Chapter 1
As soon as I step out of my apartment, I know immediately - it is one of those days.
One of those early spring days when the air still hasn’t lost its crispness, but is already gentler, with its quiet tenderness hinting at the warmth to come.
Berlin feels alive on days like these. And since today is my first free day after uninterrupted weeks of rehearsal, I am taking my recreational time seriously.
This means, I am heading to the coolest spot in the city. Alright, let’s be honest - the most chaotic. Tempelhofer Feld is the only place where you can find yourself in the middle of an improvised rave, then turn your head to the right and see an old man peacefully flying his kite, turn it to the left and watch barefoot children learning skateboard tricks.
There’s something about its respectful anarchy which feels magical to me. When I moved toBerlin five years ago, facing rejection after rejection at every possible theatre, it was one of the few places where I could find some peace. Every sunset made my soul feel a little lighter. So much that it even tricked me into thinking that the Little Prince and his obsession for sunset wasn’t that cheesy after all (thankfully, I’ve been cured of that now).
I am already savouring the magical atmosphere while I walk to the metro station. The jeans bag with my roller skates bumps heavy into my side while I walk down the stairs. A ridiculously upbeat 80′s song is playing a little too loud into my headphones while I am waiting on the platform, making me aware of the danger when it’s already too late.
The old woman with the duck hat sees me blocking her way, eyes burning with rage. I immediately try to step away, but she still manages to pull a strand of my hair and scream some very German improprieties at me.
I don’t even flinch. I’ve seen her here before, yelling at everyone who has been unfortunate enough to cross her path; her duck hat always tucked on her grey hair, her gaze constantly exuding disgust for every breathing being.
I turn into her direction as she walks past me, and I lock eyes with a man just a few steps away, his expression puzzled from the scene he has just witnessed.
Oh no.
I look at him.
He looks at me.
I know he’s going to be the next.
“Passen Sie auf!” I scream him to be careful.
He just keeps staring in disbelief, without moving. As perfectly predictable, the duck-hat lady starts swearing like a sailor and punches his chest, then calmly continues her way.
For a moment, he’s too stunned to speak. He silently opens and closes his mouth a couple of times, trying to find the right words to express the absurdity of what has just happened.
I break the silence first.
“Hatte ich doch gesagt” Told you!
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak German. I’m not from here” he replies in a thick Eastern European accent.
“Well, in this case, welcome to Berlin” a wry smirk curling to my lips.
“Thank you. Not exactly what I expected from my first day.” A low chuckle escapes his lips, then he pauses for a second. I look at him - he’s tall, broad shouldered, his posture elegant and composed. The soft, voluminous waves of his hazelnut hair compensate the sharpness of his facial features. There’s a quite authority in his presence; he looks like someone who doesn’t need to raise his voice to be heard.
“Maybe you can help me find my way? I want to see the Brandenburg Gate” he adds.
I pretend to be shocked. “Is this really how you plan to spend your first day here? Taking selfies in front of a big block of concrete?”
“First, I don’t take selfies. And second, the gate is made of sandstone, not concrete.” He shoots back, crossing his arms in front of his chest. His jaw clenches, as if he’s forcing himself to hold onto his dead serious expression. But when I look at his eyes, I catch a glimpse of amusement nbehind them, and I swear I can see the right corner of his mouth slightly move upwards. Oh, he’s enjoying it. This Slavic warlord loves some good banter.
“Whatever”, I shrug, “I think that there’s way better places if you want to discover something authentic about this city and its history”.
He raises an eyebrow, his arms still crossed. “Such as…?”
I beam. “Such as Tempelhofer Feld, right where I’m heading to right now!”
His gaze wanders around the station, maybe thinking if he should trust a random stranger who just witnessed him getting assaulted by a grandma in a duck hat. Then, he losens his arms: “alright, what could go wrong after all?” He exhales sharply from the mouth. “I think I’ve already reached the lowest point of my day a couple of minutes ago, so from now on it can just get better.”
“You have no idea”, I say with a smile, as we get together into the train.
______________
When we finally arrive, the sun is slowly starting to set. The horizon stretches endlessly before our eyes, and a warm, golden light glazes everything like honey. I inhale, as I take in the sense of freedom I had been craving after the last weeks of incessant work in the ballet studio. I stretch my arms open and spin around. “Here we are!” I almost shout, a little too enthusiastically even for me.
I turn to him, excited to see his reaction. I see his eyes wander around, observing quietly. His expression remains composed, unreadable. I can’t really assess the colour of his eyes; this light makes them appear like a dark shade of grey. Steel.
After a moment, he breaks the silence. “That’s it?” His voice couldn’t sound more unimpressed. “This is the place that was supposed to be better than your alleged block of concrete?” he asks, his cold gaze piercing directly through me.
My soul leaves the body for a moment, but I don’t let his first reaction shatter my confidence. He just needs a moment to get it, it’s alright.
“Yeah, that’s it!” I reply, trying to sound positive. “What’s not to like about a huge, abandoned Nazi airport that has been transformed into the city’s shared backyard?” I grab his arm and carry him down the small hill at the entrance, heading to the skates-park. I feel the muscles of his forearm tense under my fingers at the unexpected contact, but he doesn’t recoil. “Take a look around.” I wave towards the vibrant, messy crowd in front of us. Kites of all colours and shapes flying above our heads. “Everyone here is being themselves. No fear of judgment, just freedom. It’s a unique place! Don’t you see it?”
He chuckles dryly. “What I see” he continues, with the same blank voice as before “is people roller skating, riding bikes, jogging. You call it freedom. I call it a park.” He turns to me again as he stresses the last word. His thick accent makes his tone sound even flatter, almost like a robot.
I have many qualities, but patience is not among them. “Oh, come on!” I dramatically roll my eyes. “Are you allergic to catching a vibe?” I snap.
“I don’t catch vibes.” The word escapes his lips with a hint of disgust; he’s almost outraged by my question.
“Yes, and I can totally tell!” I mock him. God. Why I am I upset by his reaction? And why did I invite him to come with me in the first place? If he preferred to settle for some tourist traps, then this is what he’d deserved.
There’s a pause, and this is the moment I realize I never let go of his arm. And neither has he tried to free himself, even though he must think he has just been kidnapped by some crazy hipster.
Okay, I need to calm down. Fortunately, regaining my patience quickly is one thing I’m good at. “I get it. You don’t take selfies; you don’t catch vibes. But I do,” I tell him, my tone gentle again. “And today, I feel like sharing.”
He seems to relax slightly at my side, accepting my offer, and I’m unsure if he’s lowering his guard or just silently accepting his fate. We reach one of the red and white benches, and I sit down to wear my roller skates. As soon as I take them out of the bag, the setting sun reflects the colours of the rainbow on their silver surface.
When I get to my feet and begin skating towards him, I see the first trace of a genuine smile melt away the tension from his features. I feel something clenching in my chest at the sight of it. Perhaps it’s the softness of the light, or the flower-scented breeze intoxicating my senses, but he looks handsome - in an unusual way, like someone who’s difficult to read. Someone who can be a lot of different people at the same time, someone whose soul can’t be easily labelled.
“Jesus Christ” he says, scanning me “If you weren’t gripping my arm two minutes ago, I would think you’d only exist in some kind of movie. Like a cartoon or something.”
He hasn’t lost his attitude, but his tone is warmer now, playful.“And today you were accidentally chosen to co-star in a couple of scenes. Do you mind?” I ask him amused, skating my way backwards to face him.
He pretends to think, then shrugs. “I don’t know, I’ve never been casted in a cartoon. I’m more of an action-movie type of guy” he replies with a smirk.
“You don’t say. And what do you do apart from crashing expensive cars and chasing criminals?”
“Actually, this is what I am trying to figure out. I moved here for a fresh start” his tone shifts, getting serious again.
“Sounds like you chose the perfect place to do so.” I make a little spin, then face him. “Where are you from?”
“I’m Polish, but I’ve lived in the U.S. for over twenty years” he says with a sigh, as if he’s reluctant to give away more about himself for now. “What about you? You haven’t even told me your name” he points out.
“I’m Vanessa, born and raised in Italy. Now adoptive Berliner.” I offer him my hand. “Nice to m –“ before I can finish the sentence, a piece of gravel gets stuck in one of my wheels and I lose balance.
I am weightless for a moment in which my mind delights me with an out of body experience where I can see my bottom disastrously hit the ground right under his judgy steel-eyes. I can even anticipate the sassy laugh he will make while seeing me like this. But instead, his hand catches me. He wraps his fingers tightly around mine, while his other hand instinctively curls around my waist to steady me. He effortlessly pulls me forward to make me regain balance, but I end up stumbling against his chest. I can feel his big hand gently squeezing around mine - firm, warm, with soft callosities in his palm. A lightning strikes through my body at sudden contact. The steadiness of his muscles, the warmth of his body, his peculiar scent – it’s unexpectedly too much at the same time. He smells like coffee, cigarettes and sand.
He lingers for a moment that feels like an eternity, making sure I’m safely on my feet again, then he takes a step back. “So, Vanessa, born and raised in Italy. Are you always this dramatic or am I just lucky?” Before my brain cells can put together a coherent comeback, he adds “Nice to meet you too, by the way. I’m Władysław. Wanna take a seat maybe?”
“Why not.” I say, still catching my breath. “Can I call you Sław? You got a long name.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“Don’t even think about it.”
________
As we move to the short grass beside the skate rink, the sun is almost fully set – a molten yolk against the purple sky. We sit together quietly for a while, simply enjoying the view.
Władysław. His presence next to me feels like the most natural and the most absurd thing at the same time. I usually prefer coming here alone to unwind, with my headphones and roller-skates making me escape reality. Yet today, after I saw his puzzled expression in the metro and heard his strange accent, I felt an inexplicable pull towards him.
I try to study him without him noticing, letting the weight of his presence sink in. I see his eyes flicker to me for a second, then he sighs.
“It’s funny that you asked me what I do apart from chasing criminals,” he says while his fingers absently trace circles on his dark jeans. He pauses, eyes fixed on the fading sky. “Well, I was a sergeant in the U.S. Army. Spent some time in Syria.”
Shit. He’s done playing.
I find myself caught off guard by his sudden revelation, so unexpected after the playful tone we’ve had before. “Wow, Syria. Sounds… intense.” As soon as the sentence leaves my mouth, I think about how shallow my words must sound to him. Why the fuck are you this awkward, Vanessa. “I’m sorry, I never know what to say when someone comes up with something so personal.” I tilt my head slightly, searching his face. “But I’m glad you did. And I’d love to hear your story if you’re comfortable sharing.”
“There’s not much to say, actually.” He seems to ponder how much he’s ready to reveal, eyes fixed on the fading sky. “The time I spent there changed me; it turned me into someone I didn’t recognize.” He rubs a hand along his jaw. “I wasn’t always a soldier, you know. I had a completely different life before the war… and that’s what I am trying to get back to.”
He keeps tracing circles on his jeans, his index leaving the fabric darker with each stroke as his hands get sweatier. I don’t want to take him somewhere he’s not ready to go, even though I’m sure there’s a whole lot to say about it.
“Whatever it is, I’m sure you’ll make it.” I offer him a small smile. “Berlin has way of taking broken people and stitching them back together.”
“What makes you broken, Vanessa?” The question escapes his lips like an arrow.
“A gunshot would be less painful.” I answer dryly, looking at my palms.
He smirks. “It depends where it hits you. Upper arm? A piece of cake. Knee? You’d be seeing stars, believe me.” And for sure I do. He looks like someone who knows his shit when it comes to bullet wounds.
“Well, I carry my baggage, like everybody else. I came here escaping rejection. And I’m here to learn how to stop escaping.”
“And I’m sure you’ll make it, too” he murmurs with the softest voice I’ve heard from him.
As I adjust my position, our fingers barely graze on the grass. I see his eyes flicker for the briefest second to my lips, and the thought he may be considering me that way sends a delicious shiver down my spine. Is he thinking what I’m thinking?
I lean in just slightly, testing the waters, and he responds immediately. When I feel his breath ghosting over my mouth, the world around me goes still for a second; the sound of conversations and laughter coming muffled to my ears, like a broken record playing in a distant room. All I can feel is his warm, irregular breath against my skin. I part my lips, longing for his taste. We’re so close that his goatee slightly scrapes my chin.
But instead of closing the distance, he pulls back an inch. “You seem very young” he murmurs.
“I’m hitting thirty” my voice comes out shaky.
“Yeah? Well, I’m pushing sixty” his eyes wander around my face, seeking my reaction. Maybe expecting me to laugh at his face and walk away.
“Good” I reply holding his gaze, without pulling back.
He freezes for a second, as if trying to decipher whether I’m serious. In that moment, the last light of the day hits eyes – they burn with something raw, untamed, dangerous. A mischievous spark starting to build behind them.
Before I can even realize it, his thumb brushes over my cheek.It’s a featherlight touch, but enough to make my stupid heart miss a beat. Then finally, his lips meet mine.
It’s tentative at first, a silent question whispered above my mouth. He doesn’t press in yet, leaving me space to change my mind. My lips tremble, then I press in, hungry for more. He must feel it; he must feel the moment of my complete surrender. Because with his next movement, he cups my face with his whole hand, his grip firmer now, tilting my head to deepen the kiss. His tongue grazes mine, moving with slow, aching precision. His taste is faintly salty, smoky, like aged whiskey. He tastes like sun-soaked skin, like the desert heat, like something I’ve barely got to know but I’m already addicted to.
When we pull apart, both catching for air, he brushes his thumb above my tingling bottom lip and presses his forehead to mine. “Still good?” He asks with a low, slightly amused voice.
I bite my lip, savouring the remains of his taste on it. “No” I whisper. “Better.”
