[the video is a radioplay fragment from the radiovideoshow Radio Klotestad (2022)]
I walked along the river, on the towpath, in a force seven gale. It almost blew me into the water, past the cemetery, where I once took the dog. He had run ahead, and when I went to look for him he was sitting on the grave of a recently deceased famous guy.
I'm not naming names. Nothing but good from the dead, unless they were very wrong.
It had been raining for days, and the many footsteps around the grave had turned it into a pool of mud, in which the dead laid buried under his stone ornaments. For a moment I thought the dog was shitting, and maybe he was just about to. But as soon as he saw me, he jumped off the pompous tombstone, dragging one of the many bouquets in the mud.
As I picked up the flowers and nearly slipped into the muck, a walker came into view. A few half liters of beer on board. And on the handles an old youth, in a tracksuit, a black belt around the left arm, as a mourning band I assumed, but it looked more like he had just been disturbed when taking a shot. The way he offered me a can of beer was like from fans among themselves. I think, because I'm not a fan of anything. Old boys network poo.
And immediately he started talking about how bad, how young, too early, and whether I had known the deceased personally. He estimated me older than I am.
As I put the bunch of flowers back, I said I hated musicals. The man looked from the flowers to me, and back again, the petrified remains of the once thriving life of the dead football player between us. He didn't understand my joke. I liked it.
With difficulty I gulped down some of the canned and lukewarm piss, washing the mud from my hands with the rest of the beer. The dog proudly arrived with a bunch of dried lilies as if it were a branch. Now I walked here again, past the newly built crematorion at the back of the death park. The deadly festivity of the term party tent came into its own in this white stone building with a design-technically sound camp chimney, where people could now burn their own dead. The link with mafia scenes was quickly established.
“Back into town”, the wind blows.
Behind me I hear firm steps. As she catches up with me and rushes past, I smell a fresh soapy perfume. Breasts, buttocks? I couldn’t care less… I always look at the shoes. I like people with sneakers the most, especially in winter, because they are a real sneakers diehards. Or they have a foot problem. Or damn little money. All very sympathetic, because in recognizing lies love. And that recognition starts with the most noticeable part on the surface, in this case the tapping footwear.
She wasn't wearing sneakers. A long, burgundy winter coat, business brown trousers, and black wedges. wedge heels. Tow heels. But these were very special. Despite her walking very fast and I struggled to keep up with her, a folding mechanism between the sole and wedge could be seen opening a white gap with every step. Did I see it right, was this a folding wedge?
It intrigued me so much that I quickened my stride. But she was too fast for me. She was now walking in the middle of the bike path. An old man trying to catch up with her clicked his tongue, as if to urge her to walk even faster. For a moment she seemed to hesitate: left or right.
Would she be on her way to a job interview? Or just to work, but remembered – just in time – that turning right through the park meant mud on the shoes.
She turned left, up another path, which I knew led to a parking lot as well as a multi-company building. When I got to the path, I saw her already at the end of it. Suddenly a man walked beside her. Where did he come from?
I knew a shortcut, and hurried through a tunnel and a slippery leafy staircase to the point where she should have ended up.
She wasn't there.
Neither was the man.
This city has many shortcuts.
