By the time we reach our room at the Hecker’s Hotel,
we’ve finished the last leg from Hong Kong via Frankfurt.
The front office manager welcomes us back
and confirms our table at Cassambalis
for the next three evenings straight.
He offers to carry our bags and show us the room.
My husband declines.
He knows the hotel well.
Matthias, the director, is an old friend from Cornell.
Inside, I have my husband open the suitcases
and pass me our things.
Minutes later,
our clothes are hung.
Our toiletries placed.
My space arranged.
He knows not to ask
before I'm done.
He suggests a shower and a quicky.
I accept the shower.
I decline the quicky,
but have him rub cream on my bum and back.
Into the tattoo I had needled in Hong Kong,
across my tailbone,
after abuse, violence, hospitals, and the abortions
I was forced to have in Melbourne.
I couldn’t stay silent while the ink went in.
The other people in the tattoo studio thought I was having multiple orgasms.
I need to call home.
I need to check on the girls and the nanny.
I need to eat.
In the taxi to KaDeWe
I tell him to call Matthias
and invite him for lunch.
I call home.
I take his arm
and have him guide me through the department store
up to the food hall
for wine, oysters, and bouillabaisse.
The market hall is packed.
I position him behind a couple paying for their meal.
I tell him to get those seats and order a Chablis and sparkling water for me.
I’m still on the call
when I hand him my phone
so he can video-call the girls at home.
Over lunch
I confirm with him
who’s coming for dinner
and which night.
I tell him:
“You don’t really need me at ITB tomorrow.
You have fun with Matthias.”
I plan my day of shopping.
By the time we get back to the hotel
he’s hovering,
unfocused,
not listening.
He suggests a quicky before dinner.
I say,
“Why do men always want it?”
I send him to the bar
to wait for me
and his mother’s brother
arriving from Hamburg.
When I’m alone in our room
I remember the first time
he and I stayed at this hotel.
The first time we ate at Cassambalis.
Not affianced.
Not married.
Not parents.
We had two of his old friends
waiting for us for dinner at Cassambalis.
I said something.
He slapped me hard.
I screamed.
I punched.
I hit and kicked him as strong as I could.
Matthias appeared in our room and said:
“Your guests are waiting for you.
When you are ready.”
When I join him at the bar at Cassambalis,
he’s already drinking champagne with Matthias.
The restaurant is full.
The headwaiter's hair has turned grey over the years.
He welcomes me back and nods towards our usual table along the wall with a wink and knowing smile.
Matthias stands.
Pulls me into a hug.
“Na?” he says.
“How are the girls?”
The next day I take for the house.
I walk Berlin alone while the boys are at ITB.
KaDeWe again. By myself.
Cosmetics,
German creams I can’t get in Hong Kong.
Haribo for him.
Liquorice too.
Salamis,
hams,
German bread with thick dark crust.
By the time I return to the hotel
the bags are heavy,
my fingers turning blue.
He's at the bar with our dinner guests waiting for me.
The next time we were in Berlin it was for work.
We stayed in a suite at the Hecker’s Hotel.
I got pregnant before breakfast.
Before pan-fried potatoes and bacon finished with scrambled eggs poured on top.
Before meetings.
Before anything else mattered.
We pitched our startup
to a VC
after six months of due diligence
and filling the roles they wanted full time.
That afternoon
we were onboarding clients
when the call came.
No investment.
One of the partners did not like
that we worked remote
from Beijing
to Cape Town
to Hamburg
and back to Hong Kong.
This was pre-Covid.
By then
I had already put one million euros
of my own money
into the company.
When we left Berlin
he went quiet.
Pheby was born
that November.
Later,
the company failed.
We left Hong Kong
to restructure,
to move time zones,
to save cost,
to rebuild our life.
The last time I was in Berlin it was with him.
We returned to the Hecker’s Hotel, closed for years since Covid.
We’re the only guests.
Matthias brings us to the room he prepared for us,
through the car park entrance.
The main entrance is closed.
A few days before Christmas.
For him it was the first flight he took since we moved to Europe.
We mostly drive.
From Portugal to Biarritz,
Paris,
Hamburg,
Weimar,
Monaco,
Cortona,
Sevilla.
We were in Berlin for two days.
French wine and oysters at KaDeWe.
Pho for lunch.
At the Haribo store I showered him with liquorice.
At Spar and DM I stocked up on groceries and creams.
At the post office we sent it all back home to Porto.
At the Christmas market we huddled close for warmth.
At Cassambalis we shared a crispy duck.
Upstairs in our room we curled together,
heavy with food,
tired from walking.
He’s full, but I let him wait until morning.
Our last day in Berlin we spent with Matthias.
Breakfast across the road.
Lunch at Funky Fish.
Coffee and cakes at a busy Konditorei across from the pho place,
all marble tables, heavy forks, and people who come every week.
The trains weren’t running.
Matthias got us onto a FlixBus to Hamburg and drove us to the terminal.
