You

by Zoran Drvenkar

  “You’ll need to put some ice on it,” you say and go downstairs with Stink to cool her cheek.

  Schnappi has finished her search on the internet, and comes downstairs with a stack of paper. She asks if she’s missed anything. Stink takes the ice pack off her eye and shows her the swelling.

  “Taja went nuts.”

  “A good thing I wasn’t there.”

  You want to know what Schnappi has found.

  She puts the printouts on the table.

  “I don’t think it’s cocaine. The withdrawal symptoms don’t fit. It could be heroin, but heroin’s normally brown. So I did a bit of searching and discovered that there’s such a thing as white heroin. That stuff’s unusually pure.”

  “Taja used to say her dad did coke,” Stink joins in. “That’s definitely coke.”

  “Are you even listening to me?” Schnappi asks crossly, and Schnappi never gets cross. “I just said the withdrawal symptoms don’t fit.”

  “I heard you,” Stink replies defiantly.

  Schnappi flicks through the pages.

  “As I wasn’t sure, I just printed out everything I could find about withdrawal. Whether it was coke, speed, or heroin. But mostly I’m worried about Taja’s circulation. If we don’t do anything, it could fail. And she might …”

  She breaks off. You guess what she was going to say. Nessi comes out with it: “Taja isn’t going to die on us.”

  “How could you even think something like that?” you yell at her.

  “You thought the same thing,” Nessi says in self-defense.

  “Yes, but we didn’t blurt it out.”

  Schnappi finds the page and holds it out. Black on white.

  Cold turkey withdrawal is not advisable without medical help, as the resulting symptoms can lead to death.

  “What crap,” says Stink, and brings her palm down on the table. “Taja only took the stuff for five days, and that’s not going to kill anybody.”

  “Did you see the way she went crazy before?”

  “No, I kept my eyes shut, Ruth. Of course I saw it. But you don’t just kick the bucket like that, okay?”

  Schnappi fans the printed pages.

  “There is more.”

  You stare at the printout, then you stir yourselves, each of you picks up a stack and you start reading.

  The upshot is frightening. All the drugs that could help Taja are prescription-only. Which leaves you with herb tea, vitamins, and mineral pills. One of the articles says that purely physical heroin withdrawal can take up to two weeks, and that in comparison to other drugs heroin leaves the greatest potential for addiction. It doesn’t say anywhere how the body reacts after only five days of drug consumption. You all set your pages down. You’re so exhausted by all the shop talk that there’s nothing more to say.

  Taja’s attacks continue into the afternoon. Crying, choking, whimpering. Taja can’t lie down anymore, so you walk around the garden with her again. It’s a good thing the property’s screened off by hedges. Walking helps with the cramps and distracts her. When she feels that ants are crawling under her skin, you scrub her down with a loofah. Your girls talk to her, you don’t take your eyes off her for a moment.

  You read Schnappi’s printout for a second time and make a list of the drugs that might help. You want to ask someone who has a clue. You don’t know who that might be.

  Just before closing time, Schnappi and Stink go shopping for food. Nessi stays with Taja, and while she runs a bath for her and helps her into the tub, you strip the bed for the third time and wash the sheets. Schnappi and Stink come back with fruit, vegetables, and cartons of juice. They’ve also got some pretzel sticks and Coca-Cola because Schnappi says it always helps. And pizza for the rest of you.

  You clear the table on the terrace. You decide the drugs have to go, so you and Stink carry them upstairs. You didn’t like Taja having to look at them all the time anyway.

  “Who do you think it all belongs to?” you ask, when you’re putting the bags back into the metal case.

  “Doesn’t matter,” says Stink. “Some idiot will come and get it if he starts missing it.”

  Ten minutes later you eat. Taja tries to keep her soup down, crunches on pretzel sticks, and chugs two bottles of Coke. For a while everything’s the same as always. As if Taja just had the flu, and might go walking around the neighborhood with you, and just be your Taja again. Chaos is laughing at you. You’re tired, you snatch some sleep from time to time, you’re troubled and always present in your sleep.

  The day goes, the night comes.

  In the morning Stink makes a decision and you’re not aware of it. Taja’s sleeping upstairs, Schnappi is lying down in one of the guest rooms, you’re sitting with Nessi and Stink on the terrace, the house is in silence. It’s eight in the morning and you have shadows under your eyes. We’re never going to keep this up for two weeks, you think, when Nessi says, “We could call Taja’s mother.”

  “And what are you going to say to her? That Taja’s in withdrawal and has only recently discovered that her mother’s still alive? Don’t forget to mention that her father’s downstairs in the freezer and can’t really look after Taja.”

  “I knew there was a catch,” says Nessi and yawns.

  You look at her. Maybe it’s sleep deprivation, maybe you’re about to get your period, but either way Nessi’s never been as lovely as she is this morning. Or else it’s her damned pregnancy, you think and wonder how long Nessi will keep suppressing the truth. None of you has said a sensible word on the subject. Whether she’s going to have an abortion or not. Who the father is. Where things go from here.

  “You’ll be a brilliant mother,” you say, “regardless of what happens.”

  “If I do become a mother.”

  “Yes, if.”

  Nessi comes around the table and kisses first you, then Stink, on the cheek. She says that was a nice try on your part, but the discussion’s postponed because she can’t keep her eyes open and now she’s going in to lie down in one of the guest rooms. You’d like to follow her and call it a day, but you know there has to be a solution. Taja urgently needs help. And if nobody comes up with a solution, then nothing will be solved.

  “It’s just you and me,” you say.

  “I’ve been asleep for an hour,” Stink says, eyes closed.

  You put your feet up and are very glad that no one’s got you pregnant. And as you’re thinking about your little compact life, you doze off and that’s exactly the moment Stink was waiting for. First she blinks, then her eyes open and she’s wide awake. You aren’t aware of a thing. Stink waits a few minutes for you to sink into deep sleep before she gets up and makes her preparations.

  Stink has a plan, but she isn’t sure what the rest of you will think of it. Sometimes you’re better off not knowing, she thinks to herself, and before one of you girls wakes up, she’s got on her Vespa and pushed it to the street so that no one hears the noise. In her left jacket pocket is the list of drugs that you’ve copied down from Schnappi’s printout. No one’s to say later on that Stink was unprepared. It’s a pity you are asleep. You should have seen her riding the Vespa to Charlottenburg through the lukewarm Thursday morning, to turn a boringly normal boy into a boringly normal martyr.

  A martyr’s job isn’t easy. He has to make sacrifices, he has to be selfless and endure an incredible amount of suffering. You will follow this sequence to the letter, and start with the sacrifices. You skip school and try to find out who can get hold of the prescription drugs for you. There are a few sources. You could try Mehmed in Wedding, but you could also try Timo, who only lives two streets away. But you know that isn’t going to work. You have to make sure you do it the right way. Nothing happens without Darian’s approval. He picks up your call after the second ring.

  “Hey, you found your phone.”

  “It was at the pizza stand.”

  Darian laughs.

  “Your uncle probably shoved it in his pocket and spent the whole night cal
ling Bosnian sex lines.”

  “We’re from Slovenia.”

  “What?”

  You spend the next ten minutes listening to your friend telling you about the new energy food he’s found on the internet, then you ask, as if in passing, how you would get hold of prescription drugs.

  “What’s up? Planning to open a pharmacy?”

  You laugh as if you’d never heard anybody say that before, and say the drugs aren’t for you. Darian sees through you right away.

  “Mirko, you old Casanova, what’s her name?”

  Of course you blush. A lot of people think you’re an errand boy, others think you’re a sort of modern slave who does everything his boss tells him to. The fact that your boss is just seventeen doesn’t bother anybody. You see yourself as an apprentice. Darian took you under his wing, when you were new at school and a few guys decided to kick your ass. He took them apart and said you looked as if you needed a friend. You’ve been pals ever since; even after Darian left school nothing changed in that respect, because neighbors stay neighbors, and in this part of town a friend is a friend forever. You do little jobs for him and that’s how you’ve been working your way slowly up the ladder for a year. Step by step. You buy stuff for parties, fill glasses, roll joints, and are errand boy and best friend in one. You don’t see any injustice in that, you know your strengths. Darian knows he can talk to you, unlike the guys in the crowd. At some point he discovered you both spoke the same language, and he didn’t mean German. Sometimes you wish you could show Darian how loyal you really are. Not by hiding under a car. You’re thinking more about a hail of bullets, and you throwing yourself in front of him to save his life. You must have absorbed martyrdom with your mother’s milk. Your mother was exactly like that until your father dumped her.

  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 i
ce 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.”