Nächte der Füchsin

I never found out what kind of person my father was. In the only photo I have of him, his eyes are closed. For a long time, I convinced myself that if they were open and looking directly at me, I would receive answers to all my questions. In the picture, he stands in a black suit at the Hamburg harbor, at the St. Pauli Landungsbrücken, in front of a schooner. Cranes, spars, and masts tower over him, seeming to lift him up as well. He is closer to the clouds than to the earth. With his right hand, he holds onto the rope of the gangway. His body and face are turned towards the camera; he is laughing, but when the shutter was pressed, his eyes were closed. As a child, I thought he had arrived from Spain on that very ship. His dark clothing, the weightlessness, the ship—all emphasize the uniqueness of the moment. A photograph from a time before me, but on its way to me. I turn the picture in my hands while standing in my aunt's living room, looking down at her in confusion. She is crying silently. Tears run down her cheeks, and she mechanically wipes them away with a handkerchief. I realize that she buried him just a week ago. My father was probably the most important person in her life. The Spanish family series is still playing on TV. Rosalía has turned off the sound. I stare at the screen, watching the gray-haired hero who is riding into the courtyard of a hacienda, pulling the horse to a stop in front of a young woman and speaking down to her. With a groan, Rosalía sinks onto the sofa, sinking into a mountain of cushions and the past. The dead take their place beside her. She listens and nods, whispering incoherent sentences in a soothing sing-song. She has forgotten me and the gray-haired man from the telenovela.