You slap him on the back, you’re so fucking high on the drugs that you feel like grabbing Mirko’s backside. I’m horny, you think, and let go of Mirko.
“And I can’t make the movies tonight,” you add, waving the Tic Tac box. “I have to test out this stuff a bit more. Denzel can wait.”
Mirko nods, he understands. You hand him your shake as a present, he takes it outside. You look down and seriously have a massive hard-on.
“Hey, Pepe,” you call to him. “Look what Tic Tacs can do!”
Two hours later you’re lying on your bed exhausted from the drugs, the windows are open, you’re king of the city, the wail of an ambulance, a plane heading for Tegel Airport, and the music coming out of the speakers and the deal of the year in your pocket. MTV is on in the background with the sound turned down, a singer is repeatedly slapping herself on the ass as if she is furious that she has an ass. You tap the Tic Tac box, the powder trickles onto the back of your hand.
Christ, what kind of stuff is this?
The last time you spent a day on speed, you had mates from Köpenick staying with you, and you played the hell out of the Play-Station. Later you went down to the basement and pumped iron until there were rainbows dancing in front of your eyes. Today’s not a day for playing. Today’s a day when you’d just like to lie in bed listening to music.
The deal of the decade, fuckers!
Later, in the park, you’ll show the girl what real business is. You’ve scraped together ten thousand, you couldn’t get more, Bebe threw in five, the rest is from your own pocket. She’ll grumble, she’ll complain, but she can be glad to get anything at all.
“Darian?”
“Yes?”
“Come down here.”
You swing your legs out of bed, your exhaustion dissolves to nothing as if it had never been there. If the old man calls, you run. There’s no later or in a minute. Even as a kid he drummed that one into you, and it didn’t get any better after your parents got divorced. You go to the bathroom, splash water in your face, one last look, you try to smile, the smile slips away.
Your father stands in the kitchen getting a cappuccino out of the machine. He’s barefoot, wearing linen pants and one of those silk shirts that are like air. He looks relaxed, as if he hadn’t a care in the world. You fear and admire him. You want to be like him and then do everything better. You want to give parties and let everyone know that everything’s possible because you make it possible. Your father’s careful with money. He’s careful about who he eats with and who his friends are. He’s slim, almost ascetic, while you’re exploding with energy and your body takes up twice as much room. And we’re talking about not an ounce of fat, all dynamite. Your father has always tried to stay out of the limelight, while you want to grab the world between the legs and shout in its face that you exist. You’re very pleased that you’re taller than him. Two centimeters. The rest is one great genetic defeat. Even when your father has his back turned to you, as if you are not worth being acknowledged, he gives you the feeling that you’re several steps beneath him. But you’re young, you’re still on the way to becoming great, your father is already there.
He asks what you’re doing this weekend, and whether you’ve given any thought to the rest of the summer. He wants you to repeat your technical diploma next year. You don’t think much of the idea, fuck school, fuck diplomas, but you say nothing and hope the Brothers will come to your assistance and support your career. Career, what an awesome word! you think and almost burst out laughing. This summer is due to be your last summer in freedom. You plan to visit your mother in Spain. She has insisted on it. Your father wants to know how the plans are looking, whether you’ve already booked a flight and so on and so on. Then he turns around and looks at you quizzically. It’s only then that you realize that you haven’t answered a single one of his questions.
You stand there, you stand there, you stand there.
“What have you taken?”
Your father sips from his cappuccino. You want to answer him, but your teeth click together as if someone had released a spring and slammed your mouth shut. Is it as obvious as that? you wonder and try not to smile stupidly at your father. You have a lot of questions whirring through your head. You’d love to know why your father never sprinkles cocoa on his cappuccino. Why, Dad, why? you want to say. Tell me why? Laughter bubbles up inside you. Cappuccino, what an awesome word! Just don’t start laughing. Business is business, you think, and grin at the thought of calling your father Dad. You know the rules. Keep off the drugs when you’re working. Always. But this isn’t work, so you’re not worrying about it. What worries you a lot more is the fact that you’re talking to your father when you’re not under control.
He wants control, his life is control, I know that, he knows that, I …
“I’ve got a deal,” you mumble, and fumble around in your jeans and take out the Tic Tac box. You push it across the kitchen counter. It slides into your father’s hand. Safe. Cool. Your father sets his cappuccino down, sprinkles a little of the powder on the surface, and dips a finger in it. He tastes it, he looks at you, he says, “What is this?”
“Coke.”
You just sense the slap, you don’t see it coming.
“What is this, Darian?”
“Co—”
He’s too fast. Backhand. The movement hovers in the air like a paper kite tossing in the wind, leaving nothing but a trail of color behind. Far out, you think, and here comes the next question: “Darian, what is this?”
“I thought …”
You shut up, your head’s burning rubber.
Speed?
It isn’t speed, you’d recognize speed.
Coke?
You’re not about to say coke again.
It couldn’t possibly be heroin, could it? you think and your mouth says, “Heroin?”
“Where does it come from?”
You gush it all out, you tell him about the girl and the deal and admit everything, the pills too, you don’t even lie about the amount, because your father isn’t the buyer, your father is God, and God sees through all lies.
“When?”
“Tonight, two o’clock.”
You tell him about Mirko, who got the whole thing going, and where you’re meeting the girl. Your father doesn’t think much of your plan. He dismisses you with a sentence.
“Get rid of your friend.”
“But—”
“And I expect you to have a clear head by two o’clock.”
With these words he puts the Tic Tac box in his pocket, takes his cappuccino, and leaves the kitchen without giving you so much as a glance.
By midnight you’re sober again. You’ve sweated out the drug, you’ve run ten miles on the treadmill, you pumped iron until your body consisted only of pain. Fifteen minutes in the sauna, a cold shower, and here you are.
Just two hours until the meeting.
You go to the Starlight on the Ku’damm. Rico and André come with you. You sell some tabs and a bit of weed. While the customers go off to the bathroom with Rico, you drink one glass of still water after another and keep looking at your phone. Perhaps your father’s going to change his mind, yes, and perhaps the moon’s made of green cheese. Mirko is waiting for you by the pizza stand at a quarter to two. He’s taken the rest of the night off. You know he’s only thinking about the girl. You wonder what you’re going to say to him without looking like a weak fuck. You’re forgetting something. Something fundamental. Keep it in mind.
I’m the boss, the boss can’t be a weak fuck.
Well done.
Just before half past one you take the night bus down Kantstrasse, get out by the local court, and walk up Windscheidstrasse. It’s really time you got your driver’s license and started driving a car. The summer night groans into your face, its breath is rancid, frying fat and corners full of piss. You like the smell, you’re sweating nicely. When you get to Stuttgarter Platz, you see the pizza stand like a palely gleaming star b
y the railway bridge. Mirko is standing outside at one of the tables drinking a Coke Light.
“Artificial sweetener gives you cancer,” you say by way of greeting.
“Bullshit,” he says and holds out his hand.
It’s surprisingly quiet. A scorching Thursday night in Berlin. Mirko’s uncle is busying himself with the oven and scrubbing it, the scrape of metal on metal, not a customer to be seen, the lights in the cafés opposite have gone out. Closing time.
“Dead city, right?”
“Totally dead. Shall we go?”
You rub the back of your neck.
“Listen, Mirko, we’ve got a problem.”
“What sort of problem?”
You lie. You lie to him and tell him your father’s rejected the deal.
“No cash for the bitch.”
Mirko wants to know what your father has to do with it. It’s a reasonable question, you’re working for the Brothers. Your father’s just the logistics guy. You’ve gone and opened your big mouth. Well done. Time to act the big boss. You laugh at Mirko.
“Nothing’s happening without my old man. Ever.”
Mirko makes a face.
“Man, she’ll go mental!”
Mirko takes out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m going to call her, so that—”
“Forget it. She knows.”
“What? How does she know?”
“Because … because I’ve canceled on her.”
Mirko tilts his head a little to the left.
“But you haven’t even got her number.”
You look at each other. You go on looking at each other. Your mind’s racing as if possessed, exploring the database of your messed-up brain and not finding a reasonable answer. Mirko throws in another verbal punch.
“You don’t even know her name.”
Suddenly you grin. A wolf flashing his fangs. You lean forward slightly. There is the indescribable desire to crush the Coke can into your pal’s face till his mother wouldn’t recognize him. The desire is just a spark, you’d never do that to Mirko, never.
“Hey, Romeo, if I tell you she knows, then she knows. Do you think I’d lie to you? Come on, put that phone away.”
He doesn’t react. You grab him by the chin, your great paw covers half his face. Your words are a whisper.
“Mirko, put the fucking phone away. The deal’s off. It’s over. Finito. Get that?”
You hear his uncle shouting something from the pizza stand and look over at him without letting go of Mirko. His uncle curses and looks the other way.
“Okay,” says Mirko.
“Cool?”
“Cool.”
You let go of his chin. He stares at the ground.
“Look at me.”
He looks at you.
“We take care of each other, have you forgotten that?”
“Of course not.”
“I keep an eye out for you, day and night. Never forget that. And we’ll go to the movies tomorrow and it’s on me, okay?”
You punch him gently on the shoulder, wave to his uncle, and walk back up Windscheidstrasse. Hands in the pockets of your sweatpants, shoulders straight. You can hear Mirko and his uncle talking behind you. Yugo-talk, you don’t understand a word. When you get to Kantstrasse, you take a look at your phone. Ten to two. Time to get a move on. Your father’s waiting.
You’re sitting side by side on the subway and your reflections are staring back at you. The sports bag is between you. The zip is closed, Stink’s hand rests on the bag like a nervous spider. Black fingernails drumming on the fabric. You want to slap her on the fingers, but in fact you’re only furious with yourself. Stink loves chaos, you’ve known that forever, and it just bugs you that there’s nothing you can do about it.
First she disappears this morning without a word of explanation, leaving a little pile of Tic Tacs in the kitchen, then she comes back with medication at nine in the evening, and tells you about this boy whose Vespa she’s swiped, and who also just happens to be a friend of Darian’s.
Everyone knows who Darian is. No one remembers the boy.
The medication did the trick. Taja felt better after just a few minutes. She slept more soundly, the sweating and itching stopped. Mission accomplished. Or so you’d think. But no, that wasn’t nearly enough for Stink, and she told you about her brainstorm. And you haven’t thought for a second that she might be lying to you.
“Then I stood there and he gave me the drugs, okay, and I was about to leave again and then I had this brainstorm.”
You all looked at her as if she was speaking a foreign language.
“You had what?” said Schnappi.
“That’s why I’ve made a date,” said Stink.
“With who?” you said.
“I’m meeting Mirko and Darian at two in the morning. It’s going to be quick.”
“Quick!?” Nessi repeated, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about selling Darian the drugs and making us a shitload of money.”
You were all silent for a moment, and then you said, “I could slap you right now, you stupid bitch.”
“Do as you like, but then you’ll get no money.”
“How much are we talking about?” Schnappi asked.
“Fifty big ones.”
“WHAT?”
Schnappi and Nessi staggered backward slightly, they were so impressed. You were less than impressed. You sounded like a grandma whose chair has been whipped out from under her nose: “Stink, you can’t do this.”
“Sure I can.”
“If you do this, I don’t know you anymore.”
Stink laughed.
“Why don’t you know me anymore? What sort of thing is that to say?”
“You’re getting us into something dangerous, and I don’t want to—”
“Keep your hair on,” Schnappi interrupted. “Dangerous is when you’re crossing the road or when someone chucks a television in your bath.”
“Right,” said Stink.
“Darian’s Taja’s cousin,” Schnappi went on. “Why would he want to con Stink? Think about it, Ruth. Fifty grand! Christ, that’s ten thousand for each of us!”
“Ten grand’s not bad,” Nessi admitted, and Schnappi pointed out that some girls would go on the streets for ten grand, and they all laughed and you stood there and just couldn’t believe how stupid your girlfriends were. Then Stink went upstairs quickly to get the drugs, and you felt like someone who’d been hit by a hammer. In the middle of the forehead, several times in a row. The worst thing was that Schnappi was beaming at you as if she’d just turned shit into gold. And Nessi was nodding frantically like those idiotic toy dogs you sometimes see in the back windows of cars. You wanted to know how she could possibly think this was a good idea. Nessi replied seriously that nothing comes from nothing. The hammer was still bashing away at your forehead, when Stink came down with a sports bag and said she was ready.
“Stink, you can’t do this,” you repeated yourself like a cracked record.
So you stood in her way.
Stink laughed.
“What’s going on? Are you trying to stop me?”
“Please stay,” you said, and Stink promised to be back in two hours. She shoved past you and left the house. The door clicked shut, and Schnappi observed, “Stink’s just Stink.”
And Nessi added, “Have you ever seriously tried to stop Stink?”
No, you haven’t. But it’s time I did, you thought and did the only thing that seemed sensible—you followed your girl.
Of course there was no way of stopping Stink. On the way to the subway you yelled at each other like washerwomen, tugged at the bag, and finally agreed that you were allowed to come along too. Even though it was a small victory, it was better than letting Stink go on her own.
And now you’re on the subway and still have six stops to go. You’re going to get out at Kaiserdamm, cross the bridge, and walk up Riehl
strasse to the intersection with Wundtstrasse. By the gates to the Lietzensee Park you’ll hesitate for a moment, then go down the path to the football field, exchange the drugs for the money, and then walk back up Riehlstrasse, across the bridge and into the subway, and the whole time you won’t be able to believe you’ve done it. Says Stink.
“You’re crazy, you know that?”
Stink nods.
“And you’re my bodyguard, how crazy is that?”
You look at each other’s reflections, like two gunslingers just waiting to see who’ll make the first move. An old woman is sitting at the other end of the car, snoring away. An automatic voice announces the next stop. Deutsche Oper. The walls of the tunnels dart past, the light flickers. The sports bag lies between you like a bomb. Stink sticks out her tongue. Your reflection tries not to smile. Another four stops.
The small football field looks deserted. You’re half an hour early and sit on the opposite bank, a hundred meters from your meeting point. The lake is in between. If you could walk on water, you’d be there in a minute.
“Creepy,” you say.
“It’ll be fine,” says Stink.
“Do you really trust Darian?”
Stink laughs.
“He’s a dick. You should have seen him, he looked as if he’s half Rottweiler and half Mickey Rourke. Pumped up, arms like that.”
She shows you what the arms were like.
“He thinks he’s one of the tough guys. I can deal with him. And Mirko will be there too. Mirko’s fine. He’d do anything for me. He’s in love, you understand?”
You understand and say, “Anyone who falls in love with Stink has only himself to blame.”
“Tell me about it.”
She puts her arm around you.
“That’s why you love me so much.”
You pull away and the two of you go on waiting, stare at the football field and see shadows and know that your eyes are playing tricks with you in the darkness. The grass is damp, so close to the water your backsides are slowly getting wet. You really hope you don’t get cystitis.
“What if they don’t come?”
“Then they don’t come, but at least it was worth a try,” says Stink and looks at you, and as she looks you pray in defiance of all the rules of intelligence that she will never be normal, that she’ll always stay this wild creature, and that she’ll still be scaring you with her unpredictability when you’re old grannies and shitting in diapers again.
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