Two Hours E-Book

Alba Arikha

• Herausgeber: ERIS
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 240

Beschreibung

"Someone rang my husband. Your wife is not well, the person said. Your wife is not well." When Clara's parents transplant her from Paris to New York at the age of sixteen, a fleeting encounter with a young man seems, for a brief period, to open up new possibilities. As she strives to fulfil her vocation as a writer, and as she struggles in later years with the cumulative constraints of an unhappy marriage, Clara's imagination is strangely haunted by a life that might have been. Tracing Clara's story from her adolescence to her experience of motherhood, and then through to a pivotal bid for freedom, Two Hours is an exceptional novel. Witty, perceptive, and profoundly humane, this is the work of a writer at the height of her powers.Praise for Two Hours: "Alba Arikha takes us magically into the very heart of a woman's experiences—her loves, her art, her fears, and that brief, ecstatic moment that has watermarked her entire life."—Edmund White "Arikha's Major/Minor is in my view a small masterpiece, and with Two Hours I believe she is making something of similar stature."—Rachel Cusk "Out of a seemingly casual array of swift vignettes, fleeting encounters, cityscapes caught on the fly, and sudden, bright shocks of emotion, Alba Arikha has constructed a radiant story of loss and love, entrapment and freedom, and the strange patterns of fate and desire that shape our lives. Every piece of her mosaic shimmers with acute observation, and the whole comes together to form a powerfully singular account of the universal struggle to live a life of integrity and meaning. It is a rare and fine accomplishment." —James Lasdun "A beautifully written, lyrical, and unflinching account of a woman's life, from teenage love to maturity and motherhood."—Vesna Goldsworthy

Leseprobe

TWO HOURS

TWO HOURS

for Gaël

We do not remember days,

we remember moments.

—Cesare Pavese

He stepped down, trying not to look long at her,

as if she were the sun, yet he saw her,

like the sun, even without looking.

—Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina

1

Here I am at sixteen, standing over there on the street.

Me walking towards me.

My worried eyes. My frizzy hair. My spindly legs. My rebellious tongue.

It is a freezing cold day in Manhattan, and I am getting into a taxi with my parents and my sister. We have been invited to lunch in an uptown restaurant. The sun is out, a skyscraper casts a long shadow on the pavement. I have only been in the city for a few days, and everything feels new.

The glint from the buildings.

The way the cold cuts through the air, like glass.

The ink black locks of his hair.

The violence of love.

Thirty-five years have passed, and nothing has changed. The memory has remained intact. Immutable. Burnished, like gold.

In 1985, my parents announced that we were moving to Manhattan for the school term. My father, a historian, had been invited to teach at Columbia University. A friend of his, André Karlick, had offered to lend us his apartment in a luxurious doorman building on Park Avenue. A proper adventure, said our father. Unlike anything any of us had ever experienced.

I don’t want a proper adventure and I’m not leaving Paris, I declared.

Neither am I, said my sister. And we don’t care about Park Avenue. Or André, who never speaks to us when he sees us anyway. We don’t want to go anywhere.

I shared a room with my sister in a small Parisian flat. My parents were academics. My father was French, my mother American. My bilingual upbringing revolved around books and the pursuit of all things cerebral. A world of rigour, no compromises allowed. I craved compromises, and rigour reminded me of a rapped knuckle. A knuckle rapped by the teacher who accused me of being distracted.

I don’t like daydreamers, she said, as the wooden ruler came down on my eight-year-old fist. I winced but didn’t cry. I seldom did in public.

André Karlick was a wealthy art dealer. He had icy blue eyes and curly hair. When my parents spoke of him it was in reverent tones. How generous and special he was. How wonderful his gallery was. How every painter he had taken on had become a household name. But I didn’t care. Like my sister, I found him cold and distant, and his moneyed world did not interest me. Neither did Manhattan, especially not Park Avenue. I was not acquainted with luxury. The words ‘doorman building’ meant nothing to me. What is a doorman?

We’re leaving in a month, my father declared, in an uncompromising tone. I have been offered an important teaching position and I must take it, whether you like it or not.

Case closed.

We argued. We often did. I shouted and stormed out of the room and retreated to my bedroom, where I wrote frantic notes of rebellion in my diary. Then I played Neil Young and listened to “Helpless”, singing alone in a whisper.

Helpless.

Helpless.

Helpless.

I phoned my friend Nadine. She said that she would ask her mother whether I could come and live with them while my parents were in New York. Then I heard her mother raising her voice and saying no, no one’s coming to live with us, and Nadine hung up hastily.

Later, when I was hungry, I sneaked my way into the kitchen, and there was my father, sitting at the empty table, waiting for me.

There’s no point in getting angry, he said, his voice sounding softer. We can’t leave you behind and this job means a lot to me. I’m sorry you feel so upset about it, but I promise you’ll change your mind when we get there. New York is an exciting place. You’ll be surprised.

And what if I hate it?

You have to trust me that you won’t.

It’s not a question of trust, I answered. You don’t know my tastes. You can’t predict whether I’ll like it or not.

I have an idea of your tastes, my father smiled. You’re my daughter, after all. New York is an exciting city and you like exciting things. Don’t you?

No I don’t. I hate them.

I stomped out of the kitchen. I was angry. I often was at that time. I heard my father calling me back in, but I ignored him. I went to bed on an empty stomach and cried myself to sleep. In fact, I did like exciting things. I was overdoing it with my father. This was important to him. But I couldn’t help myself. Anger suffocated me, like smoke.

2

Our mother told us about André’s gallery. It was on a street called West Broadway. It looked like a warehouse, with enormous bay windows and high ceilings. As far as she knew, there were no such spaces in Paris, at least not when it came to art galleries.

That’s because there is no one like André Karlick, my father interjected. His eye is second to none. He knows talent when he sees it. Look at all those artists he represents. He never hesitates, never relies on other people’s opinions. That’s why he’s so successful.

It was an important lesson in life. Not to hesitate. To trust one’s instincts.

I didn’t tell him that, to me, other people’s opinions mattered. I wasn’t sure I knew enough about myself yet. Often I felt undefined, like a blurry outline. When that happened, I found it hard to distinguish between right and wrong. I was nothing like my confident father.

In general, he added, people were ignorant. But he wasn’t. He knew a lot. He hoped that, one day, I would too.

I don’t think it’s important to know a lot, I replied. I just want to have a nice life.

One doesn’t exclude the other, my father answered.

The night after our arrival there was an opening at André’s gallery. My parents decided that attending it was the right thing to do, no matter the jet lag darlings.

It was very crowded, and I had never seen so many good-looking people grouped together. I felt as self-conscious as my sister did. At one point she pulled me aside: this is not a place for children, she said. We shouldn’t be here. Everyone is weird.

I’m not a child, I’m a teenager, I reminded her. You’re the child.

Whatever. I’m nearly a teenager too. And I still think everyone here is weird.

I agreed, but kept those thoughts to myself. Besides, there was something compelling about the atmosphere. An undeniable buzz, with lots of people staring at large canvases of skulls, billowing waves, a naked woman lying on a floating bed, another one diving into a pool. The paintings did not speak to me but clearly did to many of the people who discussed them in urgent whispers. One of the paintings being discussed was a portrait of André’s wife, Lorna, a poet of some renown. She was the one diving into the pool. Lorna was very thin, with jet-black hair and hazel eyes.

Whenever her name was mentioned my father’s eyes became misty. She’s so beautiful, he would say, in a melancholic tone, as if her beauty were tragic.

When my mother spoke about Lorna she sounded worried. From what I gathered she was going through a difficult time. When I pressed for further details, my mother declared that it was an adult matter.

It’s a complicated story. One day I’ll tell you about it, she said.

Always one day. What is an adult matter? I was nearly an adult myself and had no time to wait. I wanted ‘one day’ to be today. But somehow it never was.

My sister thought that whatever was happening to Lorna had to do with André.

He looks like a wolf, she said. He eats people up.

My mother protested vehemently. The things you say… André’s a good man. And he’s very rich, she added, as if wealth were a personality trait. It’s an honour for us to be living in his and Lorna’s house, and we should all be very grateful. He’s not even charging us rent!

It’s not a house, it’s an apartment, my father corrected her. Can’t you tell the difference?

Yes, all right. An apartment which looks like a house.

3

I can see myself stepping outside that apartment building. I can see my sister too, looking small. One of the doormen is hailing us a taxi. It has begun to snow. Flakes fall around us in a thin white gloss, like Chinese paper. My father is wearing a coat which looks like a blanket. A gift from someone who lives in Spain. An expensive gift. I find it embarrassing but say nothing. I do not want to argue with my father again. And besides, this is not the moment to argue. I try to keep my teeth from chattering, which is not an easy task: I can feel the cold invading my clothes, my body. I am wearing a beige silk blouse, dark blue trousers, matching moccasins. A summer outfit, my mother had remarked earlier. You must be mad to dress that way in this weather. I have a necklace of small, coloured stars around my neck. A gift Nadine gave me as a goodbye present before my departure. The metal of the stars brushes uncomfortably against my collarbone, but I choose to ignore it. I have also chosen to ignore my mother’s insistence that I wear a warmer coat. And a scarf. I would like to show off my necklace. It is a beautiful present. I love the way the stars glow. And I’ve never liked scarves. But the temperature in Manhattan is far colder than anything I have ever experienced. Nevertheless, I refuse to admit that my mother is right. Besides, she doesn’t like scarves either.

Later, when I return home, my neck will be covered in small red spots, which will take a while to disappear. One still remains today, stark against my collarbone.

André and Lorna have invited us for lunch at the Café des Artistes, a restaurant on the Upper West Side. They are staying in a hotel until the following day, when they will be boarding their plane for London.

I bet it’s a fancy hotel, my sister states. With gold taps in the bathrooms and stuff.

They live a fancy life, my mother declares. They can afford it.

That’s nice, my sister says, her eyes looking dreamy.

Not really, I reply. I think fancy lives are boring.

Fine, says my mother. Well, fancy or not, we’ll be having lunch with them, and they’ll be bringing their son, Alexander. He’s sixteen, like you. Lorna tells me you were born a few days apart.

I don’t tell her that, as a rule, I never like other people’s children.

4

A man with white gloves opens the door and asks us to follow him into a room covered with murals. The Café des Artistes is an expensive restaurant; I can see that right away. The men wear suits and most of the women are carefully made up with coiffed hair. André and Lorna have arrived before us and greet us warmly. Lorna is wearing a white crocheted dress. She doesn’t look like the other women. Knee-high boots emphasise her long, slim legs. Dangly earrings, shaped like feathers, hang from her ears. I don’t think they suit her. But she’s undeniably beautiful.

Alexander, this is Clara, she says, pushing her son gently towards me.

Yeah, he answers gruffly.

His black curly hair covers half his face. All I can make out is a pointy chin and thick lips. I decide immediately that I don’t like him.

Our table is facing one of the many murals covering the walls. This one, in earth-tone colours, depicts naked nymphs frolicking in sylvan glades. I look at their breasts and then catch Alexander’s eye studying them too. I blush and force myself to yawn.

The tablecloth and napkins are made of thick white cotton. The wine glasses shine and the waiters hover over us in expectation. A couple at the next table are holding hands above their plates, as if they’re attending a seance. The woman wears a heavy necklace with a huge stone that sparkles. The man smiles at her. He wears a pink shirt and his hair looks wet. When the couple speak to each other, their voices are so hushed that I wonder how they can even hear each other. I am not used to such restaurants, to such people, and I feel out of place.

Alexander is seated next to me, and he doesn’t speak at all. He also looks out of place, although perhaps not for the same reasons I do. He has pushed his black locks back. He is very good-looking: I can see that now. He has dark green eyes and looks remarkably like his mother. When his gaze momentarily settles on mine, I feel something akin to what I have read about in books. A flutter of the heart. I have never experienced anything like it before. I had a boyfriend once, when I was fifteen. He was handsome and gregarious, but we had little in common. He had a passion for horses and spoke of little else. Nevertheless, we spent a lot of time kissing and groping each other in his apartment when his parents were out. Then, after a couple of weeks, we broke up. What upset me most was the fact that I had failed to fall in love with him. That he had left me for another girl seemed immaterial. I wanted to know what love felt like. Looked like. Tasted like. I wonder if Alexander has ever experienced it. Or if he feels the same flutter as I do. If so, he doesn’t give it away. He doesn’t give anything away. He spends most of the meal ignoring me. Or perhaps he is bored. I could take it personally, but I don’t; I find him tantalisingly mysterious.

Just before dessert is served, he speaks to me. His voice lies somewhere between boy and man. It sounds cracked, as though it might shatter. This makes my heart flutter even faster. Alexander asks me what it’s like to live in Paris.

It’s normal, I answer.

I take where I live for granted. I have never given it much thought, unlike school, which takes up most of my time.

I wish school didn’t exist, I say. Except for my friends. I like them.

I don’t have many friends, he admits.

I don’t either.

But you just said you did…

I guess I care about some of my friends. And reading, I add quickly. I like to read.

Alexander’s face lights up. He asks me who my favourite authors are.

I start listing them, and our preferences slide into each other in perfect harmony: I can see from the look in his eyes that he’s impressed. But Alexander’s reading list is far more extensive and sophisticated than mine—as is his way of expressing himself. I’ve never met a sixteen-year-old like him. He mentions authors I’ve never heard of, others whom I have. He speaks quickly and passionately:

I find Dostoevsky’s exploration of the morality of radicalism fascinating, he says. I think that Raskolnikov has got to be one of the most complex, innovative characters in modern literature.

I don’t know about categories of literature, or the morality of radicalism. I haven’t read Dostoevsky. The name conjures up something fiery. A warrior. Dostoevsky warrior. Alexander warrior.

But I cannot admit my ignorance. I must find a way of shifting the conversation. What about Jane Austen? I venture timidly.

I’ve just read Pride and Prejudice at school, in French: Orgueil et préjugés. I admire Elizabeth Bennett. I loved the book.

But Alexander did not: Jane Austen is too concerned with money and marriage, he declares. I prefer Henry James. I think he was more intelligent and sensitive. And he wrote about nineteenth-century family dynamics in a more interesting way.

Did he? I cannot comment because I’ve never read Henry James, or given much thought to nineteenth-century family dynamics: I clearly have lots of catching up to do.

And anyway, I don’t like reading about England, Alexander mumbles.

Why not?

Because I don’t like it. I don’t want to move there. I hate moving. I hate London.

But you’ve never been! I didn’t want to move to New York, but in the end it’s been OK.

He shrugs his shoulders. You were lucky. And London is not the same as New York. I’m sure I’ll hate it. In general, I hate everything.

I’ve never met anyone who hated everything.

But you just said that you love all these books!

Yes. But literature isn’t life. Things don’t always resolve themselves in life, but they do in books. That’s why I like them better.

That’s so true, I gush, then wish I could undo the gushing.

And my parents don’t understand me, he continues.

I feel the same about my parents. They don’t understand me either.

Yeah, I concur, trying to sound American.

And they don’t know, he adds.

What?

That they’re making a mistake and that we should stay here. That we shouldn’t go to London. I hate places I don’t know.

But maybe if you get to know it you won’t hate it anymore…

Alexander looks at me: I suppose. But it’s a mistake, he repeats. We shouldn’t go to London.

I quickly tell him that I often feel the same as he does about travelling to unknown places, although that is not technically true. I have an insatiable curiosity about other continents, specifically South America. Nadine and I have decided that one day we will learn Spanish and live in Guatemala together.

But I hold that information back.

A waiter wheels in some desserts on a trolley. André smiles at me for the first time. Help yourself, he says. Have whatever you’d like. You’re my guests.

He motions towards the trolley, with its array of cakes, mousses, and tarts. There is something about the ease of André’s gesture, about the way he can just say help yourself, which makes me aware of the divide between him and my family. In general, I cannot help myself to whatever I’d like. Neither can my parents. And we always seem to be other people’s guests.

I wonder what it might feel like to have money and power. Then I look at Alexander and decide that it is probably not a good thing. His parents might be rich, but they misunderstand him. I don’t. I understand everything about him. I’ve never met anyone like Alexander Karlick. I find him utterly compelling. Entrancing. Beautiful.

5

Alexander Karlick.

6

Just like my father said, André and Lorna Karlick’s apartment is spacious and luxurious, about three times the size of our Parisian rental.

Because they’re planning on renovating it when they return, a lot of the furniture has been removed and replaced by functional pieces, apart from in the sitting room, which I’ve been told remains as it was. It is filled with beautiful antique pieces and oriental rugs. There are fragile objects displayed on shelves, just like in a museum. A grand piano sits in the corner of the room, looking untouched. My mother has mentioned that Lorna used to play very well, then gave it up, but that André lives in the hope that she might take it up again. Something tells me that he might be hoping in vain. That Lorna will never take it up again. But perhaps I am judging her. How well do I know her, after all? Sometimes I do that. I tend to judge people hastily. I feel foolish when I turn out to be wrong. Naïve. I wonder if I’m wrong about Lorna. I wonder if Alexander judges people too. Chances are he does, but in a different way. A wiser way. I wish I could see him again. Ask him more about his family, and why it is his mother will no longer play the piano. I hope that London will turn out well for him. That he will make some friends there. Perhaps I could send him a postcard? Or perhaps not.

In the meantime, I spend my first night in his Manhattan bedroom, which has been stripped of all its belongings. I had hoped for a few clues to his personality but find little. The desk has been emptied, as has his closet. It is a plain, nondescript space with a bed, a desk, and, on the wall, a large map of the world. There are few books left: an Oxford dictionary, a bound edition of The Iliad, collected poems by a woman called Anna Akhmatova, and a large volume entitled How to Become a Stamp Collector. I try to feel Alexander’s presence in the room, but little remains, apart from a note I find, presumably in his handwriting, in the wastepaper basket under his desk. Musil. Ask S about Maine. I spend an inordinate amount of time trying to decipher who Musil and S are, until I finally fall asleep.

7

The next morning is a Sunday. We are all sitting in pyjamas, drinking orange juice from the biggest carton I have ever seen, and eating our first bagels with cream cheese. People here like to eat these on weekends, our mother has explained. Sometimes with smoked salmon too.

Yum, says my sister.

Did you use to have them when you were our age? I ask.

My mother shakes her head. No, we didn’t. I don’t think we even knew about them.

My sister declares it’s the best thing she’s ever eaten. She asks my mother if one is allowed to eat bagels during the week too. My father answers. Why not? I don’t see why that should be a problem. Compared to France, this country has very few problems, he says, as he pours himself a cup of tea. And if it does, eating bagels during the week is not one of them. He smiles at both of us broadly—ever since we’ve arrived, he’s been in a particularly good mood.

The phone rings. When she picks it up, right outside the kitchen door, I can hear my mother speaking in a demure voice, as if she doesn’t know the person well. She comes back in to say that André was just on the phone. His son Alexander will be coming by in about thirty minutes to pick up a book he needs for London.

As soon as I hear these words I spit my bagel out onto my plate. Thirty minutes? I cannot, under any circumstances, let Alexander Karlick see me in my pyjamas.

You’re so gross! my sister shouts. What’s the matter with you?

Shut up you worm, I retort, before rushing off to the bathroom.

I jump into the shower, brush my hair, apply some makeup and a dash of perfume, and fret about what to wear. A dress? A skirt? Trousers? Yes. No. Yes: I decide on a short skirt, a white shirt, and black ballerinas I bought before leaving. I’ve managed to get ready in the space of fifteen minutes: it is a first. My mother enters, holding some sheets in her hand. You look nice, she says. And the room looks nice too, she notices—I’ve made the bed, which is unlike me. Where are you going?

I’m not going anywhere, I just don’t like boys seeing me in my pyjamas, I reply tartly.

My mother smiles, and I understand that she knows. This is not about boys in general but one in particular. I feel my cheeks turn red and I avoid her gaze. I cannot think of anything more embarrassing than my family being privy to my secret crushes. But this is not the time to quibble about such matters. Alexander is about to arrive, and nothing is more important than that.

A buzzer rings from downstairs. My father says it’s probably the doorman. But where is the intercom? All of us go in frantic search of it while the buzzing becomes more insistent until it stops—as does my heart. Because this means that Alexander will not be coming after all: we didn’t know where the intercom was, and the doorman probably assumed that we were out. I will never see Alexander again. I feel tears well up and run to my room to hide them. Which is when the doorbell rings.

Alexander! I hear my mother exclaim. How nice to see you!

I take a deep breath, dab my eyes quickly. I hear his footsteps approaching and suddenly there he is, standing in front of me.

Hi, he says.

His hair is covering his face again, but this time I know what lies beneath. He is wearing jeans and a black Fruit of the Loom T-shirt, and he is carrying a small backpack. He looks older than sixteen. Taller than I remembered.

We walk into his bedroom together. He looks at the quasi-bare shelf and pulls down the Iliad. It’s one of my favourites, he tells me. I couldn’t go to London without it, he adds, placing it inside his backpack.

I smile and mutter something nonsensical. What is there to say? I know that he is lying. Not about the Iliad, which probably is one of his favourites. But about the fact that he did not stop by to collect a book but to see me again. I know it because I can read it in his eyes. I can read it in the way both of us stand awkwardly close to each other, nearly touching but not. I can read it in the way we speak to each other, our seemingly anodyne conversation concealing layers of youthful lust and desire. I can hear it in the way he says, it was really nice to meet you Clara, and the way he pronounces my name. As clear as spring water. I can feel the high voltage current between us, so high it might combust. Now he reaches out his hand towards mine and the tips of our fingers touch, then interlace. His palm burns. He moves closer and pulls the hair away from his face. His lips reach slowly towards mine. Which is when my sister chooses to barge in.

Just as he is about to kiss me.

Have you seen my black pen? she asks, as Alexander steps back, just in time.

No, I haven’t, I declare, in a surprisingly composed voice. In fact, I would kill her if I could. We’re busy talking here, can’t you see?

Yeah whatever, she replies, before walking away.

Alexander clears his throat. I should go anyway. Our plane is leaving soon.

Yes of course.

We make our way to the front door. Please say goodbye to your parents for me, he says.

I will.

We look at each other again. I swallow hard. He presses the button for the elevator. Maybe we could, like, write to each other, he ventures, turning one last time to face me.

That sounds nice, I answer, as the elevator arrives. The doorman holds the door open for Alexander. Hello Master Karlick, he says. Alexander steps inside and gives me a small wave.

And then he is gone.

8

9

In my bedroom I inhabit the sliver of space he left behind. The force of him. The smell of him. I stand where he stood. The feel of his gravity beneath me. His burning palm against mine. His green gaze.

At night my tears cover the pillowcase. It is still damp in the morning.

10

Of the books in Alexander’s bookshelf, the one that intrigues me most is the volume of Anna Akhmatova’s poetry. I had read about her in the introduction to the well-worn book. Her talent, her beauty, her life. If Alexander admires this woman, then so must I. And I do. I am gripped by what I read. I love him all the more for loving her. Then, on p. 76, I find these words underlined: Tell me how you kiss. The poem is called “The Guest” and he has underlined those words, because they are directed at me. There is no doubt in my mind. Our brutally interrupted kiss is proof that I am right. Alexander must have underlined it quickly when I had my back turned. Then again, did I have my back turned at all? We seemed to be facing each other the whole time. I decide that the logistics are irrelevant here. What matters is the evidence:

He lifted his thin hand

and lightly stroked the flowers:

“Tell me how men kiss you,

tell me how you kiss.”

By the end of that week, I know everything there is to know about Anna Akhmatova. I discuss her with my parents, who appear impressed.

We didn’t realise you were interested in Russian poets, my father says. How did that happen?

It just happened. There’s a lot about me you don’t know, I retort.

11

In the evening I picture Alexander sitting at his desk, going through his stamp collection with his magnifying glass. Sometimes he stops and recites a few Akhmatova poems to me. He recites from “The Guest” then kisses me in between words. Tell (kiss) me (kiss) how (kiss) you (kiss) kiss (kiss).

Then he returns to his new discovery, a 1974 Burundi stamp, illustrated with a black and yellow butterfly, which may or may not be worth a fortune.

Meanwhile my sister, far from African butterflies and Alexander’s kisses, sleeps in what is euphemistically called the maid’s room, a space no bigger than a closet, which barely accommodates a small bed and a side table. She is not happy there.

You must take turns in the small room, the two of you, my mother declares. You must be fair to your sister.

I will not be fair to my sister, who is responsible for interrupting what could have been one of the most beautiful moments in my life: she barged into my room just as I was about to kiss Alexander. Because of her, he stopped. For that she must pay—and for a long time. I succeed in making sure she remains in the maid’s closet. What’s the point of moving all our stuff back and forth? It’s too complicated, I tell my mother.

My sister puts up a fight, then eventually gives up. I like it when I win.

Even though I only ever seem to win at home.

12