The white shadow

The sun shines on my hands as I open the little book, the one that starts with a simple drawing of a boa constrictor eating an elephant, the one my dad read to me as a little kid, but I never truly understood until I was bored in my 20s and picked it up as I longed for the carelessness of those times. The narrator’s little friend speaks of a rose, who confesses that she doesn’t need a screen because she has to endure the presence of some caterpillars in order to meet butterflies. The dots on my Faber-Castle pencil reward my hand with a massage, spinning between my fingers while I scribble on the pages. I try to understand what the golden haired child is saying in pursuit of comprehending the truths that I too might once have known. After the chapter comes to an end, I tuck my pencil into the pages and light up a cigarette. I watch the people walking by my table and take a sip of my overpriced coffee after each puff. Soon I make out the outline of a tall man walking towards me. He is fairly thin and it seems as though his shoulders are controlling his walk. As he gets closer I can recognize an empty bottle in his hand, its tip spinning between his fingers. Though his eyes are directed towards me, his forehead is pointing towards the floor, as if his head were too heavy for his body.

„Excuse me, do you maybe have 20 cents for me?“, he asks me after his long journey.

„No, I’m sorry“, I answer automatically, immediately feeling guilty because I’m certain that I do have some change in my bag. However, my thoughts are eased as my gaze shifts to his spent bottle of beer. „I wouldn’t want to encourage his habit of drinking“, I reassure myself

Meanwhile his eyes wander to the book on my table.

„Then could you maybe tell me what the alcoholic tells the Little Prince? I don’t remember anymore“, he says after a moment of silence.

I look into his worn-out blue eyes, uncertain if I misunderstood his request. They settle on my halfway-open novella. Even though I haven’t reached that chapter yet, I have studied the story well enough to know exactly where it is.

„Of course“, I say, trying to hide my confusion as I flip through the pages: „Do you also love this book?“, I go on to pass the time, or perhaps in order to make sure that we are talking about the same thing

„Yes! Antoine de Saint-Exupéry truly was a genius!“, he answers with excitement. The corners of his mouth rise, forming a smile and making his dry skin wrinkle.

„Is your book in French?“, he asks while his joy wanders from his lips to his eyes, causing a spark

„No“

„Is it in German?“

„No, it’s in English“, I finally give him a proper response as I find the page

„Perfect!“ He scoots closer to me and stares at the paper in my hands. His shadow falls upon the sheet, making it harder for me to read the lines.

„He says that he drinks in order to forget that he is ashamed of drinking“, I summarize for him

My words strike the tippler, forcing him to take a step back. It feels as though my sentence makes him ache. His forehead turns into an ocean of wrinkles.

„That’s right! That was the answer. Now I remember. Thank you!“, he mumbles and walks into the café, shaking his head

Unsure of what I should think of our little interaction, I just continue smoking and try to forget how painfully truthful the words that had left my mouth might be. However, soon the tippler staggers to my table again with a new bottle in his hand.

„It is so true“, he sighs while he sways in front of me: „And also you start drinking to forget, but then you become ashamed of yourself, so you are forced to drink some more. It’s a vicious circle“

Then suddenly his frown transforms into a smile again: „I’m sorry, go on reading. Have a nice day“, he says and gently pats me on the shoulder with his soiled hands. To my surprise I am not disgusted in any way. The stroke of his fingers lets us unite and suddenly opens the doors to his planet for me, even if it’s just for a second. Then the tippler sails away until he’s nothing but a faded memory in my head.

The group of people sitting a few tables further away from me, look at me with pity as though they feel sorry that I got harassed by an alcoholic. I just look through them with indifference and smile to myself, knowing that they’ll never get to comprehend the beauty of my simple interaction. For them my sailor will forever remain a meaningless alcoholic, someone they can carelessly look down on.

After a few chapters I head back home. As I reach my building, my heavy shopping bags are pulling down my shoulders, making them appear as if they’re in control of my walk and so I decide to smoke another cigarette by the entrance. The sun is now playfully hiding between the buildings, signaling us to call it a day. I can see a man in a suit, looking at the floor, smoking a couple of steps further away from me. He has his hands in his pockets while he swings himself from his heels to his toes as if he were rocking a baby for comfort. It appears as though he is waiting for someone.

Once I finish my cigarette, I go upstairs towards my apartment. In front of my door, I’m greeted with a gigantic bag of garbage waiting for me to take it outside. And so, I replace the two bags with each other and head back downstairs. The stranger is now sitting on a bench, staring at a bright screen. It is obvious that his anticipation is torturing him as he loosens his tie a bit more every now and then.

I toss the bag into the container and start my way back. However, I get an unexpected visitor: the known feeling of melancholy caused by the unknown. It starts with some pressure in my throat. Then the tension moves up to my forehead, right before it turns into the feeling of hollowness and drops down to my legs. Perhaps that’s why I begin to walk slower, or perhaps it’s because I’m annoyed by how often I get this unwanted visit, or perhaps because I’m shocked that I feel this way after having such a great day. My hands begin to feel heavy and I double check if I’m still holding the bag of trash.

Frankly, I don’t even really have a reason to feel blue. I have a great job, I’m surrounded by caring friends, a supportive family. I’ve barely ever had to take any big detours in my life. Nevertheless, the closer I get, the more I realize that I don’t want to go home. My feet start directing me away from the entrance and I make up my mind to stroll around for a while. With each step, the melancholy starts to fade. With each cigarette, I feel more at peace. On my way back, I walk by the smoking stranger I had seen in front of my building. His eyes are narrow and his entire face is devoured by a big smile while his now completely opened tie unevenly hangs from his shoulders. He reeks of herbs.

Just when I’m about to reach my home, my eyes drop down to the concrete and I discover a dark outline of myself on the ground. It’s colored out with black so roughly that it prevents me from seeing the floor under it. Its head lies far away from me and is stretched out on the asphalt. I start to walk faster in order to make it disappear, but it doesn’t let me go. The dark creature follows me like a polar bear chasing a penguin — or maybe it’s the other way around. It’s connected to my body where my feet are rooted in the ground. I force myself to shift my gaze and rush towards my apartment.

As I march towards my door, I am aware that there is just one thing awaiting me. My comrade through all the blue mountains, my companion to celebrate every milestone in my life with, my hideaway from the unknown. Every step is bigger than the one before as I long for my friend.

I lean back against the counter and pour myself a full glass. With each sip, the taste becomes more pleasant. It feels as though the shadow, I saw downstairs, is now far away from me. I pour myself another one and raise a silent toast to that. Then I suddenly have to think about the tippler at the café.

„It’s okay“, I tell myself: „You may drink regularly, but you’re no tippler because you are not ashamed. There’s nothing wrong with having a couple of glasses of wine”

However, since my words don’t erase my thoughts, I go on feeding myself meaningless lies for temporary relief: “The ones who don’t drink are the ones who have already forgotten everything“

But I’m still not at ease. It’s hard to believe someone that is made out of bricks of doubt.

“If I’m not a tippler, then why do I hide the empty bottles in the cupboards? Why do I act sober around others when I’m not?“, I question myself

I chug my drink and directly pour another one in order to distract myself. I put my glass on the countertop and light up a cigarette. At last my thoughts give in and drown in the zest of the cheap wine. I can finally hear the silence in my apartment. But then, a dark creature catches my eye. It lies right next to the half empty bottle and has the exact form of my glass. It is colored out with black so roughly that it prevents me from seeing the countertop under it. The tip of the shadow lies far away from my drink and is stretched out. I automatically move the chalice to the side, but its reflection does not let go. It’s just like my own shadow, only with a different shape.

I look away, but I’m confronted with my own dark outline on the wall on the other side of the kitchen.

I leave my glass alone with its shadow and head to the other side of the room. My back slides down that wall until I’m sitting on the floor like a piece of crumpled paper. Then I think about the tippler at the café, the stoned businessman, myself…

„When did it all start?“, I ask myself

My voice echoes and brings back my own question instead of a response.

I lean my head against the wall and stare into nothing, finally thinking about all the shadows.