Short fiction by Katy Derbyshire and Roxie Perkins
‘Jane’s Day’ and ‘I Am Its’
These two short stories were read by their authors at a recent celebration of Christa Wolf (1929–2011) at Lettrétage in Berlin.
Jane’s Day
Katy Derbyshire
Four months into her stay in Berlin, she’s got used to being an au pair. Jane’s German is improving, she’s found a routine: make coffee for the parents, lay the breakfast table, slice firm brown bread in the special machine, dress the baby while the dad drives the two older kids to school, make the kids’ beds, followed by a laboured conversation with Frau Kuczinski, the cleaner from the East, whose accent she has trouble penetrating. Put the baby in the buggy to pick up some shopping—make sure to leave the receipt and the change on the table—then make lunch for the kids, home from school by one, from the small subset of dishes she can cook and they will eat: fish fingers, frozen potato cakes with apple sauce from a jar, pasta, pancakes. Put the baby down for a nap, clean up the kitchen while supervising the kids’ homework, then release them into the garden or the playroom. Tidy up some more so Frau Kuczinski doesn’t complain she’s making extra work for her, keep the baby busy until the mother comes home, and then she’s free to go to her language class at four thirty.
But oh, that time with the baby. The baby’s a toddler really, but she still has those chubby wrists and the waddle. She can point to her nose on command, and her knees and her feet. Eyes and ears are more difficult. Jane and Frau Kuczinski are potty-training her, on the mother’s instructions. It’s one of those long Berlin summers, so the baby can roll around the garden naked and pot-bellied, succumbing to a nappy for her lie-down after lunch. A picture book read in halting German, snuggled together on the rocking chair in the baby’s room, eyelids drooping, time slowing, then she lets Jane put her down in the cot. The babyphone is on while Jane wipes the table, sweeps up the dropped food underneath it, scrapes the plates and loads the dishwasher.
The boy is still struggling with his numbers; Jane helps him to write his 4s the right way round. The girl is supposed to draw a dog, which she attempts in deep concentration, chewing her bottom lip. It gets a collar and a lead, making it more recognisable as canine, but the ears won’t work out. They’re either too big or too small, requiring much rubbing out and blowing of wormy eraser crumbs across the table, then all the pencils need sharpening, and then Jane has to wipe the table down again. Now the boy wants the sharpener, but the girl refuses, and Jane points out that he has one of his own. At which he starts sharpening the rainbow of pencils strapped into his pencil case, glad of the distraction.
The boy and girl are squabbling over elbow space as the babyphone crackles to life. The usual disgruntled cries, and then a word: Shane. All three of them freeze: What did the baby say?
Frau Kuczinsky bustles into the kitchen. The baby’s calling your name, Dschähn. Better go and get her up.
Jane sends the kids outside to play, then rushes to the baby. By now the call has risen to a wail: Shääää-aaane. Jane slips into the room and discovers the baby standing up in her cot, gripping the bars like a Pentonville prisoner, a picture of rage. Shane! A reprimand still. Then her scowl lifts, her arms rise, her face fills with light. Shane! Now in a tone of joy. And Jane scoops up the baby, swings her out of the cot and around in a wide, wide circle, prompting chuckles and smiles. You said my name!
In the garden, they play at naming people. What’s your brother’s name? What’s your sister’s name? What’s your name? And what’s my name? They play it many times over, and every time the baby says Shane she gets a hug, or a tickle, or a kiss. The baby bakes cakes in the sandpit, holds them out for Jane to eat. Shane! For me? Danke schön! They play peek-a-boo, each reveal eliciting a Shane!
And then it’s over. The mother arrives home, and the baby’s face lights up and she toddles towards her with a delighted Mama and gets picked up and carried inside, and Jane is free to go to her language class at four thirty.
I Am Its
Roxie Perkins
This isn’t my plant, but this is my favorite plant out of all the plants that aren’t mine. I don’t know its name. This plant eats sunshine like it owned it, and wiggles in the air like it was made of it, and when its leaves are new they are thin and shiny and react to everything: a spritz, a pat, a cloudy day—and when they are old they harden and never notice my spritzes, my pats, my cloudy days, and I don’t want to be like that—that’s not why I like this plant—that sucks—some kids are soft and stupid and not just on Spring Break—and some old people have to harden and shut down when their world ends. I’m sorry. I’m not judging the plant—or anyone—but especially not the plant for having soft, young leaves and hard, old leaves. That’s insane. It’s not even my plant—Mandy trusted me. She trusted me to take care of her plants so that we could stay here, and to be honest, when she said we could stay at her place while her roommate was quarantining in New York and she was hiding at her boyfriend’s parents’ mansion in the hills, I thought she was joking. Not about the mansion—I knew that his parents had a mansion—though I do have questions about it—but about the plants. Mattering. Or not mattering, but, I guess, like—thinking of plants as actual THINGS that need care like a kid, or an old person—I just. Yeah. I didn’t. Think of them that way. Before. But after the bomb I was grateful for anywhere to stay that had enough space for two, so we’re here now.
My girlfriend doesn’t take care of the plants. I point out new leaves to her and she smiles—but I know she’d rather sit at the window and watch the masked neighbors take their dogs on walks every day before curfew. I prefer it inside with the plants. And not cause it’s calm or, like, some stupid home catalog shit, but ‘cus they are fighting, and trying not to outgrow their pots, too.
This isn’t my plant, but this is my favorite plant out of all the plants that aren’t mine. I don’t know its name. The first day I called it Roberta. Second day: Shaw. Third day: Kissy.
Fourth: Gorf. Fifth: Windslit. Sixth: Chad. Brad. Mad. Bad. Bad. Bad.
Last night I couldn’t take it any longer. Careful not to wake my girlfriend, I snuck out of bed and crawled—buckling inside my own skin—clammy with thirst and sweat—pulling myself—hands and knees—down, down, down the hall to ask the plant its name.
In the dark living room, I could almost hear the plants breathing around me. Please, I whispered—I know you aren’t mine—but I can’t keep loving you and not know who you are. Tell me what to call you. I lay on the floor beside the plant to show it that I was serious about my servitude.
On the cold floor the plant loomed above me, seemingly enraged by my forward question. Outside a siren squealed, and a car alarm sang, and a neighbor screamed in Russian at his wife—but the plant said nothing. I raised my fingers gently up its spine, said a prayer to the wilting leaves, leaned close and whispered to the dirt: help.
Suddenly leaves swayed, roots stirred—dirt on dirt—air in air—leaves to palm—stem to eye—rip—stretch—shoot—the plant stepped out of its pot like someone who hadn’t talked in many, many, many days. Silhouetted in the moonlight, the plant towered over me—no longer mine to care for, but mine to fear. It leaned close—closer—closer—eyelash to leaf—teeth to root—how easy it is to snap a bone when you think about it—closer—closer—you can’t call 911 if you aren’t a “you” anymore—closer—closer—what will my girlfriend think when she finds me here—alone—sweating—overtaken by dead earth—laying on the ground beside an empty pot—closer—closer—maybe the plant has no name—maybe it needs mine—maybe
Mandy knew what she was doing when she invited us here—closer—closer-
Suddenly the plant kneeled at my feet, whispered its name into the hole in the bottom of my sock, and sat back down in its tiny ceramic kingdom. There has never been a name so perfect in all the days of the world. But I’m no fucking snitch, so you can get bent if you think I’m telling. But I will tell you: this is my favorite plant—not because it is mine—but because I am its.
‘I Am Its’ was first published in “Theater Artists Making Theater With No Theater: Spring 2020,” a collection of works compiled by Sheila Callaghan, Kelly Miller, and Meg Miroshnik.
Stay updated on future Immer Schon events – and check out the texts inspired by previous events about Joseph Roth, Friederike Mayröcker, and Walter Benjamin – on their website.