Y's Revenge. Lou Bihl

whenever it comes to emotional essentials, knowing that Alex will recognize his state of mind behind the glass barrier even more clearly, as if enhanced by a magnifier. And she would hold him tight when he was defenseless and vulnerable, protecting him with unsentimental kindness.

      She looked pale, and the morning light revealed her lack of concern to conceal the traces of age. Her mascara wasn’t waterproof, and she hadn’t plucked her eyebrows in a while, which enhanced her androgynous appearance. The furrowed frown line between her eyebrows indicated that her last Botox treatment against migraine had been a while ago.

      She cut a roll and passed the upper half to me. “Well, Kris?”

      “Wow, is this the professional opening of a psychological interview?”

      Alex stuck the spoon into her egg. “Well, give me another try! If you want to know my opinion: I am convinced you should have the surgery.”

      “May I ask you to make your expert recommendation plausible?”

      “What’s gone is gone; that reasoning needs no expertise.”

      Now this was my domain. I decapitated my egg and put the top part right in front of her eyes. “Random logic—typically applied by housewives and surgeons,” I said. “If a surgeon alleges that the tumor is gone after extirpation, this may, at best, not be a lie. Disclosure of the complete truth does not occur before the pathologist examines the specimen under the microscope. If any tumor cells remain: no cure! Metastasis, instead!”

      I expected one of Alex’s nasty comments about my intrinsic pathologist-style circumlocution, but she refrained from arguing.

      “Alors, Kris. Talk about the medical stuff with people you take seriously. But please, talk to me about the issues that preoccupy you.”

      Now she had me in unfamiliar territory.I was unable to respond.

      Alex went around the table and took me in her arms. I heard her heart pounding. With every beat, a piece of my armor was breaking, until the burst of the dam was complete. Shaken by spasmodic sobbing, I clung to Alex, who stroke my head, murmuring incomprehensible words of solace. She held me tight for what seemed an eternity. Her blouse was wet.

      After I had calmed down, she returned to her chair and handed me a dishtowel.

      When I could speak again, I said, “It’s not only about the fucking cancer making me impotent or incontinent or that might even just kill me. I’m just devastated by the idea that my life might end before I’ve lived it the way that actually suits me.”

      I leapt to my feet, fished the half-soaked pack of Marlboros from the trash can, lit a cigarette, and inhaled without coughing.

      Alex didn’t comment on my smoking. After a moment of silence, she looked straight into my eyes and said quietly, “Hey, mon Cher. Why don’t you start that life now?” Then, she added, “But, please, without GA-surgery, for now.”

      “Got it,” I replied.

      Although Alex had always advocated my coming out as a woman, she had discouraged complete surgery, let alone penile inversion. She believed the penis was overrated as a masculine symbol, as she regarded the essence of a person as independent from the presence or absence of that male organ. Therefore, my poor pecker should be preserved, as it did not deserve a scalpel.

      Mumbling, “You’ve got it easy. You are a woman.” I felt her smile melting the teary lump in my throat.

      I hesitated to take the phone call but could not stand the shrillness. Irmgard. I should come for dinner tonight; she had prepared Königsberger Klopse. I did not want to offend my ex-wife by confessing that my preference for her meatballs in sour cream sauce had not survived the early phase of our marriage, but I declined the invitation, pleading a headache. She would keep the Klopse in the fridge for tomorrow.

      Alerted by the urgency in her voice, I asked, “Were you at the gym yesterday?”

      “Why are you asking?”

      “Did you meet Kimi there?”

      After three seconds of silence, I heard a tentative, “Well, yes, I did.”

      I was all too familiar with that kind of hesitation, from many little events in our marriage when she felt caught. For instance, after having sex with Wolff in a drunken stupor after a party.

      At that time, I was envied by all the guys for my wife, with her 90-60-90 figure. One of these guys was Wolff. In those days, he was still athletic and slim. Meanwhile, the tooth of time had not spared any of us, but Irmgard kept on fighting it with her Friday workout, together with Kimi—whose full name was Kriemhild and who was Wolff’s wife.

      “So much for medical confidentiality,” I said.

      This time, the silence took longer, but then spasmodic sobbing flooded the speaker. “Actually, Kimi told me about you and made me promise not to tell you. I thought that if you came here for dinner, you would tell me and I could comfort you.”

      With my resistance melting, I promised to be there in time for dinner tomorrow. I also decided to bring her flowers.

      The familiar course crossing the Moabiter Brücke seemed strange somehow. The daylight was glaring, and the big old trees in the English Garden still appeared majestic, but they weren’t their usual oasis of green shelter. Inside my head, the linear accelerator and the da Vinci robot were battling against each other. Jogging failed to provide the usual remedy for sorting out my brain chaos.

      After the first kilometer, my muscles were sore, I was short of breath, and the palpitations of my heart had a geriatric quality— as if already devitalized by cancer or its treatment.

      This will pass. No more Marlboros! I gave up when I reached Altonaer Straße, concluding, No Tiergarten for me today. Instead, I indulged in watching a new episode of a TV biker gang saga. Unfortunately, the Sons of Anarchy rumbling through the California desert on their big bikes escaped my awareness. Even Gemma, the Old Lady of the gang, failed to reach me, although the androgynous sex bomb in leather and boots used to be an inspiring object of my erotic fantasies.

      Watching the bikers ride toward a blood-red sunset suddenly aroused my wanderlust—and provided a felicitous resolution: three months of hormonal treatment and then radiotherapy or prostatectomy thereafter. Three months of respite before my final decision, allowing extra time for personal projects, such as a road trip, without missing treatment.

      Humming “Riding through this World,” I changed clothes, opting for the pale cashmere sweater—a birthday gift from Irmgard— and toned my hair with a dash of styling gel. The previous night had engraved wrinkly black rings around my eyes, so I treated myself to a hint of concealer.

      I briefly considered taking the bouquet of flowers Alex had brought me, but, eventually, I decided to take a detour to the florist in the central station.

      Irmgard’s pantsuit was dangerously tightened around her belly, and she smelled of Chanel No. 5 and pastis. She took the flowers. “Everything will be fine, and I’m always there for you.”

      A sudden inspiration crossed my mind: THE chance? When, if not now, would be the moment for truth?

      Before I had a chance to decide, Micky swirled by, jumped on me like a rubber ball, and slung her arms around my neck and her scratched legs around my waist.

      “Slow down, Micky. Don’t overstrain Grandpa,” her mother yelled from the background.

      “But Grandpa looks so healthy and not at all like he’ll be dead before long,” Micky shouted back, with a radiant smile that made her big brown eyes sparkle.

      “Hi,