14) Bear Foot
It was the first few days of November 2019.
Zurich was enjoying a magnificent autumn. The street where I lived was covered
in bright yellow leaves. That morning, as usual, I was running late for work.
By the time I sprinted to the Höschgasse tram stop, the tram had already
arrived. I snatched up a free copy of the Metro newspaper from the stand and
jumped on just before the doors closed. I threw myself into the last available
seat in the back section, where four people could sit facing each other. I unfolded
the newspaper. The culture section mentioned that a Zurich-based author had won
Germany’s Büchner Prize and had received the award in Darmstadt.
Just two weeks earlier, when I had gone to the
Orell Füssli bookstore at Stadelhofen asking for book recommendations, they had
suggested this author’s 2017 novel. I had finished it in a few days. “What a
coincidence!” I thought. Or maybe not—the award had probably been announced
before the ceremony, and the bookstore staff had simply recommended a
prize-winning author.
The author’s surname meant "Bear Foot"
in German. Other than that, I didn’t know much about him. Now, from the
newspaper, I learned he lived in Zurich. I should have guessed—the novel was
set in Zurich, after all. Still, it was nice to know he lived in my city. I
pulled out my phone and looked up his Wikipedia page. I discovered he was born
the same year and month as me, just one day later. “What a coincidence!” I was
exactly one day older. As a child, I had hated being a "Christmas
baby"—school was always on break, and my birthday gift would inevitably
merge with my Christmas present. My birthday would get lost in the holiday
rush, reduced to a small cake. He must have suffered the same birthday trauma
for 48 years—poor Bear Foot!
When I looked up, I locked eyes with the man
sitting across from me. I glanced at the photo on my phone, then back at him.
There was no doubt—Bear Foot was sitting right in front of me. His narrow brown
eyes met mine for a second before he looked away. My heart pounded. I didn’t
dare say anything. He seemed uncomfortable under my gaze and raised his copy of
“Tages Anzeiger” to hide his face. So, he must have returned to Zurich after
the award ceremony. But the Metro rag had only just caught up with the news.
My eyes drifted to his dark blue raincoat peeking
out from under the newspaper, then down to his shoes beneath his black jeans.
The brown leather Italian loafers weren’t as big as a bear’s Foot.
I pretended to read other news articles while
impatiently waiting to catch another glimpse of his face. Trump had announced
America’s withdrawal from the Paris Climate Agreement. Egypt’s military regime
had killed 80 Islamist militants.
I was supposed to get off at Bellevue and switch
trams. But since he didn’t get off, neither did I. I could stay on a little
longer and catch another tram at Paradeplatz heading the same direction. Maybe
I’d find the right moment to say, “Congratulations on the award. I just
finished your book.” I wished I hadn’t read it so quickly. If I had it in my
bag, he’d see I was a reader—maybe even ask for an autograph.
But what if it wasn’t him? Or worse, what if he
thought I was some creep stalking him, like the protagonist in his book who
follows a young woman?
In his novel, a contractor named Philip waits at
a famous café in Bellevue for a business meeting. When the other person doesn’t
show, he steps outside but lingers nearby, smoking and wandering around in case
they arrive. He notices a young woman exiting a revolving door across the
square and, intrigued by her shoes, starts following her—not with any ill
intent, just to pass the time. Even when his secretary calls to say the person
he was supposed to meet has arrived, he keeps trailing the woman instead.
If he had noticed me staring at his shoes earlier
and our eyes met just as the tram approached Bellevue, wouldn’t it be natural
for him to think “I was the one stalking him”? To avoid giving that impression,
I decided not to say anything.
The tram advanced a few more stops, nearing
Paradeplatz. I definitely had to switch trams here. Secretly, I hoped he’d get
off too. My wish must have been granted—as we pulled into the stop, he stood
without lowering his newspaper, turned his back, carefully folded the paper,
tucked it under his arm, and moved toward the door. From where I sat, I
couldn’t see his face. But his raincoat matched one I’d seen in photos online.
It had to be him. The moment the doors opened, he stepped off. Keeping my eyes
on him, I followed a few passengers later.
The electronic display at the stop said Tram 7
would arrive in three minutes. Bear Foot strode confidently toward Bleicherweg
without hesitation. Since my tram was heading that way too, I figured walking
the short distance was better than waiting. I might be a little late for work.
Keeping a few people between us, I trailed him.
What if he turned around and saw me? I pulled my
sunglasses from my bag and put them on—even though the sky was overcast, with
no sunlight in sight. As I neared my workplace, I realized I couldn’t keep
following him. Maybe I gave up because I didn’t want to end up like Philip in
his book.
At the office, I sat at my desk and checked my
emails. Then I grabbed my laptop and rushed to a meeting. That afternoon,
during a free moment, I started a Word document. I noted the date, the tram-stop
and time I boarded, and the time I got off. I saved the file as “Bear Foot”.
I spent the entire winter attending book signings
by visiting authors at Kaufleuten, sitting in on guest lectures at the
university’s literature department, and buying and reading all of Bear Foot’s
other books. I rode Tram 2 at the same time every day, sitting near the back
where four people could sit facing each other. Back in the day, phone
directories listed people’s numbers—you could even guess their neighbourhood.
But despite months of digging, I found almost nothing about his private life.
Still, I made sure to add every scrap of information to my document.
By mid-March 2020, coronavirus cases had reached
Europe. All shops closed, and pharmacies ran out of masks. Unable to go to the
office, I worked from home and spent all my free time researching Bear Foot.
By May, the weather had turned beautiful, but
gatherings of more than five people were banned in Switzerland due to the
virus. My friends and I decided to have a picnic at Zürichhorn, pretending to
be two separate groups. Every year, I had a tradition of taking my first swim
in the lake on Mother’s Day. To keep the streak alive, I arrived an hour and a
half early, at noon, planning to quickly dip in and out before my friends
showed up. My apartment was just a three-minute walk from the Corbusier Pavilion.
I’d swim near the bronze statue on the lakeside, sunbathe while my swimsuit
dried, read my book, and then meet my friends at the pavilion at 1:30.
When I reached the statue, I saw another lunatic
like me stripping down to swim, carefully folding his clothes. My breath caught
when I recognized his face. It couldn’t be a coincidence that we had so much in
common. No one else was crazy enough to swim in this cold lake—just him and me.
I watched from a distance as he waded in and swam a few strokes. Then, driven
by a strange impulse, I walked over, gathered his clothes, and stuffed them
into my picnic bag. A few picnickers were around, but no one paid me any
attention. Calmly, I stood up and walked away, keeping my eyes on the
lake.
I went home. Despite my composed walk, my heart
was racing, and I was drenched in sweat. I emptied his clothes from my bag—his
phone, wallet, shorts, linen shirt, and towel. “Damn, I took his towel too.”
Poor guy must have been stuck there in just his swimsuit. But it was too late
now. I rummaged through his wallet: bank card, driver’s license, a Coop
receipt. I checked his phone for messages. Guilt gnawed at me. I decided to
return his things after dark. I wiped my fingerprints off the phone and wallet,
put on dishwashing gloves to avoid leaving prints, stuffed everything into a
bag, and left it by my door.
Then I changed out of my shorts and blouse into a
long summer dress, swapped my cap for a straw hat, and even switched my picnic
bag. I let down my tied-up hair and applied red lipstick. Now, there was no
resemblance to the woman from earlier. I waited an hour before leaving again at
1:30.
The picnic was fun, but I felt uneasy, ashamed of
what I’d done. Around 4 p.m., I convinced two friends to come to the lake with
me, saying, “At least take a photo of me while I swim.” The three of us walked
to the shore. I kept my swimming tradition alive, if only for two minutes. Bear
Foot was long gone—maybe he’d even reported it to the police. But there was no
sign of suspicion. Now, I wished I had swum toward him at noon, pretended to
cramp, and caught his attention. Instead of a harmless lie to start a
conversation, I’d stolen his things. I didn’t know why I’d done something so
crazy. But it was done.
That evening, the bag was still by my door. I
waited for dark and went to the shore around 10 p.m. Too scared to return to
the scene, I left his belongings on a bench about 30 meters away and went home.
After that, ashamed of what I’d done, I stopped researching him.
Five years passed. The coronavirus days faded
from memory. I had long forgotten the author I’d obsessed over for six months.
But thanks to him, my interest in literature had grown. It was April 2025, and
during an Easter trip to Italy, I listened to author interviews in the car.
After Max Frisch and Dürrenmatt, an interview with Bear Foot began. He talked
about himself—how one day, he’d gone swimming in the lake and had his clothes
stolen, how vulnerable he’d felt that day. I nearly drove into the guardrails
of Lake Lucerne from the shock. I pulled over, breathless. But I was ecstatic.
He was talking about “me”. Now, he knew I existed.
