On a very grey and very rainy morning I find a very bright and very cream colored envelope in my letterbox. My Dear Read On, thank you very much for this marvelous salt cellar and pepper pot says, no screams the card in my face. On the front of the card the newly married pair laughs below a pair of cream colored swans. You are very welcome, do I say to the happy pair and look at the very young and very beautiful bride, who wears a rococo- dress and a long veil. But of course you can see, that she has long and blonde hair, such hair which is made just for princesses and brides. The topic of the marriage and it makes me no wonder was “ A Fairytale.“ I do wonder that marriages are obviously not topic enough anymore but in need of a reassured theme.
Splendid, absolutely splendid, says A. on the telephone, who was a guest in the fairytale called marriage a few weeks earlier. The place, you won’t believe it, just absolutely fantastic, an old castle but very, very splendid you know, everyone and everything so tastefully, the flowers so carefully arranged, the silverware so fine, the wines as old as good, the food outstanding, the music wonderfully arranged, the dresses without words, the family of the bride of old gentry, the groom a man who could not have been any more lucky. But where have you been, asks A. in a breath- pause. The bridegroom asked for you more than twice and everybody regretted that you were missing. Oh did he so, say I still looking at the card with the swans swimming upon an imaginary lake and find an excuse to finish the phone call.
C. the bridegroom was one of the first persons I met in a new town and in a new country. C. was intelligent but not boring, funny and smart but never foolish, he was amusing and all the girls in the office looked at him and he knew that they looked after him, but he never became a peacock of the office floor. We went to the theatre together, smoked on balconies, talked about books we loved and artists we disliked, went to bed and got back to work. At one night we opened the bottle of Indian Gin, my mother bought some years ago and I kept the bottle because it was the only bottle she never touched, we got drunk and you got sharp and ironic towards me. You know, did you say to me, you are not girl a man wants to marry, you are too intense, you are not accommodating enough and why, you started to scream at me, can’t you be like other girls I know. I did not answer, because I am still afraid he might be right and after that night I did not went to bed and than back to work and soon I went away.
One a very grey and very rainy morning I find myself staring at the card, looking in a very young and a very beautiful face of a girl made to be married in a fairytale festivity and still feel the sharp tone of the now laughing bridegroom between my ribs as a very old pain, following me for the whole day, in the shape of a very cream- colored envelope.