You (10 page)

As soon as your father was out of the bathroom, the preparations began. He checked all the windows, examined the front door, and the balcony door had to be secure as well before your mother was allowed to lower the shutters. You remember how she secretly reassured you, over and over again, that things would soon be back to normal, your father was going through a difficult phase. She was wrong. The drizzle was about to become a storm.

Your father had plans.

He took out library books about the conduct of war and taught you how to survive in the wilderness. Once he came home and told you and your brother to take a bullet out of his arm. He removed his shirt. There were his sinewy arms, there were the knotty muscles and no wound. Oskar knew what lay ahead. He burst into tears at the sight of the sinewy arms. Your father pointed at the box.

The box was a battered metal trunk that had belonged to your
grandfather. If anyone didn’t obey or burst into tears, he ended up in the trunk. You remember the smell, shoe polish and linseed oil. Your mother shut Oskar inside. No word of protest ever passed her lips. Oskar’s whimpering emerged from the suitcase like the sound of a trapped insect.

Here
, your father tapped you on the shoulder,
here’s the bloody bullet. Get it out, Ragnar, get it out of there
.

You did everything right. You heated the knife over a Bunsen burner. You handed your father a bottle of schnapps and told him to drink it. Your mother held the bandage ready. You didn’t hesitate for a second and cut into your father’s flesh as if it were a slice of smoked pork on a plate. The picture is still very clear in front of your eyes—the way the blade sinks in and splits the skin, the way the blood runs down his arm, first hesitantly, then violently, and your father smiles at you and says:
Well done, you’ve saved my life
.

Throughout the years your father didn’t let you and your brother go to bed before midnight. There were always shadows under your eyes. There was so much to do, so much to learn. He showed you war documentaries and taught you how to look after a gun. At the age of nine you could take a Luger apart and put it back together. You could tell the ammunition of different calibers apart and say which was best suited to which situation. You studied the human body for its most vulnerable spots.

Even though your father never killed anyone himself, you learned from him and became his tool, while Oskar stumbled after you and couldn’t work out what was going on. He was simply too young. He was frightened, and you protected him. It worked. Your father focused his attention more and more on you, and Oskar was spared.

You gave your brother that protection until today.

From Monday evening till Friday night your family led a different life. Even though your father went to work during the day and you were able to resume normal life in the meantime, it was only on the weekends that you really had time to breathe. On Saturday
and Sunday your father disappeared without a trace and no one mentioned it. For two days he stopped existing for you. You boys assumed he was carrying out secret missions or perhaps working for the army. Eight years passed before you penetrated his secret. Even now you don’t know if your mother was completely unaware of what was going on. How could she not have known? She wasn’t a weak woman, or a stupid one. But she had fallen for your father, which can turn any strong woman into a pitiful creature.

Worst of all were the days of discipline. Your father was testing Oskar and you to see if you could keep your mouths shut. He wanted to know how far you would go to protect each other. He thought up games for it.
Tell your brother a secret
, he said to you. And so you bent down to Oskar and whispered in his ear.
What secret did your big brother tell you?
your father then asked Oskar, who immediately widened his eyes, held his breath, and shook his head. Sometimes your father ordered him to lie on the floor and then pressed Oskar’s little face into the carpet with one hand. Or else he pulled him up by his hair, until the tips of Oskar’s toes scrabbled above the floor.
What secret did your big brother tell you?
The same question, over and over again. Tears flowed down Oskar’s cheeks, he didn’t want to disappoint his father, he wanted to be big and strong and show what he had learned. Your father grabbed him by the throat.
I can feel the secret
, he said,
it’s hidden in here, I can feel it, I can feel it really clearly
. That was too much for Oskar, he slumped unconscious to the ground. Your father turned to you.
Your brother was brave, he didn’t say anything. Now there’s just you. What’s your secret? What am I not supposed to find out?
He threatened you with a lot of things, and you were the brave soldier and stood stiffly and looked past him, because eye contact was forbidden. He hit your mother to make you speak. Nothing. He asked you if you wanted him to rape her in front of your eyes. You shook your head and held your tongue. That was a mistake.
You’re saying no to me?
He took you into the bathroom, and there in the dark and with a wet towel over your head you cracked. It was too much. It was memory and it was the madness of a man who was your father and always found a way into your head. The secret came stammering over your
lips. It was over. Your father led you in silence from the bathroom. He waited till your brother was conscious again, then he spat in your face and said, You’re a traitor and you would have gambled away your whole family’s lives. Your brother had to spit on you too and your mother wasn’t allowed to look at you for the rest of the evening.

It was all a matter of discipline.

Since that day more than thirty years ago you have known exactly what silence is worth. Today your father could do what he liked to you, he wouldn’t have a chance. You’ve learned from him.

It takes Tanner and David forty minutes to find the boy. They bring him down to the swimming pool. David tries to tell you all the places they’ve been looking. You wave him away, you don’t want to hear it. They leave you alone.

He looks like he’s about twelve, but you’re sure he’s older, otherwise he wouldn’t be in your son’s crowd and they wouldn’t be friends. You wait for him to meet your eye before you say, “Do you know who I am?”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t know your face, but he knows your name.

“My name is Ragnar Desche.”

He ducks down, he actually ducks down. Good. His eyes flicker from left to right, he gradually realizes how much trouble he’s in.

“Your girlfriend stood us up, that’s why you’re here, do you get that?”

He nods, even though you’re sure he doesn’t know what you’re talking about. You let it go, you want to get it over with as quickly as possible.

“As I’m sure you’ll have noticed, I have a small problem here. You see the man in the armchair?”

The boy turns his head.

“His name is Oskar. He was my brother. Now do you understand why I brought you here?”

The boy looks at you for a moment, then turns his head away. You can see the dark fluff trembling on his top lip. You should ask more questions, make him feel he has something to say.

“Where do you come from?”

“From here.”

“And your parents?”

“Slovenia.”

“Do the Slovenians get on with the Serbs?”

The boy’s eyes wander nervously around the room.

If he bursts into tears right now
, you think,
I will go crazy
.

“I asked you a question.”

“I … I don’t know.”

“You’re Slovenian and you
don’t know
if the Slovenians get on with the Serbs?”

“I’m from Berlin.”

Two steps and you’re standing beside him, he’s a head shorter than you, your face looms above his. You smell fear and the chewing-gum he has in his mouth.

“Spit out the chewing-gum.”

He spits it on the floor, ducks down again; your voice is a hiss.

“Listen carefully, you little shit, I can rip your asshole open until your parents can’t tell whether you’re a human being or a sewer. I can rip open your parents’ assholes too, if you like. I need clear answers from you, that’s all I want to hear, you understand?”

He understands, you wait another few seconds, then you turn away. It is time for some calm words. You take one of the chairs and put it by the pool.

“Sit down.”

The boy hesitates, then he sits down and looks at the pool.

“Sad sight, right?”

The boy doesn’t know if he should answer. You stand behind him and put your hands on his shoulders. Like father, like son. You’re sorry your son isn’t there. He might learn something.

“What do you know about the girl?”

The boy flinches as if you’d stabbed him in the back of the neck. Your hands stay where they are. His collarbones feel as if they’re made of chicken bones.

“Tell me everything. What her name is, where I can find her. Everything.”

The boy’s body is rigid, you take your hands off his shoulders. One blow and his neck would be broken.

“You know what she’s done.”

The boy says he doesn’t know anything. He has to say it twice, his voice is so weak. Suddenly you sound friendly.

“My son told me lots about you. He says you’re good, you’ll go a long way some day. He also told me there’s more between you and the girl. He said you’re an item.”

Silence, his face turns red, he stares into the pool; that’s an answer too. He’s probably one of those late developers who jerk off six times a day and bore girls senseless with stupid pickup lines.

“Do you know Taja?”

The boy shakes his head.

“Do you know Taja’s father?”

He shakes his head again. You tell him that’s Taja’s father right there. He follows your outstretched arm, looks again at your dead brother and slowly grasps the connection. His eyes widen. It’s time for him to understand you completely.

“A daughter kills her father, a man loses his brother, five kilos of heroin disappear, and a boy sits on a chair and doesn’t reply. That’s how things are.”

You look at your watch.

“I’m going to leave the house in exactly half an hour. If I don’t get an answer from you by then, you’re staying here. Now look at me.”

The boy looks up, he has tears in his eyes. He stinks of hormones and sweat and a little bit of shit.

“What’s your name?”

“M-M-Mirko.”

“Hi, Mirko, you’ve got half an hour to save your life.”

A wood louse hides under a stone. That’s exactly how it is. You’re the wood louse, the stone’s a car that you’ve squashed yourself under as if the sky was about to cave in on you. If someone tells you right now that Darian’s father will be standing beside you in three days’ time, giving you half an hour to save your life, you’d probably never come out from under that car. You’ve not met Ragnar Desche until then. He’s a legend, he’s a ghost and the father of your best friend. Nobody talks about Ragnar Desche. Never. Even thinking about him is taboo. Or as Darian once said:
If my father wants, I’m dead within a second
.

There’s a nasty taste in your mouth, sweet and metallic, as if you’d bitten off some chocolate without taking off the silver paper. You spit, see the red stain on the tarmac and swallow down your own blood.

You ran away. That’s it. The end.

I know
.

How could you run away? Only an idiot would run away. You’re the idiot. And what are you going to do now? You can’t just stay under the car hiding. You just can’t do that. Somebody will find out. These things always come out.

The wood louse rolls aside and pulls itself up by the door handle, it crouches beside the car, back to the driver’s door, head thrown back so the blood doesn’t drip from its nose. You know if the car alarm goes off the wood louse will have a heart attack and piss its jeans.

It’s staying quiet.

You breathe out and look at the other side of the street.

It’s staying quiet.

The derelict house makes you think of a rabid dog that’s just waiting for you to make a false move. Lurking and rigid. Five lamps from the building site are flashing orange lights and illuminating the façade with a flickering light. It’s one of those ruins that you loved as a child. Graffiti on the walls, not a soul to be seen and hidden treasures everywhere. You’re not a child anymore, you don’t find ruins exciting anymore. It’s eleven at night and the city is a greedy hand hovering over you, wanting to stuff you into the darkest hole of the building site.

You rub the blood from your nose and wonder why no one’s followed you. Things don’t get sadder than this. No one’s interested in you. They wanted Darian. They’ve got Darian.

Shit
.

“What am I …”

Your voice is a croak. You’re not great at talking to yourself. In horror movies the victims eventually start talking to themselves so that the viewer knows things are turning serious. Nothing serious is happening here, you’re miles away from serious.

How could I have run away?

Your tongue checks if you’ve got a loose tooth. You’re relieved, all your teeth are in place. And your nose isn’t even broken. You banged it when you crawled under that car. A wood louse through and through. You shake your head to get your brain back in gear. You have to do something, doesn’t matter what, you have to do something, otherwise you won’t be able to look at yourself in the mirror again for the rest of the year.