My first Tinder match was in May: Kathrin, 25 years old, long blond-green hair, liked listening to house and was “in love with travel and cat GIFs”. All of her profile pictures either overexposed or underexposed to burnt-out white or washed-out black. In each of them she was jumping and laughing, arms outstretched.
“How’s your day?” I chatted at her.
“Standard,” she replied instantly. I found out that she was working as an intern. “Paid of course,” she wrote, “Need money for work and travel.”
“Do you travel much?”
“Absolutely, twice a year.”
“Care to meet up?”
“Okay. Why not?”
We agreed to meet the next day at a bar that Kathrin suggested. I wasn’t particularly interested in her. Still, I wanted to meet. I wasn’t feeling very well. In May, I always fall into a kind of melancholy and am afraid of being forgotten. That has to do with the swifts.
***
Most people can’t tell a swift from a swallow. Actually, it’s rather simple: First of all, swifts are slightly larger. But the most noticeable difference is in the flight. Swifts take beats with their wings, followed by a smooth glide. It has a peculiar rhythm, akin to breathing, in and out, beat and glide. Swallows, on the other hand, dance through the air, they move in a flutter that is nothing like the calm glide of the swifts. Once you understand the difference, you’ll never confuse one for the other again.
One of my professors at university made me an expert on swifts. He had been one of the old school, with a stern, parted hairstyle and a curled mustache. He lectured in a thundering voice accompanied by grandiose gestures. He could have been a Prussian general. He died a couple of years ago. But I still remember him. Every May, when the swifts arrived in Germany, he would lead his students outside and point to the sky.
“Here they come again!” he would exclaim and chuckle. Most of us students laughed as well. “From May to August, the swifts breed in Central Europe. Then they glide back to Africa”, the professor would muse on. “Except for breeding season, they spend their whole life in the air.”
We racked our brains as to why the professor kept lecturing us about these birds. We studied philosophy! Our interests were the meaning of existence, life and death and free will, not some little birds. We constructed countless breakneck theories to explain the professor’s fascination. In the end, we gave up and simply asked him. He smiled and shook his head and that was that. Most of us gave up then. As far as I know, I am the only one who ever found out.
***
My date with Kathrin coincided with the swifts’ annual return. I spent the day at work and through the open window, I watched their anchor-shaped silhouettes and listened to their high-pitched calling. My breath in time with the beating of their wings, in and out. The sun on my face. I thought about death.
What else is there to contemplate on a day consisting of train rides and office desks and more train rides? As I packed my things to leave, my cellphone hummed. Kathrin.
“Are we still on for tonight?”
In my current mood, it would be mind-numbing, I felt sure. Neither she nor I would have a minute of fun. Once the bill was paid and everyone had made it home, no memory would be wasted on it.
“From my side, yes.”
“Okay,” she confirmed.
All of that applies to everything, I reminded myself. Who can remember what they had for dinner two days ago? Or what outfit they had worn? No excuse to not eat dinner every evening and to not lay out the clothes in the evening and to not ignore that you’re going to forget all of that.
***
I enrolled in every course the professor’s held. During seminars, I sat in the front row and always came prepared. I spent more time on the term papers for him than on any other course. At the end of my fourth semester, he approached me about working for him.
“I will be honest with you”, he addressed me. “I will teach for another semester, maybe two. Then, I will become emeritus. If you want to lay the foundation for an academic career, you would be well advised to work for someone else.”
I asked him for a day to consider. An academic career was indeed my goal. At night, I imagined myself giving lectures and seminars, visiting conferences, teaching young students. But I still had enough time, I thought. And the professor had an excellent reputation as an underappreciated thinker. Surely, I would pick up a thing or two and gain a valuable reference. And there was still the mystery of the swifts. The next day, I accepted.
I received a small office for myself, where I edited articles and checked citations. After two months, I approached the professor for the first time and cautiously approached the topic of the swifts. It was May and the first individuals could be spotted gliding on a warm breeze blowing from the South.
“It has to do with life and death, of course. A thought that is not related to these themes does not deserve to be thought.” He spoke with his usual pathos, deep voice and gestures. Then he eyed me. “Tell me, what do you think of immortality?”
“I think there are different kinds of it”, I mused aloud. “Some people are truly immortal. Nietzsche, JFK, Cobain, they will live on forever in their works. For the rest of us, it will be over after a generation or two.”
“And of course, you would never belong to the second category.” The professor twirled the ends of his mustache. “What makes you so certain?”
Without hesitation, I told him about my vision for the future. The books that I had already ready, the ones I was reading and the ones I would write myself.
“Again, I will be honest with you and advise you to aspire to something else. In fact, I would advise anyone with ambition to stay away from academia. Let me just tell you that countless others have had their minds on the same goal as you, myself once among them. Most of them, you will never hear of and no one remembers them.”
“I only asked about the birds”, I interrupted him.
“I warned you to consider working for someone else.” He sighed. “Ask me again at the end of the semester, when I hand you your letter of recommendation.”
He pointed at a pile of books on his desk and asked me to copy the chapters he had marked.
***
The last day of the semester was also the last day of the professor’s academic career. It was when I finally learned the secret. The professor’s office had already been cleared out. Only the imprints of the furniture in the dust remained, like footprints of little dinosaurs. The professor stood by the window as if he was looking for his swifts but it was October and the gaps between the clouds were empty. He handed me the letter of recommendation.
“My last official document”, he announced. “Is there anything else you want to ask me?”
“Yes. You promised to tell me about the swifts.”
“Right.” The professor chuckled. “When I was your age, I had your ambitions. I had already published numerous ambitious papers, was lecturing all over the world. All to join the ranks of the great thinkers one day. But to be remembered, one always depends on others. In the end, I had to admit that it was not meant to be this time around. And still, oblivion was not good enough for me. So I thought of another way.”
The professor twirled his mustache mischievously. “I guarantee you, you will think of me every time you will see one.”
“You associated yourself with the swifts to not be forgotten!”
“Indeed. Hundreds, maybe thousands of students will remember me, every May, when the swifts come back. And if I am lucky, some will tell their kids about the crazy professor obsessed with some species of bird. It is not immortality but it is all I can hope for.”
“What will you do if, at some point, for some reason, there are no more swifts?”
The professor’s mustache twitched as he pondered. He sighed. “As I told you, in the end, life and death are all that matters. A world without life does not deserve to exist. In such a world, I would wish to be forgotten.”
I promised him not to tell anyone. Despite his letter of recommendation, I never landed another job at university and nothing became of my academic career. I often thought about the professor, even without the swifts, I would have remembered him. But he did well to not rely on my memory alone.
***
On the way to my date with Kathrin, the swifts glided over me. Large groups had become a rarity. According to biologists, their numbers had been dwindling for years. That day, the sky was full of them. Their calls a distant song that I committed to memory, something to hold onto in a future beneath an empty white sky.
The café was located at an intersection downtown. Kathrin was waiting outside. We hugged awkwardly and went inside and ordered and fell silent. I couldn’t keep myself from looking outside, up to the sky, to the swifts.
“Where are you looking?” Kathrin asked.
“I’m looking at the swifts.”
“You can look at them every day, can’t you?”
“Until August. After that, they’ll fly back to Africa and won’t come back for at least seven months.”
“Can’t be.” Kathrin shook her head. “I’ve seen some in the fall, too.”
“Those were swallows. They stay longer than the swifts.”
“Oh, yeah?” She crossed her arms. “What’s the difference?”
Patiently, I explained to Kathrin how she could tell the species apart. I imagined how she would tell her friends about our date and found out that I didn’t care.
“And where in Africa do the swifts winter, exactly?” inquired Kathrin, propping her chin on her hand.
“In the savannahs of South Africa.” The image of the savannah landscape formed in my mind. Golden grass and dust and red sunlight.
Kathrin’s face lit up. “That’s where I’m going to do my work and travel!” she exclaimed excitedly. “Yesterday, I talked to the family who owns the farm. They have a small annex to their farmhouse where I can stay.”
I lost the image of the Savannah. Instead, I imagined Kathrin, grinning and leaping, her arms outstretched in front of a farmhouse. I nodded every now and then while she laid out her plans for her time abroad. Then, an idea struck me.
“Do you think you’ll think about our conversation when you see a swift there?” I asked her.
Kathrin paused. She nodded slowly. “Sure.” I nodded back and let her continue.
I paid for the drinks. Then I accompanied her to her stop. She gazed down the tracks, her expression as serious and thoughtful as she imagined was expected of her. “You know,” she began in a rehearsed half-whisper, “I don’t think we’re that good together. But I wanted to thank you for the experience.”
“You’re probably right. I wish you all the best for your time in Africa. I’m sure it will be great.”
“Thank you.”
“Just promise me one thing,” I added and smiled as her eyebrow rose. “Keep an eye out for the swifts.”
“I promise.”
She boarded her train. Above the overhead wires, the swifts glided through the dimming blue, up and away with a flap of wings and a shrill call. I went home, watched some show, ate some dinner, got some sleep.
Two months later, Kathrin sent me a message. “I saw the swifts,” she wrote. “I think they are nesting in a barn next to the farmhouse where I sleep. At night, I hear them squeak and rustle in the dark.” Her next message was a photo. The sky, a burned-out brilliant white. But in the center, the dark, anchor-shaped silhouette of a swift.
I never wrote back. I continue to tell girls about the swifts. I don’t remember most of them. And I never mention the professor.
*****
Lukas Kolb is an aspiring writer from Frankfurt, Germany. As a neuromarketing professional and amateur biologist, he enjoys writing stories about the relationship between man and nature.
