SHORT STORY PART 1: BRIEFLY GORGEOUS IN BERLIN
WRITTEN AND OWNED BY MATTHEW ALMEIDA SILVA
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I would like to tell you about a recent adventure I embarked on sometime during this past week, and whose impressions I had to immediately write down as soon as I had returned to the solitude of my hotel room during the early hours of the morning sun. It had only been an hour then, having arrived from an experience that I can only describe as having had absolute movie magic attached to it. Something that shouldn’t have happened as easily as it had, and yet somehow, life had aligned itself to narrative wishful thinking in a manner that brought it into reality. Before I begin to tell you what transpired on that afternoon that extended well into the night, I should first provide you with a little bit of initial context to further illustrate the motivations and ambitions behind this adventure I have been hinting at.
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The journey itself, I suppose, began the way many endeavors begin. First, there was a thought with a simple desire at its core. The thought that before I would move to Japan for a completely new life, I could and should do something ludicrous that I have always wanted to do while on this continent, but have always lacked either a proper motivation for or worse, courage. But I initially ignored what exactly it was that I’d like to do. Only after browsing through my movie collection and stumbling over Linklater’s Before Sunrise did it all finally click into place for me. Two strangers meeting in a random manner, striking up a conversation, finding chemistry and sharing a few fleeting hours in a daze. This was it. What I would like to experience before trading one continent for another. But then the next problem naturally presented itself to me: What exactly would be my destination? Could I just do this here in the country I was currently living in? Yes, it was certainly possible, but why stop so short? Hawke’s character in the movie was a stranger passing by, so I figured I should be one as well. Further time contemplating on the subject revealed two possible destinations for me: Paris or Berlin. And a simple coin toss later, which landed on heads, decided that the right choice could only be Berlin. Now with my destination decided, the next step in my little adventure was to decide on a book to take along with me as my faithful companion. And yes, you may laugh, but this was indeed important and felt crucial. Let us be honest: what I was setting out to do here was quite absurd and probably would not work out. I was well aware of that, so choosing an object that would serve as a sort of charm or as this prayer for the kinds of emotions I would like the journey to manifest seemed very crucial for me and my determination to follow through. Therefore, I circled out three specific books that I count among my personal favorites: Plath’s The Bell Jar, Cervantes’ Don Quixote and Vuong’s On Earth We’re Briefly Gorgeous. As quickly as I had chosen these novels, I also began narrowing them down for the right choice at a similar pace. I first eliminated Don Quixote. Although it does indeed hold the charm and romanticism that felt appropriate for what I was about to do, it also held a fever and delirium with its main character that could prove dangerous when engaging in something as nebulous as the idea I had my eyes set upon. Yes, I definitely needed a certain degree of suspension of disbelief – a healthy dose even, but I also needed to keep myself sufficiently in check to prevent any grave incident or ill-advised, impulsive decisions, so Cervantes’ novel was not a fitting choice. On The Bell Jar, I pondered upon for slightly longer. But then remarked how its fatalism slightly eclipsed what desired sensibilities it actually had for me at that time. I wondered if carrying this novel was a little bit akin to carrying a black cloud with me around Berlin, and feared that would be the case. Not at all an impression that would benefit me in the slightest. It was simply too dark. Too heavy. Too much of a cross to bear. With only Vuong’s novel remaining now, looking at its title, it immediately struck me how fitting it actually was to the spirit behind the journey ahead of me. „On earth, we’re briefly gorgeous“ – a sentiment and phrase that could either begin or signal the final thought of this adventure that was still coming. No matter if I succeeded in connecting with someone or if I only found peace at the end for having tried something bizarre and unique that few people would have had the courage for. Additionally, the tenderness and delicacy in Vuong’s prose evoked the exchange that I was hoping would transpire in Berlin and the change I wanted to see in myself. I felt it. This book could and would certainly manifest the opportunities I was wishing for. I was certain.
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As I would eventually find out, I was right believing in it so faithfully, even if at first my search was most definitely not as immediately fruitful as I had hoped it would be, though I attribute this more to my lack of patience and unchecked expectations originating from my own Quixote-inclined spirit in these matters than anything else. I may not have taken Plath’s and Cervantes’ stories with me in a physical manner, but maybe I did not need that anyway, as characteristics of both definitely seem to have been weaved throughout the fabric of my own self regardless of their physical presence or lack thereof. However, this was not detrimental in the slightest. Without some of their, or mine, brightest and darkest shades, I would never have parted. Or managed to navigate the journey so freely.
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Skipping ahead to Berlin itself, after my arrival and checking in at an hotel out of precaution, I then first opted to visit a book flea market in the close proximity to the Museumsinsel and to which I had already gone to a handful of times during my prolonged stay in the city during the summer of 2022. I have had quite a few fortunate encounters and conversations there in the past, thus, I believed it to be the right place to start my adventure on the most fortunate of terms. It seemed to begin quite well too, with the discovery and subsequent purchase of a gorgeous edition of one of my favorite Gothic novels: Carmilla by Le Fanu. It practically cost next to nothing and the heartwarming, elderly lady, who was selling it, had a lot to tell me about Shelley and Poe. A conversation that I savoured quite a bit, but as I then continued to stroll through the rest of the market, a suspicion slowly crept into me, and it became incessantly clear that on that day, the most curious encounter I would get there would be the one that I had already gotten with that lovely grandma. Additionally, by then hunger had also started to become noticeable, my belly roaring in a way that could have shamed me in conversation, so I left the market behind in order to find a place to satisfy myself with some Asian food before my next destination.
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After enjoying a healthy serving of sushi, having made up my mind during the meal, I directed both my focus and feet towards a place I had already visited once together with a friend from the course I had been enrolled in during last year’s summer. An enormous book store named Dussmann, das KulturKaufhaus that is four stories tall with two entrances. The main one, which I imagined would greet me with a flood of people, given the time of the year, and the second, much smaller one that leads to the English part of the store. Usually I would have preferred to enter via the latter, given the fact that sprawling crowds can sometimes give me quite the rush of anxiety, but for whatever reason I was feeling kind of contrarian, and so I decided to go against my own nature, entering the building via the main entrance instead. Even if the small glimpse from the window view of the people inside was already enough to make me seriously reconsider my decision before I had even entered. Still, I did and looking back now, I’m happy to say that it ultimately proved to be the right choice. At least, I would like to think it was. I am not entirely sure if I would have met who I was then about to meet if I had gone with what was most comfortable for me. If I had not made my way through that crowd on the lowest level, stopped at the Ghibli shelf for minutes, searched for German editions of the Russian classics, and took special interest in their selection of DVDs (even searching for a copy of Before Sunrise as if searching for a good omen). If I had not done all of this in that order, I might not have arrived in time at that shelf that I had already lingered upon a summer ago, that I knew as the shelf that felt like I had curated it myself. Filled it with books by Woolf, Joyce, Fitzgerald, Plath and most importantly Wilde. Wilde, not out of an ill opinion that his literary prowess was above the other authors, but due to two of his most famous oeuvres resting undecidedly in a pair of hands with which I would grow familiar with after that exact moment of me arriving at that place in time. Two hands – the left middle finger even holding a small brown spot – that belonged to a Chinese woman I would from that moment on get to know and will refer to here as:
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Liu.
END OF PART 1
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