Mesopotamië

We leave early because my mother wants to arrive before her older sister. As a buffer, I sit in the middle between my quarreling sisters. The entire trip I try to stay calm, counting trees through the sunroof and memorizing the clouds that seem to form faces.

After 2.5 hours, finally the Borne exit, off the highway, left over the overpass, and then the countdown begins.

Grandpa opens the door. I look around and try to avoid his penetrating gaze. From the kitchen, grandma barrels toward us, shouting.

"Lovebirds, sweeties, darlings, little croquettes."

My grandfather stands motionless and gives me an unexpected light jab in the side.

Always the same ritual. My sisters present school projects to grandma under the guidance of my mother.

One has a B+ for her paper on the Romans, the other an A for the Greeks. Lavishly illustrated papers, with perfect handwriting and black-and-white pictures glued in with Pritt stick — pictures my sisters meticulously copy from library books under our mother’s stern eye.

I have no school project; I am five years old.

My grandmother opens her wallet, the clasp makes a dull click, my sisters beam with pride as they each receive a silver coin.

On the dark brown coffee table, covered with an embroidered lace cloth, grandma places coffee and pretzels. I get a stack of paper and some pencils. I draw the clouds I saw forming faces through the sunroof.

My mother presents a book with photos from our trip to Egypt, my father sits beside my grandfather. Without checking if grandpa is listening, he tells a story about a recent car repair.

"It must have happened just as we cross the Belgian border. Even though the road surface is worse there, the car vibrates abnormally. Once I get it onto the shoulder, I discover that one of the hydraulic spring elements—also known as the hydropneumatic strut—has begun to leak.

After removing the element and carefully bleeding the hydraulic system, I reinstall the reconditioned strut."

I see grandpa making an effort, asking a few follow-up questions. He isn't interested in cars. He doesn’t own one.

The doorbell rings. My aunt. I hear her loud voice from the hallway. Her three daughters enter, corduroy pants, bows in their hair, blouses with frills. More school projects; even more virtuoso, and not about tired topics like the Greeks, but the drainage basin between the Euphrates and the Tigris—ancient Mesopotamia.

It’s hard to concentrate on drawing; everyone speaks loudly now.

My mother places her hand on my head.

"Why don’t you go play with grandpa in the other room?"

I abandon my clouds, stand up, and follow my grandfather into the dining room.

Grandpa places me on a chair in front of the stereo system. We have the same one at home. I often play with its buttons and mimic wave motions with the equalizer sliders.

He takes a record, drops the needle with a loud crackle, and laughs.

He pulls me from the chair, and although grandpa came out of the war with a damaged leg—always wrapped in a support stocking—he moves fluidly to the music. I have never danced before. I scream with delight, high-pitched squeals of bliss. Grandpa turns up the stereo. With his large, powerful hands, he swings me through the air by my arms.

Then suddenly, grandma’s rasping voice:

"Albert, turn off that horrible music, or at least use headphones. You’re ruining the entire gathering!"

Grandpa gently sets me down and slowly switches off the stereo tower; the silence is deafening. I look at him. His eyes sparkle with mischief. He sits down, grabs an enormous pair of headphones, and places them on my head. I think we’re going to fly, that I get to be the pilot, searching for clouds with him.

Grandpa selects another record.

Loud crackling. I think of Jesus and how that time must sound.

I hear a piano. I close my eyes.

I look up; I feel something that frightens me, but I don’t resist. It overwhelms me and embraces me at once.

Grandpa signals the next piano piece with a hypnotic finger.

My eyes start to blink, faster and faster, I can't control it.

My eyes feel wet. I’m crying, but I feel no pain.

My grandfather gently takes my hand and opens my little fist. I relax, and more tears come. I feel light. I lift off, and grandpa too. We’re in the air.

Grandpa takes a cotton handkerchief from his vest pocket and places it in my hand.

Meanwhile, my father enters the room with his SLR camera. When the music stops, grandpa lifts the needle from the record. At that moment, my father calls:

"Norbert."

I look to the right, into the lens, and my father presses the shutter.