Crazy
Table of Contents
For Bruno Schnee and Norbert Lebert
We are all potentially characters in a novel—with the difference that characters in a novel really get to live their lives to the full.
—GEORGES SIMENON
Chapter 1
So this is where I’m supposed to stay. Until I graduate, if possible. That’s the plan. I stand in the parking lot of Castle Neuseelen Boarding School and look around. My parents are standing beside me. They brought me here. I’ve got four schools behind me now. This is to be my fifth. And the fifth is finally supposed to raise my damn math score from a 6 to a 5. I can’t wait.
They’ve already been sending letters and encouraging messages along the lines of:
Dear Benjamin,
Just come to us and everything will get better. Lots of
people before you have made it already.
Of course they have. There are always enough pupils for one or more of them to make it. I know that already. But things are a bit different with me. I’m sixteen and I’m repeating ninth grade. The way it looks, I’m not going to make it this time either. My parents are both respected people—doctor of alternative medicine and engineer. They can’t be seen to be giving some mere middle-school graduation party. It has to be something more. Okay. That’s why I’m here.
In the middle of the school year. Looking at the gates of a boarding school. My mother hands me a letter. I’m supposed to give it to the headmaster later. By way of further explanation about me. I pick up a suitcase and wait for my father. He’s still standing by the car, looking for something. I think I’m going to miss him. Sure we’ve fought a lot, but after a tough day at school he was always the first with a smile for me. We go up to the secretary’s office. The boarding school looks even unfriendlier inside than out. Endless wood. Endless oldness. Endless rococo, or whatever—I’m as lousy in art history as I am in math. My parents like the building. They say the sound of our footsteps on the wooden floors is beautiful.
What do I know. There’s a fat woman waiting for us in the secretary’s office. She’s called Angelica Lerch. She stands in front of me with her big fat cheeks and her big fat body. Makes me nervous. She gives me a couple of school stickers. Everything’s covered with pictures of an eagle, grinning and clutching a schoolbag. Underneath is printed in cursive script:
Castle Neuseelen Boarding School—a
new era in education.
I’ll give them to my parents; they can stick them up in the kitchen or God knows where. Angelica Lerch holds out her hand and welcomes me to the Castle. She herself has been here thirty years and has never had a single complaint. I decide not to comment. I sit down beside my parents on a copperish-colored settee and squash up closer to them than normal. I haven’t done that for a long time. But it feels good; they’re all warm, and it’s like I’m protected. I take my mother’s hand. Mrs. Lerch says the headmaster will be here in person in a minute to greet me. This said with a pinch of her nostrils. So. This is it—no way out. I’m sitting here and they’ll come and get me soon. I feel shitty and stare at the floor. But I don’t see the floor. I see . . . who cares what I see. I sit for maybe five minutes. Then the headmaster arrives. Jörg Richter is young, around thirty I guess, maybe a bit older. About six feet two inches. Black hair parted in the middle, friendly face. He comes in and drops into the next-best chair. Then, as if he’d forgotten, he jumps up again to greet us. His hand is damp. He asks us to come with him to his office. It’s not far from the secretary’s office. On the way I listen to the sound of the wooden floor. I don’t think it’s beautiful. So what?
The moment we reach his office, Mr. Richter gives me a couple of school stickers. They’re more up-to-date than Mrs. Lerch’s. The eagle is better designed and looks more three-dimensional. Even the schoolbag looks better.
All the same, I don’t know what to do with them. I stick them in my mother’s purse. Jörg Richter asks us to sit down. His office is big—bigger than the rooms I’ve seen so far. Bigger even than Mrs. Lerch’s office. Expensive pictures on the walls. Fancy furniture. You could put up with things here. “So, Benjamin, looking forward to seeing your room?” asks Mr. Richter, raising his voice. I wonder how to answer this. For a long time I don’t say a thing. Then I utter a dry “Yes.” My mother nudges me. Oh, I forgot the letter. I pull it slowly out of my pocket.
“I’ve written you a short note,” says my mother as she turns to the headmaster. “It’s very important. Because my son hardly ever talks about things himself, I thought it would be best to write to you.” The usual. Doesn’t matter what school I go to; my mother thinks it’s best to write a letter. As if you can sort out your problems that way. So okay. I dawdle over to the big desk in front of Mr. Richter. It’s wood, like almost everything else here. Not to mention black as sin. Not much on it. A computer at one edge. The school logo, the eagle with the schoolbag, is carved into the surface. It’s not easy to recognize, but I can make it out. I glance at the envelope.
Concerning my son, Benjamin Lebert’s, partial
paralysis,
it says on it. How many times have I pushed this envelope into a teacher’s hand? A dozen at least. Now I get to do it again. Jörg Richter reaches hastily for the envelope. His eyes glint with curiosity. He opens the letter. To my horror he reads it out loud. His voice is clear and full of understanding:
Dear Mr. Richter,
My son Benjamin has had a partial
paralysis of the left side of the body since
birth. This means that the functioning of the
left side of his body, particularly the arm and
the leg, is limited. In practical terms, this
means that he either cannot perform or has
difficulty performing such fine motor tasks as
tying his shoes, using a knife and fork,
drawing geometrical figures, using a pair
of scissors. In addition, he has problems
with sports, cannot ride a bicycle, and has
difficulty with any movement that involves a
sense of balance. I hope you will give him
your support by taking note of these things.
Many thanks. Warm regards,
Jutta Lebert
As the last word is read out, I shut my eyes. I want to be somewhere else, where explanations are superfluous. I slowly go back to my parents. They are standing by the wall, holding hands. You can see they’re glad to have explained things. Jörg Richter looks up. He nods. “We will pay attention to Benjamin’s handicap,” he says. No questions.
We go up to my room. It’s on the second floor, not far away. You go down a long wooden corridor that opens onto a long wooden staircase. The walls are snow white. We follow the headmaster upstairs. I hold my father’s hand. Soon we reach another corridor.
“From now on you’re at home here,” says Jörg Richter. The walls are no longer white but yellow. It’s meant to be an appealing yellow, but it misses. The floor is covered in gray linoleum. It doesn’t go with the yellow walls. The corridor is empty. The other kids aren’t back yet from winter vacation. Beside one of the windows is a plaque: THE TEACHER IN CHARGE OF THIS CORRIDOR IS LUKAS LANDORF, it says. ALL REQUESTS FOR MONEY FOR SHOPPING IN THE VILLAGE, ALL ISSUING OF POCKET MONEY, ALL REGULATION OF BEDTIMES AND AUTHORIZATIONS OF ANY KIND ARE HANDLED BY HIM. LUKAS LANDORF IS IN ROOM 219.
Mr. Richter points at the plaque. He twinkles. “Lukas Landorf will be your teacher, too. You’ll like him. He’s new here himself. Unfortunately, he won’t be back from vacation for another couple of hours, but I know you’ll have plenty of time to get to know him.”
I look around for my father. He’s standing behind me. He cuts a large figure. All strength. I don’t want to see him go.
My mother is already inside. I follow her. It’s a small room; it looked quite different in the brochure. The pale parquet floor is cracked and you can see holes in it. There’s a bed squashed against each long wall. Both beds are old farmhouse style. In the middle there’s a big flat desk with two chairs. One of them has a cushion with the eagle on it. Two cupboards for clothes against the wall. One of them’s locked—the other must be for me. In addition, two nightstands and two storage cupboards, which seem to be meant to function as bookcases. Walls white. The only posters are above the bed on the left. Most of them fall into the category of sports or computer games. My roommate, who presumably put them up, isn’t here yet. My father and Mr. Richter follow us into the room. Three suitcases and a bag are put down on the floor. I think about the secretary, Mrs. Lerch. Thirty years in this dump. Richter pulls open a drawer in the desk and fishes out a little plaque, four thumbtacks, and a hammer. He leaves the room and fixes the plaque to the door. Later I read: ROOM 211, JANOSCH ALEXANDER SCHWARZE (10TH GRADE) AND BENJAMIN LEBERT (9TH GRADE).
So now it’s official. I’m stuck here. Possibly till I graduate. My parents are leaving. We say goodbye. I watch them go back down the corridor. Hear the doors creak. The footsteps on the wooden floors. The staircase. Mr. Richter goes with them. He has promised to be back soon. He has to talk over finances with my parents. Not my place. Hope I see them again soon. I take a bag and begin to unpack. Underwear, sweatshirts, sweaters, jeans. Where the hell is my checked shirt?
Janosch says the food is lousy. As in
lousy.
As in seven days in the week. He’s standing in the bathroom, washing his feet. I’m waiting. All the washbasins are in use. It’s a big bathroom. Six washbasins, four showers. All tiled. All in use. Another five kids are waiting with me. The rest are asleep.
The floor is awash. No shower curtains. My feet are getting wet. With luck it’ll be my turn soon. But things drag on. Janosch squeezes a pimple. Then washes his hands. When I get to the front of the line, I can’t see a thing. The mirror’s all fogged up—from the showers. Nice. Janosch waits for me. I decide I’d better be quick. I hastily brush my teeth and wash my face, then dry my hands. We leave the bathroom. It’s only ten yards from our room. We go down the hall. Apparently it’s known as Tarts’ Alley, or Landorf Lane, after the teacher in charge. Sixteen kids live along here, all ages thirteen to nineteen. They’re divided three to a room or two to a room, and there’s one single room. This is for a particularly rough character called Troy—I can’t remember his last name. Janosch talks about him a lot. Apparently he’s weird, and he’s been here a long time. A
long
time.
Our teacher in charge, Lukas Landorf, comes down Tarts’ Alley. Not exactly a standout. A mop of black hair hanging down into his eyes. Old-fashioned glasses. He’s a little taller than I am but not much. Janosch says Landorf never changes his green sweater. Apparently he’s cheap—cheap as a Scot, according to Janosch—but otherwise a nice guy. Not too strict. Notices nothing. Even lets girls into the rooms. Human Valium. Some of the other teachers in charge are a lot more wide awake.
Lukas Landorf comes over to us. Smiles. He’s got a young face. Can’t be much more than thirty.
“So? Has Janosch shown you everything?”
“Yes,” I say, “everything.”
“Except the library,” says Janosch. “We missed that. Can I show it to him now?”
“No you can’t. Heavy day tomorrow. You guys have to get to bed.” As he says that, he moves on. Looks a little wobbly on his feet. Must be missing his vacation already. Me too. Just a couple of days in South Tirol this time—that was it. Including a minor run-in with my older sister, Paula. But it was paradise, as I can see now.
We go into our room. Janosch wants to talk. It’s this girl he’s fallen in love with. Bonding seems to be a pretty quick process around this place. I’ve been here seven hours, and we’re into girls already. Not my thing.
It’s not just because I’m disabled. I’ve had about as much luck with girls thus far as I’ve had in school, i.e., zip. The only thing I’ve been good at is eyeing them while the other guys nailed the ones I’d fallen for. I really had that down. Janosch talks and talks. I really feel sorry for the guy. He talks about flowers, blinding lights, and big tits. I can picture the whole thing and I’m with him all the way. A girl like that is something else. I sit down on the bed. My left leg aches, the way it does in the evening. It’s been doing it for sixteen years. My bad leg. I can’t count the times I’ve just wanted to amputate it and throw it away, along with my left arm. Why do I need either of them anyway? All they tell me is what I can’t do— can’t run, can’t jump, can’t be happy. But I’ve never actually done it—amputation, I mean. Maybe I need them to figure out math.
Or to fuck. If I want to fuck, I probably need my fucking left leg. Janosch by now is on to another subject—his childhood. He’s saying that life used to be so great and it isn’t anymore. And he says how cool it would be just to get out of this place and take off. Because it’s about being free.
Janosch says the most important thing is being free. I know better than to say anything. First of all, I’ve only just got here. I’d like to take off too. No question—take off and run, and keep running. We smoke cigarettes. Against the rules, apparently, but so what.
Janosch lit mine with a match. I can’t do it on my own—takes two hands. If Lukas Landorf turns up, we’ll throw them out the window. We’re both sitting where we can do this. The window is wide open. Janosch looks at me. He’s obviously tired. His eyes are deep blue and they look wet. The top of his bleach-blond head keeps nodding down toward the bedclothes. He gets up, stubs out the cigarette on the windowsill, and throws it out into the darkness of the parking lot. Just a few hours ago I was standing down there. Now I’m standing up above. In the center of things. Perhaps it’s for the best. I throw my cigarette out too. Then we go to sleep. Or, rather, we try. Janosch talks about Malen, his girl. “She’s unbelievably special.” I’m impressed. Most kids I know say something else about their girls. Janosch just says she’s special. That’s it. It’s great. I wish him luck with Malen. The night sky is clear and there’s no moon. I sit at the window, the way I usually do.
I push myself up in bed, tired. It was an exhausting night. Not much sleep. A lot of sitting and waiting. Outside the sky is lightening. Maybe a sign. Then again, maybe not. Who knows.
The alarm clock goes off. A horrible noise that says
first day of school.
It also says
math.
It’s also probably saying
you scored 6 again.
But I don’t hear that yet. I turn it off. My black jeans and white PINK FLOYD—THE WALL T-shirt are ready. I put them on my side of the desk last night. My mother packed them both for me, right on top, next to my school-books. What a surprise! I get dressed. I know where to go. Janosch showed me. He’s still asleep. Maybe I should wake him. There are stiff punishments for sleeping in, apparently, but I know he knows this himself. I find a piece of paper in my pants pocket. I recognize my father’s swooping handwriting: