper, when Caro burst out of the bathroom.
“Guess what! I’ve got dimmer!”
She tore the newspaper from his hands and planted herself on his lap. A respectable amount of coffee sloshed across the table. But they were happy.
That evening she ordered salad again, though this time she had one or two other things with it.
The next morning her voice rang out from the bathroom:
“Great! I’ve got dimmer again!”
Once again Caro landed on his lap. The chair made a noise. So did he. Coffee sloshed across the table again. Things were going splendidly.
On the third evening she had whatever she fancied with her salad.
The following morning he didn’t bother fetching the newspaper and finished his coffee before Caro went into the bathroom.
“Yes! Mary Magdalene!”
She came out. Dimmer again. Her eyes shining, she took a run at his lap.
“Caro, Caro,” he called, raising his hands.
She stopped.
“You don’t mean dimmer. You mean thinner. With a th. Thinner.”
Her eyes narrowed to slits.
Italian came raining down on him, fast, loud and for the most part incomprehensible, interspersed with a surprising number of German swear words, delivered almost without an accent.
“So you think I’m fat? Yes? That’s what you think?”
She disappeared into the bathroom, returned with the glass square and smashed it down at his feet. The scales shattered into a thousand pieces. He stood there, rather perplexed among the shards, and decided it might be better to leave the apartment.
That was a mistake.
When he came back, Caro was gone. Along with everything that belonged to her.
A few weeks later he saw her on the other side of the street. She had a new man.
She hadn’t got any thinner, anyway.
