I was sitting on the toilet, minding my business, when a dog barked.
Strange, I thought, because dogs, or pets of any kind, are forbidden from this apartment complex. The bark seemed to come from the kitchen. Also strange, I thought, because I've lived with my Viennese host family for three weeks now, and somehow, this dog has escaped my attention.
Curious, and motivated by my desire for a candy bar, I crept into the kitchen, which was dark earlier than usual. The digital oven clock showed 23:37. I pictured my host parents, Maria and Otto, at this hour every other weeknight evening - in the kitchen, sipping on glasses of French wine, listening to Italian operetta and chain-smoking imported cigarettes. Maria is a social worker, while Otto works for the Austrian Intelligence Agency. Needless to say, they treasure the time they spend in bed - the restful hours where they elude crafty politicians and national security threats.
I clicked a switch and three small lamps illuminated the kitchen, where Jackson Pollock-like paintings contrasted against the otherwise art deco design style. Immediately I noticed my hosts' bedroom door was open, and reflexively dimmed the lights until they were hardly more than a glow. The lights were really unnecessary; I'd gone for many a midnight candy bar after discovering Maria's stash drawer one afternoon while she was still at work. The dog barked from within their bedroom, and although this registered as odd, I coaxed the drawer open and, with the skillful hand of a surgeon, lifted a Duplo from the dark depths. Success.
With prize in hand, I moved to the bathroom, which is directly across the hall from the kitchen; pulled the curtain, which acts like a door; and turned on the light. I sat on the side of the bathtub, unwrapping the candy as quietly as possible. The guilt customary to taking something that does not belong to me can be easily ignored when the aforementioned property is edible. As the wrapper fell to the tile-floor and I raised the first bite to my anxious lips, I heard more sounds.
This time it was a voice, and to my German-illiterate ears, the words sounded like "Oh, Maria" and not "Quiet, boy!" or "What's wrong, Scruffus?" which is the condescending discourse I expect between humans and pets. I sat on the bathtub ledge, as still and resolute as the marble Michelangelo used to create David. More sounds: the fumble of bodies shifting between comforter and bed sheet, the euphoric yet raspy groaning of a female and German exclamations that my lack of fluency prevents me from translating; never have I been more grateful that I took Spanish in high school.
I was transfixed by the unbelievable reality of the situation. I turned a knob on the sink, knowing the sound of rushing water would carry through the bathroom curtain, across the kitchen and into the bedroom, to their ears. They will know I'm in here, and they will know I can hear them. I was curious what they would do next.
Whether they knew I was hiding in the bathroom or not, Maria and Otto didn't give der Arsch von Ratte that me, or anyone else, knew they were having sex. The fumbling, the groaning and the German continued, and perhaps, at an increased volume, as if to overpower the sound of their exchange student brushing his teeth.
Understandably, I was taken by surprise when this happened, but the more I thought about the situation, the less astonishing it seemed. Otto and Maria were having sex before I was even born. Did I expect they would stop for the three months I would be living with them? No, but I did assume they'd shut the door.
After all, intimacy is treated as a private matter. Many couples, married or not, do not divulge their bedroom tendencies with other couples - or if they do, it's done with a quiet voice and hunched around a table to prevent the rest of us from listening. Despite the ubiquity of commercialized sex in American (and, consequentially, international) culture, coupled sex traditionally happens behind closed doors, although trends in entertainment, such as reality television and popular music, oppose this notion - challenging us to talk about sex as easily as we grocery shop.
Maybe Maria and Otto meant to leave the door open, in case I should walk by, to remind me that it was their house and they have sex, and if I have a problem with it, then I can screw off. Or maybe they just forgot to shut the door. Regardless, are we hesitant to disclose sexual experiences because we cherish our privacy or because society labels such discussion as uncouth?
Write to JD at jdmitchell@bsu.edu
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