The Truth About Ruth

The phone had been in the kitchen. That is what remains to be said. It was what she had said. Final words.

There had been another call after that one. And a last one. That phone must have been smack in the middle of the Wadden Sea judging from the sound of it all, her strangled voice, constantly fading out, interrupted.

Crackling. Cackling. Seagulls?

Now everyone knows of course that there are no phone booths in the Wadden Sea, or so one should imagine.

But above all, imagination was what had been best laid aside, to rest, during that summer.

Nothing but lethargic sighs, iced tea or coffee, work, mountains glowering greenly behind a haze of smog and hot trembling air, seemingly endless evenings spent together with white wine and beer. Talking.

Summer.

Ruth of course was never to be seen. Ruth was an invisible entity. Just as easy to imagine - and then, not at all -  like phone booths in the Wadden Sea.

Ruth was someone to borrow the car from. The keys would turn up in the letterbox and we would set out to find the car. One of the good old ones, she would say, solid work. They don't make them like that anymore. And then she'd launch into interminable tales, either about their mechanic - their mechanic? - or tales about tales he had told them while they were waiting for the paperwork to be finished so they could collect the car. Ruth's car.

Which didn't need a lot of fixing really. Solid, you know. Just routine checks.

Usually it was to be found tucked away unobtrusively in some corner then, close to the curb, under a tree perhaps. She was the one craning her neck. Even checking out houses, doorways, windows, her beautiful hands fluttering uncommonly nervous, as she walked briskly past row upon row of cars.

Was Ruth nearby? Did she live here? But she couldn't possibly live in every street the car was to be found in.

Or then: Ruth most likely could.

I was calm, trotted along contentedly, only a few steps behind her, watched her gait, her hands, tenderly contemplated the nape of her neck, certain that the car would turn up just as Ruth never did.

Ruth was crossing the Wadden Sea in search of a phone booth. Or more likely: sitting in a kitchen.

Summers.

We used the car in summers only. For no particular reason. We never seemed to go anywhere in winter. Spent more time in her bedroom. Or in mine, sometimes. Didn't go anywhere much in autumn. Went round the corner to have a glass of wine of a mild evening, to talk as we liked doing. We hardly ever used the car, come to think of it. Certainly not in the beginning. Nor in spring, which I dislike even more than summer. She usually was busier than ever in spring. Helping out friends. Work.

I always loved driving with her. She looked so competent, drove as she walked, changed gears, lanes, stopped, started, all very smoothly, smoked, taking care to let the smoke drift out of the window, talked, was at ease and in full control.

Ruth was someone to be screamed at. I could never quite work out what it was about. Neither the yelling nor the actual contents of those exchanges. I'd arrive at her place and find her screaming. On the phone naturally.

From behind her desk she might wave one of her beautiful hands at me while I deposited my overnight bag in a corner of her living room or completely ignore me.

Movies to be taped. Errands to be run.

- And don't confuse the times again, you hear! Ah, stop it, don't fuss, will you.

The tapes would turn up in the letterbox I was told. Never knew if they did. Never went near her letterbox. And how was I to tell which of the myriads of videotapes strewn across the bedroom floor where "Ruthtapes". All of them were hers and hers alone, like any item in that bedroom, and thus it was not as if we were watching Ruth's favorite movies or Ruth's programs. It was her telling Ruth what to tape in any case I should have thought. And so it wasn't either as if Ruth were watching us, lying idle on the other side of the screen, watching movies, talking.

There was a whiff of Ruth about everything, really. So the tapes didn't matter, nor did the car. At least they were somewhat tangible.

In the car, by the way, there was no trace of a Ruth to be discerned. There were the usual odds and ends, tissues, tapes again. Music we never listened to. She used that car so often

- for transports you know

a friend had needed her help, for work sometimes and whatnot, so I simply took the things in there to be hers. Theirs?

Someone to be mentioned constantly, Ruth was.

- Would you believe it, Ruth done this, Ruth done that.

And Ruth had a mother who rested her breasts in the geraniums sprouting from boxes in front of her windows during her periods, because everyone knows that geraniums soothe the pains. As usual I did not qualify for being everyone.

I looked down at the road while we were speeding along and didn't manage to come up with an image of a mother of a Ruth filling out a tiny window, slightly bent over so as to get the full benefit of the flowers for her surely ample bosom. The thought that the invisible entity might have a mother snagged, left me slightly puzzled, and I might have frowned the first time I heard it.

That was all I did in any case after a while. Or lift an eyebrow every now and then when I was sure she was not looking at me, which she hardly ever did anyway, safe for those moments when we sat face to face, talking. Or at night in her bedroom.

There were of course the "mmhs", "ahhs", and little grunts one is supposed to carefully deliver in order to keep such streams of revelations steady and in their river beds. Soon I had learned not to have them turn into torrents, uninterrupted, and therefore prone to start frothing and foaming and finally crash against one's bewildered frame as indignant breakers.

- You haven't been listening to anything I said. It is not important at all to you what I am saying, now, is it.

Everyone, this time including me, knows that at this stage any attempt at remedy does not work. Assuring her of the contrary then, which I had sometimes tried, in the beginning, during our first summer, was not only in vain but apt to incite more upheaval, stir up wave upon wave of reproach, coming in and at me, then tinged with bile.

So I ho-hummed my way through the story of Ruth. Questions or comments - there had been genuine curiosity during our first summer, the natural wish of wanting to get to know her and her life and her friends, understand her vis à vis that Ruth, Ruth herself, their car and their tapes - would elicit no more than "you wouldn't understands", sighs

- what do you know

annoyance

-  you don't get it, do you

or, slightly stunning at first, sudden, prolonged silence.

Ruth was someone to go hiking with. The views were beautiful. The walk invigorating. The scenery breathtaking. The whole experience slightly strenuous, but of course nothing like Ruth's real forays into rock and ice. Several stages below her true mountain climbing ventures, they were. Yes, naturally they were very much unlike the tours Ruth undertook with her best friend, a strapping male it appeared and, so she suspected, Ruth went climbing by way of sublimation.

So Ruth had a best friend. And a male. And there was something sublimation had to take care of.

Worse: there was something she knew neither with quite the same certitude nor so much en detail as she knew everything else.

Scary.

Still, the hikes with Ruth were very satisfying. Physical exercise above all, and whatnot she learned about nature and the regions they were exploring.

- Did you know. Did you know this. Ha, you've never heard that, have you.

She had, unlike me - and Ruth - not grown up around here. And I didn't hike, did I. What a boring lazybones. But I had never been a friend of mountains and even less of traipsing around amidst rocks and cows and little huts adorned with flowers and the inevitable rood trees.

At about that time I had begun to quietly think that everyone, including me, should have a Ruth.

But there was one thing. She'd stub out her cigarette with those beautiful slender fingers of hers, grinding it almost lovingly into the ashtray, then rub her fingertips against each other absentmindedly and stare through me into space.

We didn't talk at all, she'd say.

How well I knew that this was not an occasion to mmhh, go ah, grunt and least of all ask a question. Whenever it came up, I did my best not to budge nor even look interested. I had learned to unobtrusively freeze in appropriate moments and patiently wait for their passing. Usually an extreme change of topic would take care of them. I had also learned not to look startled.

The mere thought that she'd shut up for the length of a hike, three to four hours plus the ride to wherever it was they went exploring or having their physical exercise and back, was inconceivable.

Of course I had taken to wondering about the meaning of "talk".

Ruth was someone who refused to speak? That gave me pause.

Time to order a beer for myself or politely ask whether she was up for another round of white wine. Now that was something we shared and enjoyed. White wine. Quite a bit at times.

Somehow, and rather naively, I had nurtured the suspicion that Ruth didn't drink. Which turned out to be wrong. Of course.

I wasn't actually told. Come to think of it I was never told anything directly. One of my aches perhaps was that I had started to miss simple sentences. Ruth did this and that, the other and more, but the news were never delivered as statements. That Ruth was someone who likes the odd sip only registered when the tale of how they had enjoyed the lunch celebrating her birthday to which Ruth had invited her and another friend - Ruth's? Hers? Theirs? - unfolded. They'd had a lot of fun, and - conspiratorial giggle: quite a bit of wine.

They must have talked then, I had thought. But stop. They had been in three and maybe that excluded talking.

At least talking with Ruth.

Ah, summer. The languor and boredom of days submersed in the ever-same heat and light. Everything no different from other seasons but covered in a film of sweat. Everything and everyone - including myself - was or felt damp, slightly sticky and limp, cups, glasses, pens pencils and paper, entire books, shoes, clothes of course, bedclothes more than anything warranted, the tapes got stuck in the recorder, the wine, so pleasantly chilly at first sip, turned lukewarm immediately, bodies seemed steamy for no reason other than summer and the mind simmered away behind an unfathomable and hardly penetrable haze.

I began to look forward to rides in that car. I'd roll down the window and enjoy the breeze, never mind that my bum and my back stuck to the seat and the story of Ruth seeped sluggishly into my left ear, just like gooey, thick syrup.

Might as well, I thought. Was it not her car? Her tissues, her tapes, her paper bags on the back seat, her car keys and her - slowly I turned my head and looked at her, driving.

She was unusually quiet. Only her ravishingly beautiful fingers kept tapping the steering wheel. I would not ask, I would not let on that I had noticed something was in the offing. Should I say something like – “aahh the breeze or: - guess we'll be there soon?"

I preferred to try not to think about Ruth. It seemed appropriate.

Landscape sped past us. Green upon green upon green, a field, yellow, a house, brown, red specks of flowers in front of the windows, a forest, green upon green upon green, a meadow, a cow, the road, thankfully grey. Oh how I dislike the midlands, those inanely soft rolling hills hardly set off against an indifferent sky, glaringly boringly blue, not a cloud to be seen.

Ah, the breeze, I had said then, in spite of myself, lighted a cigarette, and waited to arrive at wherever it was we were heading.

Just to be able to watch her driving I had taken to arrange nice little outings. Stupidly this meant that the yelling, the times we had to walk about to find the car and the amount of episodes in the story of Ruth increased, too.

Ruth was someone to go to the cinema with.

- We could go see that movie tomorrow, what do you think?

- Oh, darling, I've already seen it, yesterday, you know, Ruth called, she had tickets.

Ruth was someone to go to the theatre with.

- I'd been thinking of going to that show, we both liked the play didn't we, and they're only in town for a fortnight, so I'd better call now and... 

- Oh dear, my sweet, I am already going to see it with Ruth, she has connections, you know, she invited me, we'll be going tomorrow night, she got tickets, very hard to get, just as you feared, darling, you know she got them from her friend who works at that theatre, and…

Interminable story about Ruth's connections in general, that friend en detail, that theatre, that spectacle, theatre as such…

Ruth seemed to have a lot of friends after all.

I had known better than to throw a fit then. In spite of myself I had gone into the kitchen quietly - mine - and gotten myself a can of beer out of the fridge.

We had taken to talking on the phone more and more often. What was the use of me going into town to find silence, living room empty, her desk vacated, bedroom empty but for those thousands of tapes, she gone out with Ruth, transporting things or waiting for that car to be fixed, somewhere, standing close to the mechanic - theirs? - listening to his tales.

Back at the phone which was talking away to my desk, I had rested the cool can against my forehead.

Ah, the welcome chill of the first gulp and then, then, the second one, the next one and next, up to the last one - slowly turning lukewarm. Summer.

I had carefully opened the can - no distracting noises, begging for questions - and after a while wished her a good night, a nice evening at the theatre then, and replaced the receiver.

The blazing day had already rotted away into evening. I sat for a while, quiet, thoughtless, lukewarm beer in my mouth, looking outside into a light which had turned rather mild.

Beside me the tapping had stopped.

Lukewarm, she suddenly said. Lukewarm? What are you talking about?

I had slipped. I had urgently wanted a beer, a glass of white wine, anything. I had watched her, the drumming of her fingers which all of a sudden I had found less attractive than ever, watched her profile, which usually I loved dearly, but hadn't I detected a trace of nervousness in that magnificent shape, had her nostrils been twitching? Mostly it had been that silence, completely unprovoked by anything I might have said or not said, which had unnerved me so much that indeed I must have said it out loud: lukewarm. My relief at not having to find something to say to that, explain, because she immediately followed up herself, turned into an even stronger craving for a drink. Crates of beer began to appear in front of my inner eye, silver bowls overflowing with ice cubes in which stuck several bottles of wine.

Rather abruptly she had said: I am going away, by the way, and picked up that damned drumming again. I had the feeling she was not watching the road with her usual casual but very focused attention.

Will you stop that, I said, although everyone knows that remarks like that in such a moment mean trouble. So I was not everyone again, was I. But wrong, too. Naturally.

She merely changed gear for no apparent reason and visibly searched for a way to try and get it over with, that story of going away, changed gear again, and finally came out with it. Slowly I rolled up the window.

- Ruth and I are driving to the Wadden Sea to visit an old friend of mine who lives up there.

I said nothing. I couldn't think of anything to say or do. I was not prepared, had not learned whether to ho, hum, ah, grunt or comment, faced with a statement. A comparatively short sentence which seemed to be beginning and end of a story all in one. I rolled down the window. I groped for a cigarette. "Ruth-does-not-like-it-when-we-smoke-in-her-car" completely forgotten.

She was back on track. I felt that the driving had returned to its usual smoothness, and bending forward to get at the lighter underneath the dashboard I saw that her fingers, slender and beautiful as ever, calmly rested on the steering wheel and her profile was back to its familiar appearance, her mouth opening and closing as I was usually quite happy to see.

Ah, the Wadden Sea, the lovely old house of the old friend, modest, but all hers, a cottage really, the old times with the old friend - and Ruth? - the wonderful landscape up there, a change to the mountains, wasn't it, to the midlands, up north, very special and dear to her, another country, ah, the animals, the walks, - and Ruth? - childhood holidays not spent exactly there, of course, but still, there were fond memories…

What, she said, her voice friendly, her hands busy with the steering wheel as she was parking the car.

I had asked. After throwing my cigarette end out, I rolled up the window and got out even before I heard the sound of her pulling the handbrake, a sound I strangely liked, just as I liked watching her doing it. So competently.

Yes, the place I had chosen as our destination was very nice, the garden, the flowers, the view not bad, nor the wine, and true, quite special the food they served. Certainly worth the drive.

Ahh, the breeze, I said.

What, she said again.

What about Ruth, I said.

It's a long drive, she said. This way we can share, she drives some hours, I drive some, then she drives again or I could drive for exactly half way and she…

Yes, all right, I said.

She's got business to attend to, up there, she said.

She takes the car back, she said. I'll stay for a few days, you know, the Wadden Sea, it's so beautiful and I haven't seen it for a long time, you know the…

Yes all right, I said. And: don't drink that fast or do you want me to drive back.

We're going to stay the night, she said. Had you forgotten.

Goodness, no, I couldn't have, but I had, and knowing that this would be the perfect no no and precipitate not only a torrent, but a gale cum avalanche I would not escape unbruised, I smiled and I said: I have been joking.

Talking about night, she said, we are leaving tomorrow evening.

Ah, yes of course, I said, Ruth prefers driving in the night, I remember, it is cooler anyway, ah summer, very wise, and so she will be driving first, and then you will take over and then it will be her again, and then again…

Sometimes you're really funny, she said, and patted my hand.

Night. Another day had passed, faded into a lukewarm evening. I held on to her fingers, so slender, dry and strong to the touch, so beautiful, and caressed them seemingly absentminded. Night to come. She looked pleased and expectant, her lips curved slightly upwards in a quiet smile, half opened, but not moving, her head, slightly bent forward as she enjoyed my playing around with her hand, looked achingly familiar, lovable as always, lighted by the flickering candle on the table, our table, strewn with our plates, our pieces of bread, cutlery, there were our bottles of wine, two boxes of cigarettes, our lighters lying quietly side by side.

Night. I felt like saying something, not anything, something. Would that have been talking?

After a while we left our table and headed inside towards our room, slightly tipsy, holding hands, whispering and giggling.

She had liked the place, I was lucky. She had liked the wine, I was lucky. She had enjoyed her food, I was lucky. She had liked me, I was happy.

I hadn't been able to sleep. After a long time just lying awake on my side of the bed, softly softly, so as not to wake her, I moved, propped up my pillow, groped for my cigarettes, sat up, lit up, and stared at the window, into the morning light creeping up on us. A cool hour, one of the few, summer, a lukewarm evening, a steamy night, now should have been the hour of respite we usually slept through.

Are you all right, she suddenly said.

I could not really see her face in the shadows, pressed into the pillow, but her voice sounded friendly, slightly sleepy and warm. I could tell she was groping for me. Those hands, I thought and shivered. Shivered, too, because she hardly ever groped for me during daytime, hardly ever touched me just so, walking past me to the phone ringing or to stick a tape into the recorder. Whenever she did, once in a while, I trembled with surprise and delight.

I looked at the blue morning, felt her hand coming close, turned to the ashtray to stub out the cigarette and busied myself lighting another one.

Just the cigarette after, you know, I said and hoped there was enough of a smile, a small grin in my voice.

- Mmmh. That was her.

Small pause.

Some time after, she said. Let's make the one you've lit just now the next one after.

So I dropped it into the ashtray and moved over. I knew what I had to do. Knew what I wanted to do.

Breakfast had not come up to scratch. Something to do with the coffee. Or was it the tea.

It's a long drive, I said. Will you please call when you arrive?

Always do, don't I, she said, her words somewhat muffled by the bun through which she was talking.

That special way she had to open her mouth to take a bite off of something. I had always been riveted. Something to do with not smearing one's lipstick, I gathered. I never thought it funny or strange. It was so completely her. Ach, everything about her was completely her. Safe for...

Ruth again.

No matter, I had thought. Then I had loved even the fillings of her teeth.

The drive back seemed endless. The sky overcast but the growing heat already stifling. In spite of myself I didn't open the window, smoked - blast "Ruthdoesnotlikeitwhenwe" - , could not say - ahh the breeze, would not say - will there be rain soon, do you think?.

She also kept uncannily quiet. Her profile serene as ever or was there a strain in the muscles of her jaw?

Was that: not talking?

I had kissed her goodbye beside the car she had parked close to the curb under a tree and had left.

Somehow wondering for the first time ever just how the keys would get back to Ruth.

Was there, somewhere, a letterbox, displaying "Ruth" on its lid?

No need for that today, I had thought and lifted my overnight bag out of the trunk. No traces of a Ruth there, no Ruth there and no mother of a Ruth either. What do you know. I sighed.

Come on, she said, I am allowed to go away once in a while, now aren't I.

I said nothing. Kissed her once more, which seemed to surprise her, and let my hand rest on her shoulder. Very shortly. Then I left without looking back, without my usual little wave of the hand not burdened with baggage, no craning of my neck either. I had only wished I could have heard her walking away.

She had called eventually. Way too late, I had thought. I had worried. Things happen. Accidents, that is. But perhaps not with a Ruth at one's side.

She had been uncommonly brief. So much so that I had found myself yearning for a drink. I had opened a can of beer right away, stupidly hoping that she might have heard the sound. The hiss.

Summer was as ever. Hot, sticky, glaring, boring, work, the offensively green mountains cowering beneath the weight of those radiant days, evenings were now spent alone, watching the froth of several beers caving in on itself sadly and soon, first sip chill, the rest as usual. Lukewarm.

I had no clear idea of where she was. I could not conjure up images of  Wadden Sea, little old hut, little old friend. Let alone picture Ruth in the Wadden Sea, in the little old hut with her and the little old friend - theirs? - and not talking.

Still, I had begun to flinch at the sight of the ubiquitous geraniums adorning every damned window of every damned house I happened to look at. I did not go to the cinema, nor to the theatre, there was no one to drive around with, and I had stopped eating out. Nothing but sweat, work, mountains to look at and beer to get through those stale evenings.

Had I ever known where she was, when she was not beside me, in the car, lying idle on her bed watching a video, opposite me at a table twirling the stem of a glass full of white wine in one of those beautiful, beautiful hands, talking, talking, moving those lips in a way which was completely hers, taking me through another installment of the story of Ruth...

After a while, way too long, too late, I had thought, she had called again.

What are you doing, she had said. It is so beautiful up here, she had said.

I waited. Nothing more came. She was quiet.

What the hell, I said, what is going on?

Pause.

Nothing, she said, in a voice in which I recognized signs of trouble to come.

What was I to say. No mmh, ahh, no grunt would help and there was no breeze whatsoever to be commented on, although as usual all my windows were open.

Why don't you talk to me. I had finally managed to wedge that sentence into that irritating silence of hers.

But I do, she said. And anyway: the phone's in the kitchen.

I rang off.

Summer dragged on and my mind had become empty, the geraniums in front of the windows had wilted, the evenings became shorter as the beers multiplied and I caved in on myself regularly sinking into bed as into oblivion.

When the next call came I had to admit I had been waiting for it.

I am right inside the Wadden Sea now, she said.

The line was awful.

I am on my own now, just taking wonderful walks, she said.

Cackling. Crackling.

Can I call you back, I said. We must talk.

Crackling again, the line went dead or did it, words cut in half. Complete silence. Crackling again.

- No, I understood that, as ever.

In a hotel she was, staying somewhere nearby, she  had said, but she didn't have the phone number. They might not have one, she said.

What nonsense.

You don't want to talk, I said, not with me anymore, do you.

She said she couldn't hear, and anyway, hadn't she said that the phone had been in the kitchen?

I rang off.

Have not seen her since. Put the phone down whenever she rang after that. Went into the kitchen. Mine. Never saw her again, nor those beautiful, beautiful hands, her gait and the nape of her neck, never again her profile against that car window, nor her lips moving,  not a sound out of her I heard ever again, that was final, none of all that evermore.

Ruth? You never know. Sits in her kitchen. Waters little red flowers in boxes in front of little windows, uses her connections, drinks and goes hiking, runs errands, tapes movies, has her car mended and crosses the Wadden Sea.

Ruth is someone...

I miss.