Chapter Text
2005, 1 year before meeting Helen, 20 years before the Joining
Carol applied for the residency on a whim, she’d been drunk and an old friend she hadn’t seen or heard from in years emailed her out of the blue with a link to some Berlin based writing program. She’d been shocked when she received her acceptance, mostly because she didn’t remember applying.
She decided to go because she’d never left the United States and was looking for any reason to quit her current job, where she was filing documents for an accountant who had no concept of dental hygiene or basic manors. The plane ride was horrible, she was seated in the very last row of economy with a crying baby. She got no sleep, despite the Ambien she took to help and arrived jetlagged and drowsy. Finding her newly sublet apartment had been just as bad, half of the buildings weren't marked with a number, and when she tried asking for help she managed to find the only Germans in the country who didn’t speak a word of English.
When she finally made it inside, she dropped all her shit in a pile by the door and threw herself down on the couch and promptly fell asleep. When Carol woke up, the sun was rising, shining directly into her eyes and jolting her awake. She sat up on the couch, elbows on her knees as she pushed her palms into her eyes, she ground her face down into them, trying to wake herself up. Finally, she pushed her hands back, running them through her shoulder length hair, letting out a loud breath as she looked over at her bags and began unpacking. The apartment wasn’t huge but it was cosy, a bedroom, bathroom, kitchen and small living room.
Carol’s first few days in Berlin were rough, it wasn’t the loneliness, she was used to that. It was the fear, at home she had her places and she'd go to them with a clear routine. Places no one looked at her funny or knew her or god forbid her mother. Here she had no clue where was safe, where was friendly. But, here, no one ever looked at her, she’d wander the streets nearly all day, everyone was busy or busy not being busy, the streets and cafes were always full of groups arguing loudly about this or that. The noise was helpful at drowning out her self pitying, the ability to disappear was even better.
The residency began on her fourth day in Berlin. In a run down old building, the facade littered with graffiti and signs posted in every window, most in German, one in English, “HOPE,” with Obama’s face above it. Carol huffed out a laugh and walked up the front steps, wadding through a group of twenty somethings all smoking out front and talking amongst themselves.
The first day was introductions, there were 10 people in the residency program, the goal being to continue developing your current work with the aid of your peers and the residency leads. Carol gets put in a discussion group with four other people, Linus a German performance artist, Mariana a Spanish poet, Miles a British autofiction writer and Eve an Australian experimental fiction writer.
The five of them are told to trade their pieces and spend the next hour or two reading and making notes for one another. Carol grabs a seat on a windowsill that looks down over a courtyard in the middle of the building. Occasionally she looks out the window for a break, at one point she locks eyes with Miles who sits in the courtyard leaning back on one hand, the other holding a cigarette to his lips. He stares up at her with some unfamiliar but knowing glint in his eye, he brings the cigarette up to his lips, leaving it there before he holds his hand up and wiggles his fingers in her direction arching his back playfully as he does. Carol immediately averts her eyes, uncomfortable for reasons she could but will not define.
When the group comes back together they spend the rest of the day going over each other's pieces, they speak animatedly about each other's prose and concepts, each of them leaving with a list of at least 10 new books to read. Sometimes they get heated, Carol and Linus get into it about the proper use of a semicolon on no less than three occasions. Mariana, Linus, and Miles argue over each other, each speaking a different language about some obscure celebrity Miles has included in his story, claiming to have met them years ago (Carol makes a note to google whoever they are talking about later).
When their first session ends Carol packs her bag, her whole body vibrating with this unbearable and humiliating excitement to return tomorrow with fresh pages.
As she makes her way back through the smokers outside who don’t seem to have moved all day, a voice calls out to her, “Carol!” Miles jogs up to her, “Come get a drink with us! There’s this bar down the street Linus says has the perfect atmosphere for ‘literary debate’ whatever that means,” His British accent lilting as he speaks Linus’s words, tone dripping with fond sarcasm. She sees the rest of the ground standing a few paces away watching her speak with Miles.
“Just one drink.” Carol says firmly, not wanting to be a buzz kill and also needing a drink desperately.
Two hours later Carol has had 2 vodka sodas and is working on a third while debating with Mariana about which of Ann Carson’s books is objectively better. Mariana keeps slipping into Spanish with Carol doing her best to keep up considering her limited vocabulary. Carol feels more alive than she has in years, screaming in broken Spanish with a near stranger about books. Far away from everyone who has ever known her or will ever know her. As their conversation reaches a natural lull they return to the rest of the group, who have spread out on two couches that face each other with a coffee table between them. Linus is rolling a cigarette, one already rolled but unlit, hangs from his lips as Eve, clearly very drunk, is mumbling unintelligibly in his ear. Mariana throws herself down on the couch next to Miles who is seated next to and talking to the most beautiful woman Carol has ever seen.
Miles is talking animatedly, his hands moving wildly through the air in some description that Carol can’t make out. The woman is leaned forward, her elbows on her knees as she flips through some book she must have picked up off the coffee table. She doesn’t seem to be paying any real attention to Miles but is nodding her head along, her dark hair swaying with the movement, catching in the low light of the bar. She throws the book back onto the table and leans back on the couch crossing her arms, her gaze briefly returning to Miles’ but moving on as quickly.
Her eyes stop on Carol, who has been unable to tear herself away. The woman has sharp features and cheekbones that could cut glass. Her hair is cut just above her shoulders falling in slight waves, on the right side it’s tucked behind one of her ears revealing a litany of piercings. She wears a black long sleeve button up loose on her and buttoned all the way up and a pair of matching black trousers. On her feet are a pair of healed slip-on boots. One of her sleeves is rolled up showing a delicate silver bracelet, the woman's fingers are tracing gently over it as she watches Carol watch her. But the most mesmerizing thing about her is her eyes, they’re these deep pools of warm brown, both of them so full of emotion, Carol could stare into them for hours just trying to decipher a single moment.
Realizing that she has been staring, Carol quickly looks away and pretends to be interested in whatever Eve is trying to say to Linus who stopped trying to make sense of her hours ago. Eve jumps at the opportunity for fresh ears. Her heavy Australian accent and drunkenness along with Carol’s drunkenness making it nearly impossible to understand for either of them. While Carol tries desperately to focus on Eve she can feel the woman’s gaze burning into the side of her head. The woman hasn’t looked away once.
Carol feels a familiar nausea rising, the feeling of being caught, the girls in the locker room all avoiding her, not wanting to “catch it” from her. She gets up and goes to the bar to escape, she downs her next drink and indicates for another from the bartender. Miles comes crashing into her side as her glass is placed in front of her and she drops a few euros onto the counter.
“Carol!” He screams in her ear, she flinches, it is not nearly loud enough to need to scream. “I’m so glad you came out with us, the others were too scared to ask but I knew you would come.” He says casually flagging down the bartender.
“Scared?” Carol asks with a scoff, poorly concealing her interest. “Of what?”
“Come on you’ve got that aloof and intimidating glare thing down. I’m sure usually no one messes with you and they just leave you alone. But I see you.” He says with a teasing smile.
“oh, Do you Miles?” She taunts, “What is it you see?”
He smiles at her fondly not at all put off by her harshness, “The pain,” he says simply. “We all have it.” Carol squirms at his words, she nods over the group by the couches happily chatting along.
“They seem just fine to me.” As though she has proved something.
“Not them,” Miles says, “Us.” Carol nearly flinches away from him and storms out the bar, but before she can, Miles lays his hand on top of hers, comforting, his eyes shine with understanding, silently asking her to stay. It is possible she has never felt closer to another person than right here at this moment. It is also possible she has never hated anyone more.
“Whatever,” she scoffs and returns to her drink, taking an aggressive sip. Miles smiles wide at her, taking a sip of his own drink in celebration. He swirls the ice in his glass around with a straw, waiting for Carol to break the silence.
Carol's eyes keep dancing around the bar, her drink, his drink, the bartender, the couple making out against the wall, the black cat clock that reads 2:18 am. Trying to find anything to keep her from asking about the woman, anything to distract her from her need to know who she is and why she is sitting with them. “Who’s the girl?” Carol asks, trying to put as little interest into her voice as possible, covering her mouth with her drink the moment the words escape her lips.
“The girl?” Miles asks, confused, turning around wildly, trying to figure out who she means.
“Jesus,” Carol hisses, “Have some composure.” Her heart nearly beating out of her chest at his obviousness. “The girl you were talking to on the couch, she wasn’t in the residency program.”
“Ohhh, “ Miles says finally understanding, “No that’s Zosia, she’s a friend of mine, we met in a club like three months ago and I’ve been forcing her to hangout with me ever since. She’s outrageously hot.” Miles finishes with a conspiratorial look, bragging about his friend.
“Sure.” Carol says before turning around and leaving him smirking at the bar as she returns to her seat on the couch next to Eve who is now speaking loudly across the table with Zosia, Linus and Mariana. Miles joins them moments later, throwing himself over the back of the couch bumping into Zosia's side.
“Idiot,” Zosia says to him, just barely loud enough to hear, her voice has a heavy accent. Carol isn't sure where from, maybe German? Russian? Her eyes land back on Carol with that same intensity as earlier, Jesus, now who has the staring problem?
Carol refuses to look back, she looks anywhere else, her eyes dance among the group but never land on Zosia. Who, Carol can see out of the corner of her eye, is now leaned back against the arm of the couch twirling a strand of her own hair between her fingers with her eyes running over Carol. She can feel a bead of sweat beginning to form on her back under the weight of Zosia wide brown eyes.
Carol fades out of the conversation, forcing herself to take deep breaths to calm and relax her body. Maybe coming out was too much, she hasn’t spoken more than 20 words in a row, not at work, in months. It was too much, too fast, she should leave. Soon the rest of them will be able to tell and she’ll ruin the night, she should leave on a high, she has writing to do anyway. Just as she is about to stand Miles’ voice once again breaks through her barriers.
“Zosia loves Dostoevsky!” He says in response to something Carol had not heard nor has any desire to hear. She lets out a loud laugh at the statement, making all eyes turn to her, one set weighing heavier than the others.
“This is funny?” Zosia says, her voice low, you’d have to be inches away to hear all the subtle inflections of her tone.
“Oh, yes,” Carol taunts. “Dostoevsky is the writer everyone likes when they just haven’t read enough books, torturing yourself with endless prose about nothing and nobody. Next you’ll say Tolstoy or Hemingway.” Carol lets out a mocking laugh.
“Yes, I like these.”
“Jesus, I’m going to make you a reading list. Those just cannot be the authors you like,” she looks around the group and finds them all watching with different levels of amusement. Eve nods beside her with wild enthusiasm and support.
“Yes! I love a reading list.” Eve says, her eyes completely glazed over.
“Sure,” Carol says with a winching grin.
“Yes, I will look forward to this list…” Zosia lets the sentence trail off prompting for something, it takes Carol a moment to understand, as it begins to settle over her what she has just offered to this stranger.
“Carol,” she says, shock coloring her voice, “Carol Sturka.” Zosia stands from the couch and leans over the table extending her hand, palm up to Carol. Who refuses to stand all the way up, instead she rises, slightly bent at the knees to shake Zosia’s hand. Their palms slide against each other as their hands lock together in a firm but warm shake, a tingle shoots up Carol’s arm at the contact. Zosia leans in further, bringing Carol's hand up to her lips and pressing a gentle kiss onto her knuckles. Carol’s cheeks flush as the warmth of Zosia’s breath fans out over the skin of her hand, her heart slams against her ribs, she feels unprompted anger and embarrassment seem into her every pore.
“Zosia,” the brunette says as she lets go of Carol’s hand and returns to her seat on the edge of the couch, watching attentively as Carol remains bent at the knees for a moment before sitting down, her body nearly shaking with rage. Zosia has the audacity to smile, just barely, just hardly present at all, at Carol. Whose eye’s narrow and then roll, fucking europeans.