An Empty Mind Is
Always Cheerful
(Old German Folk-saying)

A Short Story

by Angelika Jakob

Translated by Christiane Galvani

Note from the Editor:
We are pleased to present here the first English translation from the work of German best-selling author Angelika Jakob. Ms. Jakob's many works of fiction--short stories, novellas, novels--refract turn of the century German and European life through a richness of language and observation that has attracted much attention in her home country. She is, we feel, long overdue for exposure to the English-speaking world.

I am the grandmother. Not exactly a peach any more, but not yet a prune. Wolves still sidle up to my skirts more than I would like. I should say pants legs instead because I am a practical, fashion-conscious woman. I share my small home with my son-in-law and his three-fold progeny. My daughter, Conny, has left him, catching her misery elsewhere. Yvonne, Sara and Patrick still take pleasure in being at an age when they can choose which rock star should be their role model. Nevertheless, they already consider themselves complete human beings.

Above all, they present themselves colorfully although they have never worn little red hoods and the like. Their hair is enough of a head covering for them—now spiked, now sleek with oil, now flowing in long strands, now shaved-off, just so long as it never looks washed or worse yet, combed. In any case, I can barely tell the three of them apart, and from the back, figuring out the gender, much less the name is impossible. This is why most of the time I content myself with a "You", as in "Hey, you! Empty the dishwasher." And should he or she complain that it is someone else’s turn (we stick to a strict schedule) and promptly drag in the sinner, I am satisfied. Aside from those chicken yard fights over a piece of corn or over an egg, we are contented creatures.

At least we used to be. Not long ago, something arose which turned out to be disastrous, even though at first it had seemed—at least to me—to be a promising sign.

"Granny, don’t get your old fingers dirty with games of chance," the precocious child Patrick had once admonished me. Not that I was about to be respected at this particular moment. Something completely different happened to me.

One morning, picking up the mail with my customary trepidation—there are usually only excessively inflated bills—I discover an envelope from a publisher. I place it on my son-in-law’s writing place before I see that it is addressed to me. In short: I am to write a story for the editors of an anthology. Nothing tragic, nothing profound or cryptic, but something witty, cheerful, lighthearted -- something depicting everyday life. These gentlemen seemed to believe that I am still right in the middle of life and thus should have no trouble coming up with a rib-tickling story, one to make you laugh really heartily.

Initially of a similar opinion, I sharpen several pencils in anticipation, replace the cartridge of an old ballpoint pen. When I relate my news over dinner—perhaps a tad too hectically—my success at raising a laugh is indeed great.

"So when are you going to win a prize, Granny?" This and similar gibes. Already somewhat dejected (not exactly the best condition for composing cheerfulness) I defend myself: "You should be thinking of a suitable subject for me instead!"

"Why don’t you portray us?" said Sara, "You’re always saying our hairdos are so hilarious!"

"This isn’t about hairdos," I corrected her, "but about lighthearted adventures."

My son-in-law, rather than intervene with parental authority, chose to hide his flabby belly behind the evening paper. Later on, the four of them sat in front of the TV. What they were laughing and squealing about was incomprehensible to me. Absolutely not funny. Still, on this first evening, I refused to admit defeat. That night I slept too deeply to have any dreams, least of all lighthearted ones.

During breakfast we had to turn off the news before it made the bread stick in our throats. After the children had darted out of the house and my son-in-law, slightly more leisurely, had followed, though not before kissing my curlers and encouraging me affably: " Well, Granny, think of something cute. After all, you have all day", I had no real chance to think about lightheartedness. No sooner had I removed the breakfast dishes, swept the crumbs off the floor, filled the washing machine with socks, watered all the flowers, gotten fresh milk from the truck, than Conny called. This daughter of mine earns money only to spend it on the phone company. She accounts for its excessive profits. Far be it from her to write letters. On this day she threatens to return. Her current boyfriend has taken up with someone else and anyway, "I miss you, Granny."

Sternly I retort: "Don’t call me ‘Granny’, child. In the first place, I am your mother and in the second, my name is Cornelia, like yours."

"Alright then, Nelly, you’ll let me come home, won’t you? Make that old fogey of a husband of mine understand."

"I’m not so sure, my dear", I reflect. "First of all, it’s really cozy here without you and secondly we have—how shall I put it—weaned ourselves from you." (I choose to withhold the fact that my son-in-law has been peering through the fence at other females in the neighborhood.) "Thirdly, I don’t have a moment’s time right now," I add just in case. Since she is my daughter, I confide my secret to her:

"I am supposed to write a lighthearted story about everyday life."

She immediately explodes into loud laughter, making my eardrums resonate: " A beautiful story, I hope."

"A humorous one", I reply somewhat pointedly. That gets her going even more.

"My story alone is a great story, funny enough to make you die laughing. What more do you want? Do something for me for a change."

"Not another eager publisher!" I think the following day as I pick up the mail. Luckily it is only a few love letters for the three children and Der Spiegel for my son-in-law. It is a magazine I prefer to place for him with the back page facing up—depicting beer drinkers hoisting their glasses—since one glance at the front page sends shivers down my spine (photos of our politicians are seldom excluded).

In the afternoon I am free, that is to say after the dinner preparations, which need no enumeration—peeling the potatoes, cleaning the vegetables and the lettuce, searing the meat, and cooking the pudding. Toward 4 o’clock, I finally have the time to think about lightheartedness. Is it a blossom sprouting forth from a gnarly branch, from the dirty ground? For our amusement? Is it simply God’s creation or mere "nature"? Lightheartedness appears to be solely the creation of man. I turn to the dictionary for help: lightheartedness is defined as "full of the joy of living, with an inner equilibrium". The example cited is: "A lighthearted serenity emanated from him." From him alone. Already I feel unburdened. How can she possibly seem lighthearted, with him silent all the time? Singing her own praises while she’s darning his socks? Perhaps warbling a little song while he is reading his paper or attentively listening to the news? Could she be any less significant? Thus far, I agree with the dictionary. The concept is twofold, however, used sarcastically as in "Well, that’s cheerful, in other words, annoying, unpleasant" it goes on, or such as the bolt of lightning which appears out of the ‘untroubled blue sky ". Subsequently the dictionary charges me with responsibility: "I cheer him up, that is, I gladden him, I delight him, dissipate his dark mood." At least they get to ‘joke’, another invention of men. What woman needs jokes? She’ll laugh herself silly as it is. The final entry reads: "The joke caused amusement." Now that takes the cake. What does the lightheartedness of my soul have to do with jokes?

Just as I, annoyed and in a dark mood, am closing the dictionary, my son-in-law arrives home earlier than usual. I recall that we have invited a female guest. One of his fence acquaintances, so to speak. He insists that I mend his best jacket. (At times he has delusions of being married to me and not to Conny.) I have no sooner bitten off the end of the thread than Sara appears demanding that I braid her hair with little colored beads. Then Yvonne tosses her miniskirt on the ironing table. " Why won’t your jeans do today as usual?" I ask. "We have to put on a show for our new mom." Well, now, why don’t we discuss love—or fidelity—while I singe a brown mark on the seat of her pants.

The new lady rings the doorbell. The son-in-law acts like the rooster of the yard. Her behavior seems affected, her breasts could do with being more firmly secured than they are and her décolleté with being higher than it is. In any case, she does not come across as buttoned up. Not having touched even a bite of my roast, she merely asks for and is eagerly served a grated carrot by Sara.

"I have to watch my figure."

"And for whom, if you don’t mind my asking?"

My son-in-law squirms.

"Granny, please", he begs.

"Why aren’t you calling me ‘Nelly’ today?"

The goose sits up and takes notice. As I pass the platter, I drop a dumpling right into her blouse. The children, beginning with Patrick, beat a retreat to their rooms, taking the bowl of untouched pudding with them. I call after them: "Remember to think up something cheerful!"

At last, when we are alone, I ask my son-in-law: "Be honest. Wouldn’t you rather have Conny throw a stack of plates on the floor?"

"Well, maybe", he replies, scratching his receding hairline. "But the beer bottle? I just don’t have enough hair left for that."

"They’re making some very nice thick hair pieces these days", I console him. "I braid them into the kids’ hair almost every day."

"And she really wants to come back?" , he asks.

"Why don’t you ask her yourself? You’ll have to do a fair amount of begging."

Now he gets evasive.

"Whatever became of your lighthearted story?"

"I haven’t gotten around to it for all the laughing," I reply.

"I guess you have too much time to think about it," he maintains. "Something like that has to sprout out of a full life, out of stress, for example. The only thing really funny is the rat on the treadmill."

"In that case, why don’t you write the story?" I suggest.

"Do you think they would accept something like that from me?"

"I could submit it in my name."

That’s not to his liking either. If his is the work, his will be the praise, too.

"Keep the idea about Conny in mind," I remind him when we say good night.

"Don’t get involved in our affairs", he instructs in a condescendingly filial way. "Just stick to your story. Don’t do anything out of frustration. Don’t give up so easily."

I don’t mean to bore anyone. Suffice it to say that things continued in much the same way for a while until in the end our nerves gave out. The new lady came over to visit two more times, once to spend the night. That time the children threw eggs into the bedroom. The other time she ran into Conny. I had best keep quiet about that. The intelligent Patrick not only got held back at school but also totaled his moped, spraining his girlfriend’s foot.

Yvonne informed me that she would henceforth be needing the pill. I find some joints, with a sickly sweet stench, among Sara’s panties. My son-in-law fears for his job—he is approaching the age of early retirement. Conny has quit her secretary’s position and wants to move in with us even though my son-in-law childishly (where would he go?) threatens to move out if that happens. A hurricane has toppled our most beautiful tree, a yee, onto our roof. The rain now falls onto Patrick’s CD’s. These are mere trivialities. I do not concern myself with really grave things in that I currently don’t watch TV, read no newspaper and turn Der Spiegel to its festive backpage. After all, I have a lighthearted story to write.

END

Copyright © 2004 Angelika Jakob

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