The first time I saw her in a circus tent. She danced there to the house sounds of the then still young Westbam. Around us there was only this new sound and a lot of subculture. Guys in burgundy Doc Martens, short pants with knee bodches and jackets. Girls in cowboy boots, torn Levis, blazer, and just a bra underneath. The 1980s were slowly coming to an end, and a revolutionary period seemed to be beginning. People looked much better than before. All wanted to be models or filmstars, at least somehow individual, avant-garde or at least poppy.
She blasphemed cigarettes one meter ahead of me, and I offered her a gitane of corn, without a filter. Contemptuously she threw the offered cigarette to the floor. We got to know each other. I smoked these Lungentorpedos from the wrong, somewhat silly reasons, which sixteen-year-old guys like to do. Wanted to actually be cool and to consume something forbidden. One could not buy the then in Germany, because they exceeded any limit values. She would rather have one of my Gauloises Blondes Legeres, who could not buy it in Germany at the time, or why. This was the beginning of a love story that was to last for a very long time.
We arranged for a summer evening at the fish fountain. She did not come. I called her. She had obviously forgotten the date, and she promised to leave immediately. It was already dark when she appeared. She carried a book by Milan Kundera, which was just being filmed at the cinema. We philosophized the whole evening about the light and the gravity of life, about fun and responsibility. She was a follower of the latter, while the sweet non-binding seemed more sympathetic to me. Perhaps she should have begun to appear on time to make appointments. And I should have dared to kiss her at last. As we strolled through the English Garden, she took over this part, which gave me all control over our new relationship. Unfortunately, it was only once for an evening and a couple of follow-up appointments, in which I could not get as close as before. And so she disappeared from my life, physically. But on a subtle level she became a myth.
I tried to call her a few months later, thanks to film-filled romances around shops like the Negro Hall with a strengthened back. The number did not exist anymore. It was only a year later that we were finally back on our way. It was at an acid party in the skyscraper. Fog, whistles and suddenly she stood in front of me, her blond hair open, a black body with lace, and tight cloth pants. I had a cashmere jacket, including a paisley shirt, overcoated jeans, and Sendra boots with steel caps. As a welcome, we fell into a few words.
The next morning I had a cat and two bite-wounds on my neck. My head ached. I wondered if it would be something like a vampire story with her and me. Not that I had problems with it. The world is much too sober and realistic anyway. I would have had no objection to a touch of occultism. But the bite points disappeared so fast that they could have been imagination. What remained was the breath of her fine perfume on my roll-neck sweater.
We ran over and over again. It became my myth, my destiny. I could not stop looking for her. Whenever I went out and it was getting dark, there was a certain chance that she was there. When that happened, it was as if we had been together for many years. She read in me as in an open book. And she always looked the same way as when I first met her in the music circus. At least as far as appearance is concerned and the timeless way in which she wears her hair. The clothes varied. At the Loveparade party she showed herself in a hybrid of mini dress and training suit with stripes. In the Ministry of Sound she had a long dress and high boots. On the Filmball she presented herself in a Chanel costume or something similar. At the celebration of a student union, the motto was red light, she suddenly stood before me in irresistible lingerie and invited me to look for a quiet place in the cellar.
Of course, our walks also met at the turn of the millennium, and we slept exactly at midnight, wishing to spend the next millennium together in our magical and unrestrained way. Whenever we ran into the Beetle tent at the Oktoberfest, most of the time It was, just before this castle closed, we were still hanging around in my church tower drinking a few glasses of champagne. Once I saw her on Youtube, recordings of Pulverturm Revival, recorded with a cell phone camera. She radiated a youthful freshness, like nobody else. The cell phone type took a lot of time to film it.
It was impossible not to think of them. It became the central point of my life. But their youth gave me a riddle. She could only be a vampire. When all of humanity looked bored at the projections to watch the first colonial ship landing on a planet outside the Milky Way, it stood before me as usual. For special events she did so gladly. We spent the whole night together, and as usual, she should leave before dawn, leaving me alone with these usual little bite wounds and headaches. Even though I had a test the next day, so a navigation study is not a children's game, I decided to keep somehow awake. I wanted to make her talk, tell her my suspicion.
"You look at me," she said in an ironic tone, keeping control of the situation as usual. "You're coming right now and want to know if I've kept you from being a vampire, that's ... cute."
Then she went to the curtains and pulled them up. Bright sunlight fell on her golden hair and let her youthful skin radiate. Outside, an air taxi flew past our gallery window, and I became jealous, because I thought the taxipilot was following her. I figured I'd jumped behind him, pulled out of his copter and did something else with him.
Always this jealousy. I had to concentrate. He could not see anything by the reflection and because of his speed. It was originally my suspicion. It would have had to fall to dust, by touching the bright rays. An indication of their secret blood-sucking identity was the fact that we never saw each other in the sun.
"Let's talk about you," she turned the tables and suddenly I felt uncomfortable. "Student, right?" "What do you want to be when you grow up, firefighter, attorney?"
In fact, I just began studying divinatory navigation art. But she steered away. This had nothing to do with the fact that she still looked like it was when I met her at the end of the eighties. Which eighties were they? Slowly something dawned on me, which I had for a long time displaced.