Y's Revenge. Lou Bihl

my daughters.

      I was not prepared for a Klopse dinner meant as a family assembly. In no way was I inclined to elucidate my personal disease management in the presence of my endlessly quarreling daughters. However, there was no escape from Micky’s smile.

      Before Maren could explain that Micky had misunderstood the issue, her sister interrupted promptly. “Incredibly sensitive of you to talk about Dad’s cancer death in front of a six-year-old girl.”

      Longingly, I looked to the door.

      “Let’s have a pastis,” Irmi proposed.

      I surrendered, taking the pastis, which I disliked almost as much as Klopse, and hugged my girls.

      Besides the fine facial features, Maren had inherited her mother’s former figure. However, recently, her waist size was gradually approaching her hip circumference, which did not affect her predilection for skin-tight clothing that did not match the typical outfit of a school teacher. Her trousers were stretching tight at her thighs.

      In the opposite corner of the sofa, Carla had put her feet on the couch table, a habit that her mother detested. The asymmetric, short haircut made her green eyes appear even bigger. She was wearing tight black leather leggings that made her legs look skinny, a baggy multicolored floral Desigual shirt concealed her petiteness. Carla’s outfit perfectly matched her non-profession of a long-term student of Media design.

      I sat down between my girls, who came closer to me and thus to each other. Once more, I was amazed by the spectrum of genetics produced by the same genotype—even more when I looked at the picture at the wall, showing my ex-wife who was barely recognizable as the mother of the two young ladies. In the group picture of the pop band Pankower Freiheit, Irmgard was smiling into the camera. She was dressed in a skintight sequined dress and coral-red lips, like Madonna.

      Fortunately, our awkward silence was eventually resolved by the arrival of the Klopse.

      During dinner, we obeyed Irmgard’s law forbidding controversies at the table. The rule did not yet apply to Micky, who reported on how the elder brother of a classmate had told her she looked like blood sausage and her teeth like the white pieces of fat inside.

      When asked what she had replied, she said, “And you look like rotten low-fat curd cheese.”

      “Brave girl,” Carla commented, with a malicious smile. “You are certainly an expert on low-fat products.”

      Her older sister was continually fighting her weight and had the habit of storing large amounts of white cheese in the fridge, but she often missed its expiration date.

      Irmgard terminated the sisterly conflict, sent Micky to play in the garden, and asked me to finally report on the disaster in detail.

      I complied and related to them what I had heard from Wolff. As expected, Irmgard also recommended surgery. As I was not inclined to explain the motivation for my preference of hormonal treatment, my only argument against prostatectomy was the fear of incontinence, which was not enough to convince my family physician.

      Maren offered help in case I wanted to find faith again, now that I had cancer. Her affectionate shyness prevented me from a disrespectful reply. She was well aware that I was unable to acknowledge a superordinate authority—even though a little cowardice before the enemy might have been helpful in the present situation. The enemy had now invaded my life, and religious devoutness would offer a chance to evade confronting myself with the finality of death and partially release me of the responsibility for my further life. Unfortunately, once ingested, the apple of knowledge cannot be regurgitated. Still, I appreciated my daughter’s loving intention to proselytize to me, despite our former controversial disputes about religion. She was concerned about how I could handle my cancer diagnosis as a nonbeliever.

      “It’s not that I don’t believe in anything,” I tried to reassure her. “I do believe in love, and that makes a person quite resilient.”

      Looking down at the floor, Maren took a breath but didn’t speak further. Carla massaged the palm of her left hand with her right thumb. Irmgard refilled our glasses and asked about my further plans.

      When I told them about my idea of a road trip. Carla jumped up and announced she was going to have a cigarette outside.

      Losing the brief battle against myself, I said, “I’ll come too. Will you treat me to a cigarette?”

      Irmgard, who had shared the torture of tobacco detox with me twenty years previously, protested heavily.

      I mumbled something about absolute exception and joined Carla on the terrace.

      The air was mild. I enjoyed the quiet and the company of my little one who, like her sister, had been fathered unintentionally when our marital communication had been more or less reduced to sex. Maren had been my reason for getting married; Carla had been the reason to stay. At the moment of her birth, when I first held the tiny creature in my suddenly oversized hands, Carla had become the most precious being to me. Catapulted into the world two months early, she seemed to protest with a blood-curdling scream and clenched fists, looking me directly in the eyes. That love at first sight had remained unbreakable.

      Nervously twitching with her foot, Carla twisted the cigarette between her thumb and index finger.

      “Don’t you worry so much—” I started, but she shook her head fiercely.

      Avoiding my eyes, she kept on looking down at her feet, with the pink sandals revealing toenails painted alternately with blue and metallic green enamel. Then she abruptly lifted her head. “Please, Dad. I do have to ask you this question. Are you going on your trip to commit suicide?”

      “Are you crazy?” I snarled, first perplexed, and then appalled when I noticed her tears. Suddenly, I remembered the family discussion on Christmas concerning Herrndorf’s suicide. The author, whose glioblastoma I had personally microscoped, had been found dead by the river Landwehr Kanal. Not dead from disease but killed by a gunshot to his head. His suicide had provoked controversial discussions in the family. While I had expressed comprehension, Maren still disapproved of the violation of the Lord’s competences by the use of a gun.

      Carla grabbed my arm. “You said you understood that he had killed himself, but you would never have done it in such a disgusting way, like shooting yourself in the head and, above all, so close to home. That’s why I thought you might go on your trip to keep us from witnessing—”

      I extinguished my cigarette and embraced my younger daughter. “Bullshit, baby. There is no reason at all to even think that.”

      Her relieved smile lasted several seconds. “But I want you to promise that you will never kill yourself.”

      I let her go and took her face in my hands. “Nope! Never is a thing you should never promise, Carla. At some point in time, the option of an exit is what helps you to carry on. An option does not mean you do it.”

      Blinking back a tear, she said, “Like sleeping pills in the desk drawer?”

      “That’s about it,” I confirmed. “And now, let’s get inside before we get in trouble.”

      “Wouldn’t be your first time to trouble Mom,” Carla replied with a malicious grin. “And by the way, did you know that your ex-wife is regularly hanging around on an online dating portal called Premium Singles 45+?”

      “Not really? How do you know that?”

      “She told Maren, who is doing the same on Parship.”

      “Tattletale,” I rebuked, nudging Carla, who squeaked in delight.

      When we returned, trouble was in the air.

      Irmgard sat upright on the couch. Her voice was icy when she said, “How lovely that you finally decided to come back. And what a sensible idea to start smoking again just now.”

      Ironically,