photo credit @ May AL-ISSA
My heart is thrumming as the train gradually speeds up. In a mixture of fear and hope, I sink into my wheelchair, imagining my escape through the window into the green fields. The fast movement of the train melds the colours with the blue darkish sky and some hints of white clouds. I try to focus on those clouds to escape the noise of passengers and on-board service employees. Most of all, however, I try to swallow this spasming pain, which strikes very frequently, trying to hide it from everyone for five hours or so, perhaps to no avail. My mother sits in front of me, in her blue raincoat, her silver hair covered by a matching blue and white scarf. She either reads magazines or takes photos through the window. She glances at me once or twice with her black caring eyes and pinkish cheeks to spot the pain on my face. She soothes my pain with a touch on my feet stretched on her lap.
“You will be better,” she assures me with a smile. “At least we are not in an ambulance like the first time we went to Vichy,” she says encouragingly.
“Indeed,” I reply in a lower tone. “It’s a milestone that I passed, thank you, Mama,” I say.
“It’s only a trip like we used to make,” she says, “remember!”
“Oh yes,” I reply.
Unlike the calmness of the Eurostar we took three days ago from London to Paris, Deutsche Bahn gets busier with every stop. Even without stops, I can see the reflections in the window: passengers with their luggage squeeze themselves in the tight corridor, officers check for tickets and a trolley man sells refreshments. Similar views to the eighties when we used to travel from Basra to Baghdad in Iraq, only, it was longer trips then. War or no war, the views are almost similar. A thousand miles away and ten years into the millennium separate the past from the present. Only the sky wraps us, calmly sometimes and furiously other times.
As we approach Karlsruhe, on the edge of the Black Forest, southwestern Germany, we feel a hint of ruhe, as the German name indicates “the repose.” We enter the world of legend too, for Karls (Charles III William) named the city he had dreamt of while sleeping by a tree. Another variation of the story suggests that he built the new palace to find peace from his wife; what a good boy he is! I tell this to my mother while heavily breathing through the pain, but we laugh!
An employee approaches me. “We arranged the ramp for you, Madam,” he says. “The train will be stopping soon.”
“Thank you,” I reply.
He tries to clear the corridor for us to follow him. As the train stops, another worker fixes a special ramp on the steps of the door for me. A touch of a button and I am on the ground with Mom who precedes me. We are guided to the next train, which has its own automatic ramp. Little help is needed.
Only twenty minutes left to have our repose; “Baden-Baden” is announced.
I am waiting until someone helps us. Through the crowd of passengers, we find ourselves out of the train station, guided by the station employer towards the taxi.
“Hotel Quellenhoff, bitte,” with my broken German I say to the helper who calls for a special wheelchair-accessible taxi.
Some fresh air to breathe in this calm breezy night.
The driver helps me into his car. As darkness covers the city and dulls my pain, especially following almost five hours of hard travel, I close my eyes, leaving words and other issues grumbling in my brain. I cannot wait to reach the hotel, only to be helped to lie in bed where I stay for the upcoming seven days as the pain, burning and spasms take over. Just to have some light meals and swallow some painkillers which I try to take sparingly, despite the severe pain.
“What will this city do to me?” I murmur in my mind, but my mother reads my thoughts as she stares at me while massaging my legs and hands gently to soothe some of the pain. “You will be OK, habibty,” she says. “You know my friend’s mother used to come here in the fifties and sixties for the physiotherapy. You remember her. You will be better, I am sure,” she confirms.
I nod with a smile as I cannot talk any more just to make her happy.
Some minor strength on Monday to start the journey. Mother helps me out and we go together through the rear door with its facility for wheelchairs. Once I am out, I wheel very carefully over the old small bricks.
“Ah! Here you are,” I say, as I lift my head while taking a deep breath. “Someone wants to make things easier for me! No one else but Fyodor Dostoyevsky.”
He looks at me from his balcony with his strong features over his larger book of Der Spieler (The Gambler) and gently nods, welcoming me.
“Hello! Mr Dostoyevsky,” I reply. “We are neighbours now, aren’t we? We are all gamblers in this life,” I say. “Life spins us on the roulette wheel. I don’t know if I’m gambling with my health with this treatment as you gambled with your money. The first specialist gambled with my health without telling me and it turned into a disaster. I have to gamble now with this treatment, now I’ve enquired about it. Let’s see. See you later,” I wave to him.
He keeps welcoming me every time I go for my treatment. In turn, I tell him about the ups and downs I encounter.
On my long route to the centre, every jolt stabs my spine and builds up more pain in my spinal cord, and the burning sensation, generously, takes over. The distance is therefore measured by every tiny brick and the stabbing in my spine: One brick. Two sighs…. I try to stop every now and then to breathe some fresh air. That might calm my burning nerves. The distance is equal to how many stabs I get from the tiny bricks. So here we are, Mr Dostoevsky. This is my gamble for now, my bet.
Finally, in the historic Friedrichsbad, I enter the Roman era with its interior design; the statues, dome and stairs. The receptionist introduces me to my physiotherapist team. Two for medical massage, one in the pool and a therapist for warm mud treatment. I take the left lift to the first floor where my treatment will mainly take place. In the mud cabinet, the therapist helps me onto the special hot water bed to coat me in the Black Forest mud. She covers me tightly for twenty minutes or so, while I lie in this warmth. Sometimes, sleep takes over, so the therapist has to wake me up and wash the mud away in the special shower. Following the rest in the special hall, Uli takes over to soften the spasms around my spine and legs. I try at all times to avoid painkillers, to witness the natural effects on my body. More interval rests are needed.
Weeks later, Mathias, the pool man, steps in. In the small indoor pool, I envisage myself jumping into the pool racing with my dad. Instead, I was freezing with pain through my watery eyes and red face that Mathias notices. He comes to the rescue with an assuring smile. Starts to support me from the waist while I push myself from the wheelchair. Slowly, step by step with my feet over his, we step on the stairs and he sits me there. I tightly hold the bar, while the wave of warm water takes over me with its power regardless of its calmness and sways me into it. Mathias deploys the same calm to hold me like a baby to be taught to swim, and I lie in the water on his arms. I close my eyes as pain penetrates through my spine, through my legs; I even thought my legs were swimming at the end of the pool each on a separate side while I am in the middle! With his smart technique, Mathias holds my legs together and moves me in circles, swipes the waves of the water until my legs settle on the surface, always supporting my back in one hand. A gentle movement to the right and left causes the lower body to dance with the water, and although there is more penetrating pain, there is more movement and fewer spasms. Slowly and gently, he stops every now and then to keep me for a while lying on the surface. Every week or fortnight, depending on my development with more rest for my muscles and nerves to settle down. He continues to treat me and develop his technique further until I can stand on the edge of the pool. It takes months and by now I can just about measure the depth of the pool. The water comes up to just under my neck! And I think I am in a lake, in the depths of a lake! This time while I am standing and holding the edge of the pool, he does the very gentle movement to my neck to fix the slipped disc there while holding tightly my left leg by his foot whenever it disappears.. taken by spasm and numbness.
I am advised to go to the Rheumazentrum Klinik next door to check for new development. One day, I meet Dr Fiehn who is the head of the clinic and specialises in the new fibromyalgia thingy that I experience as a side effect which doesn’t fully comply with what those doctors are saying since 1993.
“There are more complications in your case, especially with the spinal cord shock,” he says. “Keep up the same rhythm and take this newly approved medication, to help.”
On my way out, I meet Mathias. As soon as I tell him about the medication, he shouts “No! Tell him you are not a rabbit to try his medications on.”
“Oh, Mathias! Let me fly, then, please.” I look at the sky where kites and balloons fly while some youngsters hold onto the kites just like huge birds, which remind me of the first attempts of people to fly.
“No, no, no,” he answers with concern, as he knows I am so keen to do it. “Not now, in the water. In the water,” he says.
“Ah! The Aquarius man.” We laugh.
“We learn to walk first,” he says with an assuring smile.
“Below and above the sea,” I reply. “How about swinging there?” I point to a wooden board attached between tree trunks by ropes. Again, he refuses, but I can hear my childhood laughter when swinging between the date palm trunks in Basra. Flying high trying to catch the sky through the leaves of the palms. The palms that fully cover the sky in its darkest of greens even before the clouds are visible.
He goes to Friedrichsbad. I wheel towards the hill, past the Roman pillars. The road is smooth enough for me to wheel gently. I notice a statue in the distance but cannot continue with tingling pain gets in the way. Luckily, the breezy winds and fresh air are a bonus in spring 2007.
From time to time, Mom and I sit by the little fountain in the centre of the spa buildings and the chapel, to have a rest in fresh air. We encounter many people from Germany where their main conversation, especially those who lived during the war, is that Baden-Baden did not suffer WWII bombardment during that cruel war, unlike the ruins elsewhere, Karlsruhe as an example.
“We know what wars mean,” usually is our answer. Other citizens confirm that high ranked officials used to meet in the casino during WWII. That makes me more eager to visit.
Springs pass by. Another trip and Mr. Dostoevsky is still waiting for me for the bet. I keep driving my four-wheel-chair looking ahead towards the cliff past the spa centre. Luckily the road is cemented where I can have less trouble, especially when I finish off the treatment of the day to indulge in some fresh air and lovely views before heading back to my room.
And there you are, Mr Dostoevsky, the statue I couldn’t figure out previously. In full form, here, wearing your old coat, squeezing the globe underneath your bare foot where you stand firmly to commemorate your existence in this world. You look towards the casino squeezing your empty hands in barely open fists.
“Hi Fyo! Things are getting better, for me. Very slowly though. Good gamble this time, for as long as it takes,” I say. “Shall we visit the casino one day?” I ask. “We only need to get you a nice pair of shoes and socks. I wonder whether 42 or 43 would fit you!” I say, looking at his feet. “You also should wear a nice tie to comply with the casino rules. I will leave this to my mother, but we have to leave your old coat here to save your place, although I was assured that this is the safest place in Germany as a whole. I will meet you by the hotel door,” I say. “You lead me, as you know the place better. I am still discovering the town in my free-pain-time during the years.”
We enter the Kurhaus Casino into a different era. I present my ID, Mr Dostoevsky presents his signed Der Spieler. I am new to this atmosphere: the players around different tables, the bettings, the wheels… but before that the ads to welcome the Presidential Arrival at a NATO Dinner. I envisage them crack open the champagne and the foam floods the land in blood. War scenes haunt me.
The legacy continues yet in a different time, different circumstances, different geographical places.
“Money means war,” the professor states in our first lecture in Financial Risk Management module. All those are mingling in my brain along with Bloomberg figures and FX data.
I am suffocated.
I leave.
Eyes with frozen tears and shivering sensations, I feel colder than the breezy weather outdoors.
Dostoevsky follows.
“Ah well!” I say to Dostoevsky. “You are not a politician. Perhaps this is the reason you went bankrupt. Luckily, the currency has changed and no centime is left with us!”
He simply turns his hands to open his fists and spread his fingers in an empty mode.
“See you later, Fyo!” I wish him good night.
“Good night,” he nods. “And yes, Miss May, “tomorrow I may rise from the dead and begin to live anew! I may find the man in me before he’s lost!””
We leave the darkest night…
It’s a beautiful sunny day, one of our last in the town. The time has come to promenade and throw the heavy burden away. My mother and I make our first discovery in the city. Up the bricked road again and we reach Sophienstrasse, a few resting spots for me and mother to sit on a bench. Then we reach Leopoldplatz, where no traffic lights control the crossroads between cars, buses and pedestrians. Intelligence alone controls walking or driving.
We sit under a tree. Some small white pillars are distributed here and there, each with a word or two from famous people. One of them draws my attention as it reads: “Baden-Baden is so nice you have to name it twice; Bill Clinton.” Ah well, nice try, Mr President, it is nice indeed, but it has to be distinguished from Baden-bei-Wien in Austria.
A few rests further on and we reach Lichtentaler Allee by the Oos river, flowing all the way from the Black Forest; the mountains are ahead. The shallow and narrow river, which looks like many streams in Basra where mostly ducks swim and children play. Stone edges by the sides facilitate descending and ascending. Some children are already playing around there, throwing water at each other. And I am there too, in Basra, splashing my feet, water on them while dancing. Ducks come up as a family, crossing the road where we have to salute them and stop.
Going ahead, the dark green glitters in its springy shades. We stop by The Rose Garden (Rosengarten) on the left, passing the Burda Museum to the right, indulging in all the green. From the many small bridges, the scented bridge here calls to our senses through the roses to enter as if I am traversing the palm trunk between the streams in our Basra fields. The pure perfumes of the roses catches the senses from our garden in Iraq. I see the different colours my father planted in the circular garden, which resembles, to some extent, only one of the pieces here. I cannot close my eyes to remember. I cannot keep them wide open either. I just blink to live the moment and grasp a dream from the past.
This view itself throws me back to into our fields in Basra, mainly Abu-al-Khasseeb, where I played with my cousins, running and playing hide-and-seek beneath the palm trees where we could hardly distinguish the one from the other. I picked up dates from the orchard and hid by the trees to pick up blackcurrants; sweet as ever and when I am found my lips reveal the place.
My last discovery, for this time, is the Dahlia Garden (Dahliengarten) where the composers Johannes Brahms and Clara Schumann hide between the different dahlias with their extra ordinary shape and colour. I follow each elliptical bed of lilies and dahlias while listening and humming with Robert Stolz whose head statue sits flowers away. By the end of the flower beds, the Bénazet-Pavillon, with its arches and benches, resembles an even bigger one in Basra’s main park in the eighties.
I lose myself there until the sun leaves the day. I slowly make my way back to the hotel and all I can hear by the Oos is the soft piano of Clara to Johannes; the tingling heartbeats of the forbidden love between them. His Hungarian Dance accompanies me as a hidden answer to hers, too. I keep humming while gazing at the river as if I’m passing through the little alleys in Basra which stream from the bigger Shat-al-Arab river.
Footprints in the river
Wash away signs of certainty
Tender fall
Touch of sun-rays
Melting into smoothness
Of ambiguity
Footprints in the river
Create a world of shivering existence
Floods into streams and streams
Into the heart
And in veins and veins
Violin plays
Out to the ears
Fades away
Fears
***
I pick up a dandelion from the edge of the stream and blow it away.…
The sun slowly sleeps through the Black Forest and the Black Land (Iraq).
It is a great story May. I loved it and what strikes me is that it is written in the present tense which makes it fit to turn into a movie script.
Many thanks to your comment. Would love to do so.
Moving from past to present and living in both times with the details of the images and scenes. The stream of consciousness reflects the author’s nostalgia, romance and tenderness.
It is truly the story of life when we move from one station with people we love to join us to support and be with us whenever we need them. To another station carrying memories of our loved ones and facing new experiences.
It is really a nice short story.
Thank you dear Amel.