Crazy (10 page)

“The Old Man and the Sea
?
”
Janosch folds his hands. “It’s supposed to be pretty good. Maybe you can read a bit of it to me—for fun. We’ve still got a ways to go, and besides, I’d like to have encountered real literature.”

“Is it literature?”

“I think so.”

“So what’s literature?”

“Literature is where you read a book and feel you could put a little mark under every line because it’s true.”

“Because it’s true? I don’t get it.”

“When every sentence is simply right. When it reveals something about the world. And life. When every phrase gives you the feeling that you would have behaved or thought exactly the same way the character in the book does. That’s when it’s literature.”

“Where did you get that from?”

“I just think so, that’s all.”

“You just think so? Then for sure it’s shit. I bet a literature professor would say something else. How many books have you read already anyhow?”

“Maybe two.”

“Maybe two? And you’re telling me about literature?”

“Well, you wanted to hear it, and besides, the whole thing’s too complicated. Not even the people who’re supposed to understand it understand anything. So why should
we
beat our brains out? Let’s just read for the fun of it, and for the fun of getting it, and stop wondering if it’s literature or not. Other people can take care of that. If it really is literature, all the better. And if it isn’t, who the fuck cares?”

“My view completely,” I say and open the paperback again. A high-pitched whistle comes out of the loudspeakers, then the voice of the conductor. It’s all distorted and gets cut off quite often, but we get the gist of it. We’ll be half an hour late into Munich. Janosch and the others sigh. I give myself over to my text and read it loudly and clearly, only making occasional mistakes. Other times I don’t read so well, and I always hesitate in class. I hate it when we have to read aloud. But here it goes okay. Soon Janosch isn’t the only one listening; the others have pricked up their ears as well and they’re gaping at me wide-eyed. Even Sambraus seems to be enjoying it. The Paul Auster book slips down between the armrests, and he folds his hands on his stomach. I don’t know how long I read, but it’s a damn long time. My mouth is dry and empty. The old man loses the battle with the sea. Comes back home empty handed. The guys’ faces are all red. Even Janosch is sniffling out loud. He shakes his head furiously and his eyes are almost bursting and his ears have turned dark red on the inside. He makes a hasty grab for the novel.

Glob and Skinny Felix are so upset they reach for each other’s hands, and there are tears in their eyes. Troy and Florian stay cool. I guess they don’t think much of it, and they’re showing no emotion. Now Fat Felix reaches for the book and leafs quickly through it to read the most important bits again. Then he gives it back to me. His face is alight. I check the time: ten-forty. We should be in Munich soon.

Chapter 13

Fat Felix raises his voice as he looks out the window. “Do you think we’re as brave as the old man in the book?” he asks. “Even when everything is about loss?”

“We’re all brave,” says Janosch.

“But why are we?” is Fat Felix’s question. “Where’s the dividing line between
valiant
and
brave
?”

“There is no dividing line,” says Florian a.k.a. Girl. “Everyone’s both valiant and brave.”

“How?” says Fat Felix.

“Because everyone wakes up in the morning and sets off into life,” is Skinny Felix’s contribution, “without blowing their brains out. Which is valiant
and
brave.”

“So why doesn’t anyone see it or say so?” asks Glob.

“Because it’s become self-evident,” says Janosch.

“Self-evident?” Fat Felix wants to know. “Why is everything in the world self-evident? Why is everything always assumed in advance? That we set off into life. That we put one foot in front of the other. Why is it so normal? Which damn book says so? And who was the asshole who published it?”

“The asshole’s name is God,” says Sambraus, frowning.

Fat Felix thinks Sambraus is an okay guy; he had a great conversation with him in Rosenheim, all about life and his future.

Sambraus was at school in Neuseelen. He had an absolutely terrible time there, felt locked in, just wanted to go back home. And then when he did get home, nothing worked anymore. He suddenly missed the orderly life of boarding school. In the Second World War he was on the Russian front. After the war ended, he and his fiancée, whom he’d met on leave, moved to Neuseelen. And that’s where they got married. Then in 1977 his wife died. Cancer. He buried her in the cemetery at Neuseelen, because she loved the place so much. After that, Sambraus obviously flipped out. Went to brothels and so on. Just screwed away his misery. He even moved to an apartment in Munich right above a strip joint. Still lives there. And for the last twenty years he’s been going out to her grave in Neuseelen every second day with a big bunch of red roses, her favorite flower.

“Why does God do things like that?” asks Glob, clenching his fists.

“Because everything in the world has to unwind according to a certain scheme of things,” is Sambraus’s explanation. “And the scheme is you have to see in order to see, hear in order to hear, understand in order to understand. And move on, in order to move on. So move, boy, move!”

Fat Felix presses his face against the windowpane, making big, dark patches form on the glass. Out of the loudspeakers comes the scratchy voice of the conductor.
In a few minutes we shall be arriving at
the main station in Munich.

Outside the windows is Munich. I stand at the door with Janosch, Troy, and the others behind me as we roll into the main station. Glob’s big backpack almost gets stuck on the way out of the compartment. Next to us there’s a blond man with a tired-looking German shepherd.

“Now’s the time,” says Janosch.

“Time for what?” I ask.

“The cigars,” says Janosch. “We’re coming into Munich, and now’s the time to smoke them. Big heroes, like in
Independence Day.
”

He pulls them out of his pocket. They’re cheap cigars—Agnos. But who cares? He hands me one and sticks the other in his mouth, waits till I do the same, then lights them. He’s indifferent to the NO SMOKING sign. The blond man doesn’t interest him either. He draws greedily on his cigar. The blond man winks. I turn away and blow smoke into a little recessed area. The cigar tastes foul, and I’ll be glad when I’ve finished it. The German shepherd sneezes. I feel sorry for him. His gentle eyes are watching me. I turn around again.

“Are you afraid of death?” I ask Janosch.

“No one who’s young is afraid of death,” he says.

“Really?”

“Really. Anyone who’s young only begins to be afraid of death when he’s not young anymore. Until then, all he has to do is live. So he doesn’t think about death.”

“So why am
I
afraid of death?” I ask.

“It’s something else,” says Janosch.

“So what is it?”

“With you it’s the sea,” says Janosch.

“The sea?”

“The sea of anxiety. You’ve got to get rid of it. You know, your world is full of things that are out to kill you. Your parents’ divorce. School. Other guys. Try to be sure you don’t kill yourself! It would be a pity!”

Janosch pulls on his cigar. I look up at him. I admire him. I’ve never said it to him, but I admire him. Janosch is life. He’s light; he’s the sun. If there is a God, he talks through Janosch. I know it. And he should give him his blessing.

The train comes to a halt. We’re here. The doors open, and the first one out onto the platform is the blond man with the dog. Then it’s me and Janosch. I see the dog disappearing into the crowd. He’s sweet. He’s got his muzzle pointed toward the ground, and he stumbles wearily and discontentedly beside his companion. The last I see of him is his tail, a bushy scrap of hair, also pointing toward the ground.

It makes me think of our dog, Charlie. He was part Saint Bernard. His father was a monster and so was his mother, so it’s no wonder he grew to stand about three foot six. He died two years ago. It seems an eternity. Charlie was my friend and a big support when things got tough. Sometimes I would lie with him at night when I couldn’t get to sleep and there was a storm outside. I hated storms. They left Charlie totally cold. He was a rock, and I could hide behind him whenever and wherever I needed to. I’ll never forget the way he snuffled. His nose would squeeze itself together like a sponge. It felt soft. Everything about him felt soft. His ears were like cotton wool, and his stomach was a big ship rising and falling according to the weather. I remember our last night together. Charlie had thrown up blood again. I slept with him in the bathroom on a deck chair. But I couldn’t stand that for very long. I crawled down next to him and went back to sleep on a towel. Charlie had a pretty shitty night. His breath rattled and he vomited blood. All I could do for him was to be there and put an arm around him, which I did—I put my arm around him and prayed. I prayed I wouldn’t lose my dog. Charlie had always protected me. Nobody called me a cripple when he was around. I could rely on that. I used to take him on extra-long walks through areas where lots of other kids lived. And the ones who saw me treated me with respect because I had him, Charlie. My dog and my rock. Whenever I was lonely, we played a game with a ring, a plastic one about four inches wide, which I threw in the air for Charlie to catch. The whole thing was pretty boring, but that was the game, our game. Sometimes we played all day. That night two years ago when our dog died, God wasn’t on the case, and he didn’t hear me. Charlie died around four in the morning. The great big ship rose and fell one last time, then stopped in mid-movement. His eyes went dim. He was the same age as I was. Fourteen. When we got him, I was a baby. But I still remember him. And as long as I do, Charlie will stay alive, in some way or other. We buried him in a field that same day. The whole family was there and everyone cried except for my mother, who didn’t particularly like Charlie. She always saw him as a big danger to me, and besides, he was a lot of work. My father on the other hand really liked him, and they had a great relationship. It was my father who named him after Charlie Watts, the drummer for the Rolling Stones. If our dog was still alive, I’d go visit him, but that’s all over now. Time pays no heed to me or Charlie. My rock.

“Isn’t that the taste of life?” asks Janosch, pulling on his Agno cigar. The others are now out on the platform. I can see from their eyes that they’re a little exhausted. Wearily they join the surge of people. The platform’s bigger than the one at Rosenheim, at least thirty-three feet wide, and it stretches a good hundred yards or more. The surface is stone, which makes every step give off a strange clacking sound. Fat Felix likes it and laughs as he stamps his right foot on the ground. There are still a lot of people around at this hour. Mostly kids, dawdling along the platform in pairs or groups. Some of them to smoke or drink, some of them just to be here, meet other kids, piss on the daily grind. A couple of homeless guys are lying on the ground in front of an advertising panel. Their lives show in their faces. Covered in scratches and scars. One of them looks up at me. He has long white hair and a reddish beard. He drops an arm over his companion. They’ll both be asleep in a minute. I give them a little money—I can’t just go by without leaving anything. I turn back to Janosch and the others. They are repaying Sambraus the ticket money he laid out for them.

“I always thought life tasted different,” I say, taking a drag on my Agno cigar. The smoke is deep and dark as it rises.

“So, how did you think it tastes?” asks Janosch.

“Maybe a little sweet. There are a few sweet things in life too.”

“Where did you come up with this shit? At best, sweet is what my chocolate snail tastes like, not life,” Glob interrupts. “Have you guys noticed how much shit we’ve been talking lately?”

“We always talk shit,” says Skinny Felix.

“Yes,” says Glob, “but we’re not here to talk shit, we’re here to
do
shit—so let’s go!”

“Glob’s right,” says Janosch. “Come on, let’s go.”

So we take off through the entrance hall of the main station. It’s pretty big. Shops everywhere. Even a porno movie theater. Fat Felix presses his nose up to a movie poster.
House of Lusts.
There’s a black woman on the poster with her legs spread. All she’s got on is a pair of red panties. A white band covers her chest. Glob thinks it’s shameless and starts grousing.

“Come on,” says Janosch. “We’re on our way to a strip joint after all! It’ll have real women. If you’ve got the hots, just hang on.”

“My hots can take care of themselves,” retorts Fat Felix, and stays looking at the poster. We start moving again, with Sambraus in front. Then Skinny Felix and Janosch. Florian, Troy, and I are at the back.

Troy pulls a face and his eyes are sparkling.

“So, do you like it?” I ask.

“Yes, I like it. I’d like to stay here forever.”

“In Munich?”

“No—with you guys. I’m slowly beginning to feel I’m alive.”

“Nicely put.”

Florian a.k.a. Girl runs quickly to catch up with the others.

“Troy can talk,” I hear him yelling excitedly in the hall.

“Really?”

The others turn around. Fat Felix comes out of the back part of the hall.

Chapter 14

“Do you have a disability pass?” Janosch asks me as we get into the subway. We only have four stations to go, to Münchner Freiheit. It doesn’t take long. There’s practically nobody else in the car. We sit down.

“No,” I say.

“Why not?” Fat Felix wants to know.

“They won’t give me one. They say I’m not disabled. I can walk, that’s their opinion.”

“Are they out of their minds?” asks Janosch. “Don’t they examine you?”

“No, but I have to admit I’m not all that keen on this disability pass. What do I need it for? Just to prove I’m a cripple?”

“You just told me yourself the other day that you have problems with your balance,” says Janosch. “That kind of thing can be dangerous—in the subway, for example, when it’s full of people. That’s why there are these seats reserved for the disabled. They’re made especially for you!”

“And besides, you could get in almost everywhere cheaper,” adds Fat Felix. “Take the porno theaters, to begin with!”

“You’ve earned it, that’s all,” says Janosch. “You’ve got a bum deal with your disability, you know? They could easily give you compensation. But of course what do they care? Typical government.”

“It’s not the government, it’s the social services,” I point out.

“So what, it’s the same kind of guys. Government.”

“What do you mean by government?” asks Fat Felix.

“Nobody can really define it,” is Florian’s view. “Something like the people who take care of everything, I think. Who decide what’s just and unjust.”

“And what’s the point of them?” asks Fat Felix.

“Well, they do build roads and stuff,” says Janosch. “And subways. Without them we wouldn’t be sitting here.”

“But aren’t they the same people responsible for all the conspiracies?” asks Glob. “The people who refuse to tell us that there are
aliens
?”

“Yes, they’re the same ones, I think,” says Florian. “And they’re also the ones who put people in jail.”

“Shit, what else are they up to?” asks Fat Felix. “This stuff is really bad. What part do we get to play in this whole plot?”

“We’re the people,” says Skinny Felix.

“So what are the others, if we’re the people?” asks Glob.

Skinny Felix thinks. His eyes roll; he meshes his hands together. “The others are the
big
people,” he says finally.

“The
big
people?” Glob repeats. “Like in conspiracy movies?”

“Come on,” says Janosch. “A film’s a film. Reality is something else again.”

“But movies are crazy,” says Fat Felix. “Did any of you see
Pulp Fiction
?”

“Everybody’s seen
Pulp Fiction,
” says Janosch. “And it wasn’t that fantastic.”

“So what’s a better one?” asks Florian.

“Braveheart,”
says Janosch. “It’s good. Mel Gibson’s
crazy.
And besides, I like Scotland.”

“Why Scotland in particular?” I ask.

“Well—lots of plants.”

“Lots of plants? So you think heaven has lots of plants?”

“Heaven has everything,” says Janosch, “and so does Scotland. The weather protects the country from the people.”

“How?” says Fat Felix.

“Because it never stops raining,” Janosch explains.

“And since when did you start wanting to get away from people?” asks Skinny Felix.

“Since it got too crowded here,” says Janosch. “Everything here’s just too cramped. I sometimes feel like I can’t breathe anymore. Horrible feeling. I don’t have it in Scotland. In Scotland I’m free.”

“Maybe we should go to the movies together sometime,” says Fat Felix.

“Why are you suddenly so keen on the movies?” asks Janosch.

“Well, movies tell you about life, don’t they?”

“I think the road to the movies tells you more,” says Janosch.

“Do you guys know what I’ve realized after this conversation?” I ask.

“Lebert has had a realization,” says Janosch.

“So what is it?” asks Fat Felix.

“The world is
crazy.
”

“You’re right about that,” says Janosch. “Crazy and wonderful. And we should use every second we’ve got in it.”

The others slap me on the back.