Fishing Dreams by the Spree- Part 1

Twenty-eight years. Twenty-eight years had gone by and where was I? It was as if my life had passed me by, flowing rapidly toward the dreaded end. All I could do was observe it helplessly from the side. Me, a mere spectator. Yes. I had been punished for taking it for granted, for being too caught up in the day-to-day nonsense to notice life, my life, go by without me. And then I lost my job and suddenly, I had time to think. Time can be our ally, but if we misuse it, it becomes a bitter enemy. How did I not realize how wrong everything was? How did I let them turn me into a corporate junkie, gladly willing to work weekends? I had been working at the same place for five years, giving them my best years while waiting for a promotion which never came. And my dreams? My dreams had been stuck in an eternal standby mode, hidden under aging layers of dust and spider webs. At twenty-eight, I had nothing more to lose. I had no direction, no job, zero savings, no special someone worth staying around for, and worst of all — I had no idea what I wanted to do with my life. I was completely and utterly lost. But instead of trying to find myself somewhere in India, I moved to Berlin.

The first six months were a blurry mixture of parties, awful Tinder and OKCupid dates, too many hangovers, too much German grammar, and occasional freelancing opportunities. I did my best to integrate into Berlin. From a morning person I turned into a night person; from a punctual person I started showing up late; some say I even had my hipster moments, for crying out loud! But it wasn’t really me. In fact, I had no idea who I was anymore. I was ready to quit; I was ready to leave Berlin, but then I met Otto.

*******************************************************

Three years later, on a warm night in early July, I let my feet carry me to the Spree river. It was our third anniversary and I had been looking forward to it throughout June. Okay, that’s a lie. It was all I could think about for months; the mere prospect of seeing him again keeping me restless during Berlin’s endless winter. I ran every possible scenario in my head, imagining what we would be saying to each other, picturing Otto’s serious brown eyes resting on the waters of his beloved Spree. One year is a long time not to see someone, especially when that someone happens to be the very person who had changed your life forever. And no, I’m not exaggerating, but I doubt if Otto will agree with me. He rarely does. That doesn’t prevent him from knowing me better than I know myself, even if it seems we are either distant acquaintances or close strangers.

With a Berliner Pilsner in my hand, I made my way to the exact spot where we had first met — a relatively secluded area on the bank of the river, further down Maybachufer. Finding a people-free stretch of riverbank in this area is quite challenging — for us Berliners, drinking a cold beer by the river with our friends is a summer must. But Otto and I had our secret place; a place only the two of us knew about. There, by the old willow tree, I sat down on the grass, anxiously waiting for him to appear. It was never possible to know when he’d show up. His time didn’t always correspond to the time the rest of us are blindly following. Reaching him was also out of the question — Otto was an off-the-grid type of person. According to Facebook, WhatsApp and Google, he never even existed.

Cool breezes mixed with the warm air, swirling around me in intoxicating ripples. I looked at the starry skies above me, enchanted by their vastness, by their ability to always be there, no matter what happens, down here.

“The stars are glimpses of all the mornings combined, those who had passed and those yet to come. Mornings that adorn the skies and accompany the lonely darkness which is so feared by all,” Otto told me when we had first met. In the beginning, I thought he was crazy, standing there, facing the river, holding his fishing rod, and saying such things. Seven hours later, I realized it was the other way around: I was the crazy one; we all were. That’s Otto’s greatest talent — changing everything he touches and deeming it unrecognizable, in a good way. I was never the same after meeting him; the skies were never the same.

As I sat there and breathed in the summer air, listening to the cricket orchestra in the nearby bushes, I couldn’t help but reminisce, thinking about the strange circumstances which had led us to meet each other on that late July night.

*******************************************************

After a surprisingly rainy June, July 2012 seemed like a blessing. I was hanging out with some friends by the river, drinking beers and engaging in a drunken conversation about politics, socialism, and the gloomy future of monogamy. Aching to get away from them for a while and gather my thoughts, I volunteered to bring more beers. I excused myself and left with no intention to come back. My plan? Blaming the alcohol circulating in my blood stream, of course. It was nearly midnight, and all I could think about was the bed waiting for me at home. On my way back to the U-Bhan station, about 300 feet ahead, I noticed a man standing alone by the Spree and fishing. He seemed to be too immersed in his own world to take any notice of me or anything, for that matter. There was something about him that set him apart from all the other weirdos I’d met in Berlin during my hectic first months. As if under a spell, I walked back down to the riverbank, hid behind a willow tree, and observed him. His total devotion to the rod, to the waters, astounded me. In this date and age, when we are all too easily distracted, seeing someone completely committed to the moment is as strange as meeting the Yeti.

“Ich weiß, dass du da stehst, also habe gefälligst den Anstand, hierher zu kommen und dich vorzustellen,” the man said.

Now that I hadn’t expected. Why did he remember to reconnect with the world when I was there? All alone? With him! Instead of running away, I let my curiosity get the better of me, as was usually the case. Cautiously, I left my hiding place, walked toward him, and stood at his side. “Amm, do you speak English?” I asked, not knowing what else to say. By then, I could speak a bit of German and I did understand quite a lot, but pretending to be a confused tourist seemed like a good strategy, for some reason.

“Yes, I do,” he said, his eyes glued to the water.

I glanced at his profile. The bearded man was wearing an old baseball cap and a fishing vest covered with pockets. If he weren’t such a big guy — six feet three inches tall, to be exact — I would have probably told him what I thought about men who consider hunting and fishing a hobby. This time, I kept my big mouth shut.

“I know why you’re here,” the man added, breaking the silence between us.

“I beg your pardon?”

“I know why you’re here,” he said again, slightly raising his voice.

“Yes, I’ve heard you the first time. I, I don’t know what it means.”

“It means I’ve been expecting you.”

“Amm, also, naja, I think you have me confused with someone else.” My heart was beating like crazy. Why was I so drawn to this man? What the hell was I even doing there? Did I really want to get myself killed? I took a step back and looked at the street above the riverbank. All I had to do was run. There were people in the vicinity. I could hear their voices echoing not far away. But my legs refused to play along. I had to know what he meant; I had to know why I had been propelled to approach him. There was a certain something in the air but I couldn’t name it, let alone grasp it. It’s when you know something big, something significant is about to happen, but you have no idea why you feel it, how you know it, or if that something is good or bad.

“You know I haven’t,” he said, still not bothering to look at me.

Was there a reason he didn’t want me to see his face? His eyes? What if he was a, a creature, or, I don’t know, not a human? During daytime, I would never have such preposterous thoughts, but at nighttime…it was a completely different story. “I don’t know anything about anything. Don’t worry. I won’t remember how you look. I promise. I’m sorry to have disturbed you. Have a pleasant night.” This is when my legs finally responded to the distress signals my brain had been sending them, ready to take off. Suddenly, the man jolted forward and started to wrestle with the rod. He drew his sturdy upper body backward, shaking from the effort of holding on to it. His left hand spun the fishing reel. Something was caught in his baited hook.

“Come here, I want you to see it,” he said.

“Ah, no thanks. I don’t enjoy seeing dead fish. I have to go.” I turned around and slowly started to make my way to the road. In the movies, whenever you make a hurried movement, that’s when the killer gets you. It was better not to show him how scared I was.

“You think I’m fishing fish?” he asked incredulously as if it was that far-fetched. He continued spinning the reel until his catch had been pulled out of the water. He examined it and turned around. Something hung from the hook but it didn’t look like a fish. The dim moonlight made it hard to tell which miserable creature had been dangling lifelessly before my eyes. The man took a step closer, I took a step backward. And then it happened. The hooked victim started to shine, its glittering light becoming stronger.

“Do you want to know what I’m holding?” he asked, taking another step closer. This time, I stayed put, too overwhelmed to move or even speak. I nodded and looked at what seemed to be a medium-sized glowing soap bubble. “It’s a dream,” I heard him say. His face was still hidden in the darkness as if the moon had avoided him on purpose. Only then did I realize what a deep soothing voice he had. I stared at the obscure man facing me, expecting something awful to happen. But he just stood there, holding that, that thing in his hands.

“Aren’t you going to say something?” he asked. I could have sworn I heard a pinch of disappointment in his voice.

“I think somebody put something in my drink,” I whispered.

“Nonsense. You seem fine to me, however, not too impressed by this beautiful dream I’m holding. Don’t you believe in dreams?” he asked.

“In dreams?”

“Yes, dreams.” The bubble’s glow grew stronger, emitting a bright halo. Now, in the light, I could see his face. He didn’t seem scary at all. On the contrary. His soft, sad yet kind brown eyes were the most reassuring thing I had ever seen in my life. I couldn’t tell how old he was, but he was definitely older than me. Deep experience lines had been engraved on his big, outwards-pushed forehead and around his eyes. In my family, we never called them wrinkles, but rather experience lines. Respect the experience of a person rather than mock them for their age. That was my mother’s motto and soon enough did it become a family thing. Nothing of it made sense, yet it did. I then knew that nothing bad was going to happen to me, my tense muscles gradually relaxing. His face, his presence, all of it, started to feel familiar. I was having a déjà vu.

“I can help you find yours, or rather, help it find you,” he said, disrupting my chaotic train of thought.

“So if I haven’t taken anything, it must mean you have. What are you really doing here? This is beyond strange, even for Berlin.”

“Why do you keep on fighting it, eh? I can help you. You know I can. That’s why I’m here. That’s why you’re here. Do you see this?” He gestured at the hooked soapy bubble. “Inside this generic translucent bubble resides someone’s dream. The bubble protects it. This person is the only one who can actually see the hidden dream.”

“Protects it from what?” I asked, indulging him. Finally, someone who’s more messed up than I was around that time.

“From people, of course. They have a tendency to crush other people’s dreams. Or am I wrong?”

“Maybe. I don’t know, I guess.”

“Don’t play games with me, ahh — what’s your name, by the way? — I know you had a dream. I know you set it free, hoping to save it from them, and now it’s out there, lost; now it’s out there, looking for you.” He looked at me so intensely with his sad eyes, I felt I had no way out. It was a look that contained an abundance of knowledge; a look that only a person who truly knows who you are, possesses. So I did what I always do when embarrassed and shocked — I turned to my dear old friend, cynicism.

“So you claim to have been waiting for me, to know why I’m here, talking in clichéd riddles, yet you can’t figure out my name?”

“I liked you before when you were polite and genuine.”

“Pfft! Before? You mean two minutes ago. You talk as if we know each other.” God only knows how, but we did seem to know each other. Was I having a meltdown? Was that it? Had I finally turned into one of these people with an imaginary friend? After only six months in Berlin? Most likely, he was real and not a figment of my imagination. But, like everything in life, it’s never 100 percent. I reached out my hand and touched his broad shoulder.

“Yes, I am real,” the man said, grinning. His smile revealed straight white teeth. His eyes remained sad, though.

“This is weird. How did you know? Can you read people’s thoughts?”

“No, but I speak the language of their dreams. Please, tell me your name. Nowadays nobody bothers to ask you for your name. And when you don’t ask for someone’s name, you remain strangers, with no prospect of a deeper understanding of the person facing you.”

I forced myself not to roll my eyes at his absurd theatrical ramble and said, “It’s Grace. Just another Grace. What’s your name, Mr. Mystery?”

“I’m Otto. Just another Otto.”

“Otto? You look more like a Björen to me.” I chuckled. Another miserable attempt to break the ice.

“Then you look more like an Amanda.”

“No, I don’t.” This was too crazy to be crazy. I knew nobody would ever believe this had happened to me — I almost didn’t believe it myself — but I collaborated by asking, “So, what do you do for a living, Otto?”

“You already know what I do. I fish. I fish dreams. What about you, Ms. Skepticism?”

“I am currently in the process of searching for myself.”

“And how is it going?”

“Honestly? Not too great. People told me all these stories about Berlin; how it’s the best place to start over again; how life in Berlin has deemed life in other cities impossible. Apparently, Berlin is THAT great. I’ve been here for six months now and nothing. Nada. I didn’t see any light, I couldn’t find myself let alone a decent paid job. I guess that I’m looking for reasons to stay, even though I know I probably shouldn’t.”

“I am a born and raised Berliner,” Otto said.

“Oh, that’s nice. I’ve heard it’s difficult to actually find a local Berliner around here.”

“Nice? That’s all you’re going to say?”

“What can I say? I don’t know Berlin that well.”

“Exactly. Because you don’t know Berlin like I do, you can’t begin to understand it. And if you can’t understand it, you can’t love it. I am not so young anymore. I’ve seen this city at other times. I lived on the eastern side of the Wall. I saw what it did to people. I saw what the dark history of this city did to people. The fact that Berlin had managed to overcome it all and attract so many visitors-for-a-moment like you, is nothing short of a miracle. You need to give Berlin a chance to change you. Six months are simply not enough.”

“So what do you suggest? I’m running out of money and I don’t quite know what I’m doing here. It just doesn’t feel like home here, but the problem is, no place feels like home anymore.”

“Well, of course, it doesn’t. No place feels like home when your dreams are far from you. That’s why I catch them. So I can tell them how to find their long lost home.”

“Where is the home of the dreams, then?”

“Why are you pretending not to know all of the time?”

“I’m not pretending.”

“Yes, you are. You claim to be lost, but you don’t look lost to me. You look scared. Why did you stop dreaming? What happened?”

“Life happened.”

“Stop blaming life or other people for your mistakes. It’s not fair. I look at you and I see an incorrigible day-and-night dreamer aching to break free. It’s clear you’re the kind of person to indulge their overly developed imagination when the going gets tough. I’ve said before that I can catch your dream for you, but I can’t. And do you know why?”

“Why? Please, enlighten me.”

Part 2 will come soon...

 

Photo credits: https://pixabay.com/en/landscape-fog-water-river-1272748/