The Taste of Apple Seeds Read Online Free PDF

the kitchen but could only be seen from it. The willow branches brushed against my head and the handlebars. I pushed the bike past the steps, then to the right along the house, ankle-deep in forget-me-nots. On one of the hooks by the front door I had found a flat stainless-steel key, and because the only new door was the galvanized gate at the end of the drive, I tried it out. The key turned willingly and then I was standing on the pavement.
    After passing the petrol station I veered left onto the pathway to the lock; on Hinnerk’s heavy bike I almost skidded on some sand in the bend, but recovered at the last moment and started pedaling more firmly. The springs beneath the leather saddle squeaked cheerfully as the asphalt gradually became riddled with potholes and soon turned into a gravel farm track. I knew this path, which went in a straight line through the cow pasture. I knew the birch trees, the telegraph poles, the fences—no, lots of them must be new, obviously. I also thought I recognized the black pied cows, but that was complete nonsense, of course. As I cycled, the wind buffeted my dress; although it was sleeveless, I still felt hot as the dark material absorbed the sun’s heat. For the first time since I had arrived I felt I could breathe again.
    The path continued straight ahead, sometimes dipping a little, sometimes rising; I closed my eyes. They had all been down this path. Anna and Bertha riding in a carriage, wearing white muslin dresses. My mother, Aunt Inga, and Aunt Harriet on Rixe ladies’ bikes. And Rosmarie, Mira, and me on the same Rixe bikes, which rattled dreadfully and whose saddles were too high, which meant that most of the time we had to cycle in a standing position to avoid dislocating our hips. But we would not have lowered the saddles for anything: it was a matter of honor. We used to cycle in old dresses belonging to Anna, Bertha, Christa, Inga, and Harriet. The headwind would billow the light blue tulle and the black organza, and the sun reflected in the golden satin. We would fasten up our clothes with pegs so that they didn’t get caught up in the chains. And we would cycle barefoot to the river.
    You were not supposed to ride for too long with your eyes closed, not even in a straight line. I almost scraped a cow fence; it wasn’t much farther now. In the distance I could already see the wooden bridge over the lock. On the bridge I stopped, holding on tightly to the railings without taking my feet off the pedals. No one there. Two sailing boats were moored to the jetty, metal clanking quietly against the masts. I got off, wheeled the bike from the bridge, unclipped the basket, left the bike on the grass, and walked down the slope. The ground didn’t fall away steeply to the water; instead it formed a gentle bank, overgrown with reeds. We used to spread out our towels where we could, but over the years it had become so overgrown that I now chose to sit on one of the wooden jetties.
    My feet were dangling in blackish-brown water. Bog water. How white they looked, and unfamiliar. To distract myself from the sight of my feet I tried to read the names of the boats. One of them was called “Syne,” but that was just a part of it, a wreck of a name. I couldn’t make out the name of the second one; it was facing the other side of the river. Something with “-the” at the end. I lay on my back and left my unfamiliar feet where they were; the lock smelled of water, meadow, mustiness, and wood preservative.
    How long had I slept? Ten minutes? Ten seconds? I was freezing. I took my feet out of the water and reached above my head for the basket. What my fingers touched wasn’t brittle wickerwork but a trainer. I wanted to scream, but all that came out was a groan. I rolled straight onto my stomach and pushed myself up. Silver dots were floating before my eyes and there was a whooshing in my head, as if the lock gate beside me had just opened. The sun glinted, the sky was white, white.