The Right Number

I happen to be stranded in one of the large European cities way up North. I believe it is Berlin. It is late fall; the trees extend their bare, smoky limbs in bizarre shapes into the air and rain has been drizzling down from the gloomy sky. I have been wandering through the streets for hours, or maybe days, who knows, searching for something…. somewhere. By now, with all the time I have been wandering around, my brain has lost track of what I was looking for. But the more I have been forgetting what it was, the more my search has grown intense and full of determination. My clothes are wet, and my mind is weary, and I certainly would like to arrive somewhere, if only because I deserve some rest. At one point I find myself standing in front of the city’s main railway station. In its monumental size and overwhelming presence, could it be the ultimate destination? “This must be the place,“ I exclaim, “I have been searching for all my life!” What could be more suited as a destination than a modern railway station with its vibrating cascades of lights and sounds, its pulsating streams of breaths, words and cries, its incessant strings of arriving and departing bodies and souls, and its promise to carry you immediately to any place of your desires? A truly cosmopolitan, multireligious temple, where one could connect to all corners of the land and possibly ascend to the sky? Moments later, voracious revolving doors and salivating escalators have sucked me inside. The warm, moist air flowing towards me, the tangible, human organisms surrounding me, give me a feeling of being inside a huge biological system, the spasmodic womb of a colorful dragon. There I am, with the hustle and bustle making me a bit dizzy, but I realize now that my mission is not finished yet. Not yet. In the distance I spot a yellow telephone booth that has been waiting for me, beckoning me. And see, nobody is inside, just as if it were reserved for me alone. I dash towards it, fling open the door and already cling to the receiver as if it were a lifeline, an umbilical cord. “When you pick up the phone,” it goes through my mind, “and somebody responds, you must identify yourself.” I grab the receiver and forget to dial a number, but, as I listen intensely, I hear a young woman cry at the other end, with quick, tiny, sharp sobs. “Where are you?” I whisper, “haven’t I been waiting for you forever?” As I am trying to say my name, my tongue becomes tied, my lips lame and my brain empty and no words want to come out of my mouth, while her sobs grow louder and longer and deeper and then, just when I want to break down and scream, I hear the operator’s voice saying, “This number is not in service at this time. Please hang up, check the number and dial again,” but I know already the number is right. It is the right number. © 2000 – 2024 Maniwolf – All rights reserved