HAPPY - the truth about deckchair people
• Jörg Liesegang

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Mrs. Robinson was looking for a place to sit. There were about ten people already sitting and every ten minutes the Gondel was pouring out a few more. Some of them didn’t even take a look around as they came out of the little aluminium hut that was built around the mountain top station of the cable car. They just got their skis onto their boots and went down the run. Like mad lemmings running to their cliff.

Mrs. Robinson, of course, wasn’t one of those. She was too old to be that kind of mad. She was sixty-eight, to be exact. She was still enjoying her own control over her own body. Enjoying a weeks holiday of skiing in the Alps. Only recently had age begun to hand over some of that body-control to her rheumatic bones aching, or to her concentration slipping where it had been as firm as the polestar in the sky. But she wasn’t worrying. She had come to the conclusion that she had done enough of that in her life.

There was a lot of places left. Benches stringed together, wooden beer tables in between like the ones you would know from the Oktoberfest. And still a lot unassembled in a corner. One young man lying on a whole bench right next to the railing of the platform. She decided to take a place on a bench near him, he had this self-indulged smile on his face that made him sort of untouchable and holy, at least in Mrs. Robinson’s eyes. He looked like he didn’t want to start a short conversation about the weather conditions, about how lucky they were to have a sunny day in the end of March in Switzerland. And she certainly didn’t want to hear anything about the weather back in England.
It was more than fantastic up there. The sky the deep mountain blue that seems to have peeled itself free from the white fading of the lowlands. The snow pure and smooth, with a comfortable ivory tan when seen through the sunglasses. The wind a lush cool stroke of a comforting hand, that soothes the burn of the altitude. It was just clouds down in the valley. Fog around the middle station, where you had to change cable cars. The fog getting thicker and thicker. The surprising jerk, when the car was rolled over the suspension wheels of the one huge pillar that kept the cable up.

And then the moment when the clouds cleared in one second, and a declivity of such vastness opened up underneath them, that they all silenced down in the car. The steep wall of rock just forty feet ahead of the vexed passengers. Shreds of snow spilt over them. They were pulled almost straight up, rising, and rising. Then the car stopped. Jerked again terribly because of the change in velocity. Crept further on, inch by inch, until the first construction frames of the station could be seen under the upper rim of the windows. Then more, then the banisters of the bay they would dock into. Then the fine shudder that sneaked through the floor of the car into the bones of its passengers when the wooden stopper was hit. Again another long five seconds wait. Then the doors were opened up. You were free to exit, catapulting yourself over the inch of downward suction that was formed in between the car and station platform.

Mrs. Robinson had just taken her seat on the bench. Had gotten hold of her own breath. Had taken her long look around her to find out where she was. She was on a platform. She was on the Rothorn, 2860 metres above sea level. She was feeling the heavy clumps of her feet that weren’t really used to being pressed into snow-boots anymore. She was feeling her heart beating steadily inside of herself. She felt her legs. Her buttock. She was madly in love with the thick layer of clouds that were just underneath her, with the summits peeking out in the distance, the mountain ranges embracing the horizon, with the profound blue above her. She was feeling the air filling up her lungs and doing her good.

Two figures coming towards her caught her attention. Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales, from Brighton. They were a couple Mrs. Robinson knew to be in her group. They were on the same floor in the hotel. Mrs. Robinson watched the two shadows walking and arguing through her half closed lids. Her sunglasses giving her the privacy to watch calmly.

They weren’t coming to her. They had come as far as the pile of still unassembled benches, stared around in what could be seen as disbelief. Found only half-unoccupied benches around them. Began to talk about whether they could or should take a bench from the pile to sit on. They decided to give it a try. Lifted a bench to the ground. Turned it up-side-down. Tried their luck with the unfolding of the sustainer. Turned out they couldn’t manage. The wife trying half-heartedly here and there, constantly repeating that it doesn’t work. Then she found a lever to pull at, which she did. A second later the husband saw it and told her to pull the lever. They pulled and it didn’t work. The husband telling his wife to back off. To let him do it. His frantic hands scampering over the metal. His lips curled in. His eyes sharps and hunting.

It worked finally. By chance or trial, they had the bench assembled, turned it right-side-up. Looking for a place to set it up. Mr. Gonzales scanning imperiously with his eye. Mrs. Gonzales following with her gaze. Then Mr. Gonzales towing the bench over to Mrs. Robinson with a loud screech. Mrs. Gonzales left out of doing anything. They fitted the bench into a small place that wasn’t really there to fit into. Left the bench standing transversal to all the others. Mr. Robinson taking a seat like a sullen, impertinent dwarf. His wife sliding in besides him, an excusing nod ready into the direction of Mrs. Robinson. Although Mrs. Robinson couldn’t have surely said whether it was intended for her.
Mrs. Robinson thought he stank. Ever since he had taken a seat close to her, she had felt something foreign barging in on her from his direction. Something unpleasant. Maybe it was urine. Elder men do have a problem with that, she thought. And Mr. Gonzales was around her age. Women have problems with that as well, she continued her thought, but we try to do something about it. The only thing men do is to keep wearing their underpants even longer. And they stop washing themselves. Like they are giving themselves up, and would disintegrate completely if a female hand wouldn’t hold them together.

Mr. and Mrs. Gonzales weren’t talking much. In Mrs. Robinson’s opinion they weren’t talking at all. They were commenting. Making comments because there was nothing else to say. Commenting about the other people working to set up the remaining benches. Saying that the modern engineering was better, when the people seemed to have less difficulties with the construction of their benches than the Gonzales’ had with theirs. Commenting about the way they were dressed. Condemning everything that didn’t go in line with their unison taste. With his taste. She wasn’t even commenting, she was content with agreeing, Mrs. Robinson thought.

Then he told her that her nose was getting a bit red. That she should put some sun screen on it. She did it. Then he asked her whether she wanted something to drink. She said she wanted some water. He said he wanted some lemonade. They waited. Then he asked her whether she had some small money. He only had a one-hundred-Franken-bill he didn’t want to start. She said yes and started getting up. He held her down with his hand, took the money from her and got up himself. Slowly. Demonstratively. A pleased smile on his hard lips. He had two lemonades in his hand when he came up. Said that he wasn’t sure whether the mineral water was clean. And that he found that lemonade tasted better. He kept the money.

Then they were talking about mobiles. How crazy it was that everybody had one. And how one went off every five minutes in the restaurant yesterday. And how he had left theirs on so that they could get the SMS. And he continued his talk inquiring whether she had finally managed to teach herself how to send and read one. It’s just one of those things I think you should know today. She said she would one day. She got up to buy herself something to eat. Asked him for the money. Asked him whether he wanted something. He declined, giving an inconspicuous notice over the high prices in a place like this. She came back with a small bakery roll. He had half of it.

Mrs. Robinson was giving half an ear to them. With disgust. The other was listening inside herself. Into her memory. She knew the sentences. She knew the tone. The inability to escape. Just a walk to the kitchen. A flight. A mere forty minutes of cooking that was quiet and calm and uncensored by someone who knew better. And who mistook correcting commands with social interaction. She knew the bad smell when he opened his mouth. The rotting teeth he didn’t find worth cleaning. The evaporations coming through the flawed, waxy skin. And the constant urine smell that good education forbade her to mention.

He had held Mrs. Robinson’s hand. The late Mr. Robinson’s voice trembling. Please don’t let me be alone. He didn’t let her go. Not to the phone. Not out on the street to get help. He had been lying in bed with a flew or something for a week, had gotten up. And then his face had gotten blue. His breathing fast. His hand had beaten his chest, trying to get something into it. His voice getting a panic into it that it had never expressed before. Please don’t leave me alone. He had almost broken her hand with his grip. And then his body had taken a little twist. Like something had jumped off from a cable and the wire was springing back and forth, swaying itself to a final rest. When she did get help his body was already getting cold and she wasn’t quite sure whom to call. Wasn’t quite sure which office would feel responsible.

She got off from the bench. Felt that she returned the disbanding nod from Mrs. Gonzales, but felt that she was giving it something far away. Felt that she took a good look at Mr. Gonzales’ eyes, which passed him unmentioned. Heard that he said something to his wife when she parted. Saw the young man still smiling, stretched out on the bench, his eye’s open now, behind his sunglasses, looking at her. They smiled at each other.

Mrs. Robinson walked the few steps up to the balustrade. A clear circular view of the mountain summits were before. She had gotten a good hold of herself. Had taken her long look around her to find out where she was. She was on a platform. She was on the Rothorn, 2860 metres above sea level. She was feeling the heavy clumps of her feet that weren’t really used to being pressed into snow-boots anymore. She was feeling her heart beating steadily inside of herself. She felt her legs. Her buttock. She was madly in love with the thick layer of clouds that were just underneath her, with the summits peeking out in the distance, a little hole tearing up beneath her, the valley with its tiny black trees shining through, the mountain ranges embracing the horizon, with the profound blue above her. She was feeling the air filling up her lungs and doing her good.

She thought of her late Mr. Robinson. Shortly. And of how happy she was that he wasn’t with her anymore.

©Jörg Liesegang, April 2001

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