1000 Coils of Fear Read online

  Praise for

  1,000 COILS OF FEAR

  “Olivia Wenzel’s bold and exceptional novel, 1,000 Coils of Fear, tells stories in many voices—of her estranged family, of female and male lovers, of her nation, once home to Nazis and the KGB, still inhospitable to immigrants, and to its Black German author. Wenzel’s novel is not just of and from contemporary Germany, it proposes a different German novel. Her impressive writing, born of a brilliant mind, surprises—stylistically, and by its frankness and associations. An uncompromising consciousness leaps from sentence to sentence, city to city, in love, depressed, alienated, afraid, and contradictory. She is asked, ‘Where are you?’ She asks, ‘Where am I?’ I rode in the passenger seat, beside the beauty and strangeness of 1,000 Coils of Fear.”

  —LYNNE TILLMAN, author of Men and Apparitions and MOTHERCARE

  “This novel’s mixed-race young narrator interrogates her own painful past and confusion of selves—German Angolan, child of an East Germany erased by unification, boy lovers girl lovers, badass and vulnerable, cowering and defiant—in a voice so exuberant, inventive, brainy, sensitive, and hilarious that it’s like a pyrotechnic flare illuminating the whole woman, past and present, radiant, unique, a voice and a novel to take with us into the future.”

  —FRANCISCO GOLDMAN, author of Monkey Boy

  “An audacious and disturbing novel.”

  —MICHELLE DE KRETSER, author of Scary Monsters

  For K and O and S.

  And for those who feel seen.

  Contents

  I. (points of view)

  II. (picture this)

  III. (vanishing points)

  Acknowledgments

  I

  (points of view)

  Quiet! Hush your mouth, silence when I spit it out

  In your face, open your mouth, give you a taste.

  MISSY ELLIOTT

  My heart is a snack machine made of tin. This machine stands on some random train platform, in some random city. An isolated, industrial chunk of metal that’s still unassuming. A machine; a rust-free, shiny, square colossus. Why does it stand there alone? Who created it?

  The snack machine has a sheet of glass on the front so I can look inside and see all its snacks. I zoom in: the snacks are sorted meticulously. They laugh at me through their cellophane packaging. Market psychology probably played a role in determining how they would be placed. But that doesn’t matter now. These tasty little snacks—from the morbid pig in a blanket to the coconut-chocolate bar—they are all there just for me and I can choose freely. I can choose how to look at them, buy them, salivate over them, and gulp them down according to my preference. I suddenly think, My goodness, just fifteen more minutes, then the train will come, and I feel my stomach growl.

  My stomach growls again. It just wants attention; that’s not real hunger. Even so, I start to look for some change in my bag. And as I consider whether I want coconut or pork—and my forefinger already stretches toward the buttons—my stomach starts all over again. The snack machine suddenly seems much bigger and begins to move. Even the train tracks that I’m standing next to begin to move, and the ground beneath me, too, along with the snack machine. Everything is swaying all of a sudden, even I am.

  For a moment, I am disoriented. When I look above me, I can see that the sky has become darker, there’s rust everywhere. My forefinger is still stretched out. Coconut shoots through my head. Then I fall to my knees and faint.

  Maybe it would have been best if I had looked for shelter within the snack machine as soon as I stepped onto the platform. It may have been best for me to move right into this machine and live there for a few days. I would have covered myself in rustling cellophane and eaten whatever fell into my lap. Finally, I would have built myself a rustling toilet. I would have had peace and time, I mean, I love peace and time, and I would have been safe. I could have looked out through the glass pane and watched the people on the platform. I could have made faces at them and sung solemn songs. I could have synchronized their conversations live. I could have posed urgent questions to the people who might come to me for a snack. Or given them answers. I could have fallen in love. I could have forgotten my current occupations, my current life; just to have fun in the most eccentric ways.

  I could have begun a new life.

  But I want to go out into the so-called wide world, by all means.

  WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

  I’m in Durham, North Carolina, the second-northernmost of the southern states.

  WHAT’S YOUR FAVORITE FOOD?

  Yesterday I fell in love with a local specialty: thick, warm waffles with nuts, maple syrup, and chocolate cream topped with fried chicken. You could choose between four chicken wings and drumsticks.

  WEIRD.

  Yes.

  WHERE ARE YOU STAYING?

  In a massive hotel. There’s air-conditioning and you can’t open the windows. When the cleaning staff is finished, they turn on all five lamps whether I’m there or not. In the courtyard the pool is illuminated around the clock, even though it’s much too cold to swim.

  AND HOW ARE YOU? WHAT’S UP WITH YOUR EYES?

  . . .

  WHAT ARE YOU DOING TOMORROW?

  Sleeping in.

  TELL ME MORE ABOUT THE FOOD.

  A well-frequented restaurant, some nondescript music is playing.

  The Black waitress asks me: You want them wings or them drumsticks?

  Drumsticks, please, I say. Then she says that she likes my hair. I say: This was more of an accident, but now I like it. We smile at each other as if we’re friends. I suddenly feel at ease . . . like I belong.

  NICE.

  The food tastes good. The combination of waffles and chicken is wrong, disconcerting, perfect. There are no white workers in the restaurant, just a few white guests. At the table next to me, there’s a mother sitting with her son, both are Black, both stare at their phones during the length of their stay at the restaurant. The boy looks like he’s daydreaming, playing a racing game, his body is a little too big for himself.

  YOU PUT THAT BEAUTIFULLY.

  Ever since I got to the U.S., the first thing I notice about people is their skin color.

  COOL.

  No.

  NOW YOU’RE MAKING THAT FACE AGAIN.

  PLEASE STOP. THAT’S YOUR WHITE-PRIVILEGE FACE.

  Sorry, I did that unconsciously.

  IN ANGOLA THEY USED TO CALL YOU “COCONUT,” RIGHT? BROWN ON THE OUTSIDE, WHITE ON THE INSIDE. WHEN YOU MAKE THAT FACE, I UNDERSTAND WHAT THEY MEAN.

  Everyone always wants to talk to me about racism. That’s not my life’s work.

  YOU’RE THE ONE WHO STARTED IT.

  WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

  Still in Durham, North Carolina.

  WHERE ARE YOU AT HOME?

  . . .

  DID YOU SAY SOMETHING?

  . . .

  DID YOU SAY SOMETHING?

  I say that a lot of Black people here can’t afford a car, but this city was built exclusively for cars. I say that a Black couple was shot to death on campus last year by a racist who was well known in town. I say that the white people in rural areas have a lot of guns and I’d best not go out there. I say that there’s a large statue on campus, on a pedestal, named Silent Sam. He was built in honor of all those who fought during the Civil War—for the South, against Lincoln. I say that the white people have threatened to take back their funding from campus if anyone disturbs the statue, and after protests by the Black community, a memorial was placed next to Silent Sam, for all the African American slaves who built the university. I say that the new memorial looks like a camping table: a large, round slab is propped up by figures the size of garden gnomes, holding it over their heads. I say that these sla
ves stand there embedded in the earth, as if they were sinking in quicksand, and that some people use the new, small memorial as a spot for sitting down. I say that, as a result, they built little stools around it, and with that it really became a table. A table that the Black enslaved people are holding up, out of the quagmire, an obvious tray, from which affluent white students eat their lunch during their break. I say that I didn’t make any of that up.

  THAT THE BLACKS THINK THEY ARE BLACK, AND THE WHITES THINK THEY’RE WHITE.

  What?

  THAT THE BLACKS THINK THEY ARE BLACK, AND THE WHITES THINK THEY’RE WHITE.

  Yes.

  WHAT’S UP WITH YOUR EYES?

  Puffy from crying.

  ATYPICAL.

  Oh, well.

  SINCE WHEN IS IT EMBARRASSING TO CRY IN PUBLIC?

  Sometimes I come back to the hotel and I watch hours of HBO on a giant flatscreen in order to hide from my feelings. Until sleep comes. At night, I dream of young Black men who jump out of planes to their death as they angrily call out the names of white American women.

  Ashley, Pamela, Hillary, Amber!

  Lots of clouds, lots of names, a long drop, no impact at the end, just me waking up.

  THE WAY YOU SOBBED WHEN THE STEWARDESS ASKED YOU:

  Do you want a cookie?

  I cried like a baby for a whole hour, totally plastered above the clouds.

  YOUR SOFT, OBSESSIVE HEART. IF YOU COULD EAT IT, WOULD YOU?

  It depends on who’s offering it to me. How the service is. How it’s served.

  DO YOU FEEL GOOD IN PLACES WHERE PEOPLE SERVE YOU?

  Yes, very. Service areas comfort me.

  MAYBE BECAUSE THE WORKERS AREN’T ALLOWED TO TALK ABOUT POLITICS. THAT CREATES A SOFT AND HARMLESS ATMOSPHERE.

  It’s fine the other way around. Politicians are always talking about work.

  Watch now: the ten most popular political topics of all time! Number seven: the future of labor!

  We’re so used to the promise of more jobs that we’re no longer surprised if someone comes by and whispers:

  Hello, little slave of work—shake your booty, make it twerk!

  WHAT SHOULD PEOPLE SEE WHEN THEY LOOK AT YOUR FACE?

  Me?

  WITH WHOM DO YOU FIGHT YOUR BATTLES?

  Myself?

  HAVE YOU EVER BELONGED TO A TERRORIST ORGANIZATION?

  No.

  HAVE YOU EVER BELONGED TO A CRIMINAL ORGANIZATION?

  No.

  IS YOUR HOMELAND SAFE?

  According to what criteria?

  WHERE ARE YOU REGISTERED?

  At home.

  WHAT DOES THAT MEAN?

  . . .

  WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

  A couple of days ago I was in New York. On election night I was sitting in a bar in Manhattan, a few blocks away from Trump and Clinton.

  GO ON, GO ON.

  I’m talking to some British managers from Shell. We’re drunk and in good spirits.

  Cheers!

  I’ve decided to be tolerant, I don’t want to judge them. Surprisingly pleasant, eloquent men; we get along well. One of them says he’s a feminist, Angela Merkel’s policies are destroying Syria, because no one is returning to rebuild their country, and Hillary Clinton has basically won. The other one, Kee-nic, is euphoric. He keeps saying, This is amazing, in a British accent. His deep voice and the melodious sound of the former colonial empire draw me in.

  WHICH DETAIL ARE YOU LEAVING OUT?

  . . .

  WHICH DETAIL ARE YOU LEAVING OUT?

  And his “ethnicity.”

  WHAT?

  His “ethnicity” attracts me. But it makes me uncomfortable to say that. Or to think it.

  WHY?

  This is amazing, Kee-nic says, and with that he means the atmosphere of this New York night, the election, the anticipation, perhaps even the feeling we all have that we are witnessing a historic moment. Around midnight, I follow him to his hotel; we’re convinced that in the morning the first ever female president of the U.S.A. will be confirmed. Around three a.m. we’ve drunkenly fucked ourselves to sleep. My cellphone vibrates. Text messages from my friends in Germany.

  Nine eleven—eleven nine!

  Be careful!

  What the fuck?

  I turn on the television; Trump has just started his speech. Kee-nic wakes up and snuggles up to me (he has such smooth skin and smells so good, is that coconut oil?). We sleep together again. While he pounds away with his meticulously trained manager physique, I can’t take my eyes off the television. Kee-nic moans something, I can’t understand it, so he says it again: This is amazing. This is amazing. I think, Donald Trump’s family actually looks shocked, meanwhile I’m on the sixteenth floor of a luxury hotel in Manhattan getting fucked by a man whose company is systematically destroying the environment.

  AND FOUR HOURS LATER, IN A PLANE TO DURHAM, THE NICE STEWARDESS SERVING COOKIES.

  WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

  Still in Durham.

  On a wall someone has sprayed: Black lives don’t matter and neither does your votes.

  HAVE YOU EVER DESTROYED GOVERNMENT PROPERTY?

  Black lives don’t matter and neither does your votes. I don’t think that’s proper English. I think that will stay there for a while. I don’t know if these things will ever end, or just get worse. In the U.S., I’m Blacker than in Germany.

  This is amazing.

  Excuse me?

  This is amazing.

  THE SLAVE TRADE IS THE MOST SUCCESSFUL BUSINESS MODEL IN HUMAN HISTORY. FORCED LABOR IS STILL A BREATHTAKING CONCEPT! TRADING WITH ENSLAVED BODIES: THE WHIPPING, THE RAPE, THE LYNCHING!

  I love that idea!

  In the English-speaking world there is a tendency toward exaggerated language.

  I would kill for the cookies they sell over there!

  In Germany there’s a tendency toward exaggerated violence.

  I would kill them if I could.

  People burn down asylum seekers’ homes. Or they yell Jump already! to the refugees, until they plunge to the ground from the windows. Or an eighty-person lynch mob is chasing down random kids to stab them. I have to believe that these people live on the margins. I have to believe that the core of society condemns these attacks. Otherwise, the land in which I live distinguishes itself very little from the U.S. Otherwise, the land in which I live could soon vote the same way. Otherwise, the land in which I live would no longer be my home.

  WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU FALL ASLEEP?

  I fall.

  WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU WAKE UP?

  Sometimes there’s just a melody, a giggle. Often just brief, cold fear.

  WHERE DO YOU FEEL AT HOME?

  When I’m asleep.

  WHAT IS THE PURPOSE OF YOUR STAY?

  Where, here on earth?

  WHAT DO YOU DREAM OF?

  . . .

  WHAT DO YOU DREAM OF?

  For a moment I see something flare up; an image from history class, but more current, somehow newer and with drones. Instead of men in steel helmets, the faces of my friends. My dear friends, how they’re running, ducking, falling, as if they were being kicked and hit by bullets, whips, fists, and bombs—somewhere in Berlin, somewhere in New York, somewhere in Thuringia. My friends lying on the ground with severed limbs, covered in blood, with contorted faces, my friends between collapsed buildings. My friends with their eyes wide open, small flies circling them.

  AND THEN?

  And then:

  My friends are a chapter in a history book that is slammed shut, unemotional, objective, because everything happened so long ago. My dead friends as something that doesn’t concern anyone today. My dead friends as a memory, a memorial on paper about which people will say:

  Don’t be so sensitive, that was the zeitgeist back then.

  I stare at the snack machine, the snack machine stares at me.

  I can hear music coming from somewhere. In a fast-paced tempo, a rapper describes how she and her bitches hustle. Ju
st fifteen more minutes, then the train will come. My stomach growls.

  My face is reflected in the glass. I smile at myself and think, It’s nice to travel alone, as I roll my curls between my thumb and forefinger. Just then, I notice a group of blond schoolkids, reflected in the glass as well. Without turning around, I see how they’re standing there, swiping their smartphones. The song is playing on one of their phones; they don’t speak to one another. Suddenly I feel like licking the reflection of their faces—really slowly, really thoroughly.

  WHERE ARE YOU NOW?

  In Berlin at the airport. After checking in, I’m sitting at the gate and looking through a floor-length window at the planes outside. I like people who wear garish vests and noise-canceling headphones.

  YOU’RE SWEATING.

  I had to hurry. I was running late.

  WHY AREN’T YOU SMILING?

  What?

  AREN’T YOU HAPPY?

  . . .

  ARE YOU NERVOUS?

  No.

  ARE YOU NERVOUS?

  Tired out, maybe a little excited. I haven’t been on such a long trip in a while, especially alone.

  WHY?

  Why I’m traveling alone or why I haven’t taken a long trip in a while?

  WHY ARE YOU NERVOUS?

  . . . There was an incident.

  GO ON. GO ON.

  I’m still sitting by the gate. Since I’m not sure whether there’ll be food on the flight, I buy a Coke and Snickers from a snack machine near another empty gate. No one is there, except me and a man. He has a beard and a head covering that I can’t categorize.

  DID HE TOUCH YOU?

  No. It’s not that kind of story. He didn’t even see me.

  OKAY. GO ON.

  As I leave to return to my gate, he puts on a plastic belt with a strange bulge at the waist. Then he throws a large garment over his shoulders, which covers him completely. I stop in place. The garment looks festive and he seems upset.

  HE IS NERVOUS.

  Explosives! Suicide bomber!

  The words race through my head. I can’t do anything about it. The man sits down and begins to rock his torso back and forth, making far-reaching, hectic movements as he mumbles something to himself. I think I see a look of fear on his face.