Antje Rávic Strubel

Postal clerk Erik M. Broda, retired for three weeks, though still working part-time, eagerly awaits his female superior Simona’s arrival, so he can give her a special wink as he slams his cancellation stamp on the wrong side of a postcard to Mainz.

He doesn’t like the card. He has read hundreds of postcards like it in his career. Whenever he doesn’t like a postcard, he stamps the postmark wrong side up. Bad postcards are like female superiors. They gab a lot and then forget the most important things. The most important things for a postcard are: first, the stamp, second, the postal code, and third, the signature. The signature is missing on this time.

He covers the card with his left palm, so he’s just able to read the message, and pulls over a stack of thick envelopes in need of postmarking.

The stamp hovers in his fist halfway above the desk. That way he can slam it down if Simona came in by surprise.

Ever since she started working here, everything has changed. Back then, he could be sure nobody would disturb him.

Dear Haschi,

Unfortunately, I couldn’t find a funny postcard for you. All they’ve got are ones with sunsets or with Rübezahl, the mountain spirit, on the front. At least they’ve got super yummy dumplings and pancakes and gorgeous wild icicles. I’m drinking lots of mulled wine with Evy. I’d love to know what’s going on in her head, like you always knew with me. Bet she’d like that. But I don’t. Say hi to C., whoever he is. You’re a lot happier, since you’ve been together with him. Laughed more last time. Would love to be with you again, but could it work after all these years?

The card makes him angry. There was enough space for a signature. What angers him most, though, is that the card had obviously been written by a man. He admires women. They are completely perfect beings, right from the start, they help him differentiate one day from the next; they give him a rhythm, like Simona with her irregular visits to his office. But he doesn’t expect precision from women. They’ve overtaken us, he thinks, but they’ll never take over. He imagines they’ll just keep climbing higher than him in the future. Tower over him. But they’re standing on a scaffold with nothing beneath them. And they keep staring downward. They get so scared, they can’t move.

Erik M. Broda leans his head back. The leather headrest connects coolly to his neck, as if the chair had been moulded to his head.

The glass pane on the office door is turning black, ripple by ripple. Erik M. Broda tips his chair forward, slams the stamp on the card to Mainz, and sweeps it into the open carton next to the desk.

“Domestic mail?”

Simona always flings the door wide-open when she enters the room, as if she expected someone to bar her entry. She wears tight, gray, ankle-length skirts that force her to take tiny steps. But the sound emanating from her stiletto heels more than compensates for it. She’s the only one here, who wears long skirts and stilettos. They’re completely out of fashion. The waitress and salesgirls across the street at the Potraviny wear skirts barely larger than a standard, medium-sized envelope and shiny flesh-coloured stockings.

“Still in the sorting machine.”

“At the last staff meeting we agreed that domestic mail must be processed first because it’s business mail and business comes first. Weren’t you present?”

The last button of her skirt is open. He can tell because she’s wearing a blouse over her skirt, and it leaves a small bulge at the hip. He knows exactly why she wants to get rid of the domestic mail first.

“Sure, I was there. I thought the resolution wasn’t going to be enforced until next month. To give the employees a chance to adjust.”

“Including you, there are four of us working here. And I don’t know of anyone, except for you, who needs a full month to remember that domestic mail needs to be processed before postcards.”

“To be honest, Simona,” he says, pausing. “I don’t think much of you resolution.”

“I don’t care what you think about it. It has been decided by majority vote. And you will pleas comply.”

“Do you really believe it will make such a difference?”

“It will make the distribution more efficient. If you didn’t pay so much attention to what your female colleagues are wearing, you’d have realized as much.” “Everything is dispatched at night. It makes no difference whether the letters are processed in the morning or at noon.”

It’s getting warm in the room. He can take off his jacket now.

“It makes the in-house dispatch more efficient.”

“I thought it very efficient as it was.”

“Erik, you heard me. In one hour I want the mail in the delivery room.”

She exits much too quickly. Her perfume leaves a delicate trail extending from the door to the edge of his seat. If he leans over the armrest, he can smell it. He’d have liked her to keep going. Then his favourite part would come, when he winks at her and she turns red, just a little.