Tomorrow Berlin

by Oscar Coop-Phane

  Juli doesn’t want to hear anything about him. She doesn’t want him to kiss her, to say that she’s got bigger, or call her his girl. She doesn’t want a loser for a father. She persists in not believing him. She knows that Mum will lend him money; she knows they won’t see him again for several weeks, until the next time. She has the impression of a swindle being committed against her. She doesn’t want him to ask her how things are at school. She can manage perfectly well without him. As soon as he’s around, there are complications. Mum says she has a migraine, she shuts herself away in her room and cries; she takes her medicine to sleep, which makes her a different person. Everything was going fine, but he had to come back. After he’s been, the house, where she plays and laughs, becomes a temple of damaged nerves.

  Today when Franz came, Juli, his own daughter, told him that she didn’t want to see him again. She gave him her savings – twenty-five euros – and asked him to go.

  VI

  Tobias has invited Armand to dinner at his and Franz’s place.

  It’s in a part of Neukölln that Armand doesn’t know, far to the south, a long way from Kreuzberg and the Turkish market. Although he looked at a map before he left, when he comes out of the S-Bahn, he gets lost. The avenues are big and lonely, devoid of people, streets that seem to have given up the ghost. No shops or pedestrians, just a few faded signs, and dirty snow as far as the eye can see.

  Armand lights a cigarette, a reflex action, because he’s alone and cold, and doesn’t know which way to go. Choosing a direction at random isn’t an easy task. These streets look nothing like the map; they are much less straight, much bigger, and impossible to follow with your index finger. It had seemed easy: left and then second right when you come out of the underground. But it turns out there are lots of underground exits. There are lots and Armand is lost.

  There’s a guy over there. A guy crossing the road. Armand runs over to him. He’s a Turk; he speaks German but no English. At times like this, Armand feels very foreign, as though the whole city is reproaching him for not making enough of an effort. He stammers three sentences in German; he doesn’t know how to get to an address he’s been given. It’s not the first time he’s got lost, of course, but this time the feeling of anxiety has crept up on him; a sharp sensation catches his stomach, like when he arrived at holiday camp as a boy. He’d lost his bearings, he was no longer sure of who he was. He didn’t know where he’d sleep that night. It was strange, being away from home. He felt terribly alone.

  The guy who was crossing the street shows him the way with a few gestures. And off Armand goes. It’s the right street; he’s there, he’s found Franz’s place.

  Tobias and Franz are sitting in the kitchen. They’re peeling vegetables. On a corner of the table, a little bottle of GHB, a syringe and a big carafe of fizzy vitamins seem to be waiting for someone to pick them up. It makes a strange sight, this still life, the fresh vegetable peelings, as though still wet with morning dew, and the little drugs kit.

  ‘Come and sit down, Armand. Take that chair there. Fix yourself some juice, Loulou. You hungry?’

  Since they have known each other, Tobias has been playing this role for Armand, looking after him, trying to give him what he thinks is best. He makes him sit down, get a bit high, then eat. These maternal concerns may be misplaced but they are terribly sincere. This is what he knows best, for the body and soul.

  Armand does as he’s told. He has already mastered the routine. A mouthful of vitamins. The GHB goes into the syringe – 0.8 to start with, that’s not too bad. In his mouth he mixes it with the vitamins. He swallows it all and then has another drink to take the taste away. He has learned to recognise this taste; he would know it anywhere. He realises exactly what he’s doing, what substance he’s dealing with. It’s a drug he’s familiar with now, since he’s taken it almost every day for several months. As an initiate, he has entered their little circle. When he thinks about it, Armand feels a little misplaced pride. He’s already known as G-star in the toilets at the Panorama. He’s proud he’s mastered how to use it. He believes he has chosen the road he’s on with his accidental companions.

  So he had his fix almost as soon as he got to Franz’s, a fix that had his name on it – as though he had made it entirely himself. He’s playing the part of a drug addict as some people play the role of a café waiter: his changing appearance, the aesthetic of his pose, the cult of the formal, precise poetry of those who live for their pleasures, for unknown sensations. It’s a goal of existence, the lost search for narcotic pleasures. Are they not all seeking pleasure? What else is there to guide our lives? For Armand, it’s that simple, he has never before experienced such intense pleasure. Or maybe he did when he was in love with Emma. But he lost her. He’s trying something else, that’s all. There is no meaning. So live for what you love. At one point it was Emma, now it’s GHB. He’s throwing himself into it body and soul. The question for him is not whether it’s appropriate. It suits him; it’s as simple as that. Perhaps it’s temporary, perhaps not. For the moment, it’s like playing the café waiter.

  They had something to eat and then Astrid arrived. She’s a friend of Tobias’s and has come to cut their hair. That’s her job; she’s brought a little metal case with all her kit in it.

  They talk and take drugs at the little kitchen table. There’s music. They have fun in a laid-back way.

  Astrid is twenty-five. She works in a salon in the west, somewhere quite posh. She’s brunette, quite pretty, that sort of cute beauty that doesn’t hit you over the head; she has a way of looking at you, of moving and smiling, that makes her charming, almost touching. She has little red cheeks and bobbed hair; she’d know how to look after you, in a bed or in a chair, with tenderness and attention. Her skin probably doesn’t taste incredible, but she’s sweet for sure, certainly enough to take her seriously. Hers is not the sort of beauty that promises great adventures, but a sincere, agreeable life.

  Franz watches her as she talks; she laughs at his jokes. He’d like to know her, to sample peace and the balm of simple affection. She likes cutting hair, she knows what she’s doing .

  They get started. Franz goes and wets his hair, and Tobias puts a chair in front of the mirror in the bedroom.

  When she touches Franz’s head, she has a way of taking hold of locks of hair, in three fingers, from the roots to the tips, to gauge how long they are. It’s a graceful, professional gesture, of the utmost gentleness.

  Franz, sitting in the chair, watches her in the mirror. She’s standing behind him, her eyes focused on his hair. From time to time, they exchange glances in the mirror; she gives a quick smile then gets back to work. It’s been a long time since anyone bothered about Franz like this, with attention and gentleness.

  She’s doing him a favour, as a friend, though just a few hours before, they hadn’t met. She moves closer to him, leans her stomach against the chair, from time to time one of her breasts brushes against Franz’s head. It’s troublingly intimate, almost like a dance; him, sitting in front of the mirror and her, standing at his back. He can feel her breathing and almost nestling against him. He looks at her in the mirror and thinks she’s beautiful.

  The haircut is over, they move apart. The locks of dead hair are strewn over the floor like privileged witnesses of this intimacy. Now it’s Armand’s turn and then Tobias’s, but they won’t be suitors, they won’t dance with her. She’ll cut their hair and that’s all.

  They stay in the apartment a while longer, floating to the rhythm of the music and the drugs, then happily set off for the Golden Gate, sporting their brand-new haircuts.

  PART FOUR

  ‘The Promised Land Just Got Further Away’

  I

  A few weeks have gone by. Armand is in his room, writing in his little grey notebook:

  News from Tobias at last. Not very joyful but reassuring all the same (I thought he was dead). He’s in jail, at least till the twenty-third. Overdose in the underground + €2,000 worth of gear
on him. He says he found it; I think Fritz probably gave it to him because he wanted to give up – his mate’s paralysed (he jumped out of a window on acid). His letter’s a bit confused. That’s all I have. Since Franz asked, I told him Tobias was in Paris; feel a bit bad about lying to him (we searched everywhere for him together, hoping he hadn’t killed himself – I think that’s what Franz was thinking too). I’d like to go and see him; he doesn’t want visitors, doesn’t give the address. I’d like to be able to do something.

  This sentence at the end of the letter: ‘prison is hell’.

  It’s the misfortune he lacked. Something of fate which has persecuted him; this feeling that in addition it is persecuting a small boy. I hope he knows at least that he can count on me. I feel as though I owe him something, that I owe it to him to help as much as I can. For the moment, there’s nothing I can do; but he is going to need me.

  I’m holding myself back, as though I couldn’t let the sadness take hold of my body, for fear I would not recover.

  II

  Armand is in a photo booth, eyes wide open, looking into the darkness of the lens. There are four dazzling flashes in succession. He’s wearing a red cap and smoking. He gets up, opens the curtain and waits in the street by the machine for the strip of pictures. The photos drop. He looks at them, gives a little laugh and puts them in his coat. He goes off. The pavements on Kastanienallee are covered in brown snow.

  Armand is on the escalator in a shopping centre. He’s listening to music on his headphones. His head is moving in rhythm, making jerky neck movements. He steps off and heads for the supermarket. He has a list in his hand. He looks lost.

  In his room, Armand opens two little plastic sachets. He prepares a line of ketamine, then one of speed, on the mirror. He pops the earphones of his MP3 player in and does both lines. He paints for a while, on a board on the floor. But his creative efforts tire him. He dances, alone, attached to the cord of his MP3 player, as though he wanted to do something unproductive.

  Armand arrives at the entrance to the Berghain. He looks a bit the worse for wear, as though sadness had slightly altered his features. The bouncer recognises him; he senses that Armand has lost his innocence. He’d like to say to him simply, hey, son, go home. You can’t pull that hard or the rope will snap. It’s Sunday, it’s cold but the weather is nice. Go home, son, you’re better than this. But he doesn’t say anything; it’s his job to see them all cross his threshold, one after the other.

  Armand goes in. Hidden in his pants, he has a bottle of GHB, some speed and ketamine.

  III

  Astrid moved in with Franz.

  They bicker a bit, laugh and kiss. He likes to feel her body wriggle against his. They approach each other then separate, circle each other as though they wanted to combine their savours.

  Astrid has three days off work, so they don’t get out of bed. They fall asleep sometimes, kiss, watch TV series on Astrid’s computer. They make love, out of reach, between two siestas. It’s their lovers’ hideaway as a means to discovery; they don’t get up unless they have to, to have a pee or get a glass of water. It feels so natural, protected there, smoking, eating, talking and caressing each other under the quilt. The world is so cold. They’re shutting themselves away and keeping each other warm. Just the two of them, outside time.

  This burgeoning love, still completely unconstrained, is a rare happiness; spending hours on end together doing nothing, the best thing they’ve ever known. In a few hours, it’ll be time to face the world again, Astrid will go to work and Franz will do what Franz does; they’ll be separated, so best make the most of it, rest your head on her belly and wait, at peace.

  IV

  Armand, alone with his notebook:

  Haven’t managed to keep off them this week. Yesterday, open air; MDMA, GHB and speed. Need to cut myself off from the druffis who will never do me any good.

  Some news from Tobias by text. Asking me to do strange things, such as getting out all the breakfast things on the kitchen table. I can’t get rid of the idea that it’s a trap. But I should trust him.

  There’s a girl who’s pretty and interesting, though probably unpleasant, who I see on Kastanienallee. Black coat.

  Saw her twenty minutes later, carrying a cardboard tube; I think there may be something.

  I’ve begun; I’ve got the plan, the idea, everything I need in fact, but I don’t like it, I’m not painting well. And yet I’m applying myself seriously. Until it’s rejected, I can’t identify exactly what’s wrong with the last series. If it were accepted, would I stop painting? I don’t think so, but I’d continue doing the same shit.

  Watched a film by M on the internet a few times; pretty great and exemplifies in a way what I’m experiencing here. I lack images; it did me good to see some again; should I be taking photos, making films? It wouldn’t come instinctively to me; but I like watching them. I like taking advantage of other people’s.

  Gave myself some more tattoos (that makes five); dots on my hand, an A on my foot. Compared to the three others, of course, they’re not up to much but these new ones have a kind of homemade charm, from the knowledge that I did them myself, with a needle and India ink.

  Dany is celebrating his first year on drugs at the fusion festival.

  Needle plus joint (face numb).

  Pretty blonde waitress at the Haliflor.

  Want to get my soul back. I’ve done myself enough harm.

  Deep disgust for GHB; remember this state if I’m tempted to start taking too much again.

  Need something else – refocus myself on painting (because I think that that, after all, is the best thing life can offer me), stop trying to treat my suffering with poison; that suffering makes me paint. I don’t want to lose that. Not to mention the fact I’m wrecking my brain; a pianist chopping off his own fingers.

  I think about my childhood, my adolescence (am I an adult?). I’ve got a nasty taste in my mouth.

  Fortunately words get me out of that state.

  There’s something too confining about life. I aspire to more than life (this passion, drugs, creation).

  Boredom and sadness, at the root of it all?

  Going down, the desire for aphorisms. They seem to sound good. Reread tomorrow.

  I smoke cigarettes one after the other and never grow tired of them.

  I always have to be consuming something.

  I’ve partied; I don’t feel dirty though; no, it was a necessary purge.

  Sleep soundly tonight, and tomorrow, painting.

  I love this city, and this life.

  Otto and Claudia have gone to do some work in northern Germany. Armand is alone in the apartment.

  I don’t go out, I observe.

  I look at my body, the neighbours, the kitchen walls. I’m home alone; not talking. It’s going pretty well, I think about my little problems, do the washing-up, take baths. I listen to music, the lights are on. I walk about as much as I can. I need to work my muscles before they disappear.

  Sometimes I do a few push-ups.

  I don’t really think about it, this is my life now. I have rituals. Perhaps they save me, they’re always the same.

  But sometimes the strangeness of my life jumps out at me like some unpleasant bug.

  Generally this happens when I switch off the light or the music; those artificial presences no longer protect me and I dream, sadly, about my loneliness, the void that surrounds me and is devouring me. Most of the time, though, I’m not aware of this void; it floats around me like a friend, the inoffensive companion of my pain.

  The days fly past without me remembering them. They’re too similar to tell them apart.

  It’s been several days since I last washed. My skin is a bit sticky, particularly around the joints and behind my elbows and knees. Little bodily secretions come out when I scratch. I won’t mention my cock; it’s not pretty. And what interests me is not the ugliness. At least not of the cock. You can probably imagine or, if you have one, try the experiment
for yourself. We’ll see what happens after a week or two of normal climatic conditions; it’s not nice to look at; no, you wouldn’t slip this cock in your mouth.

  It’s a question of priorities; sometimes I like to feel dirty; it goes for the soul as well as the body. At some moments I like them to be greasy, and others dry and polished like the pieces of glass you pick up on the seashore. I imagine little hands caressing me. They’ll put me at the bottom of a jar or an aquarium with lots of other bits of inoffensive glass, which, like me, will not cut any more but will decorate some bathroom or bedroom in a rented house, and now stationary, end their long maritime epic.

  I’m rambling a bit. It’s time to take a break, have a cigarette.

  It’s good stuff, this tobacco that burns your throat. And the paper that burns slowly. It can’t be said often enough, the paper makes all the difference. I prefer it white and thick like drawing paper. The other stuff, the transparent type, goes out. And as a result a cigarette loses one of its most precious qualities, it ceases to be the moment, the moment which one devotes to smoking it, this metaphorical, I’d even say poetic, reminder of the passage of time, of life flowing away – whether you drag on it or not – until death burns your fingers, burns your lips. I love that way of sending life up in blue smoke, like in the cinema, which seems to rise from the cigarette’s tip to the ceiling.