BLACKBIRD

by Matthias Brandt

Sample Translation by Ruth Martin

Novel 276 pages

Publication date: August 2019

World rights with Kiepenheuer & Witsch GmbH & Co. KG Iris Brandt (ibrandt@kiwi-verlag.de)

Aleksandra Erakovic (aerakovic@kiwi-verlag.de)

2

ONE

–MidAugust–

Whywasn’tanyoneansweringthephone?

Thebasswaspumpinguphereinmyroom,butIcould

stillheartheconstantringingfromdownstairs.Arustlingand

cracklingcamefrombeneaththecrackedredpatentleatherI

wasloungingon.Therewasalittleholeintheleft‐handseam,

andwheneverIfloppeddownontothebeanbag,afewofthe

littleStyrofoamballsitwasfilledwithwouldshootout.I

moistenedmyfingerwithspit,collectedupafewofthelittle

ballsandflickedthem.Thethirdone(finally!)stucktothe

ceiling.

Aftertheeleventhring,Ijumpedupafterall:itmightbe

Bogicalling.Irandownthestairsand,althoughthephonein

thehallwascloser,wenttotheoneinthelivingroom.Orat

least,whathadbeenourlivingroomuntilrecently.

Itwasnowjustfullofhalf‐packedcardboardboxes.My

fatherandhisnewgirlfriendweremovingtosomelittle

backwaterIwouldn’twanttobeseendeadin.Itwasn’tquite

thearse‐endofnowhere,butyoudefinitelyseethearse‐end

fromthere.“Mypartner,”he’dsaid,alittlesheepishly,aswe

stoodfacingeachotherinhisroom,andallIcouldthinkwas

thatIwouldn’tusethatwordforsomeoneIwasinlovewith.

NotthatIhadanybettersuggestions.AndwhywouldI?Iwas

fifteenandnotinlovewithanyone.Atleast,notthewaymy

fatherwasinlovewiththisClaudia.

3

MymotherandIdidn’tknowwhereweweregoingto

liveyet.

OnthewaytothephoneIpassedthehalf‐baldcockatiel.

“Poo‐face,”Ihissedathim,hopingthateventuallyhe’drepeatit.

Ratherthanjuststaringatmeandrippinghisfeathersout.

Ipickedupthereceiverwithoutsayinganything.

Ineverdid.Afterall,thecallerhadphonedournumber,

sohewastheonewhoneededtoexplainwhohewasandwhat

hewanted.

“Er…Schnellstieg.”

“What?”

“Schnellstieg.MrSchumacher?”saidthecaller.

“Nope,thisisMorten.”

“Oh,Isee.Morten.Hello.Thisis…Dieter.”

“What?”

“MrSchnellstieg.DieterSchnellstieg.Manfred’sfather.

Bogi.”

“Oh,right,yes.Hello.”

“Yes,helloMotte.”

“Hello.”

Ithadtakenalittlewhileformetograspthesituation.

Himtoo.

Bogi’sfatherhadcalledme.

I’dneverspokentohimonthephonebefore.

WheneverIphonedBogi,eitherhewouldbewaitingformycall

andpickuphimself,oritwashisgormlesssisterAnette,orhis

mother.Butneverhisfather.

4

BogiwasmybestfriendandhisrealnamewasManfred

Schnellstieg.Butnooneexceptteachersactuallycalledhim

that.Ormaybehisparents,sometimes.

BogihadbeencalledBogieversincethatbreaktimetime

afewyearsagowhenUdoMönchaskedusifwe’dseenthefilm

lastnightwithManfredBogart.

“Eh?”

“Youknow,thatfilm!”saidUdo.“Whatwasitcalled

again?Cassaplanka!WithManfredBogart!”

Wepissedourselveslaughing,andthatabsolutemoron

UdoMönchstormedoffinahuff.“Areyoutakingthemick?

Whatkindofnameisthat–Hampfree?”heroaredatusashe

left.

Andafterthat,everyonecalledManfredSchnellstieg

Bogi.Anditwasn’tliketherewasanotherManfredinour

school.Hehadhisparentstothankforthat,forgivinghimsuch

agreatname.Seriously,people.Manfred.Really?

Byrights,UdoMönchshouldhavebeengivena

nicknameafterthatlittleepisodeaswell.Andnotaniceone

likeBogi;somethinglikedumbbellorspacecadet.Buttheguy

wassostupidwecouldn’tcomeupwithanythingforhim,not

eventhat.

WhatdidBogi’sfatherwantwithme?Werewein

trouble?HadhefoundtheAmselfelderthatBogihadhiddenin

thegarden?Ourtournamenttripwasscheduledforthat

weekend,andafewdayspreviouslywe’dboughttwobottlesof

redwineinKaiserstotakewithus.Theydidn’taskforIDinthe

supermarket,eventhoughtheyknewus,andknewthatwe

5

weretooyoungtobuyit.Amselfelder,aYugoslavianwine,was

thesecondcheapesttheyhad.Buttheevencheaperwinewas

madeofblackberries,andsomeonehadtoldBogiitgaveyou

theshits,sowedecidedtosteerclearofthatone.

“Wonderfullydigestible”,thelabelontheAmselfelder

bottlesaid,“pressedwithoutstalksandstems”.IfIwashonest,

Icouldn’timaginewhatwasmeantbydigestible.Itsounded

likeitwasforoldpeople.Also:winemadefromstalks?!

“Digestible”probablyjustmeantthatyou’donlythrowuplater,

ratherthanrightaway.

“ThatBlackbird‐fielderhasarealkicktoit.”RecentlyBogihad

startedtranslatingeverythingintoEnglish,andI’dthought:

alright,Bogi,andhowcomeyouknowthat,ifwe’regoingtobe

tryingitforthefirsttimeonthetrip?

WhileMrSchnellstiegandIwerespeaking,Iimagined

himstandingathome,bytheoldphoneinthehallway.Twisting

backandforthinhisbeigecorduroyslipperswithsolesthe

pinkishcolourofgums.Icouldprovethegumthingbecause

BogiandIoncetookoneofhisfather’sslippersintothe

bathroomattheirhousetocompareitwithhisdead

grandmother’sfalseteeth,whichwerestillsittinginthere.One

minuteIhadaclearimageofBogi’sfatherinmymind’seye,

andthenitwouldgrowhazyagain.Likewhenyoulooked

throughthefrostedglassintheswingdoorsatthe

Schnellstiegs’housethatseparatedtheporchinsidethefront

doorfromthehallway.Whenyoufirstcameintothehouse,for

amomentitwaslikeeveryoneontheothersideofthosedoors

wasaghost,notarealperson,orasiftheywereshroudedin

6

mist.Itwasonlyonceyouhadgoneinthroughthosedoorsthat

theygainedaclearshape,andyoucouldtellthemapart.

“Isthereaproblemwiththefootballtrip?”Iasked.

“No.Now,listenaminute.I’mafraidManfred–er,Bogi–

hashadtogointohospital.Hewon’tbeabletogo.”

EventheSchnellstiegscalledtheirsonBoginow.

Howcomehewasinhospital?He’dbeenatschoolthe

daybefore.“Seeyoutomorrow,”we’dsaidtoeachother.And

nowitwasSaturday;weweresupposedtobegoingtothe

footballtournamentthatafternoon.Ididn’tunderstandwhat

wasgoingon.

“Areyoustillthere?”MrSchnellstiegaskedme.

“Yes.”

“Yes.They’ve,er,foundsomethingandtheyneedtorun

sometests.Because,ifit…Well,that’swhyhe’sinthehospital.

StJoseph’s.”

“Oh,Isee.StJoseph’s,”Irepeated,asifIwassomekind

ofexpertonhospitals.

“Ahem,”Bogi’sfatherclearedhisthroat.“Petra!Canyou

comehereaminute?”hecalledout.“I’llpassyouoverto

Manfred’smother,alright?”

“Hello,Motte?”NowBogi’smumwasontheline.Iletout

asob.Oh,great,thishadsettheblubberingoffagain.Itkept

happeningtomerecently,thoughIhadnoideawhy.Justlike

that,pressedwithoutstalksorstems.

“Oh,listen,Motte,there’sreallynoneedtocry.Manfred

wasatthedoctor’syesterdayafternoonforhisvaccination.And

7

theyfoundsomethingthattheythoughtthehospitalshould

takealookat.Butit’sprobablynothing.”

Isniffedloudlyandsaidnothing.NordidMrs

Schnellstieg.Webothjustbreathedintothereceiverfora

while.Bogi’sgranddadhadoncetoldusthattheNaziswanted

peopletousegoodGermanwordsandsay“long‐distance‐

speaker”ratherthantelephone.Andtocallthereceivera

handset.Theyhadissues.

ThensuddenlyBogi’smumwascryingtoo,althoughjust

fivesecondsbeforeshehadbeentellingmetherewasnothing

tocryabout.Shewascryingveryquietly,butInoticed.When

someonedoesn’twantotherpeopletoknowthey’recrying,the

sniffingisthefirstthingyouhear.

Whatnow?Wewerebothweeping,andIstilldidn’t

reallyknowwhy.Thedoctorswantedtotakealookathim,

she’dsaid.Aha.EventuallyIjusthungup.

Iwentbackupstairstomyroom.Everythinghasjust

changed,Ithoughttomyself.No,IhavenoideawhatIwas

actuallythinking.Imightjusthavewonderedwhetheryou

couldstillseetheimpressionofmybumonthebeanbag.

BeforeIclosedthedoor,Ipausedforamoment;I’d

heardsomethingbehindme.“Coco!”

Thecockatiel.Whatanidiot.Getknotted,Coco.

8

TWO

–MidSeptember–

Itookthenumberseventeentothestation,thenchangedonto

thefour,gotoffatthemuseum,andfromthereitwasonlya

five‐minutewalktothehospital.

Forafewdaysalreadyyoucouldtellitwasstartingto

getdarkearlieragain.Itwasaweekuntilmysixteenth

birthday,andthreemonthsuntilChristmas.

I’darrangedthevisitwithBogi’smum.Theotherswere

goingtocomelater,tosayhellotoBogi.OthersmeaningWalki

–DetlefWalkenhorst–andJanBorowka.Butwecouldn’tstay

toolong,MrsSchnellstieghadsaid,becausethetreatment

meantthatBogigottiredveryquickly.

Itwasweird.Bogi,withwhomI’dspentalmosteveryday

foryears,haddisappearedfromoneminutetothenext.I

couldn’tactuallyrememberhowwe’dbecomefriends.Oneday

hewasjustthere,inmylife,andIwasthereinhis,andfrom

thenonneitheroneofuseverquestionedit.Andnowallofa

suddenIcouldn’ttalktohim,andallIgotweretheseweird

messagesfromhismother.ThathewasverypleasedtohearI

hadsentmyregards,thatkindofthing.Sobizarre.

Thelasttimewe’dspoken,beforehewenttohospital,it

hadbeenabout…okay,fine,weweretalkingaboutfarting.

9

Aboutlightingfarts,tobeprecise.Bogiknewafairbitaboutthe

subject,inallseriousness.

Forinstance,heknewthatmethanefartsburnedwell,

butcarbondioxidefarts,thekindyougetfromdrinkingtoo

muchCoke,didn’t.

Thingslikethat.Wedidn’tknowitwouldbeourlast

properconversationforalongtime.Ifwehad,thenobviously

we’dhavechosenadifferenttopic.Pythagoras’theorem.The

hypotenuse,thecatheti.Godknows.Butwedidn’t.Inanycase,

Bogihadjustreadsomewherethatyoushouldneverlightyour

farts,becausetheremightbeabackdraft,andthenyou’d

explodeorsomething.He’ddoneitafewtimes–thelighting,

nottheexploding–andnowhe’dretrospectivelyscared

himself.Ontheotherhand,hewasinhospitalnowanyway,I

thought.Astupidthought,butyoucan’thelpthethingsthatgo

throughyourmind.

Anyway,itwasoneofBogi’shobbies.I’mnotmakingthis

up.Helikedtalkingaboutit,andhediditoften.Farting,Imean,

nottalking.Well,talkingtoo,butnotasmuchasheliked

farting.

Okay,that’senoughofthatnow.

IhadtocrossKaiserallee,whichwasn’taneasymatter,

becauseIdidn’twanttotraipseallthewayuptothepedestrian

lights.Everyonedroveliketheclappersdownhere.Thespeed

madepeoplecrazy.Theybombedthroughthecityat100kman

hourandthoughtthatmadethemthegreatest.

Andtheythoughtthatevenif–Idon’tknow–theywere

thecaretakerattheBrahmsschool,forinstance,likeMrSchaff.

10

Andhedefinitelywasn’tthegreatest,Icouldprovethat.Mr

Schaffhadrecentlyboughtaleatherbeltwithawidebuckle

thatsaid“Chef!”onit.Now,thinkaboutthat:youactuallyhave

togointotheshop,seethebeltandthink,wow,greatbelt,and

thengotothesalesgirlandsay:thisistheexactbeltIwant,

thisonewiththeinsanebuckle.ThisisthebuckleIlikebestout

ofthe,Idon’tknow,hundredandsevenothersintheshop.

MuchbetterthantheonesthatsayWarorPeaceorwhatever

else.But–andlistentothis–Schaffthenwentstraightdownto

hisbasementworkshopandtookhissolderingironorhis

welder,orwhateveritisyouuseforthesethings,andmadea

bigStogoinfrontoftheChef,andthenturnedtheexclamation

markintoasecondf,whichwasonlypartlysuccessful.Sothat

now,ifyoutriedhardenough,youcouldreaditas“SCheff”.Not

even“SChaff”.Thewholethingwaskindofdepressing.Itjust

meantpeoplestaredathisgroin,tryingtofigureoutwhatwas

writtenthere.

But–importantquestion–whyonearthdidIfindthis

embarrassing?Couldanyoneexplainthattome?Schaffhimself

obviouslywasn’tembarrassedbyit;hestrodeproudlyalong

thecorridorsatBrahms,hipsfirst.

Theansweristhatidiotshaveneverfoundanything

embarrassing.Schlagersingersdon’t,either,whilewe’reonthe

subject.YoucouldonlybecomeaSchlagersingerifyouweren’t

embarrassedbyanything.There’snowayyoucoulddoit

otherwise.LikethedorkswhowentonthatcheesyDieter

ThomasHeckshow,singingfolk‐popnonsenseinfrontofall

thosepeople.Although,ontheotherhand,itwasalsofunny.

11

Or,Ithought,DietmarRosinfromthetopyear,for

instance,whogotatattooonaschooltriptoLondon,buthad

gotdrunkwiththetattooistbeforehand.Andnowhehad“Led

Zelepin”onhisrightbicep.Itwasnosurprisethathewasstill

tryingtopasshisfinalyearattheageof21.Walkisaid,

incidentally,thatRosinwasalreadystartingtogobald.Andhe

wasstillatschool!Seriously.

Anyway,theschoolcaretakerKarl‐HeinzSchaffmightbe

bombingalonghererightnowinhismouldyFordTaunus,

whileIwastryingtogettotheothersideofKaiserallee.

Andanotherthing:justbeforetheholidays,whenSchaff

andhisnewbeltwerethehottopicforus,ourbiologyteacher

MrsStrobelhadshownusafilmaboutcattlefarminginoneof

herlessons.

“ThebeltedGallowayhasunusuallycoarsehairandcan

weighover1000kg,”thefilm’snarratorsaid.Astheprojector

rattled,MrsStrobelwasconcentratingonhermacraméor

whateverthatstuffiscalled.She’dseenthefilmabouta

hundredandthirty‐fourtimesalready.

Andattheexactmomentthenarratorsaidthosewords,

Schaffactuallyappearedinpersonoutsidethewindow,raking

upbigpilesofleavesthatWalki,JanandI,andtheothers,

wouldkickoveroncehe’dgone,spreadingtheleavesbackout

towhereSchaffhadrakedthemupfrom.

Thatwaslongbeforehegothismentalleaf‐blower.

Anyway,wefellaboutlaughinginthisstupidbiologylesson,

andMrsStrobelcouldn’tunderstandwhatwassofunnyabout

thefilm.

12

Whythiscrapcameintomyheadjustthen,whenIwas

tryingtocrosstheroad,isamystery.Itwasamessinthere.I

wasprobablyjustabitworkedupbecauseIwasabouttosee

Bogiforthefirsttimesincehe’dbeenadmittedtohospital,and

Iwastryingtodistractmyself.

Intheend,Ididsomehowmanagetogetacross

Kaiserallee.Therewasalongred‐brickwallseparatingthe

hospitalgroundsfromtheroad.Afterawhile,therewasagate

ontheright.

Ilookedatthemaninthegatehouseandwaitedincase

hewasgoingtoaskmeanything.ToseemyIDorsomething,I

hadnoideahowitallworked.

Butthemanjustnoddedandsaidnothing.

Hisilluminatedboxlookedlikeanaquarium.Mr

Gallenkamp,ourphysicsteacher,hadonethathewasalways

tellingusabout,withornamentalguppiesinit.

Hesaid:“gubbies”.

Wealwaysaskedhimaboutthem,becauseaslongashe

wastalkingabouthisfish,hewasn’tteachingus.

IgotaBinphysicsforclassparticipation–although,

God’shonesttruth,Ididn’tunderstandanyofthatshit.Itwas

purelybecauseIkeptaskingafterMrGallenkamp’sgubbies.

Iwalkeduptothehospital’smainentrance.Thebuilding

waslargeandold,madeofthesameweather‐beatenbrickas

theboundarywall.

Thelightswerealreadyoninmanyofthewindows,

althoughitwasstillonlyfouro’clockintheafternoon.They

13

probablylefttheneontubesondayandnight,sothatnoone

wouldforgettheywereillforasinglesecond.

Therewasanambulanceparkedoutsidetheentrance,

andsomeonewasbeingtakenoutofitonastretcher.

Ididn’tlooktooclosely,notwantingtoseeblood.Four

metallegswithlittlewheelsatthebottomunfoldedfromthe

stretcherwithaloudclank.Icouldn’timagineitwasagreat

experienceforthepersonlyingonit.

Oneoftheparamedicswaswearingahairnet;hehadto

beaconscientiousobjectoronnationalservice–aslacker,as

Kragler,ourPEteacher,wouldhavesaid.

FirstandsecondlessonsonaWednesdaywerealways

doublePE.WithOberstudienratHorstKragler.“Rightthen,my

friends:physicaljerks!”hewouldroar,andthenwe’dhaveto

lineupanddoallthismilitaryshit.Jumpoverobstacles,crawl

underneathotherones.Climbropes,thewholeworks.

“Hup,hup,hup,men,don’ttellmeyou’retired!”Thenwe

hadtothrowthelittleleatherballsasiftheywerehand

grenades.Kraglerdidn’tsaythat,butthat’showweunderstood

it.

Ifhethoughtyouweretooslow,Kraglergotouthislittle

rednotebookandscribbledsomethinginit.

“Schumacher:unfitforclosecombat,”orwhatever.AndI

didn’tcare,either,tobehonest.

MichaelHabeloncejustaboutmadeittothetopofthe

rope.Hewas–withoutbeatingaboutthebush–quitefat.And

itwasn’tagoodideatomakehimclimbupthere,althoughhe

didhisbest,ofcourse.Anyway,whenhegottothetophehad

14

nostrengthleft,andsliddownfromaheightoffourorfive

metres,rippingalltheskinoffhishandsintheprocess.Helay

atthebottomscreaminglikeastuckpig,youcouldseetheraw

fleshonbothhispalms,thefloorwascoveredinblood,and

theyhadtocallanambulance.MichaelHabelhadalsobroken

hisleg;thepatheticcrash‐mathadbeennouseatall.Thebone

wasstickingoutofhisshin,allyellow,nowordofalie.Eventhe

paramedics’eyespoppedoutwhentheysawHabellyingonthe

floorlikethat.Kraglerstoodthereactingasifhecouldn’t

explainhowithadhappened.

AfewweekslaterMichaelHabelwasbackinlessons,

thoughstillwithbandagedhandsandhisleginplaster,looking

evenmoreofadorkthanhehadbefore.Ifheeversaid

anything,itwasonlytotellyouhowmanyplatesandpinshe

nowhadinhisleg.Butwehadnodesiretoknowthedetails.

Someonealwayshadtogowithhimtothetoiletsandtakehis

trousersdown.Seriously.I’dratherhavejumpedoutthe

window.

Foronce,Kraglerhadprobablygotintotroubleoverit,

andwasquiterestrainedforawhileafterwards,thoughhe

startedmutteringinaudiblethingstohimselfevenmorethan

heusedto.

Wehadhimforgeographyaswell,incidentally.Imade

sureIwasonmapdutywithBogiasoftenaspossible,sothat

weatleastmissedafewminutesatthestartofthelesson.

Healwaysgreeteduswith:“Agoodsoldierisalwaysfive

minutesearly,Schumacher.”

15

“Sorry,MrKragler,therewasjustsomuchmessinthe

maproom,”Isaidbeforeweclipped“TheGermanReich:

Bordersasof1938”tothestandsandunrolledthem.Kragler

wasdesperatetogobacktoSilesia,ifIunderstooditcorrectly.

OrhewantedSilesiatocometohim.Ortous,Idon’tknow.

KraglerwantedtogetSilesiaback,withourhelp.Because

Silesiawasprobablyagreatthing.Honestly,Ididn’tevenknow

whereitwas.

ForKragler,Silesiawaswhattheornamentalgubbies

weretoMrGallenkamp.DidKraglerimaginethatallour

daydreaminginclasswasbecausewemissedSilesiasomuch?

Nomatter,Icertainlyhadnodesiretogothere.Andthe

likelihoodofSilesiacomingtomewasalsoprettyslim.And

evenifSilesiaweretoarrivehereatsomepoint,I’dbelong

gone;IwantedtodisappearofftoBerlinassoonasIcould.

Becauseofbloodymilitaryserviceandeverything.

Theyheldyourballsduringthearmymedicalexam.

Honestly.Ludger,DetlefWalkenhorst’solderbrother,hadtold

usthat.Thedoctorhadtoldhimtopullhispantsdown–“Lift

upyourmemberforamoment,”–thenhetookholdofhissack

andorderedhimtocough.WhichLudgerdid,cough,cough.

Andthedoctorwent:“One,two,allthere.”

Unbelievable.

WalkiandIfelloverlaughingwhenLudgertoldusthat.

Ontheotherhand,maybeitwasn’tallthatsurprising

whenyoulookedatthesearmytypes.Youwouldn’tput

anythingpastthem.UdoMönch’sfatherwasinthearmy,for

instance;hewasanofficerorsomething.Udowasalways

16

tellingpeoplehewasgoingtosignupfortwelveyearswhenhe

finishedschool.Twelveyears!Twelve!Heandafewother

moronshadstartedaclub.Andnowtheywereadvertisingit

everywhere:“BrahmsGymnasiumArmyFanclub!”Howdimdid

youhavetobe?AndUdoMönchwasshittinghimselfthatthe

armywouldn’ttakehimbecausehehadScheuermann’s.

Anyway,Iwasstillstandingaroundoutsidethehospital,

andthenationalservicepeopleweretakingsomeoneoutofthe

ambulanceandpushingthemintothebuildingonatrolley.Was

thathowBogiarrivedhere,too?

“WilhelmVerderblichMedicalVehicles,”Ireadona

smallplateonthebackoftheambulanceasIpassedit.Great

name.

OnceIwasinsideandstandingthere,lookingaround,a

nurseaskedmewhereIwasgoing,andIsaidtoseeBo…

ManfredSchnellstieg.Shecheckedalistandtoldmetherewas

nooneofthatnamehere.ButthenitturnedoutIwasinthe

emergencydepartmentandhadtogoacrosstothemain

entrancenextdoor.

Okay,anothersecurityguardbehindglass.Ibentdown

totheflapmadeofperforated,yellowingplasticandsaidIwas

heretoseeBo…ManfredSchnellstieg.Theguardcheckedina

book.Itlookedlikeaclassregister.

“Mpfmmpfmmpfmomommpf?”Iheardfrominsidethe

cabin.

“Excuseme?”

Mymotherclaimedthatyougotfurtherbysaying

“excuseme?”than“Huh?”

17

“Mompfmommpfpfmpf.”

Well,itlookedlikethatwasn’talwaystrue.

SoIstoppedbeingpointlesslypoliteandwent“Huh?”

“MOMPFMMMPFPFPFPFMMOMP!”

Itwashopeless.Ishrugged.

Thentheguardwrotemeanote:3rdfloor,right,ward3b,

andfinallyopenedthespeakingholetopassittome.“There

yougo.Thirdfloor,righthandside,3b.”

Yes,thatwaswhathe’dwrittendown,buthecouldhave

justopenedthestupidflapand…nevermind.

Icouldnowhearexactlywhattheguardwassaying,but

Ididn’twanttogooverthewholethingagain.Itwouldn’tget

meanywhere.

“Thanks,”Isaid,andleft.

Awidestaircaseledtotheupperfloors.Totherightofit

wereasetoflifts,whichordinarilyIwouldhaveused;Iwasn’t

crazyabouttheideaoftraipsingupthreefloorsiftherewasa

lift.(Iwasfundamentallyquitelazy).ButsuddenlyIwasafraid

ofgettingstuckinaliftwithsomeonewhowasinjuredand

wouldcauseabloodbathintherelikeMichaelHabeldidthat

timeintheschoolgym.

Itookthestairstwoatatime,eyesfixedstraightahead.

TherewasnowayIwantedtobeoneofthepeopleinhere,I

wasthinkingthewholetime.Andbecauseallthepeoplewho

belongedhereweresoslow,ImovedasfastasIcould.

ThenIwasstandingatthedoortotheward,outof

breathandtryingtocalmmyselfdown.

18

Ialwaysgotabitworkedupaboutthesesituations.And

actuallyitwasridiculoustobemakingsuchafussoverit.After

all,Bogiwastheonestuckinhere,notme.

Theglassdoorwascoveredincomic‐bookpictures:

children’sward.

Bogiwasayearyoungerthanmeand,whenhe’dstill

beenproperlyclever,he’dskippedthesixthyear.Fromthenon,

wewereinthesameclass.Then,alittleoverayearago,when

hewasthirteen,Bogilosthisbrainandcamebacktoschool

afterthesummerholidayswithoutit.Fact.Itprobably

disappearedinthewatersoftheMediterraneanoff

Formentera,justlikethat.Anyway,hisagehadlandedBogi

here,ratherthanontheadultward.

ThebellwasjustaboveDonaldDuck’sbeak.Anurse

cameandopenedthedoor.Shewasquitepretty.

“NurseMerle”saidabadgeonhertunic.

“Is,er,ManfredSchnellstiegthere?”Iknewthatmustbe

thesilliestquestionIcouldask.

“Bogi?He’singiraffe.”

SotheywerealreadycallinghimBogihere,too.

“Er,sorry?”

“Thegirafferoom.Thereareanimalsymbolsonthe

doors.You’llfindit.”

Andthenshewasgone,onhersqueakingsandals.

Iwalkeddownthecorridorandfoundthecharacterson

thedoors:tortoise,mouse,andatthefarendontheleftthere

wasfinallyagiraffe.

19

ThedoortoBogi’sroomwasclosed.Iknocked

tentatively,putmyeartothecoldwoodandatfirstheard

nothingfrominside–then,whenIknockedagain,asoft“yes?”

Hewassittingcross‐leggedonthebed.

HowlongitwassinceI’dlastseenhim.

Bogilookedcompletelychanged.Hehadn’tsuddenlylost

allhishair,orwhateverothershitthetreatmentmightdoto

you.Mymotherhadtoldmeallkindsofthings.Itwasnothing

abouthisappearance.But…HowcanIputit?Itwasasif,even

thoughhehadn’tbeenherethatlong,healreadybelongedhere

andnotinourworld–myworld–anymore.Ofcourse,I

couldn’tthinklikethat,itwastheoppositeofwhathadbeen

drummedintomebyBogi’smotherandmine.They’dsaidthat

nowwasthetimewhenBogidesperatelyneededtofeellikehe

wasoneofus,etc.Itwasanimportantpartofthehealing

process,theysaid.

Buthowwasthatsupposedtowork,beingoneofus,

whenhewaslyingaroundinterryclothpyjamasalldayinthis

stupidgirafferoom,whilewewerebusyrearrangingourworld

outside?Ofcourse,nooneexplainsthattoyou.

Thenextproblemwasthatallthisshithadbeenmaking

mefeelquiteaggressive.Andunhelpfully,itwascomingout

now,whenIfinallysawBogiagain.Butithadbeenbubbling

awayinsidemeeversinceIwentandsatbackdownonmy

beanbagaftertheinitialshock,whenIcriedonthephone,and

turnedthemusicupevenloudersothatIcouldthinkabout

whatBogi’sparentshadjusttoldme.Iwaswaitingtostart

feelingsad,becauseIthoughtthat’swhatpeopleexpectedof

20

me,butifIwashonest,Iwasonlysadmaybetenpercentofthe

time,andangryfortherest.EvenatBogihimself.Whichwas

idiotic,Iknewthat.Butheneededtostopthisshit,do

somethingaboutit.Getbetter.Thiswasnostatetobein,with

thisdiseasethatsoundedlikeitwasn’tadiseaseatall.Atleast,

notabadone.Non‐Hodgkin’slymphoma:soundslikenota

disease,right?Itdefinitelywould’vebeenbetterifitwascalled

Hodgkin’snon‐lymphoma.EspeciallyforBogi.

Butactually,IwasangryathimbecauseIwantedmyold

lifeback,includingBogi.IsimplythoughtIhadenoughcrapto

dealwithasitwas.AndIwasn’ttryingtothinkallthisjustat

thatmoment.Butthoughtsdon’tknockandaskforpermission

beforetheycomein.Theyjustappear.

Bogi’smotherhadexplainedtheillnesstomeindetail–

itwassomethingtodowithhislymphnodes–andI’dlistened

tomostofwhatshewassaying.Whichwasnotallthateasy,to

behonest.Butthefactthatitwascancerandyoucoulddieof

thatshit–infact,dyingwasactuallyquitelikely–was

somethingsheonlycameoutwithonceI’daskedherfour

times.

“Alright?”Isaid,grinningatBogi.

Ihadthefeelingittookhimaminutetorecogniseme.

Then,whenwelookedeachotherintheeye,ashudder

wentthroughme,thoughIdidn’tknowwhy.Iwasreallygladto

seehim,andatthesametimeallIwantedtodowasrunaway.I

glancedatthemangyteddybearonBogi’sbed.

Thereareprobablynowordsforthereallyimportant

thingsyoufeel.Atleast,nottherightwords.Youjustalwaysact

21

asifthereare.Becauseyouhavetotalkeverythingintoshape,

sothattheworlddoesn’tstandstillandyoucansomehowcarry

on.

Upuntilalittlewhileago,everythinghadbeeneasierfor

metounderstand.WhenI’dbeenreallyangryaboutsomething,

forinstance,Iwascompletely,onehundredpercentangry,

untilthenextfeelingturnedup.

Andusually,thatfeelinghadbeenthecompleteopposite

ofanger.ThenextminuteI’dbepleasedorinasillymood,no

problem.Sometimesthechangewasquick,andsometimesit

tookabitlonger,butithadalwaysbeenasequence.Andone

day,withoutmynoticing,thesequencehadgoneandallthe

emotionsstartedhappeningatonce.Feelingswerebouncing

aroundinsidemeandIcouldn’tkeepthemapartanylonger.All

ofasuddenIwashappyandsadatthesametime.Ilaughed

myselfstupideventhoughIwassickenedbyeverything.I’d

falleninlovewith…well,that’snoone’sbusinessbutmine,and

Ihatedheratthesametime.AndIdidn’tevenknowwhy.Well,

probablyforthefactthatIwasinlovewithher.Itwasactually

reallystressful,andIcouldn’tbearit,butI’dstoppedtryingto

fenditoffandwaitingforittopass,becauseIguessedthatit

waspointless;Iwasgoingtofeelthiswayforever.

AndsonowIwasstandinghereinBogi’sroom.

Iwentovertohimandwehugged.Butnotproperly;a

bitawkwardly.Weputourarmsaroundeachotherwithoutthe

restofourbodiesjoiningin.IthinkIwasjustafraidofhurting

him,andBogirealisedthat.

“Motte.Alright?”saidBogi.

22

BogialwayscalledmeMotte.Actually,sodideveryone

else.Thentherewassilence.Wasthatit?Wasthatallwecould

thinkoftosaynowweweretogetheragain?Aswewere

hugging,Ilookedagainovermyleftshoulderatthemangyold

teddythatIrecognisedfromBogi’sroomathome.

ButI’dalwaysthoughtitwasthereasakindofjoke.And

nowIwastakenabacktorealisethatthebearseemedto

genuinelycomfortBogi.HisnamewasLucky.He’dbelongedto

Bogi’smotherwhenshewaslittle.

Ireallycouldn’tthinkofanythingelsetosay,soIfinally

said:“Bayernwonthree‐two.”BogiwasaBayernMunichfan.

Seriously.ItwasageneticthingwiththeSchnellstiegs.He

hadn’tbeenintheworldformorethanafewdaysbeforehe

wasnamedManfred,andhadbecomeamemberoftheCatholic

ChurchandBayernMunich.Andthosewerethreethingsthat

couldtakeyoudownaveryspecificpathinlife,right?Broadly

speaking,whenBogiwasbarelyaweekolditwasalreadyclear

wherehewasheading.

RicardaHummelfromourprimaryschool,forexample,

hadnoarms.Orrather,justlittlestumpswithfingers,andnot

thefulltenfingers,either.Idon’tknowhowmany,Inever

countedthem.Andyes,ofcourse,youcan’tcomparethatwith

beingcalledManfred.AllImeanis:everyonepretendedwe

couldbecomewhateverwewantedifwejustmadeenough

effort.Asifitwasalldowntous.Butthatwasrubbish.

Inanycase,wealwayshadtoactlikeitwasnothing

unusualwhenRicardasatatherdeskwritingwithherfeet.

23

Anditwouldactuallyhavebeenmuchmorenormaljust

totalktoherabouthowshemanagedit.Toaskherhowshegot

herlegupthathighandheldapencilandthings.

Atleastthatwassomethingotherpeoplecouldn’tdo.My

ownwritingwasillegible,andIusedmyhand.Ihadnodesire

toseemyfootwriting.Anyway:no,weweresupposedtoact

likeitwasnormaltowriteanessaywithyourfeet.Bullshit,if

youaskme.

ButwhatI’mtalkingaboutisthis:RicardaHummel’s

mothercouldn’thelpnotknowingthatsheshouldn’thave

takenthosesleepingtablets.ButcallingyoursonManfredwhen

he’sbarelyfilledhisfirstnappy,takinghimofftochurchtobe

baptised,andthensigninghimupforbloodyBayern–allof

thatisentirelydeliberate.

Ididn’tmakethisup;therewasproof.Therewere

photosofBogiasababywearingalittleredandwhitecapin

theSchnellstiegs’hall.Youjusthadtohopethathedidn’t

simplyresignhimselftohisfate.Otherwise,hisparentswere

reallynice–Idon’twanttogivethewrongimpressionhere.

Anyway,Bogicouldalwaysgotothetownhallwhenhe

wasolderandgethisnamechanged.I’dreaditinthepaper.I

meaneveryonecould,notjustBogi.Icould,too,ifIdidn’twant

tobecalledMortenanymorebut,say,Ludolf.So,people,let’s

hearitforLudolfSchumacherondrums!Bogididn’thaveto

stayaManfredforever.Although,ifyou’dlethimchoosehis

ownname,heprobablywouldhavecomeupwithsomething

evenworse.Bogiwasn’texactlyaparagonofgoodtaste.At

least,that’swhatmymotheroncesaidwhenmyparentsinvited

24

himouttodinnerwithus,andhegotdressedupforthe

occasion,i.e.turnedupinhisparachute‐silktracksuit.The

longerIthoughtaboutthename‐changingbusiness,themoreI

thought:bestjusttoleaveeverythingasitwas.

So,BogiandIweresittingonthiscrappyhospitalbed

andrealisingthatwedidn’treallyknowwhattosaytoeach

other.Itwasprettysad.

“Yeah,yeah.Three‐two.Notbad,huh?Myfatheralways

bringsthelatestcopyofKickerwithhimnow,”Bogisaid

eventually.

“Oh,really?”

Wefellsilentagain,havinghitadeadend.

“So,howareyoudoing?”Isaid.Itwasthestupid

questionIreallydidn’twanttoask.I’dsworntomyselfearlier

thatIwouldn’t.Howwashesupposedtoanswerthat?”

ButthenBogisaid:“Oh,nottoobad.TheysayI’ll

probablybeoutofherebyChristmas.”

“Really?That’sgreat!”

Inthepausethatfollowed,Ilookedoutofthewindowat

thetreethatreachedallthewayuphere,andevenuptothe

nextfloor.Abeechoranoak,Idon’tknow,somethinglikethat,

Ican’ttellthesethingsapart.Therewasablackbirdhopping

aboutinthebranches,awrithingwormhangingoutofitsbeak.

Itprobablyhaditsnestuphere.Although,itwasautumn;did

theyneednestsatthistimeofyear?Ontheotherhand,birds

stillhavetosleepsomewhereinautumn.WhatdoIknow?For

amoment,Ithoughttheblackbirdwaslookinginatmethrough

thewindow.

25

“What’sEicheinEnglish?”

“Oak,”saidBogi.

“AndAmsel?”

“Blackbird.”

“Noway,really?Likethesong?”Iasked.

“Mmhmm.”

Thentherewassilenceagain.

Iwasdisgustedwithmyself:itshouldhavebeenmyjob

tomakethiseasierforbothofusbykeepingtheconversation

going;itcertainlywasn’tBogi’s.Butrecentlymyproblem,or

rather,oneofmyproblems,wasthatwhilemoreandmore

wordsandthoughtsaccumulatedinmyhead,fewerandfewer

ofthemendedupcomingoutascomprehensiblesentences.It

waslikethefilmwe’dwatchedingeographyattheendofterm

–notthebeltedGallowayfilm,theotherone.Thekindofstuff

wealwayshadtowatchwhentheteachersjustneededtokeep

usoccupiedforafinalfewhours.Attheendoftheschoolyear,

alltheydidwascarrytheSuper‐8projectorfromone

classroomtoanother,tobehonest.

Anyway,Imeanthefilmwheretheycutallthetrees

downandthrewthemintheriver,sothey’dfloatdowntothe

sawmill.“HowisPaperMade?”Ithinkitwascalled.But

eventuallytheprocessstoppedworking,thereweresomany

treesthattheyblockeduptheriver,andthentherewasahuge

floodandallkindsofothercrap.Notasingletreemadeittothe

sawmill,untilsomecleverDickfromthecityturnedupwith

tonsofdynamiteandgotitallmovingagain.

26

Thatriverwaswhatmybrainlookedlikenow.Except

thattherewasn’taguywithexplosivesanywhereinsight.

Luckily,therewasaknockonthedoorjustthen,and

Walkistuckhisheadintotheroom.Hishaircameinfirst,and

thentherestofhim.

IthinkthestyleiscalledanAfro.ButAfroiskindofa

stupidnameforitwhensomeonehasredcurlsandis

otherwiseaswhiteascreamcheese,apartfromhisfreckles.

Someonecalledhimchalk‐faceonce,whichwasn’tveryniceof

them.Walkihadgrownfreakishlyfastinthelastyearandwas

nearlyonemetreninetytall.Healwaysduckedwhenhewalked

throughadoornow(thoughthatwasoverplayingitabit).

“Hey,retard!Hehheh,there’sBogi,thespaz–hanging

outinhospital!”

Thatwasn’tWalki’svoice;itwasJanBorowka,calling

outfrombehindhim.Walki’sgrowthspurtmeantthatJanwas

nowaheadshorterthanhim,andyoucouldn’tseehimbehind

Walki.ThepairofthemcameinandgaveBogitheirhands.

They’redoingitright,Ithought.Thehandshakebusinesswas

kindofweird,butatleastitwasarealthing.I’dhavetostart

doingittoo.Janalsolikedtorapthreetimesonthetablewith

hisknucklesashepassed,buttomethatfeltliketoomuch.

“Boginski,myfriend,”saidJan,andlookedBogistraight

intheeyeashetookhishand.

Jan,asIsaid,wasquitealotshorterthanWalkiandme.

Therecouldbenotalkofagrowthspurtwherehewas

concerned.Atleast,notsofar.Althoughitdidn’tseemvery

27

likelythatanythingfundamentalwasgoingtochangethere.It

wasjustafeeling.

Forawhile,Janhadbeentryingtomakeupforit–by

smokingrollieslikeachimney,forinstance–thoughthe

smokingdidnothingtoincreasehisheight.He’dgothimselfa

pairofcowboybootswiththeseslopinghighheelsandwalked

aroundinthemlikehehadfourballs,nottwo.That’sjustwhat

itlookedlike,don’tblamemefortheimage.And,asIsaid,he’d

startedgreetingeveryonewithalong,firmhandshakewhile

staringintotheireyes.Stufflikethat.But,well,ifitmadethe

centimetreshelackedeasiertobear,itdidn’tmattertome.Jan

wasbasicallyareallygoodguy–Idon’twantyoutothinkI’m

justslagginghimoffhere.Andhewasprettymuscly:hehad

properbiceps,andpecsaswell,rock‐hardridgesandbulges.

WalkiandIwerenothingbutskinandbone.

Wenevertalkedaboutwhatourparentsdid.Theirjobs,I

mean.Youkindofhadthesensethatmostpeopleinourcity

workedinsomeofficeorother,butIhadnoideawhattheydid

there,andnoneofuseverseriouslythoughtaboutasking.The

oldsjustweren’tinterestingenoughforthat.Ithoughtmy

parentsweretherichest,butitwasneveranissue.Jan’s

parentswerethepoorest,anyway,thatmuchwascertain.

WhenIwasyounger,Iwouldneverinmylifehavegonetothe

estatehelivedon.Theyweren’treallyproperhouses,they

weremorelikecabinsthatsomeonehadtriedhardtomake

lookabitlessshabby.They’dbeenpaintedinbrightcolours

andstuff,Imean,butthatwasalongtimeago,andnowthey

lookedevenmoredepressingthanifthey’djustbeenleftas

28

theywerebefore.Ifyoupaintaturdincheerfulcolours,it’sstill

aturd,right?Somethinglikethat.

ThefirsttimeIwenttovisitJan,hismotherhadbrought

uscheese‐spreadsandwichesandhe’dimmediatelyhadagoat

her,tellinghertogetlost.Irememberbeingshocked,because

shewasjusttryingtobeniceandIwasn’tusedtohearing

thingslikethatfromJan.Hekindoftreatedherlikeananimal.

Aworkinganimal,Imean,notapet;peoplewereusuallyniceto

pets.AndlaterJan’sfathergothome,butallhedidwasglance

inthroughthedoor,andIthinkhe’dwantedtogiveJana

telling‐offaboutsomething–helookedprettyangry,atanyrate

–butwhenhesawmesittingthere,heturnedaroundwithout

sayinganything.Janhadgonecompletelysilentwhenheheard

hisfathercomingthroughthefrontdoor.Honestly,Iwasglad

whenIleftthebuilding.Jan’smotherwavedmeoff,andwhenI

sawherloving,tiredface,IwasashamedthatI’dbeen

disgustedbythesmellintheflatandcouldonlybreathe

properlyagainonceIwasbackoutside.

Inowsawthattherewassomethingstucktothebackof

Bogi’slefthand.Itlookedlikethebarrelofaclearplasticbiro,

withapieceofwhitetapestuckoverit.

“What’sthatthingonyourhand?”Iasked.

“It’sacannula,”saidBogi.“Thetubetheyputdrugsand

stuffin.”Hestartedtopickatthetape,andIcouldseethelittle

tubemoving;youcouldpullitupwiththeskinand–ohmyGod

–thatthingwasstickingintoBogi!Ilookedawayquickly,not

wantingBogitoseethatIwasabouttokeelover.Iwasn’ta

massivefanofinjectionsandbloodandthings.Cannula.Uhuh.

29

Didn’texactlysoundreassuring.Bogiactedlikeitwasnothing,

althoughhealsomusthavenoticedthatIfeltlikepukingina

corner.I’mprettysure.

“So,whatarethenurseslike?Gettinganyaction?Heh,

heh,”saidJan,slappinghisfistintothepalmofhisrighthand.

WalkiandIrolledoureyes.

Yes,Jan,thatwasexactlyhowourBogiwaspassingthe

timeinhere:shaggingthenurses,whowereallqueuing

impatientlyoutsidehisgirafferoom.Andafterwardsthey’d

pumpstuffintohisveinsthatwouldlatermakehishairfallout.

ButBogiactuallylaughedatthenursething,andchatted

awhilelongertoJanaboutthefoodinhereandwhatelsehe

didallday.NormalquestionsthatBogienjoyed,itseemed.

Morethanhe’denjoyedmylameummingandahhingbefore,at

anyrate.IwonderedwhyIcouldn’tmanagetohaveanormal

conversationwithmybestfriend,whowasn’tdoingtoowell

andwhomightjustwanttobedistractedforalittlewhile.

JanandWalki(whountilthispointhadsattherelooking

quitecontentbutsayingnothing)hadjustbeentofootball

practiceandhadtheirsportsbagsandaballwiththem.Itwas

theWorldCupballthatJanhadgotforhisbirthday,much

betterthantheonesatschool.Walkihadbeeninaweirdly

goodmoodallthetimelately,andIwonderedifthatmight

havesomethingtodowiththefactthathewasalwayshanging

aroundwithNeanderthalKlausandtheotherstonersdownby

thebikeracksatbreaktime.

“Shallweallgooutsideforabitandhaveakick‐

around?”Walkinowasked,grinning.Walkiwastryingtogrow

30

abeard,butthefewpatchesofredfluffonhischinlookedlike

pubesthathadmigratedupwards.

Whatkindofstupidideawasthat?Howthehellwas

Bogisupposedtogooutandplayfootballinhispyjamas,with

thatweirdtubeinhishand?Hewouldn’tevenmakeitdown

thestairs,Ithought.ThoughobviouslyIdidn’tsayso.

“Nah,Ican’t.Igettiredprettyquicklyatthemoment,”

saidBogi,withabitofagrin,asifhewasembarrassedbythe

fact.Andinsteadofcomfortingorprotectinghim,Ijuststood

therestaring,gawpingathisillnessandfeelingstupid,

incapableofdoinganythingelse.Thefourofuswereallas

awkwardaseachother,andeventuallypoorBogihadto

resolvethesituation.

“Maybeyoucouldgooutandhaveagame,andIcould

watchyoufromuphere.That’salmostlikeplayingmyself.”

Wethreeidiotsbroodedoverthissuggestionforanother

thirtyseconds.ThenWalkisaid:“Yes,alright,excellentidea.”

Hewasjustgladtobeabletogetoutofthereanddosomething

hewasgoodat.Jan,whomostofthetimedidwhateverWalki

did,wasreadyinaninstant,theballinhisrighthandandhis

sportsbaginhisleft.

“Okay,hastalavistathen–andchinup,Boginski.”

“Wecancomebackupafterwardsandsaygoodbye.”I

wasn’tparticularlygoodatfarewells.

“No,don’tworryaboutthat,it’llbedinnertimethen

anyway.”Washegladtogetridofus?Ontheotherhand,you

couldn’tblamehimifhewas.

“Seeyou,Bogi,”saidWalki.

31

Anotherhandshake,ofBogi’srighthand,theonewithout

thecannula.

“I’llwatchyoufromthewindowinthecorridoruphere,”

saidBogi.

Iwentoverandhuggedhimtentativelyagain.

Felthisribs.He’dalwaysbeenthatthinthough,hadn’t

he?

“Seeyousoon,Bogi,yeah?Nextweek,”Isaid.

“Okay,seeyousoon.”

Iwaved,thinkingthatIneededtodoabetterjobofthis

visitingthingnexttime.

Then,aswewereonourwayoutofthedoor,IsawBogi

liedown.Wewalkeddownthestairsinsilence.Ithought,

“Bogi…”–andthenIfeltsomethingIhadnowordsfor,which

hurtalot,firstundermytongue,andthenonmyleftside,right

undermyribs.Somethingthattastedbitterandlitup

dazzlinglyforamoment,asifI’dswallowedtheflickeringneon

lightwe’djustpassed.ThenIshookthethoughtoutofmyhead

withajolt,asIwouldifI’dgotwaterinmyearattheswimming

pool.Tobeonthesafeside,Itriednottothinkofanythingatall

forawhile–and,byconcentratingforonce,Iactuallymanaged

it.

AndwhenwegotdownstairsandIreadmittedthe

thoughtsthathadbeenbuzzingaroundmyheadlike

shimmeringbluefliesaroundacowpat,IthoughtthatBogiwas

definitelygoingtogetbetter.

Itwasalreadystartingtogetdarkoutside.

32

WewenttoapatchofgrassthatBogicouldseefrom

upstairs,andstoodasclosetothestreetlightsaswecould.Bogi

watchedus,intheneonlight.MyBogi,whohadboughtthe

Yugo‐boozejustafewweeksbefore.Digestible,pressed

withoutstalksandstems.

Thenwemessedabout,playingkeepy‐uppyandtwo‐on‐

oneandstuff,andfeltkindofsillyputtingonsuchashowin

frontofallthesesickpeople,butsomehowitwasalsofunny

andarelieftowearourselvesout.Bogistoodatthewindow,

notmoving.

Wewavedtohimagainbeforeweleft,andhewaved

back.Wewalkedoutofthegate.Therewasadifferentguard

therenow.JanhadbroughtaCappyjuiceandwetookturns

swiggingthesweet,flavourlessstuffoutoftheplasticcarton.I

tookadragonthecigarettethatJanhadrolled,whichmademe

coughsomuchInearlythrewupinthegutter.Wedidn’treally

knowwhattosayaboutthewholething.

“What’sthediseasecalledagain?”Janaskedme.

“Non‐Hodgkin’slymphoma.”

Heconsideredthisforawhileandthensaid:“Funny

name.Imean,youdon’tsay–Idon’tknow–non‐poodledog;

yousayterrier.”

WeshookhandsandIgotonthenumberfour.Walkiset

offtowardsNeubergonfootbecausehe’dforgottenhismonthly

ticketandhadbeencaughtwithoutittwicealready,andJan,

whohadtogonorth,waitedforthetwenty‐two.

OnthebusIthoughtabouthowlongBogiandIhadbeen

friends.Probablysincethedaywhen–atprimaryschool,we

33

werealwaysallowedtodressuponFatThursday–hecameup

tomeintheplaygroundwearingredpyjamaswithgoldstripes

acrossthechest,andayellowwoollyhatwithgreenwashing‐

upspongessewnontoit.Iaskedhimwhathiscarnivalcostume

wassupposedtobe,andhesaid:“aleakingbattery.”

34

THREE

–LateSeptember–

Ididn’tknowhernamewasJacquelineSchmiedebachuntilJan

toldme.Wewerestandingoutsideschool,andsherodepastus

onherDutchbicycle.Shelookedoveratusjustforasecond,

andsmiled.Ormaybeevenlaughed.Andthenpretendeditwas

becauseofsomethingelse,andnothingtodowithus.Ihada

tinglingfeelingeverywhere,andthenthetinglinghadaname.

Whensheturnedthecorner,Jan,whohadbeenstanding

besidemesmoking,lookedafterherandmuttered:“Jacqueline.

Foxy.”

Andabitlater,whenIwasstillstaringatthestreet

cornerroundwhichshehadlongsincedisappeared:

“JacquelineSchmiedebach.ShegoestoEinstein.10c.Shelives

overtheriver.BuchbergorKiesheim.She’sthebomb.”

Ijuststoodthere.

“What?”Janaskedme.

“Whatdoyoumean,what?”

“Goafterher.”

“Areyouinsane?”

“Goafterher,youspaz.”

“Whatgoodwouldthat…comeon,Idon’tevenknow

her,”Isaid,andJanreplied:“Exactly.That’swhy.”

35

Ijumpedonmybike,followedherasfarastheferry,and

watchedhergo.Herstraw‐blondehairblewinthewindallthe

way;itshonesobrightlythatIcouldstillseeJacquelineriding

offonthefarbank,wheneveryoneelsewhohadbeenonthe

ferryhadbecomesmall,indistinguishablepin‐heads.Myfirst

thoughthadnotbeenhowbeautifulshewas,buthowupright

shehadbeensittingonherbike.ThatwastheveryfirstthingI

noticed.Howboltuprightshewassittingonherbikeasshe

whiskedpastmeandJan.

TherewasthiswordthathadcomeupinaGermanclass

recently:Anmut.Itmeansgrace,elegance,beauty,andFrau

Standfusshadtriedtoexplainittous,butIcouldn’treally

pictureit.Ialsothoughtitsoundedstupid.LikeAlmut–and

AlmutGerhardtswasthedorkiestgirlinourclass,ifnotthe

wholeschool.Soitwasdifficulttoconnectawordthat

remindedmeofthatidiottosomethingbeautiful.Butnow,as

Jacquelinerodepast,IhadsomeideaofwhatAnmutmight

mean.Orrather,whatitsmeaningmightfeellike.

Overthenextfewdays,Itriedtomakeourpathscross

seeminglybychance.First,Iwantedtofindoutwhattimeshe

tooktheferry.Ihungaroundthejettyforhours,butneversaw

her.Shelivedontheothersideoftheriver,Iknewthatalready,

andwenttoschoolonourside,totheEinsteinscience

academy,whichwasinthesameareaasmyschool.

Iwouldhavetotalktoher,togooutwithher,thatmuch

hadbeenclearfromthemomentIfirstsawher.

“Moment”–thatwasanotherofthosewordsthatIfeltI

reallyunderstoodonlynow.Asin:momentous.Iwouldhaveto

36

bepatient;I’dprobablyhavetowaitatthejettyagoodfew

timesbeforeIsawheragain.Butforthefirsttimeinmylife,

waitingwasnotthesameasbeingbored.Allatonceitwas

goodtowait,andInowwouldn’tswapthiswaitingforanything

intheworld.Ispentseveralafternoonsstandingatthejetty

wheretheferrydocked,watchingallkindsofpeople.Jacqueline

Schmiedebachwasnotamongthem.Thereweresomeodd

characters.Usually,whenyoujustspentafewminutesdown

therewaitingforthenextferry,youdidn’tnoticethem.Theguy

withthebriefcase,forinstance,hadbeenlookingoveratmefor

quiteawhile.Noideawhathewantedwithme.Funnyhaircut.

Lookedlikeamopedhelmet,butmadeoutofhair.Hereminded

meofoneoftheoldteachersatBrahms,MrSeegler;Ialways

hadthefeelingthathe’dbeenateacherevenbeforetheBrahms

schoolexisted,whenthewholeareawasstillmeadowsgrazed

byaurochsandbison.Andeventhen,Iwassurethatfivedaysa

weekhewouldhavetaughtvoluntarypre‐schoolclassesin

ancientGreekataquarterpastseveninthemorning.Tosome

kindofgiantlizardsorsomething.Withabicycleclipalways

stillattachedtotherightlegofhisgreysuittrousers.That’sthe

kindofthingyouimaginedhimdoing.Andintheend,oncethe

ice‐agemadeittoocoldinthemeadows,theybuiltBrahms

aroundMrSeegler.Andoncethemonitorlizardsthathadbeen

learningancientGreekfromhimhadwaddledsouthinsearch

ofabetterclimate,theywerereplacedwithhumanstudents.

ThatwaskindofhowIimaginedit.Anyway,MrSeeglerhad

beenthereareallylongtime,thatmuchwascertain.

37

GodknowswhereIwouldendupifIdidn’tlearnto

concentrate.Thatwaswhateveryonesaidtome.

Iwastryingtoworkoutwhattheferryguy’shair‐hat

remindedmeof,andthenitstruckme:Bogi’slittlesisterAnette

hadthesePlaymobilfiguresthatyoucouldtakethehairofflike

ahelmet,andthenputitbackon.Hehadbeenstaringatmefor

awhile,andthenhenoddedandcameover.Oh,forGod’ssake.I

lookedawayatonce,atanythingbuthim,butitdidn’thelp.The

guywasheadingstraightforme.Briefcase,helmethair,socks

andsandals.

“Hellothere,myfriend,”hesaid.Ididn’trespond.

“Afternoonoff,itis?Whatattractionsmighttherebearound

here?Flirtingwiththeyoungladies?Petra,Babsi,Susi?”

Whatwashetalkingabout?

Herockedbackandforthonhissandalsforawhile,

lookingoutatthewater.Andthenhesaid:“Doyouwantto

earn50Marks?”

“Eh?”

“ComebackthereinthebusheswithmeandI’lltossyou

off.”

Hespokeastrangedialect,fromHessenorsomewhere.

LikeHeinzSchenk,theguyonTV.Hedidn’tsay“toss”,hesaid

“toash.”And“feftyMaarksh”.

“Ah’lltoashyeroaff.”

IwonderedforamomentwhetherI’dreallyheardthat,

orwhetherIwasstillimaginingthingsandthisbelongedinthe

samebracketastheaurochsandthemonitorlizardsandtheice

age.

38

Thehelmet‐hairmangrinnedatme,andIdecidedthe

bestplanwastogetoutofthere.ThenIrodeoffalongthe

riversideroadasfastasIcould.Ididn’tlookback,forfearthat

theguymightberunningafterme.Ihadnoideawhatelse

someonewhomadeanofferlikethatmightbecapableof.

WhenIwassureIwasfarenoughaway,Istopped.

Sawhimstillstandingthere,gazingafterme.

Andjustthen,theferrythatJacquelineSchmiedebach

mightbeonsetofffromtheotherside.ThatmeantIhadtoget

closertothejettyagainasquicklyasIcould.Butaslongasthat

bastardwasstillstaringinmydirection,Icouldn’tjustturn

aroundandrideback.HemightthinkIwascomingbacktohim.

SoIgotoff,liftedmybikeontomyshoulderandranupthe

embankmentwithit,sothatIcouldridebackunseenalongthe

toppromenade.However,Ihadunderestimatedhowsteepthe

slopewas,andhowheavymybikewas,sothatwhenIwas

nearlyatthetop,Ifirstsloweddownandthenfellovertwicein

slowmotion.AlthoughI’mnotsureiffallingoveristheright

expressionforwhathappenedtome.Becauseoftheslope,the

embankmenthitmefullintheface.Anothernewexperience.

Iamthestraightlineandthehillisthevector,Ithought

asItoppledover.Ortheotherwayaround.Myhandsandknees

lookedamessafterwards.ThankGodnooneheardmegasping

andwheezing.Allofwhichprovidedtheperfectconditionsfor

talkingtoJacquelineSchmiedebachandaskingifshewantedto

gooutwithmesometime.

WhenIfinallygottothetop,Ijumpedonmybikeand

racedbacktowardsthejetty.Theferrywasalmostthere.Iran

39

downthebroadstonestaircase,mybikebouncingdownthe

stepsatmyside,dongdongdong.AndwhenIgottothebottom,

IcouldseeJacquelinecominguptheramp.Sheroderightpast

meandlookedmestraightintheeye.Imusthavelookeda

properfoolaftereverythingthathadjusthappened.She

frownedforasplitsecond,butthenlaughedandrodeon.I’m

sureIhadgonebrightred,butattheendoftheday,atleastshe

laughedanddidn’tturnawayindisgust.

WhenItookanotherquicklookaround,theguywiththe

ridiculoustoupeewasstillstandingthere,grinning.Hewasn’t

waitingfortheferryatall;hewasjuststandingaroundwaiting

forsapslikemetocomealongsohecouldchatthemup.Andof

course,thatmeantthatIwasgoingtoseehimatthejettynow

everyafternoonwhileIwaswaitingforJacqueline

Schmiedebach.AndhemightthinkIwastherebecauseofhim.

Ileaptontomybikeandrodeafterher,notcaringhow

awfulIlooked,sweaty,dirtyandbrightredintheface.Andit

didn’tmatternow,anyway.Jacquelinewasridingdownthe

avenuetowardsthecitycentre.Shehadasportsbaginher

basketwithatennisracketstickingoutofit.Whenshestopped

atatrafficlight,Iremainedasafedistanceaway.Butthenext

timeIdecidedIdidn’tcare:Ipulledupalongsideher,and

lookedtheotherway.

Thatwasn’teasy.Whenthelightturnedgreen,shewent

straighton–Iwassureshehadlookedatmeagainforasecond

whenitwasonamber.IpretendedIwasgoingtoturnright,but

whenshewasalittlewayahead,Istartedfollowingheragain.

SheturnedoffattheparkwheretheTHCtenniscourtswere.

40

Later,IsecretlywatchedherplayuntilIhadtoleavefor

amathscatch‐uplesson.Iwasalreadyreallylate.Myheartwas

pounding.Imean,okay,itdidthatallthetime.ButnowIwas

noticingit.Thatwasthedifference.Thepoundingofmyheart

waslouderthantheploppingofthetennisballsthatJacqueline

Schmiedebachwasnowchasingacrossthecindercourt.Iknew

exactlywhatitlookedlikewhenshepickedthemup,without

havingtoturnroundonce.

41

FOUR

–LateSeptember–

Intheevening,Isuddenlyfoundmyselfstandingoppositemy

fatherinthelivingroom;we’djusthappenedacrosseachother

there.Idon’tknowifwe’deveractuallyrunintoeachother

deliberately.

Wehadfrozenonthespotassoonaswemet,asifwe’d

beenstapledtotheflooratthatmoment.

I’dseenhimstandingatthewindowjustbeforethat,

lookingoutatthebushes.Thesettingsunreflectedonhisbald

head,makingitlookevenchubbierthanusual.Thebaldhead,

notthesun.Maybehewasthinkingaboutwhatplantstodigup

andreplantinhisnewgardeninthetundra.AlthoughI

honestlydidn’tknowwhethertherewasevenagardenthere.

Hewouldn’thavenoticedmeifIhadjusttakenanapple

fromthebowlwhilehisbackwasturnedandthenslippedout

againquietly.ButIthoughtitwasoddnottosayhellotohim,at

least.ItlookedlikethefactIwasstandingbehindhimhadgiven

himafright.Ridiculous.Ididlivehere,afterall.Well,whatever;

inanycasewewerenowstandingaroundinthelivingroom.

Ifweweregoingtosnapoutofthisfreeze‐framethen

oneofuswouldhavetomakeadecision,makeamove,

somehowapproachtheother.Butthatwasneithermystrength

42

normyfather’s.Especiallynotnow,wheneverythingwas

fallingaparthere.

Oneoptionmighthavebeentositdownonthesofa.Or

tosimplywalkoutoftheroomagainaftersayinghelloand

leavehimstandingthere.Heseemedtolikeitinhere,standing

aloneatthewindow.Butwehadgonetoofardownadead‐end

road.Allbecauseofthestupidapple.

Thetelevisionwason.

Myfatherhadbeengivingitanoccasionalsideways

glancefromwherehestoodatthewindow.You’dprobablycall

itmorose.Theglassinhislefthandcontainedthatyellowliquid

thatsmelledofliquoricebutdidn’ttastelikeit.I’veforgotten

thename,pardonorsomethinglikethat.Heoncetoldmehe

wasa“Francophile”,butonceagainI’dforgottenexactlywhat

thatmeant.SomethingtodowithFranceandalcohol,anyway.

Acoupleoficecubes,almostmelteddowntonothing,

clinkedintheglass.

We’dbeenavoidingeachotherforthelastfewweeks,so

itwasonlythenthatIrealisedImusthavegrownquiteabit.I

wasnoweasilyhalfaheadtallerthanhim.Hehadundonethe

topthreebuttonsofhisshirt,therewasafuzzofgreychesthair

pokingout,andIsawthathe’dstartedwearingachain.Crazy.I

myselfhadbeenwonderingrecentlyifitwouldbeagoodidea

togetachainlikethat,achainorabracelet,Ihadthought,or

maybeboth,butthisputastoptothatideaaltogether.

Finally,hebrokethesilence:“I’msureyourmotherhas

explainedeverythingtoyou‐”

43

Explained?Whatexactly?Wasitafullstoporaquestion

markI’dheardthere?

Whatmyfatherhadjustsaidimmediatelysoakedinto

thecarpetormaybejustremainedhangingsomewhereinthe

air,whichmeantthatIdidn’tknowifhewasexpectingan

answerfromme.Ifindoubt,betterkeepquiet.Pleasejustdon’t

givemeatalk,Ithought.Ididn’tneedthat,Ireallydidn’t,

everythingwasfineasitwas.Myparentscouldjustarrange

thingshowevertheythoughtbest.Ornot.Themainthingwas

thattheyleftmeoutofit.

Myfather’swordshadnowbeenhangingintheairforso

longthathemusthavestoppedexpectingananswerfromme.

Right,sonowwewerejuststandingtherewordlesslyagain.

He’dbeensackedbyhiscompanyawhilebefore,andI’d

wonderedhowitwaspossibletogetthrownoutofacompany

thatyouweresupposedlythebossof.Thatwasalwayswhatit

soundedlike,anyway,whenhetalkedabout“hiscompany”.

Untilnow,I’dthoughtbeingthebossmeantyouweretheone

whothrewotherpeopleout.

Afterthat,mymotherandhemusthavethoughtthey’d

justdealwitheverythingelseinonego,getdivorced,splitup

thefamilyandeverything.Orwhatwasleftofit.

Iwouldhavelikedtoletmyfatherknowthatnoneof

thisreallymatteredtome.Thebusinesswithhimandmy

mother,andthefactthathewasmovingoutandgoingtolive

withhis“partner”.AndIdidn’tmindthathedidn’tknowwhat

tosaytome,either.Ifanyoneunderstoodthat,itwasme.Okay,

perhapsthiswasn’tthemomenttoexplainthat.Butpurelyso

44

thatwecouldmoveon,Iliedandsaid:“Yes,shedid.She,err,

explainedeverything.”Myfathernodded.SodidI.Alongnod

frombothofus.Thennothingforawhile.Thenanothervery

longnodfromhim.

“Hmmm,”hemurmured,approvingly.

Silence.Theonlythingchatteringawaythiswholetime

hadbeenthenewsreader.Apartfromthecockatiel,who

screeched“Coco!”twice–surprise,surprise.

Andthenmyfatherstartedtolaugh.Orwhatpassedfor

laughingwithhim.First,hiseyesnarrowedtotwosmallslits.

Fromtheircorners,deepfurrowsfannedoutacrosshisface,a

fewupwardstowardshisforehead,otherssidewaystohisears,

andsomedownacrosshischeeks.Icouldn’timagineever

gettingasoldandleatheryashewas.Hismouthslightlyopen,

foralongtimehemadenonoise,andIthought,Ihopehe

doesn’tchokeandkeeloverrightinfrontofme.Butaftera

whileIheardagasp,whichwaslikethenoiseourdoghad

madethewinterbeforehedied,whenhehadbronchitisandwe

wereconstantlytakinghimtothevet.

Andonlythendidmyfatherdosomethingthatactually

soundedlikelaughing.Althoughbackwards,asifhe’dturned

thesyllablesaround.Hedidn’tgo“Ha,ha,ha,ha,ha,”but“Ah,

ah,ah,ah,ah.”Becausehewasbreathingin,notout.Itwaslike

he’dsomehowmisunderstoodtheprinciple.Althoughlaughing

isn’tsomethingyouhavetolearn;thathappensbyitself,

doesn’tit?Itdidforme,inanycase.Finallymyfatherwentfirst

red,thenpurpleintheface.Nowonder.Youcan’tmanage

withoutbreathingaltogether.Thelaughterturnedintoa

45

coughingfit,andhelefttheroomwithoutlookingatmeagain.

Hiscoughingandwheezingreceded,butIcouldstillhearit

evenafterhe’ddisappearedintohisbedroomatthetopofthe

stairs.

Thentherewassilence.Myfatherhadprobablyhadto

lightafagtogetovertheshockofencounteringhissoninthe

livingroom.Right,then.Sothathadbeenthetalkaboutthe

approachingchangeinourlives.

Okay,tostartwiththerewasn’tmuchtoobjecttoabout

achangeinourlives.Ifwemovedhouse,thenIwouldn’thave

toridemybikeupabloodymountaintogethometoWaldstadt

everyday,untilmylungswerehangingoutofmythroat.Orget

onthestinkingnumberseventeenbusandlistentoitsgears

grindingasitstruggledupthehill.Therewerelotsof

advantages,notleastwhenitcametoJacquelineSchmiedebach.

ThefactthatBogiandIwouldn’tbeneighboursanymorewas

justsomethingI’dhavetoaccept.Andthathadhappened

already,tobehonest.AlthoughIdidn’tliketothinktoomuch

aboutthat,becauseIkeptimagininghimlyingaloneinhis

hospitalbed,andfeelingthatIshouldreallybetherewithhim.

Butinsteadoftakingthatasareasontogoandseehimstraight

away,Itriedtostopthinkingabouthim.That’showitwas.

Mymotherhadrecentlydecidedtostarttakingmorecareof

me.Shewasalwaysinterferingwithmystuff,andwantingto

haveconversationswithme.AbouthowIwasfeelingandstuff,

forGod’ssake.BecauseoftheBogibusiness.AndhowIsawmy

future.Once,sheevenwantedtotalkaboutsex.Seriously.Just

46

imagineit.Mymother!Iprettyquicklymadesureshekepther

trapshutonthatissueandwasnevergoingtotryitagain.

Madness.Letherfindsomeoneelse’seartobend.

Thesexeducationlessonatschoolhadbeenkindof

funny,incidentally.Notbecauseofthetopic,butbecauseMrs

Strobelinbiologywassoembarrassedandred‐facedalllesson

andwasonlyteachingthisstuffbecauseshe’dbeenforcedto.

ShewasCatholic,etc.Ourheadmasterhadevenwrittenasex

educationbookhimself,andI’donceseenhimcomingoutof

thesexshoplookingreallychuffed.Iswear,I’mnotmakingthis

up!IwasgoingintotheoldMusikhausBornstedtrecordshop

whenIsawhim.Theoneeveryonewenttobeforetheyopened

Rockworld.Itwasweird.Welookedeachotherrightintheeye.

Stupidly,Iwasembarrassedbythesituation,thoughheclearly

wasn’t.IlookedawayquicklyandpretendedIhadn’t

recognisedhim.

Hestoodaroundforawhilelonger,takinghistime,

lookinginthewindowsofthesexshop.Itwasaprofessional

visit,forsexeducationandstuff.ThesexshopwascalledDr

Müller’s,andwhenmyfatherfirstmovedintoClaudia’sflat,in

anareawhereyoucouldguaranteenobodywouldeveropena

sexshop,thebellbytheirfrontdoorsaid“DrMüller”!Ipissed

myselflaughingwhenIreadthat.Maybethesexshopguyused

tolivethere.Claudia’snamewasn’tMüller,atanyrate.Itwas

Hunger‐Löper.I’dtriedtoimaginewhatahungerloperwould

looklike.Averythinmarabou,butwithfrizzyredhairinstead

offeathers,maybe.Ifshemarriedmyfatherandadded

47

SchumachertoHungerandLöper,thesignbythebellwouldbe

prettycrowded.

Ihadthefeelingthatmyparents,especiallymymother,

werejustwaitingtobeabletofoistaproblemontome,because

theyweregettingdivorced.LikeIsaid,theywerealwaystrying

todrawmeintotheirstress.Whichmademethinkthat

whetherthetwoofthemwerenotspeakingtoeachotherin

oneflatortwoseparateonesdidn’treallymakeanydifference.

Tome,atleast.

Earlier,whenI’dcomehomeanddroppedmybikebesidethe

garage,Iwentthroughthegardenandslippedintothehouse

throughthekitchendoor,tryingtogettomybedroomwithout

beingspotted.Butmymotherheardmeallthesameand

jumpeduptocomeandfindme.Iranupthestairsthreeata

timeandescapedher.

“Hello,Mum,”Icalledout,beforeslammingmybedroom

doorshutasecondlater.

IfIhadn’thadtorush,Icouldhavegrabbedsomethingto

eatonmywaythroughthekitchen,becauseIwaspretty

hungryafterpedallingupthemountain.Buttheriskofgetting

myearchewedoffwasjusttoogreat.Ilockedthedoor,turned

themusiconandthrewmyselfontothebed.Themusicdidme

good.Musicdidn’twantanythingfromme.Itwasjustthere,

anditwrappeditselfaroundme.

IntheRingwald,thewoodsthatbeganattheendofour

street,someonewassupposedlygrowingaplantationof

marijuanainaclearing.

48

I’dheardthisintheplaygroundatbreaktimefromWalki,

who’dhearditfromNeanderthalKlaus.Andiftherewas

anyonewhoknewaboutthesethings,itwashim.

NeanderthalKlaushadprobablyplantedithimself,and

thentoldpeopleaboutit,likeyoudowithsomethingyou

shouldreallykeeptoyourselfbutcan’t,becauseyouwantto

showoffandhaven’tgotanythingelsetoshowoffabout.

Somethinglikethat.NeanderthalKlauslookedexactlyashis

namesuggests,bytheway.Ormaybeitwastheotherway

around,andovertimehisappearancehadcometofithisname.

Inanycase,Ireallywantedtoknowwherethisplantationwas.

IknewtheRingwaldbetterthananyone.Well,notbetterthan

Bogiortheforester,perhaps.Butjustaswellasthemand

betterthanalltheothers.

TheRingwald,asMrKraglerhadtaughtusingeography,

wasa“geologicalhalf‐horst”.Kraglerwouldhavetornusanew

arseholeifwe’dlaughedatthat.HisfirstnamewasHorst.Or,

fromthatpointon,HalfHorst.OberstudienratHalfHorst

Kragler.Sortofthing.HewasluckytheRingwaldwasonlya

half‐horst,notatotalhorst;thenwewouldhavebeenin

trouble.IwouldhavetotellBogiaboutthegrassplantation

nexttimeIvisitedhim.

IfIwenttovisithim.

IpreferredtogobacktothinkingaboutJacqueline.I

didn’tmissBogiwhenIwasdoingthat.Imean,heprobably

wouldhaveruinedeverythingwithallhischat.It’squite

possiblethatafterI’dgottoknowJacquelineproperly,andwe

werefinallyacouple,andthetwoofthemmet,thefirstthing

49

he’dhavedonewouldbetoletoutafart.Iwouldn’tputhim

pasthim.Itmademelaugh.

Funny:suddenlytherewasnowsomethingcalled“my

life”,whichIwasalwaysthinkingaboutasifitweresomehow

takingplaceoutsideofme.ItwassomethingthatIoughtto

“shape”,oratleast,that’swhatmyfatherhadtoldmeawhile

ago.Ishouldthinkabouttheshapemylifewasgoingtotake,he

said,andIwonderedwhattheguywasonabout.Ithought:the

factthatI’mmeisprobablynothingbutacoincidence.Icould

justaseasilybesomeoneelse.Ifadifferentspermhadbeen

thatbitquicker,Imightnowbejustonemetrefifty‐threetall

withagiganticnose–waybiggerthanmyschnozalreadywas,I

mean,andI’dbegoingtomeet‐upsformodelrailway

enthusiastsorGodknowswhatelse.WouldIstillbemethen,or

someoneelse?Hardtosay,becauseinthatscenario,theperson

Inowcall“me”wouldn’tevenexist.Mybrainwasmeltingwith

allthisstuff–nowonderIcouldhardlycomeoutwitha

coherentsentenceanymore.Recently,mywholelifehadbeen

feelinglikeahugeBUThadfallenoutofthesky.EverytimeI

didorthoughtanything,thisBUTwouldshowup.

Iwasn’thappyinthewayIusedtobewhensomething

wasbrilliant,orevenwhensomethingjustworkedout–

instead,allIthoughtaboutwashowitcouldhavegonewrong.

AndthetwotimesthatJacquelineSchmiedebachsmiledatme?

Yes,Ifeltitdeepdowninside,buttherewasalwaysanagging

doubtthatshemightjusthavebeenlaughingatme.ThatBUT

wasworsethananything,quitehonestly.

50

Wherehaditcomefrom,allofasudden?Andaboveall,I

thought,asIcarriedonstaringattheceiling:why?

Although,no,youcouldn’treallycallitthinking.Itwas

morethatIcouldfeelsomethingheavyswirlingaroundinside

me.WheneverItriedtograbitandgetridofit,itslipped

throughmyfingers.

MaybeIshouldhaveacigarette.Iwasn’tactuallya

smoker,butIwantedtobecomeone,andhadrecentlyliberated

apackofmentholcigarettesfromthedrawerintheliving

room.Mymothersmokedthem.Ihopedthepeppermintscent

wouldmaketherevoltingtasteoftobaccomorebearable,and

eventuallyIwouldgetthehangofinhaling.Allthatcoughing

wassoembarrassing.

Itookthepackoutofitshidingplaceinmybookshelves,

behindtheKarlMaybooks.Theywerestillthereeventhough

I’dneverreadthem:allthatadventureandWesternbullshit

didn’tinterestmeintheslightest,Godknowswhyeveryone

loveditsomuch.Ituckedthecigarettepacketdownthefrontof

mytrousers,undertheelasticwaistbandofmypants,sothatit

wouldn’tslipdownmytrouserlegifIhadtowalkpastmy

mother.ThenIpulledmysweatshirtdownoverit.

Ihadslippedthelighterinsidethebox.Iputaneartomy

bedroomdoor,andwhenIdidn’thearanything,Iturnedthe

keyveryslowly,quietlyopenedthedoor,grabbedmyarmy

jacket,creptoutontothelandingandlistenedtowhatwas

goingondownstairs.Mymotherwasstillinthelivingroom,on

thephone.So:downthestairsquicklyandoutofthefrontdoor

beforeshecouldsayanythingelse.

51

Iheardsomethingbehindme,butbythattimeIwas

alreadyonmybikeandpedallingofftowardstheRingwald.At

theendoftheroadIturnedleftandalmostranoverthe

dachshundthatbelongedtoMrSchliemann,wholivedonthe

corner.Thetwoofthemwerejustcomingbackfromoneofthe

fourthousandwalkstheywentoneachday.Schliemannwas

ancientandlikedtowearhuntinggear,kneebreechesandso

on.ButIdon’tthinkhehadagunorwentoutshootinganimals.

Atleast,I’dneverseenhimwithone.AlthoughIwouldn’tputit

pasthim;peoplesaidhe’dworkedfortheNazis.Butthen,it

seemedeveryonehad.Hishouselookedlikeakindoflogcabin.

Weirdguy.Butthedachshundwasactuallyanicedog.

Schliemannyelledafterme,andIacceleratedandrode

offdowntherustlingwoodlandpathtowardsKreuztal.

Ireallydidwanttoknowwherethisbloodyplantation

was,buttheRingwaldwasquitebig.Although,asIsaid,itwas

onlyahalf‐horst.Forawhilenow,Ihadn’tdaredgooffintothe

undergrowthlikeIusedto.I’dreadinthepaperthatwildboar

–ofwhichtherewereloadshere–couldeatpeople.Whole

people,everylastbitofthem.Killerpigs.Bonesandeverything,

Imean.Theinterviewquotedapolicemansayingthatthebest

waytogetridofabodywastoleaveitinaforestwherethere

werealotofwildboar.Itwoulddisappearwithoutatracein

twoorthreedays.I’dbeenabitsurprisedthatapolicemanof

allpeoplewasgivingoutthosekindsoftipsinanewspaper.On

theotherhand,maybeitwasawayoffinallygettingsomeone,

anyone,tolistentohim.Ineededtostopreadingthestupid

52

paper.Myfatherspenthalfthedayonthatrubbishandyou

couldseewhereitgothim.

Istood,smoking,inthedried‐upstreambedunderthe

littlewoodenbridgeinKreuztal,andtriednottocough.I

concentratedonthementholtaste.Thewindwhistledandthe

firstyellowoakleaveswerespinningdownfromthetrees;they

weresosolidthatithurtifonelandedonyourhead.

IthoughtaboutJacquelineSchmiedebach,andinstantly

feltguiltythatallIthoughtaboutwashernow,andnotBogi.

Thewayhehadstoodthereatthehospitalwindow.Although,if

I’mcompletelyhonest?Iwasactuallystilljustthinkingabout

Jacqueline.Maybeafewotherincidentalthingsfromtimeto

time.Butnotasarule.

Onthewayback,Iwentdownandcycledpastthelido.

Throughthefence,Ilookedattheemptypoolsandthetwo

divingplatforms:thethree‐metreone,andbesideitthefiveand

theten.

Hardtoimaginethatnextsummer,itwouldbefullof

peopleagain,andI’dmakemynextattempttojumpofftheten.

“Attempt”,meaning:I’dprobablyjustspendagesstandingup

thereagain,completelynumbwithfear,althoughIhadthisidea

thatthejumpmightchangesomething–insideme,Imean.But

perhapsIwaswrongaboutthat.Perhapsitwasjustathingyou

werealwaystold,andafteryoujumpedyourskinwouldjust

stingfordaysandeverythingelsewouldbeexactlythesameas

before.

53

AsIwasnearinghome,Isawtwoblackfiguresdoingacrobatics

ontheroofofthehouse.Afairlytalloneandoneonlyhalfas

big.Thechimneysweepshadcome.Iwatchedforaminuteas

theybusiedthemselvesuptherewithmetalballsattachedto

chains,whichlookedlikesomethingoutofoneofthosemiddle‐

agescomics.

Playingyetanotherroundofthesamegameasearlier,I

creptinthroughthekitchenandtriedtogetpasttheliving

roomunnoticed.Butthistimemymotherwasfasterthanme,

andwasalreadywaitingformeinthehall.Shelookedsad.That

wasthethingthatreallygotme,muchmorethanthe

arguments.Itwasn’tactuallyherIwasavoiding;itwasjustthis

horriblesadness.MyownsadnessaboutBogiwasquiteenough

forme.

“Motte,wecangoandlookataflatinthenewtown

tomorrow.”

“Er,whattime?”

“Threeo’clock.”

Thatwasnogood.ThatmeantIcouldn’twaitfor

JacquelineSchmiedebachatthejetty.

“Ican’tmakeit.”

“Whatdoyoumean,youcan’tmakeit?It’simportant.”

“Yeah,pff,justtaketheflat.It’llbefine,”Isaid.Quite

honestly,itdidn’tmattertome.

“Don’tyouevenwanttoknowwherewe’regoingtolive?

Aren’tyouinterestedinwhatwedonext?Iam.”

Okay.Hervoicewasstartingtowaveragain,andifthere

weretwoorthreemoreoftheseexchangesbetweenusnow,

54

shewoulddisappearintoherroomfortherestofthedayand

haveaheadache,andeventuallyI’dhavetogoupand

apologise.Thenwe’dspendhalfanhourstandinginherroom

andhuggingandstuff.Orrather,shewouldbehuggingme.

“Sowhereexactlyisit?”Iasked,hopingtosparemyself

allthat.Butthenshewantedtoputherarmsroundmethen

andthere–only,Iwasabletowriggleoutofitstraightaway,

becausesomeonewascomingdownthestairsbehindus.Itwas

thechimneysweepwhoI’djustseenontheroof.

“Rightthen,that’susfinished,MrsSchumacher.”

Mymotherdisappearedintothekitchen,probablyto

fetchatip.Shealwayspressedmoneyintothesepeople’shands

theminutetheycameintothehouse.Ifounditfairly

embarrassing.Latershewouldalwaystellmehowincredibly

nicethey’dbeen.Nowonder.

“Thankyousomuch!”shetrilled,andbang,themanhad

atennerinhishand.TenMarks!I’mnotevenkidding.

Therecouldhavebeenabitofadiscussionaboutthat.

Thatwasmypocketmoneyfortwoweeks.Andhewasgetting

itfordoingwhathewouldhavedoneanyway,inadditiontohis

chimney‐sweepdough.

“Forthebiscuitfund,”mymothersaid,andtheguy

mutteredsomethinglike“Thecompany’sverygrateful”.

Iwassurethecompanywasnevergoingtoseethat

tenner.

“Motte,don’tyouwanttotouchthegentleman?Chimney

sweepsbringgoodluck,”mymothersaid.

IthoughtIwashearingthings.

55

Inanycase,Ididn’tlikebeingcalledMotteinfrontof

strangers.Theywouldthinkitwasmynameandtheycouldcall

methat,too.ButIwaspickyaboutwhogottocallmeMotte

and,moreimportantly,whodidn’t.

I’dhadenoughofallthisstandingaround.AndIwasalso

scaredthatIstillsmelledofcigarettesmoke.Iwasabouttotry

andslipawaywhenthehalf‐chimney‐sweep,whohadcome

downafterthefirstone,alsosaidsomething.

“Hi,Motte.”

IwassogobsmackedthatatfirstIjuststaredatthis

strangefigure,theblackclothes,thefunnycapandaboveall,

theblackface.

“Don’tyourecogniseme?It’sSteffi.”

Mymotherandthebigchimneysweepsmiled,asifwe

weretwopoodlessniffingeachother,orsomething.

WhothehellwasSteffi?

“Wewereinthesameclassatprimaryschool.Steffi

Fuchs,”saidthelittlechimneysweep.

SteffiFuchs,SteffiFuchs…

Ah,right,ofcourse,Stefanie,theshortonewiththe

crookedteeth.Whooncejumpedoutofanappletreeintoa

haystackthatstillhadapitchforkinit.Afterwardstheysaidat

schoolthatshehadtohavealongoperation,becausethe

pitchforkwentinonesideofherbellyandcameouttheother.

Butitmissedallherorgans,otherwiseshewouldhavedied,or

somethinglikethat.Steffihadbeenputintotheambulancewith

thepitchforkstillinsideher.They’dcutawaythehandlefirst–

God’shonesttruth.FrankWolterstoldusthat,andhewas

56

there.Thetwoofthemlivedinoneofthenew‐buildblocks

they’dthrownupontheedgeofthefarmland,sotheyplayed

togetheralot.

Theprongshadbeenpulledoutofheroncetheygotto

thehospital.Ithadbeenthemostinterestingthingthathad

happenedinthewholetimeIwasatprimaryschool.Ifonly

becausewedidn’tknowanyoneelsewho’dhadanoperation.

Afterwards,wehadalwayslookedatSteffiFuchsfunny,

wonderingwhethershenowhadholesinherbellythatthe

windwhistledthrough.Thethingsyouthinkwhenyou’reakid.

Butwhatwasshedoingherenow,dressedasachimney

sweep?Atleastitlookedlikethatepisodehadn’tputheroff

climbing.

“Steffiismyapprentice.Shestartedinthesummer,”said

theten‐markman.

“You’rethepitchforkgirl,right?”Iasked.

Thenshegrinned,andwithherfaceallblackitlooked

quitefunny,andmademerelaxabit.

“Yes,that’sme.Yourememberthat?”

“Whatdoyouthink?”Apause.

Motherstared.Thechimneysweepstared.Allthethings

theytaughtyounevertodo,likestaringatpeople,theywere

constantlydoingthemselves,withoutanyshameaboutit.

“Andyou’re….Er,soyou’redoing…”

“Achimneysweepapprenticeship,yes,”shesaid.

“Right.Ofcourse.Cool.”

57

Itwasstrangethatshewasdoingarealjobalready.I

suddenlyfeltquitechildish,withSteffistandinginfrontofme

inherworkgear.

Whichwasalsooddbecause,sincewe’dgonetothe

moreacademicGymnasium,we’dalwaystreatedthekidsatthe

non‐selectiveschoolquitecondescendingly.Likesemi‐idiots.

TosaynothingofthekidsfromtheBrettergymnasium,the

lowersecondaryschool.Tobehonest,Ididn’tknowasingle

lower‐secondarykid.Everyonewassupposedtobedoingtheir

universityentranceexamsandgoingofftostudyandthings.

AndifevenablockheadlikeUdoMönchcouldgetintothe

Gymnasium,itdidmakeyouwonderwhowenttothelower

secondary.Nomatter;Steffiatleastmanagedtospeakinwhole

sentences.WhichwasbetterthanIcoulddo,ifI’mhonest.

Shereallywasquiteshort.Herbottomlipprotrudeda

little,andshehaddimples,becauseshewasconstantly

grinning.Herfrontteethweretheoppositeofbuckteeth,if

suchathingexists:theyweresetbackalittleway.Andthey

glowedinhersootyface.Shehadtakenhercapoffandher

haircutwaslikeBowie’sonthecoverofLow.Kindofincredible,

really,becausehemusthavehadatleastfourteenhairdressers

workingonhim,andSteffihadsimplyhadherchimney‐sweep

capon,andyetthetwohadcomeoutthesame.

“Comeonthen,Steffi,we’renotdoneforthedayyet,”

saidthechimneysweep.

Thetwoofthemmovedontothehousenextdoor.I

watchedthemgo.ThechimneysweepandStefanieFuchs,who

oncejumpedontoapitchfork.