This page was entered manually from the paper originals on 27 March 2017 and 28 March 2017. Items in italics, like this, were added
at this time. And yes, there are only 5 entries, and the first two pages are in German.
Ich habe ein Mädchen kennengelernt. Warum ist sie denn anders als die vielen Mädchen, die
ich sonst kennengelernt habe? Ich weiß es nicht; vielleicht liegt der Grund nur in meinem
Sinn, oder in den Verhältnissen, in denen wir uns kennengelernt haben. Sie
heißt Mechtild Friebel, kein gewöhnlicher
Name; kein gewöhnliches Leben hat sie gelebt. Kann sie mir die Lebensfreude im ganzen
zurïckbringen, die ich vor Jahren kannte? Anders ist sie bestimmt; seitdem ich Teen Rozalla
kennenlernte, war ich daran gewohnt, mit jedem Mädchen zu schlafen, fast sofort nachdem ich
sie kennenlernte; das wollte ich heute nacht freilich auch; aber jetzt, da sie nach Hause
gegangen ist, und ich zu Hause bin, fühle ich mich anders. “Immer mit der Ruhe” - aber das
ist nicht mehr was Wichtigste, mit ihr ins Bett zu kommen. Wir habe die ganze Nacht bei
einem Popkonzert verbracht, was ich sonst nie ertragen kann - heute hat es auch nicht gerade
meine Seele gerührt, wenn doch (wegen der Lautstarke) meinen Magen; doch hatte ich Freude
daran, mit ihr zu sein und zu sprechen: das ist schon für mich etwas Seltenes. Morgen?
Tomorrow I may be myself with yesterday's seven thousand years. Hat Martin Garogan (“the
poet”) Selbstmord begangen? Heute war ich mit Mr. Clark und Ross Charnock zum ersten mal in
seinem Haus; Mr. Clark sagte, dass man neben seiner Leiche verschiedene Flaschen Tabletten
gefunden habe; ob die Schlaftabletten waren? Da sah ich auch eine einzige Photo von ihm,
als Acolyte in einer Kirche. Was macht denn die Einsamkeit einem Menschen? Martin war
bestimmt einsam; wenn ich ihn nur doch zum Tee eingeladen hätte! Werde ich zu so einem
einsamen, alten Mann? Gott hilfe mir! Und
kann Mechtild helfen, entweder jetzt, indem
sie meine Gedanken auf andere Bahnen steurt, oder auf die Dauer? Das weiß ich natürlich
noch nicht; kann ich das schließlich wissen, bevor ich sterbe? Was brauche ich a) vom Leben
und b) von einer Frau? Etwas davon
hat Mechtild, was es auch sein mag.
Es geht weiter! Heute war meine Party, und obwohl ich bis 1330 schlief und daher die
Orchesterübung verpaßte, ging alles sonst gut. Wie immer mußte ich abends der Party wegen
herumlaufen, doch einmal, als wir nach Hause kamen, ging alles ganz gut. Wie schön ist es
doch, von einer zu lernen, die man gern
hat! Mecki heißt die jetzt, schon viel
leichter auszusprechen als Mechtilde, wenn
auch ohne die Feierlichkeit dieses Namens. Mir scheint sie schon auch anders; sie ist wohl
Jungfrau, küßt ohne Zunge, die Brüste sind nur zum Darübersprechen da, nicht zum Antasten:
nicht verkäuflich (oder verlieblich!). Oder? Aber was heißt Verkaufen? Kaufen will ich
doch nicht - nur eventuell zum Tode lieben. Und was heißt eventuell? Ein deutsches Wort,
das ich nie verstand. Mecki könnte ich
aber ganz gut verstehen. (Warum schreibe ich, wenn ich betrunken bin? Weil
ich Mecki so gern habe!) Sie ist
katholisch, was Pravin nicht versteht (bevor er
losfuhr, waren wir 6: 4 Katholische, ich und
Prav: er hat ziemlich viel über Religion gesagt,
zu viel schon - Schade. Den habe ich auch gern (Gott sei Dank auf anderer Weise!). Und
ich? Morgen soll ich mit Mecki in die
Kirche! Greater love hath no man than this, that a man should lay down his life for a
friend. Größere Liebe habe ich auch nicht, als eine Jungfrau lieb zu halten!
God, what's going on? What is life? Have I ever come to the last break in my right-hand
life-line? I think, looking back on it, 4 days with Linda was enough, especially as I was
juggling her with Mecki - and then she goes
and tells me I am too monogamous for her. But Linda never struck me as being an expert at
epée fencing. On the other hand, my feelings and ideas
about Mecki are now much more concrete; not
only is she a virgin, but an inexperienced one; equally, she adores me, one of the main
reasons why I think I shall let Linda go the way of all flesh.
And then these Ugandan Asians!
I somehow didn't think, yesterday, that I would feel so much for their plight; I still don't
think I would have, had it not been for the fact that I can identify so strongly with them;
to think that Dilip Patel could get out of the Mini-bus yesterday and withing 5 minutes see
2 acquaintances and 1 good friend (Sebastian, who bears an uncanny resemblance to Ephreme
Joseet).
It's things like that, and the stories they
tell: Arun Vadgama tells me they had 4 cars - good enough by itself, but they were 3
Mercedes and a
1934 Rolls; his parents were
here only 2 months ago, giving more in tips than they now get (from the state!) for
everything. Yesterday he saw his father sweeping the kitchens - he said he could hardly
believe his eyes. What I admire, though, is that they all (including Arun) are so cheerful
- he did say a lot of people keep to the huts - though that might be as much the cold as
anything. And I have a card, given me by Narendra Chaturbhai Patel, proclaiming him as
Director of Chaturbhai L. Patel & Co, Radios, Bata Shoes & Bosch Refrigerator - and
now as much as he can direct are the bog cleaners. If they were just Tamil cattle, I would
feel sorry, but Pravin or that lot wouldn't be
out of place there - in fact, one of the problems yesterday was that people kept
taking Prav, Bhupa, Dilip and Dinesh as refugees
- and how to tell that they weren't? If I hadn't known them, I wouldn't know, and names are
no help: every other person is called Patel, and I've come across at least one Pravin and
Dilip. God, what a come-down. And there I am, with no more worries than
teaching Mecki the meaning of love before
we're too old to enjoy it, and preventing people puking in the M & D after seeing
“Soldier Blue” (at which, I
think, we made a net profit of £25 - 30).
Oh my God, how could I have ever thought I knew anything about life? The more I get to know
Mecki - and now she seems much less the
mature prototype Kraut (well, obviously, as far as prototype goes; but mature) as the
obedient little girl who obviously adores me; the through of the extent of that adoration
almost brings tears to my eyes; am I really worthy of her? All I know is that I can now
feel less malice towards Sue Fortescue, and
I can think of her without pain; I've told
Mecki about her, and she has been
remarkably benevolent as well. Poor Sue. Have
I ruined her life? Or has she? Or have I mad (obliquely) a real (i.e. non-Pom) person of
her? But
Mecki; she has obviously never had a
serious relationship with a man, but it's happening now, and tonight she finally learnt to
use her tongue in kissing, which pleases me much more than any territorial advances on her
body. Oh Mecki; can I say I love you? I
have done; but what does it mean; basically,
after Sue, it means that I can murmur “I love
you” at such times as I have been used to in the past. But I could
love Mecki; she adores me, but I think she
could love me too. Certainly absent are the vices that so upset me
in Sue: dishonesty, slovenliness, and a certain
undirected randiness.
From the perspective of 2017, these accusations surprise me. But possibly the
“dishonesty” was the shock I had when I found she had cleared out our joint bank account
when we broke up.
The thing now is to find what her vices are; the only one I can find so far is a certain
liking for jump-type dancing (she does like pop music, but not so much the objectionable
stuff as the melodious stuff which is a poor but more readily comprehensible substitute for
serious music; and she shows a notable willingness to learn serious music). She told me
tonight, after dismissing me early and unwillingly in favor of “Great Expectations (yes, she
did make an ambiguous and undecipherable pun about it!), to bring the jumper that I have
been wearing for 4 days (and she knows how
long!) and she would wash it for
me. Mecki, I think
I do love you. And now
the Home Office tell me I am not
allowed to work in this country; a month ago I would have welcomed the opportunity to
return home; and
now? Mecki, what to do?
So Mecky and I somehow ended up at the
Hole in the Wall having makan before
going to take some night shots in High St. Eventually we got round to setting up the 3pod,
and after about 2 minutes' exposure the inevitable curious passer-by came and had a look;
the difference was that this one knew my name, and on closer examination proved to
be Guy Belsham, much to my astonishment
- Mecky says my first words were “Fuck me -
Colin Belsham!”, which give some idea how taken aback I was.
I had thought that Colin was the name of Guy's father, an important client of my
father, but that, too, was incorrect: that was Alan Belsham.
Went to the Ship for a drink, despite prior commitment at Chaplaincy, Guy has been living here for a year,
having found female availability round here very much to his liking. Invited him to the
party planned for next Saturday.
