Being rather silly

“This is probably the most important decision you will ever make in your life,” says the youth counsellor. She looks at him. He smiles anxiously. And pretends to agree with her. She sits opposite him in the long rectangular room. The laptop is on the table in front of her. As if she has put up a small wall between her and the others. His mother sits to his right. His father on the left. It is four o'clock in the afternoon. Outside the walls it is a grey and dull spring day. But that doesn't matter. There are no windows in this room.

“As agreed, today marks the end of a long process. A process in which we have considered all possible scenarios. We have always had one goal for ourselves. Whatever is best for you, Franz.” His name sounds louder than the rest of the sentence. Making it seem to float through space for a while. Like an insect with a lame wing. His mother turns her head towards him. He doesn't dare look at her. He knows what she’s thinking, realizes what her intentions are.

“I don't think this should take long,” his mother says impatiently. She is dressed in a peach-coloured blazer, gold-coloured T-shirt, beige pants and sandals with a colourful floral design. Her make-up is applied with great care. Franz doesn't know how she does it. But she always dresses like she has to go to a birthday party. Or a company reception. As if this world is a place where you always have to show your best side. As if every crack, every imperfection, every deviation is a sign of weakness, an omen of frailty.

“What do you think, Hugo? Do you agree with me that we have already made the decision? As far as I'm concerned, we can put an end to the whole affair and move on with our lives.” The mother is addressing her remarks to Franz’ dad. He is staring at a piece of paper in front of him. He writes something on it. Notes? He does not respond to his ex-wife's words. Unlike his former better half, he is certainly not dressed for more formal occasions. His turtleneck is too small, the pants are much too wide. He is barefoot.

The mother taps on the table top with a ballpoint pen. Like she wants to dictate the pace of the conversation. Franz is slumped at the table. He knows what's coming. This session is held every month. Each time with a different youth supervisor. Every time there is a new reason for a family discussion. A diagnosis that has been assessed incorrectly. Therapy that did not go well. Comments that went down badly. Ambiguities about agreements made.

The therapist will do her best to get the talking started. She tells the family something about the background of the problem. She emphasizes how critical this meeting is. She stresses the idea to enter into dialogue with each other as a small household. To finally make decisions in an open, honest and safe atmosphere.

“And you Franz, what is your opinion? We have not yet heard what your view on the whole is," the psychologist wants to know.

“We know Franz's opinion all too well! That's obvious," his mother joins the conversation. “Of course, he chooses to live with me. I can guarantee him a safe and trusted environment. He can go to a good school; he will make new friends. We will save enough money when he wants to go to college. Who wouldn't choose that?”

Franz looks sideways at his father. He notices how his arms support the head with the grey, uncombed hair. Since he suffered a brain haemorrhage three years ago, his old man has never been the same again. In company he often behaves distant and indifferent. Maybe he did that before the stroke as well. But no one was aware.

“Yesterday I saw a bluethroat. I haven’t seen it in years,” the man tells all of a sudden. “It was hidden in the reeds. I was fishing and had no clue at all at the beginning. I only heard this clear birdsong. I was sure it had to be a nightingale. But I was dead wrong. It was a bluethroat. A tiny, lovely bird. Like a robin. Only with blue colours on her breast. Remarkable, isn’t it?" His eyes shine. He smiles like lumberjack in love. There is dandruff on his shoulders.

“I'm completely done with that!” the mother hisses. She hits the table with the pen. It falls to pieces on the grey carpet tiles.

The father looks up in alarm, his mouth contorts, and he starts to cry. Softly, quietly. Like a child who doesn't want to go to bed.

“Estella, what did we agree on? No raising your voice, no accusations, no recriminations! We are sitting here as adults and we need to solve this as grown-ups," the mentor warns.

Prior to this conversation, Franz spoke with the youth counsellor. He likes her style, her approach, her understanding. She graduated a year ago. She is vegan, principally does not buy clothes made in low-wage countries, she loves modern dance, writes poetry and has a friend who has an organic bakery in the centre of the city.

She gave him a choice. Because the ambiguity must end. In three months, he will be 16 years old. She learned from the previous reports why he lives with his father. Loyalty, they call this in youth care. And nothing wrong with that. Loyalty borders on commitment. But isn't it time to choose for himself? To decide what his future will look like? That he concludes for more stability?

“Just for the record. I have an appointment at the hairdresser at half past five," the mother warns. “So, can we come to a decision? Then from today on, all this drama is not necessary anymore. Then the adults in this room can live their lives the way they would like to do.” She nods affirmatively to her own words, closes her eyes.

Franz feels that he is being watched. At least by his mother and by Karrin, his supervisor. His father is busy taking notes. Or does he draw stick figures? In recent weeks, Franz has talked a lot about his difficult situation with his close friends. Is he going to live at his mother’s place? Or should he just stay with her father?

“Franz, perhaps it is the right thing to do. To reveal what choice you have made? What the next step in your life’s journey will look like?” Karrin closes the laptop. Franz sits up. The conversation seems to be over. His mother reaches out to touch him. He withdraws his hand. His father folds the sheet of paper as if it were origami. What will it going to be? An animal? A work of art? A hat?

“Blue is the colour of trust,” the father suddenly posits.

The ones present in the room gaze at him in amazement. When he has their attention, he puts on the paper hat. Like a Napoleon?

The mother jumps up, the chair falls over. She leaps over to where her ex-husband is sitting with that idiotic paper fedora on his tangled head. With a targeted punch she wants to knock off the silly headgear. But he ducks and she hits him right in the face. He screams, she yells. Blood drips slowly from his right eye.

Karrin, in turn, runs to the door and signals for help. Within a few seconds, two men are standing between the fighting ex-spouses. The father is crouched. The mother doesn't know how and when to stop. She howls, cries, shrieks. She is in a terrible state.

About ten minutes later. When everyone has calmed down. They sit around the elongated table again. A plaster has been stuck along the father's right eye. The mother seems tired, defeated. The support worker looks at Franz in despair. The word is still not out.

“Do you know what bird I would like to watch? The Spix's Macaw. A large blue parrot with a long tail. That species lives in Brazil and is extremely rare,” the father explains loosely.

Later in the evening. The father reads a book. Franz is playing a video game. From outside, the usual street sounds. Cars, motorcycles, buses, trucks. The remains of dinner are on the table.

Rice, prawn crackers. The Rolling Stones sound from the speaker.

“I'm sorry that I acted like a fool again this afternoon,” the father says timidly. The bandage is still on his face. It is now coloured red.

“Those psychologists always make me so nervous. Especially when your mother is around. It's as if they know exactly how the world works. Moreover, they pretend to understand how human beings are like. And especially, how I am. How irresponsible, how stupid, how brainless, how half-witted,” he murmurs desperately.

Franz takes off his headphones. The father puts his book aside. They both get up and walk to the centre of the room. The football table. They start playing. Like two passionate grown-up children.