Tomorrow Berlin (6 page)

There is something so new about Berlin it's frightening. The walls of the apartment blocks are not burdened with stones, but poured from concrete, smooth or rough-cast, like the slabs between the windows of apartments. Here, apartment blocks are not like women lying down or standing up, but seated, neither tall nor short; they don't offer you their thighs, but simply remain there, at rest. It would be hard to know what to say to these women without realising they are the product of a terrible history, that they have been seated there, on these broad armchairs, so that they can once again welcome men freed from their demons. Since they provide warmth cheaply, little groups of artists take refuge in them. They don't create anything, but it doesn't matter; they live, going from one space to another, picking up furniture that they find on the pavement. They go cycling, their children following on their little bicycles without pedals, alternately balancing their little legs against the ground. In winter, when the pavements are snow-covered, the children are pulled along in sledges with a piece of string, like Inuits.
These children look happy since people have time to take care of them, and their parents' faces suggest they are carefree too.

The streets are wide and people walk around, as though nothing could happen to them, as if here more than elsewhere people take time to live. People are a bit skint but they get by. The soups are good. People smoke in the cafés since it would be crazy not to. They work away on a laptop at some obsession. You sense Europe is around you, all its languages mixing and answering each other.

Idleness is king. Sometimes, it ruins men; excess hollows the cheeks of those who don't have to get up in the morning, the dark circles round their eyes look carved in. Some party until they can take no more – there is always somewhere open here to welcome them. It liberates some and crushes others. Freedom demands strength; some are weak and quickly lose their way. But around them, others continue with their bike rides, their tram journeys and their nice lives. It's simple enough; these are men whom Work has not crushed. This is a situationist city.

Since he was going to experience new things, Armand felt that he should write about them. He took a small black notebook and slipped it into his pocket along with a pen. When he was alone, he would make a sort of record of his existence.

A notebook for Berlin. Write down a thought, a story, a joke every day (one page, as a discipline). I’m leaving tomorrow. There are some things I shall miss; but my excitement has the upper hand. Today, writing emails and carting things around, a scooter too. Leave the fewest traces possible, not contacting E or L. Leave alone, without ties, because that is ultimately what I wanted. A little adventure with all my twenty years of wisdom.

Don’t make a song and dance of it, though. I’m going to live somewhere else, but like here; there’s nothing very disorientating about it. The language maybe, the signs, the street names and surnames, which I’ll have to decipher letter by letter like in primary school. Some customs will be different but maybe no more than in another district in Paris.

I’ll no longer be at home and I can hardly wait. The streets will have no associations; I shall have to construct new memories.

I’m sitting outside a café opposite V’s place, V
who
offered me his couch; the horrible rue de Baby-lone where I’ve had so many different experiences. Over there, all that will end. I understand why people talk about a fresh start.

All the threads I have woven will disappear, that’s a therapeutic virtue.

Where will I be this time tomorrow? In a street with an unpronounceable name, in a café again. That would be good.

Where will I sleep tomorrow? No idea. In a bed probably. Places change; the same things happen. That’s no surprise really. It’s reassuring. But also troubling. So that’s life. That is how all future days will go. Cafés and a mattress at the end, alone or with a girl. Every night I’ll sleep on a bed or a sofa, on the ground, in the dirt. There is no surprise, no surprise parcel to open.

Yes there is: death. Talk about a surprise!

It’s the first day of the autumn term. I’m leaving. People in the street are rushing about, thinking about the new (academic/office) year. Their arms are full of new things and their heads are buzzing. A new timetable, a squared A4 notebook. Same old shit.

They look happy to be resuming the course of their lives. I’m leaving, and you won’t be seeing me again.

I
only despise them insofar as I’m like them.

They come from Bon Marché, carrying big orange handbags and wearing really expensive perfume. Rive gauche. That isn’t mine. No, it’s not my element. I may like it nonetheless, the women are prettier there.

Does Berlin have a Left Bank?

So many lives I will not touch, that I’ll never understand. We want to write about men.

As if it were a matter of experiencing something, we leave, tail first.

When Armand arrived in Berlin, it was raining. The grey dome over the city was spitting out its regularly spaced phlegm. It was almost possible to believe that you could avoid the raindrops by darting between them. The sky is mocking you, that’s an omen. Armand’s sky was rainy but intangible, the sort of rain that doesn’t soak your head. But at some point a fat drop forms and hits the tip of your cigarette with its full weight. Sometimes, with a bit of luck, you just end up smoking something slightly damp, but other times, fate strikes so hard and so accurately that the cigarette has had it. You take a drag, and all you get is a sappy taste through the filter. You light up another and life goes on. Nothing has changed; but it’s there,
the little taste of artificial sap tickling your throat. At least there is that nice sound, the
psst
of water on the tip, like when you toss a butt in a plastic cup at a student party. It’s one blini among many, a toast to be savoured.

Armand was walking through the raindrops, a new cigarette between his lips. He’d got off the plane and collected his bag. That weighed him down a bit but not too much; it was very flimsy material from which to construct a new life: some books, a computer, trousers and a pair of shoes.

He thought about taking a taxi. But what address would he have given? He’d take the underground. At least you could trust it; there were maps, a vague idea of the city – the names of stations. Some inspire trust and others don’t. Armand’s drift through Berlin would be psycho-geographical. He wanted to lug his bag where his spirit led him, follow streets that would inspire him, avoid others, no regrets, and never go back.

He took the S-Bahn, watched the passengers, counted stations. He’d get off at Mehringdamm; he’d been told that Kreuzberg was a nice area.

When he came out of the U-Bahn, it was still raining, still morning. Armand was hungry. He took shelter under the frontage of a fast food joint. Enthusiastically, he ate a hamburger alone, right
up at the restaurant window, watching the rain. The scene should have been desperately sad, but Armand liked it; he was free, no one watching him, in a new city.

The rain was easing off nicely. Armand put down his tray on one of the trolleys that a cleaner would have to move later. He left the burger joint.

He walked for a bit. Then, as it was still raining, he found a café. He ordered an espresso and a croissant. The barman realised he was French.

Armand went to the room upstairs, where you could smoke.

Arrived in Berlin today. It’s raining. Finally found a café where you can smoke. It’s not unpleasant. Four blondes bedside me. I should describe it better, but what’s the point since this notebook is only for me?

Just because, for form’s sake; a purely personal aesthetic; a way of imagining one’s existence; nothing more. Yes, it may be as simple as that, imagining the aesthetic direction of my own life.

This place is quite nice (the upstairs room, I mean). Smoking, drinking coffee among German girls.

Sense that all my habits (rituals would be more flattering) will be reproduced but without giving
me the same feeling. It’s different because the places themselves are different.

A nice city where the girls are pretty. Yes, I’m staying, that’s for sure. How long I don’t know. But I’m definitely staying.

To be able to watch girls smoking in cafés at last!

All afternoon he walked around, forgetting the weight of his existence. When it got dark, he looked for a youth hostel. He had written down some addresses on a piece of paper. He did the rounds. They were all full. Where would he sleep? In the underground?

A friend in Paris had told him about the Berghain, a club that stayed open from Friday till Sunday night. He went there because he didn’t know what else to do, because he wasn’t tired.

The bouncer didn’t look surprised when he turned up with his luggage. Armand went in. Two men searched his bag and his pockets.

He paid his admission, and the Berghain opened before him.

When you come out of the underground, it feels like you’re in an industrial district. There’s open space, some huts made of sheet metal, ugly
apartment blocks fitted with big pink pipes that run along the outside. You still have a few minutes’ walk. It’s exciting and disagreeable. You prepare yourself for not coming out the same day – you’ll dance until you drop. The party will kick off soon. But first, you have to brave the passers-by. They look at you. They know where you’re going. They must be able to tell from your face that you haven’t slept in twenty-four hours. They’re off to do things you never would, off in search of a nice, ordinary Sunday.

In the distance, you can hear the jerky rhythm of robotic music.

The club stands out like a cube of concrete, so grey it’s almost beige. The building is colossal; it used to be a factory. At the entrance, people are filtered, then searched. A sign in five different languages says that cameras are forbidden. It’s like a military sign.

A huge hall serves as a cloakroom. People rest here too, sitting on sofas. The music is quieter here, you can still talk. Next you have to climb metal staircases.

Then, after the back rooms, the main hall opens before you. On the left are the toilets and on the right a deserted bar. An immense dance floor, with the DJ at the back,
druffis
moving around.
Stroboscopes and green neon lights. The music is brutal. It’s mainly gay. Leather and moustaches. Welcome to Berghain.

Higher still, up some more metal staircases, is the Panorama Bar. This space is less impressive. The light is nice, the music more dancy. On the left under the mezzanine are the toilets. Unisex, no mirrors. You wait your turn for a cubicle. Alone, or with a girl, a boy, as many as eight people sometimes. You get high together, in these little metal cubicles, without any greater need to hide than that. Security don’t care if several people go in as long as the door is closed.

The taps on the basins are all in a row. You splash water on your face, fill an old beer or Club Mate bottle with water.

In the toilets the music is less loud. Languages mingle. It’s a big crowd that knows each other, the same people every Sunday. For nothing in the world would Tobias miss coming here on a Sunday afternoon and getting high.

The room is orientated towards the DJ’s cabin. There are big reproductions on the walls. Coloured cubes decorate the ceiling. It’s captivating; festive and melancholy. The crowd moves in rhythm, but you can escape it, there’s space at the sides.

Big windows behind closed blinds make
up one whole wall of the room. No light from outside filters through. But sometimes at the right moment, as a surprise effect, the shutters open for a few seconds. It causes an enormous burst of pleasure as light surges in for a moment, like a special effect, when the music kicks in and time no longer exists.

Armand is dancing; he wouldn’t know what else to do. Who could he talk to? He looks around to see what other people are doing. He notes certain movements, adapts them to his style, the style he’s trying to give his own body. An arm movement, forward then back, quite simply, like in a race. He’s making his way through time like you clock up kilometres in an endurance test. The ecstasy tablets he bought surreptitiously help him keep going, of course, but sometimes he feels time itself sticking to his skin. Hours go by. It’s already Sunday morning. The time when people get up and think about eating. Go out and buy croissants for the girl they love.

Armand is all alone. But so is everyone around him. And through their strength as a crowd, they
lift the weight of loneliness from him. He’s alone, so he dances. The lights are coloured: sparkling reds, blues and yellows. It’s an adventure park for the senses. Armand looks at the lights as he dances, with his head up and a smile on his face. The girls are beautiful. He’d like to touch them but his hands are clammy.

When he’s tired of dancing, he has a cigarette on one of the couches. Then, keen to fake a sense of composure, he pretends to write a message on his phone. To show all of them, all those eyes without faces, that he is not so lonely since he has someone to text.

He dances some more. God, that red is beautiful; the lights shine. The people around him smile at him. Like all of them, he’s happy to be here. It’s noon.

A few tracks later, Armand takes an empty bottle he found at his feet and fills it up with water. At the sinks in the toilets, a boy speaks to him in German. Armand doesn’t understand, and asks him to say it again in English. The boy is Tobias so he repeats it in French. Armand looks tired, he offers him some speed.

Armand doesn’t know it yet, but this is normal here, shared drugs and pleasures, without a second
thought. You look tired. I’ve got some speed; here, take some with me.
Drogensolidarität
.

They lock themselves in a cubicle.

‘Are you gay?’

‘No.’

‘I am, but don’t worry, you’re not my type. You’re new, aren’t you? I’ve not seen you before. It’s a small world, you know, us
druffis
.’

‘What?’

‘
Druffis
. It’s a term of endearment for druggies. Party animals, freaks, that lot.’

‘Yes, I got here this morning… well, yesterday now.’

‘Here, take this and let’s dance. I can introduce you to the blonde you’ve had your eye on. That’s Sigrid. She’s great. She was the one who asked me to come and speak to you. OK, have you had enough? Come on then, let’s dance.’

The two of them make a strange pair in front of the DJ’s cabin.

Armand offers half his last ecstasy tab to Tobias.

‘Where did you buy it? The E isn’t good just now. I’ll teach you. Call me Tata, OK? Tata Sarfatti.’

Armand swallows the whole tablet. They both laugh.

‘OK, Tata.’

They dance for a few more hours, lose sight of each other, meet up again. Armand kisses Sigrid. They drift apart and get separated. It’s hot, the lights seem sweaty, almost fluorescent. The jolting music guides the wayward souls of the Panorama Bar, it’s their only mistress, it dictates their movements, a jerky dance, a bodily convulsion. It’s an infinite pleasure, synthetic perhaps, but so real that you don’t care what caused it. There’s nothing as heady as the ecstasy of crowds, crowds of lonely individuals, the
druffis
that Tobias talked about. The girls are easy-going and beautiful; sometimes they’ll smile at you and give you a kiss. The bass pounds like your heart, you feel you’re living more intensely, with other people. Everyone enjoys it without shame or worry, naked with your pleasure. That pleasure is expressed through raised arms, mouths that sometimes call out. The ketamine heads experience it in slow motion, like in an aquarium; for others, on amphetamines, it’s speeded up. It doesn’t matter; it’s all about your pleasure. No one here begrudges you it.

Armand and Tobias meet again in front of the basins in the toilets. They talk. There’s a room for rent in the flat Tobias shares, his WG as they call
it here. When they leave here they can take a look. If he likes it, Armand could stay there.

‘Have you had any alcohol?’

‘Yeah, a few beers,’ Armand says.

‘No juice for you, then. Next time, I’ll give you some. You’ll see, it’s twenty times better than your shit in capsules.’

Armand’s pleasure is wearing off; he’s cold, his whole body is shaking. He feels as though he is filled with a thick, scummy wave of exhaustion; the drugs are gradually leaving his system. Abandoned by the pleasure molecules, he looks for Tobias, so they can go and see the room, see it and go to sleep there, burrow under the quilt, sleep, naked, in a soft bed.

He has to find Tobias. What’s the time? Eight p.m. already! Time beats down like a big rod.

He has to find Tobias. The Berghain has closed, only the Panorama is still open. That makes the search easier.

He must find Tobias. In the toilets, the freaks are blundering into each other. There’s a girl with tattoos who would be pretty if she weren’t snapping her jaw at the air. A guy is hitting his head against the wall. Weird convulsions. He is small, bald and blue. He keeps bashing the wall with his
head. Beside him is a strange smiling creature, half-boy, half-girl, shaved head, orange eyebrows, mouth crudely extended with lipstick.

He must find Tobias. Ah, there he is! He’s tired too. Time to go.