The Unfilled Hours
Woken by her internal clock, Rosemarie threw off her duvet and tried to run through the day’s schedule in her head. It was 6:00 am and her mind was in a fog. She switched on the table lamp to search for her glasses and diary. Climbing out of bed, Rosemarie groped around, bumping into things, knocking over a small table. She found her glasses and diary on a pile of aging newspapers. Putting her glasses on, Rosemarie surveyed the cluttered room filled with years of memorabilia and samples. The knocked-over table was leaning against a pile of clothes. The albums, filled with stamps, coffee cream tops, and photos, had fallen off and landed near the pile. She picked up a photo album and began flipping through it, stopping to stare at one of her old photos. She had been thin as a rail and pale, she thought, and still pale but I have filled out. Big hips, big thighs, small face, long chin. This chin gives me character. She slammed the album shut.
“I must find the time to clean this
place,” she mumbled, as she spotted a faded, crumpled brochure for a cruise on
the Rhine lying near the fallen pile. It brought back a painful memory.
A retired receptionist at a medical practice in Basel City, Rosemarie lived in a bedsit. It was all her pension could afford after a period in her life dedicated to lavish tropical holidays and cruises. It was on a Rhine cruise from Basel, Switzerland, through Germany, France, and the Netherlands to Belgium she had met the love of her life, a captain, on one of the ships. She had booked several cruises on his ship to spend time with him. He had promised to settle down with her but, after many years, confessed to his inability to give up life on the river. And then, he had complained that her constant chatter drove him crazy. Her heart raced at the memory.
After a coffee and a shower, Rosemarie padded around the room in her housecoat reflecting on the betrayal, before she chose a black pleated skirt and an orange blouse from a clothes rack to wear. She pulled her gray hair back into a bun. Orange fingernails matched her orange coat. Elephant charms on silver bracelets rattled noisily on her wrists. “The early bird catches the worm,” she muttered to herself. Then, she headed for the shops which opened at 7:30 am.
First, Rosemarie went to Denner supermarket to look around for discounted goods. Unsuccessful, she went on to the Coop supermarket where she was greeted by a worker.
“Hello Rosemarie, how are you today?,” Vreni, the red-faced, young woman, in a yellow blouse and black trousers, greeted. She was wiping down the check-out counter and reminded Rosemarie of a busy honey bee.
“Hips acting up again,” Rosemarie muttered and rushed off to grab what was left of milk and cheese marked 50% off. At the counter, she paid for her winnings. The cashier waved goodbye as Rosemarie hobbled away.
At the exit, she picked up a few free papers, “The Baslerstab,” “20 Minutes,” and the supermarket weekly.
Back home, she double-checked her diary
for the day.
9: 30 - 10:30 Seminar
on Buddhism
10:
30 - 11:30 Coffee
with Concetta
12: 00 - 13:00 Lunch
at the St. Joseph’s Soup Kitchen
13:
00 -15:00 Visit
the park
15:
00 - 18:00 Trade
Fair. Free entrance after 17:00 . Free samples
18:
00 - 19:00 Visit
Mr. Kupper and Mrs. Mischler at the hospital
19: 00 -
20:00 Prayer
meeting Holy Ghost Church, coffee and cake
Rosemarie had leafed through all the papers by nine, the events sections being her favorite. She cut out and pinned all the free activities on a notice board, then began to fill in her diary for the following week. “What am I going to do on Monday between one and three p.m.?” There were no planned events among her cutouts. Her heart raced as she talked louder and louder to herself. Could go to the zoo and watch the elephants. They are so large, she thought. So beautiful. Wrinkled, gray leather. Sad eyes. She sucked in her breath. That will cost me though. Still ten days till the pension comes. Afraid that’s out. Could browse through the second-hand shops. Should I? Well, I know myself. I always end up buying another vintage piece or memorabilia I don’t need. Oh, nostalgia! Look at this pigsty…. her travels in Asia, South America, and Africa,, some of the happiest moments in her life, among the scattered pile. Now focus. Could easily kill two hours at the flea markets on Garden Street. Mmmh, not a bad idea. On the other hand, could go to the train station and watch people arrive and depart. Good for cold, wet weather. No! I’ll go to the park as usual. “Yes, I’ll do that,” she said aloud. She relaxed, looked at her orange watch, and was startled to see the time. “Twenty past nine! Jesus. I’ll have to finish planning later. I’ll be late for the seminar on Buddism at the Holy Ghost church.” She limped out the door and locked it while thinking about the rice cakes and herb tea that would be served afterward.
A few minutes after one, Rosemarie headed to the park near Wettstein Bridge. It was not far from her bedsit and she knew some of the people who hung around there. Mrs. Sutherland was there as usual, walking up and down cackling merrily at nothing and startling those who encountered her for the first time. And there was Walter sitting on a bench with a six-pack of beer at his side. His daily exercise was lifting a beer bottle to his mouth. Mr. Blum shuffled through the park pushing his cocker spaniel, Lulu, in an old pram.
The brown-skinned woman was there too, stretched out in a yellow dress on a bench. Her matted hair reminded Rosemarie of some of the troubled souls she had seen in the psychiatric ward while visiting a friend in the hospital. It was the way the woman gazed at the sun, playing peek-a-boo, that convinced Rosemarie she was a sun-worshipper. Sometimes a plump, pink-faced man accompanied the brown woman. Rosemarie missed him today, missed his belly that shook like jello. Thinking about him made her laugh. The junkie, Jürgen, was there at the other end of the park. She knew the tall, lanky man from the St. Joseph’s soup kitchen where she always ate lunch.
As she walked across the park, she saw herself sitting around the long table with her Friends at St. Joseph’s soup kitchen. Peter was gaping at the print of a book he was holding upside down. Hansruedi, a widower, was massaging his gray stubble as he devoured news in a tabloid. Jürgen twiddled and twitched. Vreni Yilmaz, doting on her husband, Yusuf, was tousling his dyed hair. A great love of wine had left a rouge on her cheeks. Yusuf Yilmaz flirted with his wife, shutting out the Swiss dialect he barely understood. Then, Rosemarie stayed on to wipe the tables after the others had left. She swept up the crumbs and bits of food that had fallen onto the wooden floor.
“Can I help you with the dishes?” she had asked the cook.
“They’re already washed and dried,” he replied.
“I’ll put them away then,” she answered.
Rosemarie wiped them again then put them away in the cupboard.
“The egg soup was lovely today,” she said to the cook.
The cook nodded, acknowledging her compliment. “See you tomorrow?”
“Of course,” Rosemarie answered. “Can I have the old newspapers? I’ll read them to friends in the hospital.”
“Why not, we’ve done with them.”
“Anything else I can do?”
“You’ve done more than enough, Rosemarie,” the cook replied.
She had retired fifteen years ago. Some of her friends had died; others were in homes for the elderly or had moved away to live near their children. Rosemarie now felt empty. Tears came to her eyes as she reflected on lunchtime with her adopted family.
Although it was chilly, the sun was bright. Rosemarie, finally reaching Jürgen across the park, settled down next to him and they began to chat and laugh at the latest sports news and scandals they had read in The Blick.
“Do you think The Lions will win the Champion’s League?” Rosemarie asked. She had learned long ago that football was always a winner in small talk.
“Ja, ja, they’re really good. They’ll go to the top,” said Jürgen.
“Are you going to the match on Tuesday?” asked Rosemarie
“If you lend me fifty francs.”
“If I had fifty francs, I would go myself,” said Rosemarie, laughing.
“But The Lions outdid themselves this year, didn’t they?” said Jürgen.
“They certainly did.” Rosemarie smiled.
While they chatted and laughed loudly about an impending football match, Jürgen, slipped a brown package into Rosemarie’s large, weathered, leather handbag.
A group of young men, who had been playing cards at a table, stopped and hurried in Jürgen’s and Rosemarie’s direction. Curiosity stirred in her as they drew closer.
“Police,” the plain-clothes men shouted. The tall, tanned muscle-toned one, grabbed Jürgen’s shoulder. The other, gangly and pale-faced, planted himself in front of Rosemarie.
“What’s going on?” asked Rosemarie.
“We’d like to search your bag.”
“My bag?”
“Open your bag,” demanded the gangly one.
“Why?” Rosemarie queried.
The officer grabbed Rosemarie’s bag and
opened it. Removing the package, he pulled
a knife out of his coat pocket and cut the package open. Dried clumps of greenish leaves fell out. He
shoved it in her face. “Marijuana, just
as I suspected. We’ve been watching you two.”
“Marijuana!” Rosemarie’s jaw fell open.
“We saw this man put the package in your bag,” said the gangly policeman.
“Jürgen? Jürgen?!!” Rosemarie glared at him. Jürgen remained silent. She had never known him to be shy.
“You are both under arrest for the possession of drugs,” the tanned policemen said.
Arrest! The word boomed in her head. “But, but….?” Rosemarie’s body went
rigid.
Her head throbbed.
Metal cuffs clicked on their hands. Along with Jürgen, Rosemarie was taken to a police car and pushed inside it. Red-faced, she stared at the floor, her heart drumming loudly.
At the police station, Rosemarie was allowed to phone Father Gottlieb, the priest from St. Joseph’s Catholic Church. Then she waited in a holding cell for him to arrive. At first, she sat too frightened to move. But slowly her thoughts began to churn. She decided to finish planning next week’s activities. But, without the events she had cut out from the newspapers, everything became muddled. Her planning came to a halt. Staring at the gray walls, she felt them closing in the way her flat cornered her sometimes. Sweat trickled down her face and armpits
In the holding cell, she felt as though she had been banished to an alien land. She knew nobody; nobody knew her. The gray walls pressed closer. Her breathing became labored.
“Perhaps I should plan ahead for Sunday. Sunday never changes.” Rosemarie leaped at the idea. She began to plan. “Mass at St. Anthony’s at eight, mass at Holy Ghost Church at eleven. Soup and bread at home. . . Visit the sick between one and four. Lots of old friends there. Mass at St. Paul’s church at five. . . There’s a potluck dinner and coffee and cake after. Around seven, I’ll accompany Mrs. Dobler on the tram to Riehen. By then it will be bedtime and I’ll probably drop onto my bed like a sack of potatoes.”
Rosemarie was still talking loudly to herself, attempting again to sort out next Monday when the holding cell door opened and the guard came in.
“You can go now,” he said, “Father Gottlieb is here. He’s come to take you home.”
But Rosemarie didn’t hear, nor did she notice him. Her program was in chaos. “And what about Monday and the day after?” She shuddered. Her thoughts quickly shifted back to last Monday. The Schmidts had invited her to spend the day on their farm.
They collect c ow souvenirs. Wooden cows, plastic cows, metal cows, marble cows; and cowbells too, of all sizes, stacked on shelves in the small cow room. Tried to count them. She burst into laughter. In the barn, Heidi, the calf, leaned over and licked my hand with her coarse tongue. Rosemarie’s face puckered.
But the cows were confined in narrow cubicles. . . She breathed long and hard.
Her heart thumped. “Next Monday. . .?” she murmured. Monday drew a blank. “I have to fill Monday!” Monday became a dark, maze without end. Thoughts, chugging backward and forwards, ground into a rut.
“Frau. Klingsmann,” Rosemarie Klingsmann!? The guard tapped her shoulder. “Rose-ma-rie,” he shouted. He tapped her shoulder again. Rosemarie neither felt nor heard him. Her eyes vacant, she was as silent as a seized-up engine.
© Althea Romeo Mark
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