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Tennis player and author Petković: In thoughts at the Frankfurt Book Fair
Photo: Robert Michael / picture alliance / dpa
If you drive along the A5 from the south and take the exit towards Frankfurt Stadtmitte, then the road seems to make a wide bend around itself, as exits do, but just before you get dizzy and just before several black limousines of a large one German car brand pass you left and right, because they always do that in Frankfurt, you slide straight ahead and straight towards the exhibition center.
In front of the Frankfurt Festhalle, I stand at the traffic light and see a tall sign advertising music and comedy acts.
I don't know the bands (K-Pop presumably), but with a tight squint of my eyes I recognize individual, clearly smaller letters hung in red next to the names I don't know: no falls.
About the author: Andrea Petković
Andrea Petković was born in Tuzla, Bosnia in 1987 and moved to Darmstadt with her parents at the age of six months.
She is a world class tennis player and was in the top ten in the world rankings.
Her literary debut "Between fame and honor lies the night" has just been published by Kiepenheuer and Witsch.
They are stories about tennis, excessive ambition and their lives.
It's gray and windy and damp today, because although Frankfurt is doing everything it can to appear in glitz and glory during the book fair, the weather in mid-October rarely copes with it.
It is my first book fair as an author who has a book on the market.
I've been there as a guest many times: the first time I thought you could buy the books that were on display in the stands, and once I realized that that's not the case, I pretended to have the five books in my arms absolutely have to compare with each other.
The second time, I was so sick that I could neither breathe nor see, but at least had the presence of mind to accept the business card of a literary agent who turned out to be the best literary agent in the world, mine.
The third time I tried to stalk Jonathan Franzen, which I mean funny, but stalking isn't funny, but since I failed gloriously, I think it's okay to put it that way.
This time I expect to be stalked myself by thousands of fans, at least from paparazzi.
I expect confetti bombs that don't frighten anyone with their popping, champagne rains, like those in very male-heavy sports, and spontaneous applause when I show up everywhere.
This is how debutants are welcomed in the literary industry, isn't it?
I park my car in a dark, low parking garage, in which no parking space was reserved for me, and set off - towards the light.
I mean that literally.
I cannot see my own hand in front of my eyes and try to orient myself by walking towards a square of light.
And indeed, the square turns out to be a door and suddenly I'm in the exhibition hall under high ceilings and in bright office light.
I need a moment to orient myself.
It's difficult to see where I'm going without confetti bombs and champagne rains paving the way for me.
I go to a booth that has women who look like they know what's going on.
"Hi."
I say.
"Yes, please?"
"Um, for writers?"
"And I suppose authors?"
Shit, forgetting to gender, big faux pas.
It doesn't exist in tennis.
There are only tennis players and those who wear skirts and take away tennis players' seats.
At least over there, behind the left shoulder of the lady who is eyeing me critically, I see a poster with my book on it.
I feel a little bit better.
"I can't find your ID here, woman ... how did you say the name again?"
"Petković. Take a look behind you. I don't want to show off, but that's me, and that's my book, great success."
I put both hands on my hips, a little challenging, a little proud.
"Aha."
The lady seems unimpressed and hands me an ID.
Petcovic, my name is misspelled.
I sigh and put it on.
A young man comes towards me, hectic, he's long, thin, with a clipboard.
Is there a walkie-talkie hanging on his waistband?
"Mrs. Petković, finally, we are waiting for you!"
"Yes, my parking card didn't seem to have been deposited ..." He interrupts me.
"We have to hurry. You are not the only author here, and after you comes ..."
The rest of the words drown in a hum to me.
That's not how I imagined it to be.
I thought it was going to be like coming home, like playing Fed Cup, a great triumph, a great feeling.
I climb onto a slightly raised stage, around thirty people are present.
I'm pretty sure the big group in the last two rows are people from my publisher.
An elderly man in a hat sits in the front and dozes off.
I read a chapter from my book, get two laughs in the right places and empathetic applause.
Empathic is much more than polite.
I must have signed over twenty books, and all in all it's a moderate success.
Still, I'm disappointed on the way back to my car.
Not because it went bad.
Not because I didn't get a parking pass or champagne.
Not even because my name was misspelled.
I realized that I was comparing everything that came in life to tennis.
It was the only life I knew.
I only knew exaggerated, almost pathos-reaching emotions.
The joy after a match won, the cheers of thousands of people, the hugs from my team, the sweat and the adrenaline.
The disappointment and anger that stuck somewhere in the pit of the stomach and wouldn't let go for three days and nights after a defeat, when nothing helped but sitting in the hotel room, watching the CNN news and emptying the beer from the minibar.
In tennis there was only top and bottom.
I am now in the car and it has started raining outside.
Just before I hit the autobahn, I decide to stop for a beer somewhere.
Isn't there a bar with a purple curtain hidden behind rows of houses around here?
Siri confirms my suspicion.
I park on a one-way street and walk past half-heartedly maintained gardens.
In the bar behind the purple curtain with the brass plates I sit down at the end and order a shandy.
I still have to drive.
My stomach is growling.
I grab the peanuts on my left and there I see him.
A medieval man, his face difficult to see in the shadow of the orange light.
He wears frameless glasses with orange dots reflected in the lenses.
Next to him is a book about birds in the Hesse region and binoculars.
He looks a little confused, a little dusty.
The hair is sticking out and the black corduroy jacket is not sitting properly.
Is it he
Can it really be HE?
No he can't.
Or is it?
I slide three seats closer.
"Birds, huh?"
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