C2.1 · 22 of 30
Lesson · 4 rules · about 4 min
Eine literarische Kurzgeschichte von etwa 430 Wörtern, „Die blaue Tasse“. Sie beginnt abrupt in einem Alltagsmoment, „Das Wasser kochte schon, als das Telefon klingelte.“, und folgt einem Dienstagmorgen von Brenner, einem Witwer, dessen Frau Ruth vor einigen Monaten gestorben ist („seit der Beerdigung“). Seine Tochter Katrin ruft wie jeden Dienstag an und drängt ihn, sich eine Zweizimmerwohnung anzusehen. Nichts wird erklärt: Brenners Trauer zeigt sich nur in Gesten. Er holt die blaue Tasse hervor, „aus der Ruth immer getrunken hatte“, lässt sie leer an ihrem Platz am Fenster stehen, spült sie, obwohl sie nicht schmutzig ist. Erzählt wird in der dritten Person, dicht an Brenner, in Untertreibung („Zwei Zimmer, dachte er, das reicht für einen.“), und das Ende bleibt offen, mit einem vielsagenden letzten Satz. Die acht Fragen zielen auf die Handlung, die Erzählperspektive, das Symbol, das im Dialog Ungesagte und die Lesart des Endes.
Das Wasser kochte schon, als das Telefon klingelte. Brenner ließ es klingeln. Er wusste, dass es Katrin war. Sie rief jeden Dienstag um halb acht an, seit der Beerdigung, und jeden Dienstag fragte sie dasselbe.
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The water was already boiling when the telephone rang. Brenner let it ring. He knew it was Katrin. She had rung every Tuesday at half past seven since the funeral, and every Tuesday she asked the same thing. He took two cups out of the cupboard. The white one with the crack in the handle he put beside the coffee machine; the blue one, which Ruth had always drunk from, next to it. Then he stood still, his hand still on the cupboard door. He did not put the blue cup back. In all those months he had never put it back. The telephone fell silent. After a minute it rang again. He let it ring three more times, then he picked up. "Dad, it's me. Have you looked at the flat?" "Which flat?" "The one in Lindenstraße. Two rooms, lift, balcony. I left you the note, remember." The note lay on the kitchen table, under the sugar bowl. He had read it. Two rooms, he thought, that's enough for one. He said: "I'll take a look at it." "You've been saying that since March." "Then it's been true since March." Katrin did not laugh. He heard her take a breath and then think better of it. She talked about the stairwell, about his knee, about the winter. He said yes and no and yes again, each time in the right places. He listened, looking out of the window at the courtyard, where the neighbour was rolling the bins out to the street, one after the other, as he did every Tuesday. When he had hung up, he poured the coffee. Only into the white cup. The blue one stayed empty, as it stayed empty every morning, and yet he carried it to the table and put it at the place by the window. That was where Ruth had sat, for forty years, because she needed light in the mornings, as she used to say, and because she wanted to see who came into the courtyard. He drank slowly. The coffee was too strong; he still made it the way she had liked it. Then he pulled the note out from under the sugar bowl and read it again. Lindenstraße 14, third floor, viewing Thursday, 4 p.m. Katrin had written "Dad, please" in the margin and underlined the "please" twice. He folded the note and put it in the breast pocket of his shirt. Later, while washing up, he held the blue cup under the warm water for a long time, although it was not dirty. He dried it, more carefully than the white one. Then he opened the cupboard, looked at the shelf where it used to stand, and closed it again. He put the cup on the windowsill. From there, he thought, you can see the courtyard.
Exercise
Lesen: Kurzgeschichte · C2.1
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