From Spione (Spies)

Off the farm lane now, where the green boughs descend to eye-level, isolated from the rest of the world, where the song of the lark, the cries of the farmers, even the lowing of the cattle reach their ears only distantly. They have taken their leave of the garden party to stroll through the fields, arm in arm, from the heights down to the plain, through a slight haze. The light envelops the earth and every object, the gentle hills along the river and last year's foliage, dusty fields too; they see a flock of chickens behind chicken wire; the sandy soil is furrowed, barren, rough, like a military training ground. Now they're not far from the pond, close to the forest's edge, where the country youth may well come for nightly outings; they have left behind the coffee tray, the spread of bee-sting cake, real coffee, cheesecake, even meringues. Behind them now the conversation beneath the trees, and with it the polite distance that normally characterizes such Sunday visits. No, none of that matters anymore as they press closer together on the narrow beaten path to keep from slipping on the grassy stubble, preferring not to walk single file. The two have left their relatives behind; they're still sitting in the garden, both sets of parents, and her aunt and uncle who own the local dairy. By now the aunt may well have launched into an interrogation of the parents about the relationship between their children. Everyone will think that they have arranged this meeting secretly. A long-planned country outing for the two sets of parents, who've been friends for years, and suddenly the daughter decides to come too, since she's not singing in Frankfurt or Munich that particular summer day. By chance the other family's son returns early from one of his training sessions, pulls up at the dairy, and steps out of his new car. Everyone will think they've been meeting on a regular basis, at her operas, or wherever he happens to be in flight training. No one will convince them it's just a coincidence. Even they can scarcely comprehend how near they had come to losing sight of one another forever. Later that afternoon, the aunt is sure, they can count on an announcement. They are talking more softly now, after he has told her, at the edge of the meadow, about his first glider flight. He spoke in a loud firm voice, even weaving the sounds of flight into his story, the wind flowing over the cockpit and wings as he spreads his arms wide. But now his voice is trembling; they're still standing, he strokes her bare neck, their mouths meet in a kiss that lasts longer than any kiss before, that moves further, along cheeks, forehead, and throat. Yes, now everything has changed: the rumpled Sunday suit, freshly ironed that morning, no longer matters, the grass stains on their knees and backs don't matter, the touch of make-up, so precisely applied that noon, now lightly streaking her cheeks, the smeared lipstick flecking his face no longer matters, nor the mascara as he kisses her eyes, nor her pinned-up hair, now loosening, falling in waves among the crumpled blossoms. No, it's all different from elsewhere, where certain phrases are no more the expression of mutual desire than the caresses and kisses that accompany them, where such words simply signal a tacit agreement, an accordance with convention, and it never occurs to those involved that the words and sounds might truly be addressed to the other person. So intimate, eyes closed, into the pillow, the sighs, the soft cries, the deep breaths, but it's merely the polite conversation beneath the trees. Yes, everything is different here: the whispered words learned from films and novels spur the two on still more strongly, and even an ordinary "no" or "yes" acquires special meaning now. No matter that they are cliches, it never occurs to either one how often these same words and sounds must have issued from the mouths of how many others before now. …