Sabine Harbeke

i told her i could barely understand what she was saying. very barely. what was i supposed to do, i could neither run nor call back. she was talking of an inexplicable breach of trust, unexpected and unbelievable. after so many years. and i walked within this mass of disappointed, loud people in a direction in which i didn’t want to go, because nothing else was possible. i was delighted when i saw the telephone booth. i’ll quickly go into the telephone booth with my phone, i said. it’s quieter in here, and i can talk loudly without restraint. she quickly laughed. the last sunrays shone through the glass, the inside was protected from the wind and it was warmer than outside. i thought, finally. finally something like calmness, maybe i can prevent the worst.

maybe i can – suddenly those curly hairs against the pane. someone presses a girl against the phone booth. 16, 17, 18 years old. then she is lying on the ground, not even half a metre away from my feet. he kicks her belly again and again, as if he wanted to kick a baby out of it. i scream, want to intervene. but he is standing over her, holding the door shut and kicking her. the people hurry past the phone booth left and right, don’t see anything, don’t hear anything. holy shit. i have to get out. have to. ever since, yes, ever since, things are different. my therapist says, you understand how the world works. i shake my head and think, the one who sang haydn in the church choir was someone else, not me.
(Sabine Harbeke, April 2007)