Leaving Aachen : PART III

Walter’s infatuation with Angelika became apparent when instead of himself, she became the star of his homemade (no pun intended) movies. He would get restless when the time of her visits approached -always within office hours-, polishing his teeth with the index finger (using of course Würzburger Hofbräu as a liquid) and rearranging the paucity of his possessions to exude an appearance of prosperity. Walter started combing his hair too. Angelika’s interest for Walter never developed beyond the polite asking of questions and subsequent scribbling of notations on the legal pad that she always carried with her. On the right side (to me) of her heaving chest she wore a shiny badge, illegible in the sunlight’s glare that always seemed to hit it at an inconvenient angle for purposes of closer scrutiny. I remember it being a rather lengthy topic of discussion the first time she came around with lots of finger-pointing and incredulous scowling on the part of Walter. I, on the other hand, slowly but surely, became the focus of her attention and, might I add, affection. “What a cutesie little bunny boo,” she used to say, or at least that’s how I interpreted the German words that accompanied her cooing and petting. She’d scratch my head just in between and behind the ears. I am sure there are words to describe the sensation, or perhaps once in a far-flung past of chivalry and verbose wealth there were words to convey such a quake of the senses, but they escape my immediate realm, so I will limit myself to a short stab, something more in line with the parlance of our day; Man, you have no idea! It came as no surprise that this turn of events was most retrograde to Walter’s desire. The hub of Walter’s desire had become very clear by then and communication between the two became strained and awkward as a result. I wish to say that this is the point where I left. I would very much like that to have been my decision; leave before things get out of hand, before people get hurt. But I stayed, for I myself had become a thrall to Angelika’s dark eyes and, and the spangle of her name-tag broche, and her black hair and the mellifluous soothing that her voice would lavish about whenever she came to call. I miss her. One sudden morning, on a day of which I have no ulterior recollection than the pang of loss and the certainty of its irreversibility, a car arrived. Some guy (indeed, this is all that I care to recall about him) gets out of a car –a new Golf-, and introduces himself as Marko, the new social worker. Angelika would not be coming again. This much was certain from the countenance of broken dreams that seized Walter like a SWAT team. I left Aachen that day. I had had enough.