The first time I passed by, she was crying softly, enveloped by the man who was consoling her.
She was dark, an immigrant perhaps. He was also dark-skinned, a black man who I guessed was from Africa. Who knows where we pick up these clues to origin. Of course, I could be totally wrong because I really can't tell you why I assumed the things I did. I can try to explain, but these are just assumptions, nothing concrete or verifiable.
He was black but not an African American or German. He was too thin for that, with a face that was thin also, with high cheekbones. His clothes looked foreign as well, thin-threaded and too short at the ankles. The woman's hair was very black, but straight and long. I didn't notice this about her hair....that it was straight and long..... until the second time I walked by. When I first passed them I couldn't see her face because her face was in her hands and she was doubled over with the backs of her hands on her knees, sobbing. The man's arms encircled her almost completely and he was quietly talking to her.
I had ordered a milchekaffee and was looking for a bench in the Schlossplatz, a huge square between the New Palace and the Konigsbau, a vast arcaded and columned building facing the Palace across the plaza. The plaza is of monumental size, I don't know, maybe 300 yards across in each direction, maybe more. There are grand-scale monuments with statues and fountains and probably 30 benches encirling the main area. There are also benches off to the side, their backs to the streets that run on the sides of the Schlossplatz. This is where the couple was sitting, on the side. When I find a bench about 30 yards away from them, I must turn and look over my right shoulder if I try to glance back at them.
All of the benches are full when I reach the plaza. People come here to meet, to talk, to smoke cigarettes, to pause for lunch. I see people eating kebabs, or many times, even though it seems incongrous, eating chinese take-out from little white cartons. Sometimes bicyclists stop here for a break, drinking water from the bottles stored on their bike frames. I once saw a couple, there at the Schlossplatz, with a bottle of champagne and two champagne glasses, pouring, toasting and sipping in celebration and happiness.
Even in cold weather, people gather here. But this day is beautiful, especially for the middle of winter. It's still cold enough that you need to wear a coat, but it's warm enough to feel the faint winter sun if you pay attention and think about it.
I sit down as a group leaves a bench and I start to sip my coffee. It's then that I start to hear the crying woman, for now she is sobbing loudly enough that I can hear her from where I'm sitting quite a distance away. It's hard not to look. I do sneak a couple of quick glances as I notice people on the other benches doing the same. This is so very un-German, showing emotion, crying, out loud, in public.
I find her sadness very riveting and disturbing. And it continues, not really building in volume, but continuing, none the less, for quite a while, to be heard above the general street sounds.
I feel alarmed as I wonder what this is all about. I'm worried for her and viscerally feel a wrenching concern. At first, when I saw her in passing the first time, I assumed it was a relationship issue, a break-up probably. Briefly flickering through my mind is an unwanted pregnancy or the loss of an unborn child. But now, as the crying goes on and on, I wonder if she has lost a friend, or even a family member. I am imagining, I suppose because I have type-cast the man to be from Africa, that she has just learned that a brother or father in Africa have become infected with AIDS. Or a younger sibling has died from some terrible disease. Or her own child is in some sort of trouble. Maybe it's the man himself, the one who is consoling her, who is terribly sick.
About the time I finish my coffee, she has quieted. I get myself ready to head to the train station and home, throwing away the coffee cup, winding up my scarf, putting on my gloves. Then I walk back the way I came, towards her bench. I would love to take a photo, but I wouldn't want to get so close as to invade her personal sadness and privacy.
But as I walk by, the young woman has lifted her face.....not an African face, but more of a Pakistani or Turkish face. She's no longer crying at all. She and the man are eating Chinese take-out. With chopsticks.
If any of those terrible things had been true, it would be impossible to eat Chinese take-out.......wouldn't it?
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