Elke had a way of setting things in motion without you realizing it. She wasn't a woman who asked for things - she made suggestions that felt like facts. You didn't have the feeling that she was pushing you, and yet you moved in her direction, like a leaf in a stream that believes itself to be drifting.
She had just turned fifty and you couldn't tell. Not just because she looked good - she had an attitude that was ageless. She was one of those women you could picture equally well at every stage of life: as a child who upset adults with clever questions, as a teenager who knew what she wanted early on, as an adult who led others with her calmness without ever getting loud.
Elke looked and acted very differently to me. I always said we just fit together. She accepted decisions, but she was consciously different. And she was a woman who wouldn't be put off.
The rhythm of Sundays was to become Elke's gift. She was there every Sunday at 4 p.m. on the dot. I couldn't always make it, I had other appointments, I was separated from joy and sorrow. A child was very intense for my real 4s.
Sometimes it was a message, sometimes a phone call. It was never a question that could simply be answered with “No”. She didn't just write: “Are you free?” - She wrote:
“I'm cooking something you'll like today.”
“There's some red wine you should try.”
“The sky looks like it wants to tell us a story today.”
These were sentences that left room. Sentences that weren't demanding, but couldn't be ignored either. She had a way of turning a simple invitation into something that didn't feel like a simple invitation.
I often declined. Not out of disinterest, but out of a feeling that I couldn't quite grasp. Elke and I were different - not in our interests, not in our conversations, but in something deeper. In the way we looked at things. We never talked about politics, sport, movies, literature. We have our sports, but we can't share anything with each other. Recently we were in a distant city, I had a very big difference and we didn't see each other together. My work is very different from hers.
I was reserved. I thought before I acted. I didn't let myself drift.
Elke was different. She didn't wait.
The house on the edge of the big city certainly had its advantages, but this way was unusual. At some point, I got involved. Perhaps because her persistence had its own logic. If someone never gives up, at some point you wonder why.
Her house was outside the city on a slope overlooking the fields. It was big, but not ostentatious. Old, but not dilapidated. It had a character that hadn't been created by interior designers, but by years of living.
When I arrived, the door was open. I hesitated for a moment, then stepped inside.
The scent of spices was in the air. Herbs, cinnamon, something that smelled faintly of smoke. The fireplace was burning.
Elke was standing in the kitchen, an apron tied around her, a glass of wine next to her. She turned around as if she had been expecting me.
“There you are.” No surprise, no question. Just an observation.
“Yes,” I said.
She took two plates from the shelf and placed them on the table with a matter-of-factness that made me pause for a moment. She hadn't asked me to stay. She had simply set the table.
The food was excellent, as always. She didn't just cook, she created. Her hands moved as if they were following a melody that only she could hear. She didn't speak much, but she looked at me with that look that sometimes made me uncomfortable.
“You think too much,” she said at one point.
“And you not enough?”
A slight smile. “I think when I need to. But not when I already know what I want.”
I took a sip of wine. It was strong, heavy, left a warmth in my stomach. It was getting dark outside. The wind blew around the house.
“The guest room is ready,” she said quietly. No invitation. Not a request. Just another statement.
I didn't say anything. But I knew Elke wouldn't give up.