Wrong Move (Falsche Bewegung)

WRONG MOVE

I want you to go away.

I'm selling out to a supermarket and will give you part of it.

No...

don't say anything, Wilhelm dear.

Wait till you have to.

And don't lose that unrest and discontent of yours.

You'll need it if you want to write.

I'll enjoy life from now on.

I'll be smoking when I cross the square.

I'll be drinking a martini in the Heider Hof

while reading your letters.

I'll say, “With ice, please,” when I order the martini.

I'm not desperate, just angry and fed up.

It's as if I had no tongue.

I haven't spoken for two days.

Yet in my sleep I'm talking all the time, says Mother.

I want to be a writer,

but is that possible when you don't like people?

If only I could write. Write!

Bye. Do you have an evening show?

No.

Janine.

I wanted to see you again.

I can't look at you in that outfit.

You've got something there.

No, here.

In the course of time...

The day I left my hometown, it seemed alive for the first time,

though only with the dreariness of those left behind.

Janine and my insult about her barkeeper outfit...

I had already forgotten.

Mother had packed my suitcase.

On top she had put two books:

Life of a Good-For-Nothing by Eichendorff,

and Sentimental Education by Flaubert.

I decided not to withdraw my arm if she'd link arms in the street,

as I 'd always do for passers-by.

In the taxi, she suddenly told me not to be intimidated

if people pointed out how useful a doctor or carpenter was

and how useless my life was.

People with restricted professions reminded her of dried-up snails.

I listened,

but my thoughts weren't with her anymore.

Your ticket.

In your other hand, Mother.

Why did you choose Bonn?

I leafed through the novel you read recently.

I'm fond of you, Wilhelm. Please don't forget me.

I left her to a fate I didn't believe in for myself.

I imagined the taxi driver asking her whether he should take her home.

By herself, she'd take the bus.

I felt like combing my hair in the train window,

but then I rather waited for the train to leave.

Later, somewhere else, I would remember her better

when she'd be far away.

I hated that thought and forgot it.

It was a nice, peaceful day.

The gulls that had screamed above the sea flew silently overland.

The canal we were passing was already a memory.

I began to think ahead,

intending to find out more about myself during this journey.

Someone's nose must have bled on the seat across from mine.

LIFE OF A GOOD-FOR-NOTHING by Joseph von Eichendorff

“Chapter One.

The wheel of my father's mill was once more turning and whirring merrily.

The melting snow trickled steadily from the roof,

and sparrows chirped and hopped about.

I sat on the doorstep and rubbed the sleep from my eyes.

It felt great in the warm sunshine.

Then Father came out of the house.

He'd been busy in the mill since daybreak,

and his nightcap... his nightcap was awry.”

Hey, what's that?

The woman who filled you with such longing...

is Therese Farner.

She's an actress.

You'll want to know why my nose is bleeding.

It is the memory.

Maybe I'll tell you about it at breakfast tomorrow.

You know the story of St. Januarius,

whose blood is kept in a church in Naples?

It becomes fluid once a year and stirs...

on the anniversary of his death.

Where are you going?

Bonn.

There's only one ticket.

No, you aren't dreaming.

Two tickets are missing.

You can pay for your companions on the train, of course.

Something terrible happened to me today.

Only half price for the girl!

I'm still confused.

When I had left the house, I noticed I'd forgotten my umbrella.

But no, I had opened it.

I had odd socks on too.

No, I can't do it. It was indescribable.

Was it raining?

No, that wasn't the point.

I recognize that salute from old newsreels.

Go on. Thank the gentleman for your ticket.

Have you decided on something?

I was thinking maybe minced veal, dumplings, and salad for three.

We'll drink a beer and an orange juice.

Eichinger - I mean the conductor - gave me a note for you.

“Carriage 83, compartment 3, window seat.”

It can only be for you. Certainly not for me.

What profession did you give?

I'm a singer.

And she's a street performer.

WRITER

Good night.

That afternoon, seeing the woman on the train

seemed a big adventure already.

I thought I'd regret it the rest of my life

if I didn't pursue it.

Get me 06351 -7270, please.

But now, in this ordinary room with its bulky bed,

plastic wastebasket, and neon light over the sink,

I was as deflated as my surroundings.

I was even practicing what I would say on the phone.

For example, “I'm dying to see you.”

I tried to shake off the compulsion. I would not start blabbing.

If she said nothing, I would say nothing too.

I looked down onto the square.

All of a sudden I had the urge to write.

It would take my mind off her.

This thought made the fear of a new person go away.

I wanted to get to know her voice.

I hoped it'd be as clear as her gaze at me on the train.

Afterwards I'd write, in great detail.

“For the last two nights I haven't dreamed.

I haven't cut my nails for over a week.

I've worn the same shoes for a month.

And I haven't thought about dying for years.

I've always felt everything would go on the same without me.

But since I met you, I know what's happening to me.”

Could you make a song from that?

If you let me have the poem.

I'll tell you my story soon.

Maybe tonight.

Just a hint. I ran in the 1936 Berlin Olympics.

The 100 meters race.

You refused to shake hands with Jesse Owens, just like your Führer.

I only got to the semifinals.

But...

I probably wouldn't have shaken a black man's hand.

And now?

We'd better go for a walk.

I wanted to start writing today for real.

But I dreamed so much last night

that it's impossible now to write about anything else.

And just writing about dreams is -

I want to write something that's absolutely necessary.

Necessary like a house...

or a glass of wine in the evening.

Even more necessary.

On the way here I noticed

that Germany still has landscapes.

I wanted to stop...

but kept on going faster.

I wanted to go for a walk with you,

leave the city.

We were just doing that.

I wanted to talk to you.

Nothing in particular. Just talk.

But suddenly -

You want to be alone with me?

Not now.

It's good -

it's good we have company. Otherwise it would be worse.

This way, I at least feel as if I had a secret.

Do you have any idea what pain is?

Do you pigs know how a plane rushes

through your brain?

This way!

So many things are strange to you.

I like that about you.

I don't think you could write otherwise.

What I don't like is...

that you think only you can be that way.

Grant that to others too.

Excuse me.

I heard you reciting poetry in the hotel today.

I write poetry myself,

so I followed you to ask you for your opinion.

May I recite something?

“I lay still half asleep

when I heard the bells ringing.

One struck so hard as if it struck me.

I was so miserable that my skin peeled off.

I felt I was not even a shadow in the entire cosmos.

It was terrible.

Like a jellyfish, without any form,

I was gliding through the spheres.”

Nobody's serving here.

“A child stepped on me

like on snail-infested, gelatinous, rotting mold.

I yearned to spurt myself into the gutter.

I belonged in a butcher shop,