A balcony speaks

From the heights of the first floor I send my greetings to the street. I position myself in the centre, at the balustrade, just like a queen on her royal balcony. To the left, I have pots brimming with luxuriantly growing radishes. To the right, proud leaves of courgettes and budding tomato plants.

Not much is going on outside. A ginger cat saunters leisurely across the street. Someone on a bicycle passes by. A woman is walking her dog. Her heels tap subtly on the sidewalk – almost to the rhythm of the second hand on the clock. Two steps behind trots her faithful dachshund. They have practised this routine for many years. When the woman stops to talk to me, the dog halts, too. With its head hanging down towards the ground, it waits for the conversation to finish.  

On a normal day, in a normal week, when cars and passers-by are plentiful, nobody would notice me. Now, since traffic has died away and commuters are no longer hurrying to the bus stop, I immediately catch people’s attention. Everyone looks up and spots me. Strangers say hi. Unfamiliar neighbours ask whether I am new to the area – Yes, I moved in this winter. I had wanted to make an introductory round of all the houses to meet my neighbours. But then the COVID-19 lockdown began and we all became semi-prisoner in our homes (and on our balconies).

On a normal day, in a normal week, I don’t spend much time on the balcony. Now, I have moved my desk here, among the plant pots full of radishes and courgettes. They keep me company while close human contact and meetings with friends is difficult or impossible.

Other balconies nearby are also occupied. Some neighbours have turned this space into an outdoor home office. Others have shorter working hours at the moment, or forced holidays because their company has closed down during the lockdown. They have made their balconies into external living rooms, where they read the newspaper, drink coffee, sit tapping on their phone. We are all perched like birds on a stick in front of the birdhouse. I guess this is called self-isolation.

When I’m on the balcony, I see everyone and everyone can see me. People passing on the street are in no rush. They are more than ready to pause for a little chat. Thoughts don’t hurry much either these days, but memories sometimes do. When our mental horizon clears of the fog of to-do lists and things stuck in the pipeline, fresh air from the past comes bringing pictures we thought we’d forgotten.

A stately looking edifice built sometime in the 1960s. Solid grey walls, regular rows of windows. On the first floor, a window is open. A woman, her elbows resting on the windowsill, looks out onto the street. She is fairly young, perhaps in her thirties. Her hair isn’t particularly well kempt and she wears a thick bathrobe. She doesn’t see me. Her eyes are fixed on a man standing on the pavement. He is of similar age, but – compared to her – dressed quite formally, as he has prepared carefully for this appointment. Sometimes he holds a bag, a package or a bunch of flowers.

The couple stays in this pose for several long minutes. They exchange news and send each other smiles. Sometimes there is only one such pair. On other days, women peek out of more than one window, comfortably nestled at the sill. They are princesses of the maternity wards, captives of their hospital rooms.

In those days (this was the 1980s), young fathers were not allowed into maternity hospitals. Childbirth was not considered a manly business. But the men could talk to their wives through the window and bring presents, which they hoped to pass on via the healthcare personnel. Romeo and Juliet plus a baby. Divided by hospital walls.

I would observe this image as I strolled home from school, carrying books and a sports bag. I think I was seven. I reckon I saw it many times. Perhaps I didn’t fully comprehend back then.  

Whenever I manage to escape from my home-balcony-office and bike through Switzerland during the lockdown, I witness this scene re-enacted in many contexts. People communicate across floors and levels, between inside and outside. One person stands in the street, the other at the window or on a balcony. One wears a coat, the other slippers. These exchanges often bear the features of casual chitchat. They seem fleeting, as the person downstairs is most probably going to the shops or carrying empty bottles to a recycling point. But these conversations can really last! Everyone has a common topic of interest: the virus is the thing to talk about even for those who normally do not speak with each other a lot. People also have the time now – more than they can handle in fact. The usual daily haste has given way to an odd sense of general relaxation or a constant slight boredom.

I don’t live in a royal palace, but in an old wooden house, Chalet Selina. When I peer – through the radish leaves – at the house opposite mine, I can see a cat. Nestled up against the windowsill, it sits there all the time, day and night. It is a Japanese cat with a battery in its little belly. It brings good luck and fortune. This “lucky cat” waves its metal paw at me, and to the whole street stretching in front of its painted eyes. One day life will go back to its usual state, similar to that before the pandemic. Cars will start driving again and commuters will be dashing to work. Only the cat will carry on silently waving a paw.