Der folgende Text entstand in einem Seminar für kreatives Schreiben vor einigen Jahren und hat seither einen festen Platz als Zwischensequenz in der great American novel, die ich irgendwann ganz bestimmt schreiben werde. Der Titel stammt von einem Rossellini-Film, der inhaltlich mal so gar nichts mit der Story hier zu tun hat. Fürs Blog habe ich das Ganze noch einmal leicht überarbeitet.
Miriam Jones woke from a daze. The phone had rung. Or had it? Did she know a Paulette Jones? Her mother. Of course she knew her mother. That explains it. It had been a dream. She had dreamt of this and confused it with reality. Again.
Getting up from the bed, she found a note. „Saturday. 7 p.m. Holborn tube. Meet Paulette.“
It couldn’t be! There was no other Paulette. No other than her mother. Yet… She walked into the kitchen, got a plate from the sink. What was that smell? She started to do the dishes again. Suddenly she dropped the plate she was holding as she remembered how she’d thrown up into the sink the day before.
That call had her all worked up. She remembered very clearly now. Her daughter Paulette had called. Whom she had given up for adoption right after birth.
Had she really made an appointment to meet this woman? And was that today? She checked the note. Saturday it was. Today. It had already gotten dark outside, she glanced at her watch. 6.
She went for the door, grabbing her coat and putting it on. She stepped outside and hesitated. Was she really ready for this? Did she want to do this? She rushed back to the living room. One. Two. Three. Four would maybe do the trick. After the fifth sip she went out on the street, dazed.
Out on the street, she followed the direction her feet were taking anyway, walking slowly, as if she was deep in thought about something. She walked down the stairs and had a seat.
One. Two. Three. Four. Seven? Eight? A bell rang. „Last orders please!“
11, she thought. 11 p.m.