Crazy (6 page)

Marie comes too. At least I think she does. She moans louder than before. Holds her own tits. Gives one loud cry, then crumples. We cuddle. That certainly wasn’t her first time; I’m sure of it. She’s far too good at it. Janosch thinks doing it the first time with an experienced girl is good. You don’t have to do so much, because she knows what to do already. Marie dismounts, stumbles across the anteroom. Doesn’t say a word. Pulls her panties back on. I see her cunt again for a moment. I’ll remember it for sure. So that was my first time. And in Neuseelen Boarding School. And on my second night. It all went pretty fast. I start to feel bad. Really rotten. As if someone had kicked me in the balls. I can hardly stand and my knees are shaking. The beer rumbles in my stomach. All shaken up by the quickie with Marie. My head hurts and my eyes are watering. Marie leaves. I watch her stumble out the door. She must be pretty drunk, I think. I’m not even sure she knew what she was doing. Maybe she does this a lot. Doesn’t care what happens next. Maybe just wants to have fun and doesn’t give a shit. Okay, so what. What are all those sayings about your first time? After your first time you’re a man? Now you’re really standing on your own feet? Farewell to sweet youth? Now you’re a grown-up? My first time’s over now, and I still feel small enough to piss in my pants. Which is okay too. I don’t want to become a grown-up; I want to remain a perfectly normal kid. Have fun. Hide behind my parents when I have to. And all that’s over now? Just because I put my cock in Marie’s hot little hole? But nobody saw. And I’m not going to tell anyone.

The good Lord should cut me some slack. We can behave as if nothing happened. The whole thing is beginning to get too complicated for me. Why do I ever have to grow up? Or to put it another way, what moron ever came up with this idea in the first place? Why don’t we all just stay small boys? Who want to have fun? Screw, laugh, be happy. I pace around the anteroom. I’m upset. As if a dream has died or something. As if something is over. I’m still shaking. My skin’s gone white. I feel alone. In the whole damn wide world. In this shitty boarding school. And it would have to be called Neuseelen— “New Souls.” My soul is new, all right. That’s for sure. My shitty soul. I miss home. My parents. Why do they fight? Where’s my sister? And why the hell am I turning so aggressive? I’ve just screwed a girl, goddamnit. One who was drunk. With big tits and a hot cunt. And who apparently didn’t even notice. Stroke of luck, huh? I splash some water on my face. Then I go to take a piss. I’ve been needing a piss for a long time. I think I may have wet my pants a little already. I’m still wearing this disgusting condom. It’s hanging down slack. My cock’s not hard enough anymore. I chuck it on the floor. It can be their problem tomorrow, if the cleaning woman finds it. If whoever finds it. I step to the edge of the toilet. Lift the seat. Piss. Piss off to the side as well. I don’t care. For a moment I even piss deliberately against the wall. The way they always do in Tarts’ Alley. It’s great. It all runs over the floor. Almost a flood. I get a real laugh out of it. Then I go down on my knees. Throw up. And keep throwing up.

Today was a bit too much for me: instead of a night in bed, climbing a fire escape, drinking everything in sight, screwing around a little, and growing up along the way. Enough for one night. Enough to make anyone puke. I stand up and stagger out into the anteroom. There are a couple of stains on my pajama top. So what. The yellow condom’s lying on the tile floor. The white stuff’s collecting in the tip. You can see it clearly. Someone’s going to get a kick out of that tomorrow. Maybe Malen. Maybe one of the tutors. I go out into the girls’ corridor. Look at all the pictures on the wall. Look at Malen’s picture and the pictures of the others. Listen to the sound of my footsteps. I’m on my own. Nobody’s giving me a hand. I stand outside room 330. Malen’s room. A normal door made of gray plywood, with a normal brass handle. I push it down.

Chapter 7

How do you describe life in boarding school? As difficult? Boring? Demanding? Lonely would be another. I feel lonely. Even though I’m with the others all day long. Let’s take a perfectly ordinary day: I wake up at six-thirty. Landorf, the teacher in charge, is standing in the doorway.

“It’s time,” he says.

Slowly I raise my head. Look over at Janosch. All I can see is his mess of hair. We still have another half hour. Janosch chooses to use his for sleep. He never washes in the morning. I get up. Take my shaving kit. Shuffle down Tarts’ Alley. Breakfast at seven-fifteen. Rolls, Nutella, yogurt. Classes begin at seven forty-five. First comes learning. You just sit there for half an hour and learn. They call it Silentium. Only in boarding school. Usually you hold up a book in front of you and nod off. Sometimes it falls over. Embarrassing. Then classes start. Six hours a day, Saturdays included. A long break after the second, a short one after the fourth. You go get sandwiches from the case outside the dining hall. They taste disgusting.

One-fifteen lunch. The menu’s posted at the entrance to the dining hall. Usually rice with some kind of sauce. Every six weeks you have to wait tables. While the others eat, you get to run around. Set and clear the tables. When everything’s over, it’s your turn. You eat with the staff in the kitchen. After lunch you’re free for an hour. Afternoons: doing homework. Then supper. Two hours free. Then washroom. Then sleep. Bedtime for sixteen-yearolds is ten-thirty.

How can you describe life in boarding school?

I’ve been here four months.

I go into Troy’s room. There’s a little light coming through the open window. The curtains are moving in the wind, their shadows dancing on the cracked parquet floor. The floor is gray and radiates depression. There are a couple of posters on the pock-marked wall. They all show scenes of horror from the Second World War. Screaming children. Bombed-out cities. Desperate soldiers. Next to them are some newspaper articles about the SS. I see hideous faces. Goebbels. Göring. Hitler. There’s a sentence written on the wall in a color that looks like blood: IS THIS THE WAY LIFE’S MEANT TO BE? The letters run into each other, but you can make them out. Only one bed in here, placed in the middle of the room. The pillows are tangled up in the bedcover, but you can see it has a scene from the movie
Dragonheart
on it, with a huge fire-belching dragon fighting one of the knights of the Round Table. WE WILL ALWAYS SUCCEED is written on it. The desk is to the right, next to the window, heaped with stuff, mainly books, colored pens, and photos. Some drawings are stacked on the windowsill. Naked women with big breasts. I’ve never been here before. Somehow I’m ashamed about this. I take another step into the room. There’s a storage cupboard against the left wall. Full of books. Troy himself is in front of it in the act of pulling one out. Stephen King’s
Misery.
It’s a great book. I know it. It’s about this novelist who has a car accident. He finally ends up with a madwoman who tortures him. Cuts off one of his legs and so on. She says she’s his greatest fan, and he has to write a book for her. If he doesn’t, he’ll die. It’s that simple. Terrific book. At my last school, I suggested it for our German reading class. That got me a 6. We read
Soul Flame.
Piece of shit. I didn’t understand a word. As far as I remember, the only books we read in school were ones I didn’t understand. The authors always seem to talk in riddles; they could actually be writing a quiz book or something. Probably I just don’t get it. Still. I go over to Troy. Sit down by him on the bed. On the edge, of course, I don’t want to bug him. He frowns irritably. He holds up
Misery.
It has a green binding with silver lettering, which truly sparkles when you get it in the right light. The guy’s really made it, I think to myself. No more problems. Stephen King has millions and millions in the bank. He doesn’t care whether his son gets a 6 in math or not. Keeps on living. Writes his books and is happy. Stephen King can kiss my ass. I’ve handed in another two pieces of homework in the last week. I think they’re both lousy. I haven’t got them back yet. Math and German. Everything seems to be getting on my nerves right now.

The bed I’m sitting on is incredibly soft. What I’d really like to do right now is go to sleep. I could also use it. We were out again last night. Down in front of the dining hall. A little smoking, a little talking. Just enjoying ourselves. Janosch says we should do it more often. But I don’t know if that’s such a good idea. Everyone needs a little sleep, too, in my view. I look around. The room is really small. Does Troy like it in here? I have no idea. I lean back. Look at the clock. Five-thirty. Another hour until supper.

“Troy, what are you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“But you have to be doing something!”

“No I don’t.”

I turn my head a little to the right. Run a hand over my hair. Troy remains sitting next to me. A fly crawls over his face. He doesn’t try to shoo it away. Stays still. His eyes roll. He coughs a little.

“Why are you alone, Troy?” I try again. “Why do you want to be alone?”

Troy’s eyes are somewhere far away. He’s struggling with himself. He doesn’t often get questions like this. And he doesn’t often have to answer them. He clears his throat.

“I’m different, you know,” he says in a deep voice. “Just different. People don’t like people who are different. That’s how it is. People don’t take notice of me. They don’t like me.” Troy looks up at me, and his eyes flicker. His lips tighten. It’s the first time I’ve heard him say anything like this. His eyes watch me good-naturedly.

“But we like you, Troy!” I say. I rub my left arm. “We like you.”

“You register me,” Troy replies. “But you don’t like me. You only take me with you all the time because you have to. Maybe to carry the beer. Or to beat up on me. Janosch always needs someone to beat up on.”

“But you belong with us,” I say. “Like Florian or Fat Felix. You’re one of us. A hero, as Janosch would say. We wouldn’t amount to much without you.”

“I’m not a hero. Nobody’s ever paid attention to me. I’m a bed wetter. See for yourself!”

He slowly pulls the
Dragonheart
bedcover aside. There’s a big stain on the sheet.

“It happens to me at night,” he says. “I piss in the bed. I don’t know why. Nobody would understand. So I prefer being alone. If you’re alone, nobody can hurt you.”

Troy stands up, goes over to the window, stands there a minute. Then comes back to the bed, sits down.

“Are you ever afraid?” he asks. “I don’t mean afraid of an exam. Or a teacher. Just plain afraid—afraid of life, you know?” Troy swallows. He hunches forward.

“Life
is
being afraid,” I say. I’m beginning to feel uncomfortable. In truth, I’ve never thought about it. But I think it’s true. “That’s how it has to be,” I say. “I don’t know why either, but somehow that’s the way it has to be! Maybe because otherwise people would spend their time behaving like idiots. They wouldn’t be afraid anymore.”

“But does that mean it has to be that way all the time?” asks Troy. “I don’t want to be afraid all the time. Everything always happens so fast. I can’t keep up. I’m afraid.”

“You’re right, Troy. It all happens too fast. Why can’t we wait? Just look. Rewind?”

“Because life isn’t really a videotape?” Troy says timidly. “So what is it?”

Troy’s getting nervous. He rubs his eyes. The sweat’s beginning to build on his forehead. He takes a deep breath. “Life is . . .” He falters. Shivers. He’s rocking backward and forward from the waist. The fly abandons his face, looking for somewhere quieter. The chair. The table. It keeps crawling.

“It’s . . .?” I repeat.

“It’s a big wet bed,” he finally bursts out.

He’s crying. Fat tears roll down his face. His eyes start to swell. He sobs. I move closer to him. I didn’t mean this to happen. Cautiously I stroke his back with my right hand.

“God’s no use,” Troy stutters. “He doesn’t lift a finger. He just sits up there fat and happy and does nothing to help.” He puts his hands over his face. Doubles up. Cries. You can hear his silent lament.

“He’ll help us at some point, Troy,” I say. “At some point. Someday he’ll come and get us out of this shit down here and help us, Troy. You and me. The two of us will laugh when all this is over, and life stops being one big wet bed!”

“Life will always be one big wet bed,” he says despairingly. His skin is all damp and his cheeks are wet with tears. “I can’t go on, Lebert!” he says. “I can’t. Where the hell are we going?”

He’s at the end of his rope; you can tell. At some point everyone reaches the end of their rope. Even silent Troy. Janosch calls it the “Tart House phase.” When nothing makes sense. When you’ve had enough. Then you break down, according to him. He says it’s perfectly okay; that if you don’t, you’ll die.

I don’t know if it’s good or not. What I think is that you only bitch about the stuff you have no right to bitch about. But I haven’t a clue. I would certainly never have expected it from Troy—I always thought he just
was
. Like the moon or the stars. He would never have a Tart House phase. But that’s where you go wrong. Youth’s a bummer, says Janosch. Everyone has problems. Even Troy. He’s blowing his nose right now. I keep stroking his back.

I find myself thinking about my parents. About the weekends we’ve spent together recently. Everything seemed so hard somehow. I never felt completely relaxed. There was always the feeling that I’d have to return to school soon. Everything we did felt bad. I was pissed off. At myself. At my father and mother. At my sister. At the fact that everything has to be over sometime. And that I should be leading my own life someplace else—in school, in fact. Janosch says that’s the tragedy of being at boarding school. Every Sunday you have to go back. That’s it.
Basta.
Always cheerful and in the old communal frame of mind—one for all, etc.

Pretty exhausting, in his view. Being at home is a lot nicer. I think he’s right. Even if my parents fight a lot. Almost every weekend when I’ve been home, my mother cries. She sits in the kitchen with tears running down her cheeks. Just like Troy. While my sister sits beside her to comfort her. Both of them furious with my father. I was always in the middle. Didn’t want to attack either one of them. I felt we were all somehow at fault. It’s all so complicated. Too complicated for me, anyway. I don’t get it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say what I needed was a Tart House phase. Scream the whole thing out for once, to clear everything up. It hurts to see your mother cry. Sometimes that’s the last image I have of her as I leave again for Neuseelen. Crying—in the kitchen, on the red stool, in front of the window. There’s a saying that youth is easy. People who say it are the ones who’ve already got it behind them— they must be wishing they had it back. I don’t think it’s such a good idea. God, everything’s miserable. Troy can do a real number on that. I have no idea how I should comfort him. I can hardly tell him he should just stop pissing in his bed, but I’d like to help him. I’m sorry for him. He’s never had any luck at all in his life.

“Let’s get out,” he says. “Just run. Let’s get the others and disappear. Who cares where. It’s a big world. I can’t stand it here any longer.”

“We can’t. They’ll look for us and they’ll find us. The world’s smaller than you think. At least the boarding-school world. We can’t clear out. It’s too dangerous.”

“If we’re quick, we can do it,” says Troy. “We can go to Munich. Before supper. There’s a bus to Rosenheim. Then we can go on by train.” Troy tries to make eye contact with me. He looks at me with blank sadness. The guy really means it—you can tell.

“Please don’t make me an onlooker anymore,” he says. “Don’t leave me standing in the dark, staring at the stage. My whole life I’ve been staring at the stage. I’ve had it. Now I want to be up on the stage. Do something wild. Something no one’s ever done before. Something
crazy.
”

“Crazy?”

“Crazy.”

I don’t say anything. I’m not really all that thrilled with this. I don’t want to clear out. Things will certainly turn unpleasant. And where are we supposed to spend the night? Neuseelen closes its gates at 11:00 p.m. After that nobody can get in or out. All the better, Janosch would say; then we’ll just spend the night in Munich. The only question is where. The people at school are certain to miss us pretty soon. There’ll be an uproar. I lean back slowly and take a deep breath.

“Has anyone done this before?” I ask.

“What?”

“You know, take an illegal trip to Munich and spend the night. Just like that. Without saying we’re going.”

“Not since I’ve been here,” answers Troy. “And certainly no one our age. You just can’t let yourself do things like that. It’s semicriminal.” He laughs.

“But then why are we going to let ourselves do it?”

“Because we’re the best. Think for a minute. Who better than the six of us to act out the wildest idea of all time? Janosch, the two Felixes, Florian, you, and me. We were born for wild ideas.” Troy laughs. His eyes are sparkling. I don’t think he’s ever been so happy before. He’s beside himself, rocking backward and forward, the tears at the corners of his eyes drying, leaving little red marks.

Silent Troy has jumped over his own shadow. You can tell. He’s on the road to recovery. His mouth is still dark and twisted, but he’s smiling. He stands up.

“The six of us.”