You (25 page)

Darian’s words are distorted by the connection.

“Come on now, of course it’s got to be a girl. When it’s a girl, you get this voice like someone’s sticking her tongue in your ear.”

You laugh shyly, you’re as transparent as a pane of glass.

“I’m not allowed to say anything yet.”

“Are you a couple?”

“Of course we’re a couple, but I’m still not allowed to say anything yet.”

“Is she cute?”

“Terribly cute.”

You hear Darian rummaging around and cursing that the Goon’s number must be lying around here somewhere, then he finds it and says, “Since the Goon moved away, he’s had a job as a nurse in the Westend hospital. He can get his hands on anything.”

He gives you his landline and cell numbers, and then there’s an awkward pause.

“I’ll make it up to you,” you say, and Darian knows right away what you mean.

“Don’t you worry.”

“No, I let you down, I’ll make it up to you, promise.”

“Okay,” says Darian, and asks if you’ll come to the movies with him tonight.

And simple as that you’re part of the family again.

Simple as that
.

“Quarter past ten,” says Darian. “There’s some crap with Denzel Washington and that guy who played Jesus. I missed the movie on Tuesday, but who wants to go to the movies on half-price Tuesday?”

You’re grateful and relieved that he’s asked you, and promise you’ll be there. Even if you have to work at ten, you don’t want to miss an evening with the crowd. Your uncle will understand, and if he doesn’t then tough luck for him.

After you hang up, you have to do fifty sit-ups to get your feet back on the ground. Then you ring the Goon on his landline. The Goon is actually a gifted musician who screwed up two entrance exams and ended up becoming a nurse. You call him the Goon because he has an IQ of 170 and doesn’t do anything with it. He moved to Spandau with his girlfriend six months ago. She wants a kid, and Spandau is cheap. Which proves once again that the Goon has earned his nickname without having to do much in return.

No answer.

You tap in the second number.

“I’m working,” says the Goon by way of greeting.

“It’s me, Mirko.”

“Hey, hi, Mirko. I’m still at work. Right now I’m sticking a spoonful of pea soup up an old man’s nose because he won’t open his mouth. Yes, I mean you, Granddad. You want this shit up your nose? Is that what you want? Then open your trap or I’ll get the tube. Yes, that’s better.”

“Goon?”

“What?”

“I need something.”

You read out the list. He says he can get hold of everything, but if you ask him, then two of the medications will do the trick.

“Are you in withdrawal or something?”

“No, it’s not for me.”

You’re glad he doesn’t ask if you’re planning to open a pharmacy, or who the drugs are for. The Goon isn’t that kind of guy.
You arrange to collect the stuff from his apartment at three. You’ve still got two hours. The address is in the north of Spandau. The Goon says what he wants for it. You laugh. He is a pal through and through.

At ten past three you ring his doorbell. In your left hand you’re holding a paper bag, the smell is heavy and sweet. The door opens. She’s wearing nothing but panties and one of those sleeveless shirts so tight that you can see her heartbeat. Her nipples press darkly against the pale fabric. If she wasn’t looking at you like that, it could almost be sexy.

“What do you want?”

You hand her the bag. Twenty-four doughnuts, two of each. She looks in and knows. The Goon never puts on an ounce, he eats whatever he gets his hands on. Doughnuts are his curse. Other people need oxygen, he needs fat and sugar.

“Gina, right?” you say.

“Manja,” she says and leaves you alone outside the apartment. You hear a rustling sound from inside, you hear a door closing from upstairs, then the sad, quiet whimper of a child. Manja keeps you waiting. Ten minutes later she comes back to the door. There’s sugar around her mouth. In one hand she holds a mug of coffee, with the other she hands you the medications and looks at you until you turn and go.

There you are now, with an unsettled stomach that doesn’t get any better when you’re surrounded by the smell of ice cream and waffles. The heat is scorching, people are lining up at the ice cream parlor, children and wasps, every now and again a dog with its nose stuck to the floor, hoping for leftovers. It’s twenty past seven, and she isn’t here yet. The ice cream parlor closes at eight, and then you’ve got a problem. Twice you’re tempted to phone her. You know that wouldn’t be stylish. You want to show you’ve got style, you’re not twelve years old. Be patient, and leave your phone in your pocket. Wait.

Bernie rides past on his bike and says hi. Jojo buys an ice cream
and asks if you’re hoping the weather’s going to improve. Of course the twins show up too. Tisa and Mel. No one believes they’re twins. They never wear the same thing, have different hairstyles, and look like good friends. Someone once claimed you’d only mix them up if they were naked in the shower. Tisa asks you for fifty cents. Mel is having problems with the arm of her sunglasses and wants to know if you wouldn’t happen to have one of those little screwdrivers on you. You give Tisa the money; no, you haven’t got a screwdriver. Kolja turns up with his new girl, one hand squashed into the back pocket of her jeans; the girl has a tiny tattoo under her left eye. Milka comes in their wake with Gero. They ask if you’re coming to the movies too. You start getting seriously nervous. Half the crowd is going for an ice cream and enjoying life, while you sit there waiting. You should have come up with a better meeting place. One where nothing’s going on.

“Here.”

She hands you an ice cream. Chocolate, two scoops. You choke on the air and cough. Of course you were looking in the other direction. She stands there as if she’s waiting for you, as if you’re late.
Stink
. You feel your face turning soft, and a stupid smile appearing on it.

“Mmm, delicious, chocolate,” you say like a five-year-old who’s been waiting all summer for two scoops of chocolate ice cream.

“So? Have you got it?”

“I’ve got it.”

You stroll down the street. You don’t talk, you eat your ice cream. In a house doorway you sit down on the top step and you take the medication out of your jacket and repeat what the Goon told you on the phone.

“Two of the drugs are enough.”

The Goon has also included instructions for use. Stink is to ignore the piece of paper in the package and administer the medication the way the Goon has written it down.

“What do I owe you?”

“This one’s on me.”

“Really?”

“Really. If you need more …”

You leave the three dots at the end of your sentence. You want to tell her that she must see you again, that the rest of her life will be meaningless if she doesn’t, and that she’ll be terribly unhappy. But who says something like that?

Stink leans forward and kisses you on the cheek. Some ice cream runs down your fingers. You breathe in quickly and smell her. She smells great.

“I owe you,” she says and gets up, and you’re sure that’s that, you’ll never see her again, maybe at school or passing by, and all because you can’t open your mouth properly. Then she hesitates and turns around and sits down next to you again. Your heart plays a drum solo. She puts on the sunglasses and says, “What if I had something to sell?”

“What would that be?”

“A few pills.”

“Okay.”

“Hash.”

“Okay.”

“And five kilos of cocaine.”

You don’t say
okay
, you just look at her.

“But it might be speed. Or heroin.”

“Five kilos?”

“Just about.”

“What do you mean, just about?”

“Just about five kilos. Do you know anyone who’d like to buy it?”

Understanding is a curtain that rises before your eyes. Of course it’s possible that it’s only just occurred to her, but the likelihood is very small. She wants to sell something. She knows who your best friend is. She has you on a hook. You can work the rest out for yourself.
Maybe she doesn’t actually need any medication and just wanted to see if I’d help her, and now she’s getting her claws right into me. Shit
. You’re suddenly thinking like a grown-up. Your mother’s mistrust has infected you. It doesn’t suit you, having thoughts like that. You’re naïve, you trust anybody and everybody. Cynicism isn’t your forte, but a little mistrust never hurt anybody.

“I’ll help you,” you say with a note of bitterness.

And that’s exactly what you did, fourteen hours ago now, and that’s why you’re standing in this damned basement now, and Darian’s father is holding a gun to your head and asking you if you’re a goddamn martyr. He’s probably never tried thinking straight with a gun to his head. If it wasn’t so crazy, it would be funny.

Your mind fills with movies you’ve seen a hundred times.
Reservoir Dogs. Truth or Consequences
. Even though you know that nothing can happen to you, it isn’t much help to you right now. You’re Darian’s buddy. That counts, for whatever, it counts for something. And fear is in order. If you weren’t scared now, it would just mean you were stupid.

“Are you a goddamn martyr?”

“I’m a Slovene,” you say too quickly, it’s usually a good answer, but it’s not the answer Ragnar Desche wants to hear. One of the men behind you laughs, Darian’s father stays poker-faced. He looks over your shoulder and tells the man to shut up as if he’d said those words, not you.

You decide never to be smart again. They’ve kept you waiting for a half hour in this basement, and now you’ve got a gun at your head and you’re trying to be smart. Come on, what’s wrong with you? You’re doing what animals do when they’re threatened, you’re freezing. You could roll on your back, too, but how would that look?

“You know very well what a martyr is, don’t you?”

You say you know. You might be at technical college but you weren’t dropped on your head.

“I’m not a martyr,” you lie.

“Then stop acting like one. Have you any idea where she is right now?”

“No idea.”

The barrel presses harder against your head, you flinch and try to stay calm. You’re breathing shallowly, and staring into the swimming pool and the rows of marijuana plants that seem to be waving at you.

Calm
.

Darian’s father lowers the gun.

Yes!

You still don’t move. Your head is lowered, your eyes are askance. You imagine telling Darian what happened later on. You imagine him laughing at you.
My father isn’t a hit man
, he will say.

“Everything okay?” asks one of the men behind you as if he’s disappointed that the gun isn’t at your forehead anymore. You look over at Darian’s father. It’s sort of as if he isn’t here. He looks past you. You think this is your chance.

“Can I go now?” you ask.

Mistake, oh, boy, what a big mistake. You have dragged Ragnar Desche from his thoughts. He gives you a scathing glance. What are you getting right today? His gaze comes at you from a distance of over six hundred miles and fixes on you again.

“You know what seriously pisses me off about little fuckers like you?”

You don’t know, you don’t care, you just know he’s lowered his gun, and that means everything’s okay again. And anyway you don’t think Darian’s father really wants an answer from you. He likes the sound of his own voice.

“Your generation has everything, but you don’t give anything back. You take and you take, and in the end there’ll be nothing left to take and then you’ll fall on each other like hyenas. Take a look at yourself. You kids think you can make any mistake you like, and that’s exactly where you’re wrong. You can only really afford to make mistakes when you have something to offer. But you don’t offer anything.”

“Maybe … we’re stingy?” you say and immediately shut your eyes tight and want to dissolve into the air. Panic makes a clown of you. You’ve never had that under control. At primary school, when a boy had you in a headlock, you asked him if you could switch sides.

“Tell me, do you think that’s funny?”

“Not really.”

“Are you on drugs?”

“No.”

“I’m slowly starting to understand why my son is friends with you. He likes hanging out with comedians. It makes him feel he’s cleverer than everybody else. You’re his little monkey. You know what your problem is, monkey? Look at me.”

You look at him. He taps his forehead.

“You’re lost in here. Do you think I haven’t worked out what’s up with you? You like the girl, but the girl isn’t interested in you. Have you ever come to the defense of somebody who doesn’t give a fuck about you? That’s exactly the feeling that’s inflating your chest right now. You think you’re a hero, but you’re really only a goddamn martyr, standing alone on the edge of the street holding out his thumb while the world drifts past him and nobody picks him up. The girl forgot about you ages ago. Now give me your phone.”

“I haven’t got a—”

“ARE YOU TRYING TO MESS WITH ME? GIVE ME YOUR FUCKING CELL PHONE THIS MINUTE!”

His voice shatters off the walls, the time for talking is over. With trembling hands you pull your cell phone out of your trouser pocket and are about to hand it to him when you realize what he wants it for.