• Embed Doc
  • Copy Link
  • Readcast
  • Collections
  • CommentGo Back
Download
 
Tillandsia/Chapters [64 and 65]-Sylvia Petter 
TILLANDSIAChapter 64Karl-Marx-Stadt. 1989Under the rigid gaze of the giant bronze head mounted on its granite block, officeworkers marked their morning trails like ants across the square.Astrid Klain alighted from the red and yellow tram and fell into line. It was 7:15 on a bright August day, her first at TransInter, the State Translation Office. As she passed the block of granite, she winked up at the bearded face cast in bronze. Karl Marx did not wink back.She had to heave to open the glass door of number 32, Strasse der Nationen. Making her way towards the oak reception desk that seemed to stretch back into the grey marbled foyer thecloser she got. Her clicking heels echoed the beating of her heart in the icy marble quiet.“Astrid!”She stopped at the stairway coiling with a wrought-iron banister down behind themassive desk. A lanky man came down, his jeans-clad legs taking the steps two at a time. Hishair had greyed but he still wore it long. Peter Held, the driving force behind her internshipwith TransInter, moved towards her, arms wide in greeting.“Astrid. It's great to see you.” He brushed his cheek against hers, once left then right,kissing the air in the customary greeting of their Geneva days. “You've cut your hair! Suitsyou.”Astrid beamed.“Find your way all right?”“Just followed the flow.” She ran a hand through her dark blonde bob as she moved outof his arms. “It's so good to see you, too. I need a friendly face.”Peter ushered her past the figure seated behind the desk. Astrid noticed the soft and
 
Tillandsia/Chapters [64 and 65]-Sylvia Petter 
ruddy cheeks, but could not tell whether the uniform clothed a young man or woman. Indeedshe wondered whether the figure was real as it had not moved since she had entered. Theymounted the stairs. Astrid was awed by the wide corridors and long hallways on the first floor.“So much space, Peter. It's marvellous,” she said.“Don't speak too soon,” he said as he opened the third door on the right-hand side.“Welcome to TransInter.”Astrid stared. Her shoulders sagged in disbelief. Where the hall and foyer had been wideand empty, cooled in marble on floors and ceiling, the office before her was an elongated cubbyhole in contrast. Five wooden desks were lined up perpendicular along one grey wall. Theywere the sort of desks that could fetch an interesting price as a 1930's “antique” at the Genevaflea market - that is if they were stripped and varnished. Two double-paned windows opened onto the square below.“Remember when I used to sleep on the desk in the conference building in Geneva?”Astrid said.“Old Herr Schwarz always saved the three-line translation jobs for you. He never could bring himself to wake you, though. And then we'd get landed with them.”“You make it sound as if it was my fault I had nothing to do.”“Well, you won't have that problem here,” Peter said.There was just enough room to pass down a corridor between the desks and a length of dark-grey metal bookshelves masking the lighter grey of the opposite wall. The floorboards,dark like old blood, creaked with every step as if to punctuate the sighs she dared not heave.“I warned you it wouldn't be luxurious,” Peter said. “But it's a job.”She wanted to work, to learn, to use those years of study and not lose them to the whimsof strings pulled by fingers she did not know. She shook her head as if shaking out any wisps of disappointment. “I'll manage,” she said. “Once I get into the work, I won't even notice theoffice.” Astrid wondered how she could add cheerful touches to her workspace, the third desk,firmly flanked on either side.
 
Tillandsia/Chapters [64 and 65]-Sylvia Petter 
And so she settled in to the team of five. Only three were ever around at a time, with two being on interpreting assignments. The three were Peter, Gudrun, a recent graduate who hadmoved from Leipzig, and Astrid, the only foreigner, the only English mother tongue. AtTransInter, one did everything - interpreting, translating, typing, filing. Astrid liked that therewere no elite. Or so she thought.When Astrid met her colleague, Gudrun had just come back from a week in Berlin.Astrid was at her desk staring at the tiny koala bear clinging to her lamp when she heard voicesin the corridor.Peter ushered in the slim flaxen-haired woman: “Astrid, meet Gudrun Sempel,” he said.Astrid stretched out her right hand in greeting and hesitated as it was met by Gudrun's black glove. “Hallo, nice to meet you, Gudrun.”“Guten Tag.” Gudrun drew back her hand.She must be about 30 or so, Astrid thought. Wonder what's wrong with her hand?“Is this your first time to the German Democratic Republic, Frau Klain?” She pronounced it in the German way with an “ay”.“Klain,” Astrid said. “No, I was here about twenty years ago, in the area around Halle.”“We did not get many tourists then - not from, where was it, Austria?”“Australia,” Astrid said. Even here, she thought, they confuse the two countries. Not justin Geneva where she once had to explain that there were no kangaroos in Vienna.“Where near Halle? I know that area well,” Gudrun said.Astrid paused. “Sibigrode.”“I am from Gorenzen. Do you know it?”“Gorenzen?” Astrid's eyes widened in vague recognition. “No.”“Let's have a welcome drink. Gudrun's just come back from Berlin. And Astrid's justarrived from Geneva. Beer, Astrid? And your usual Cola, Gudrun?” Peter said.
of 00

Leave a Comment

You must be to leave a comment.
Submit
Characters: ...
You must be to leave a comment.
Submit
Characters: ...