The Last Analects of Jasper James Kaufmann

2. A Conversation

Jasper awoke to the sound of the phone ringing. He wanted to pick it up but he was still feeling the effects of the clozapine in his system, so he vacillated between states of consciousness, one moment alert and present and the next numb and blurry-eyed, his neurons begging him to return to sleep. He drifted off for a short while, when he was woken up again by the phone. This time he was awake enough to jump out of bed and answer it.

"Hello, Jasper speaking," he intoned, in his native, unaccented German.

"Hey JJ, it's me," came the voice of a young woman.

Jasper froze. Suddenly the events of the previous day came rushing back to him in a rage of unadulterated, overwhelming emotion.

"Oh... hey, Petra. I forgot I gave you my number—I guess I—" He took a deep breath to collect his thoughts. "What's up?"

"I just wanted to apologize for what happened yesterday. Whether it be sexual orientation, or—"

"I'm not gay!" Jasper said crossly. "I told you that."

"Okay, sorry," said Petra. "Gay, bi, whatever... but it wasn't right. I didn't mean to make you feel uncomfortable."

Jasper paused, then said, "Don't worry about it. It doesn't make you a bad person. It's my fault, really. I just didn't want to—I wanted to feel normal. I guess."

"Well, I'm calling because I want to put that behind us. You're a good guy, Jasper."

There was an awkward pause.

"So what are you up to today?" asked Jasper, out of lack of anything else to say.

"I have to do some work later for my South Asian Religion class tomorrow. Damn those Monday classes." Petra laughed lightly. "But I'm free this afternoon, and I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee or something. We could meet at Der Kuchenladen. You know where that is?"

"Sounds vaguely familiar. I think I've passed it a few times."

"The address is Kantstraße 138. It's not that hard to find. Want to meet there at 1?"

Jasper looked at his watch. It was 12:13. "Uh, sure. See you then, I guess."

"Okay. See you soon, JJ."

The line went dead. Jasper felt strangely at peace. The previous day had been mad; never before had the deep stinging pains of self-discovery struck him so bluntly. But now, after he had had some good sleep and it had all settled down, he realized that life would go on. And it wouldn't just go on, it would be beautiful and wonderful, new experiences would be his. He hung the phone back on its cradle and turned around. The other bedroom's door was ajar.

"Abelard?" he called. There was no answer. He creaked open his roommate's door and peered inside. Abelard was not there. Jasper went back to his own room and put on his coat in preparation for the travel to the café where he was meeting Petra, as it was late October and getting chilly. The coat was a grey double-breasted London Fog, from his mother. He wore it as a relic, a tribute to the lives lost in the Second World War, the lives wasted by the follies of those battles. His mother wanted him to have it, as a means of feeling some connection to the man he had never known, the man he knew almost nothing about, the man who was not his father but was his mother's first and true love before his untimely death. In that way he wore it as a tribute to her as well. He buttoned the coat up, from bottom to top, grabbed his keys from the wall and headed out the door. He unlocked and grabbed his bicycle and carried it down the six narrow flights of stairs to the ground floor. He stuck his keys in his coat pocket and opened the door of his apartment building to the fresh, brisk air. It was refreshing and comfortable in the warmth of the trench coat. He began to ride along the side of the road. He was a very proficient cyclist, having ridden along the flat highways of the Midwestern United States since he was a small child, often for miles and miles. As he rode, he relished the clear blue sky above him. This was life, his new life in the British sector of the exclave of West Berlin. It was a curious time indeed, he felt, as the meaning and implementation of the word "freedom" was only now being truly defined. On the third day after his arrival, he had ridden to Checkpoint Charlie and stood there for a long time, contemplating the Wall, the Wall that Reagan had challenged Gorbachev to tear down that past summer. He had recalled sitting in the living room of his parents' small house and watching the speech, wondering what was to become of him now that he had decided to move to that divided city himself. Now he was finally there, and he breathed in the autumn air. Before he knew it he was at the café. He looked at his watch and it was 12:58. He locked his bike on a rack and looked around at the happenings of the block. There were men and women walking about, boys and girls playing on the sidewalks. He contemplated youth and the fact that he was gradually losing sight of the dream world of childhood, no less genuine than adult affairs. His reverie was broken when he heard his name being called.