You

by Zoran Drvenkar

  “If you’re the cops,” says Lucy, “I’m Bruce Lee.”

  Two of the girls run around the table and past Bruno, only Lucy stays so close to him that he can feel her pointed breasts against his balls. She’s so small, he thinks, how can she be so quick if she’s so small? He doesn’t move. Nothing like this has ever happened to him.

  “Shut your eyes,” says Lucy.

  Bruno shuts his eyes, he smells her warm chewing gum breath and can’t help getting aroused. He would like to tell the girl she really turns him on, that she turns him on so much that he has no words for it, when the gun barrel disappears from his belly. Bruno opens his eyes and sees Lucy running after her girlfriends. He ignores Oswald, he ignores the people gaping at him. All he sees is Lucy’s waving hair. He gets his brass knuckles out of his jacket pocket, slips it onto the fingers of his right hand, and sets off in pursuit.

  The loss of blood makes Oswald frighteningly light-headed. It’s not the first time he’s lost blood. Once Bruno couldn’t find him for a whole hour after a gang of Albanians picked a fight with them. Oswald was lying in a bush and pressing both hands to a cut in his neck. First you get light-headed, the cold starts with your hands and feet and works its way to your heart, death opens up all around you like a curtain, and the darkness flows in and bathes everything in suffocating silence. Oswald knows it would be a clever idea to let the redhead go; he has to pull his belt out of his trousers and tie his leg. But he also knows he has a job to do here, so he goes on the attack, catches the redhead by the arm and pulls her around. She falls. Oswald can’t suppress a smile, he’s so fixated on the redhead that he forgot the blonde for a second. She comes down on him like a hellcat, her nails cut into his face, they rip into the corners of his mouth and claw into his eyes, then the blonde lets go of him for a moment and he thinks it’s his move. It’s my move now! He’ll never understand how he could have made such a mistake. The blonde rams both fists into his stomach, the air is squeezed out of him and he goes over on his ankle, his knees striking the ground hard.

  “Run,” he hears the blonde shouting.

  “But—”

  “Stink, run!”

  Oswald knows it’s the loss of blood, otherwise he couldn’t understand the situation. This is how it must be. He’s not a pussy, he’s a man and the blonde is a girl and she’s standing there like a fucking warrior. Judo or karate, he thinks, these damn kids nowadays learn everything far too early. Oswald shuts his eyes, lowers his head, and stays in that position. He knows how pitiful it looks. Oswald is weak and on his knees. He’s also a bastard who’s pressing the right buttons. The blonde falls for the oldest trick in the book. She knows how to fight, but no one’s taught her the rules.

  If you injure someone, make sure he can’t get up.

  The blonde turns away.

  Oswald hears the rustle of her skirt and gets up.

  Bruno feels old. The three girls in front of him are fast, Lucy in particular seems to have a built-in gear shift, she goes off like a crazy firework and overtakes her girlfriends. Bruno hunches his shoulders, he’s nothing now but muscles and lungs. Anything can definitely happen today, but the day has yet to come when a girl leaves him behind.

  After three hundred yards he overtakes the tall one who was sitting next to Lucy. She screeches when he draws level with her. Bruno’s left arm shoots out, he rams the girl on the chest, she stumbles over a park bench and falls in the grass. Bruno runs on.

  In front of him now is the girl who was sitting to the right of the redhead. Bruno knows she’s Oskar Desche’s daughter. One of those beauties who take your breath away even as a teenager, long legs and a dreamy face and that fucked-up hairdo that he wants to grab and pull her head to him. Bruno can’t remember her name, he’s never been good with names, Oswald deals with all that. Tanner sent a picture of the girls to his phone. Even though he insisted that they weren’t to touch Desche’s daughter, the rules don’t apply right now. Tanner must never find out. Bruno kicks the girl’s legs out from under her. She crashes to the ground, it’s a perfect foul. Bruno will take care of her later. He runs on and feels better.

  Lucy, I’m coming.

  Her hair is a flag, her backside an apple. Bruno imagines putting both hands around that ass and automatically speeds up. Lucy is running toward the crossroads. She only understands her mistake when she’s reached the traffic island. The cars start moving, she can’t go on, she can’t go back. Bruno waits for a gap in the traffic and sprints over. She stands with her back to him. The island is three meters across. They’re alone.

  “Surprise,” says Bruno.

  She turns around. Her eyes flash. In her hand she’s holding Bruno’s Five-Seven Tactical. Bruno fears and respects this weapon. Not only can it be switched to automatic, not only does it have a magazine with twenty cartridges, it also pulverizes most bulletproof jackets as if they were made of papier-mâché, and has such a small kick that it’s like being stroked. There are few things in the world that Bruno is seriously afraid of. One of these is his beloved Five-Seven, whose muzzle is right now pointing at his chest. Bruno says, “Take the gun down.”

  Now Lucy’s whole arm is trembling, and she has to use her other hand to support the weapon. Bruno sees a tear running down her cheek and wishes he could wipe it away. He knows she won’t shoot. He knows who’s capable of that kind of thing and who isn’t. She would never stand like that if she was. He’s not an idiot. He knows the cowards, the hesitant ones and the killers. She’s not a killer. She’s a sweet little bitch that he’s cornered. She is his now. That’s exactly what he says to her.

  “You’re mine now.”

  She brings the gun down. The lights change. The cars stop. Bruno senses the drivers’ eyes. Lucy has her head lowered.

  “Look at me.”

  She raises her head and looks at him.

  “And now come to me.”

  Just as Bruno recognizes a killer, he also recognizes someone who’s broken. She comes closer, five steps, she’s standing in front of him. Close. So close that they’re touching. Bruno feels how aroused he is.

  “Lean against me, it’s over.”

  She leans against him. She’s so small that he feels her breath under his heart. The lights change. The cars set off. One driver can’t take his eyes off them. The other cars beep their horns. The car sets off with a jolt. Bruno strokes her beautiful black hair. His brass knuckles flash in the sunlight. Her head smells like hot sand. He knows he has to hurt her, but he also knows he’ll keep the pain within limits.

  “Good girl.”

  Her right hand rests on his chest, she looks up and there’s a smile and the smile doesn’t make sense, because she’s looking past him. Bruno turns his head to see what she sees and feels the pressure of her fingers. The push comes as such a surprise that Bruno doesn’t understand how it’s possible. How could I have been so deceived? It was all in her eyes, she was broken, she was lost, and it was all a lie. His left foot gets jammed at the curbstone, his right foot kicks back, his fingers slip out of her hair and for a fragment of a second they look each other in the eye, then a van from a flower shop hits him and Bruno is torn off the island and thrown into the oncoming traffic.

  Oswald is better off than Bruno, because he doesn’t have to run far. The blonde doesn’t even know he’s behind her. She isn’t especially fast in her long skirt, and she’s probably thinking he’s still kneeling on the pavement, bleeding like a stuck pig.

  Girl, you haven’t the faintest idea who I am, Oswald thinks and closes his fist around her hair again. For a moment the blonde loses the ground under her feet, her head is pulled back, her mouth is an O, her legs fly forward. Oswald catches her, before she hits the ground. He holds her close, feels the heat of her body, and only now does he sense that something has changed.

  I’m shivering. I’ve got to get a move on before—

  The blonde screams, the blonde wriggles, Oswald loses his balance and falls without letting her go. The impact shakes him, h
is teeth click painfully against each other and bite off the tip of his tongue. The girl reaches back, claws him, pulls on his ears. Oswald is losing control. Pain and fury, fury and pain. His arms are tight around her. He presses hard and hears bones breaking, presses hard and hears her legs dragging along the ground, shifts his weight and rolls onto the girl, while someone is thrashing away at his back, while someone is pulling on his arms, he covers the girl heavily and securely and his tired body starts sucking the warmth from her until they’re both lying motionless in a puddle of blood and there’s nothing to tell them apart.

  No light, no strength, and no warmth.

  Oswald isn’t aware of them lifting him off the blonde. He isn’t aware of the redhead spitting at him and kicking and cursing, or one of the guests from the café dragging the redhead away. He’s part of the present that goes on existing without him.

  Oswald will never know that the blond girl was called Ruth, that she was incredibly hungry for life and would have given anything to put her mark on the world. And he’ll never know that that same day two police officers rang the girl’s parents’ doorbell, that her mother broke down and clung to the father. He won’t be there when her parents arrive in Hamburg to identify their dead daughter in the morgue. And he’ll never know how it feels to die pointlessly at sixteen, and lose your friends and still be a hero because that one girl managed to stop a guy like Oswald. Forever. For eternity.

  “It’s me.”

  “I thought you were coming to Berlin?”

  “I’ve been there.”

  “What? You’ve been there?”

  “Three days ago. The atmosphere wasn’t so great, so I left again.”

  “Tell me, are you completely stupid? You come to Berlin and you can’t even visit your father?”

  “I said—”

  “That’s no excuse, Neil. I’m dying, and you’ve had a bad day, is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Boy, sometimes you’re a real idiot.”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  “Does your half brother know about this?”

  “No, and I haven’t seen him either.”

  “Good. So what’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on, I know you and I know what makes you tick. You’re not phoning me to tell me what sort of idiot you are. What’s really going on?”

  “Does the name Ragnar Desche mean anything to you?”

  “What have you got to do with Desche?!”

  “Hey, calm down.”

  “What have you got to do with Desche is what I want to know!”

  “Nothing. I … Okay, a girlfriend has a problem with him, and I thought the name might mean something to you.”

  “Stay away from him.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Neil, I want you to keep away from him, promise me.”

  “I promise.”

  “Fine.”

  “So?”

  “Your grandfather and Ragnar Desche worked together, that was at least fifteen years ago. Import, export. It had mostly to do with goods that the customs men weren’t supposed to know about. Desche was called the logistics guy. They said you could trust him your own soul, he’d stuff it away and give it back to you unharmed a decade later. There was nothing he didn’t store or deliver. Even corpses weren’t a problem.”

  “Drugs too?”

  “Drugs too, of course. What’s up with you, were you born yesterday, or what? Weapons, antiques, money, and information are goods every bit as much as drugs and people. Desche stayed out of human trafficking, you have to hand him that. Anything that needed to be secured or moved, Desche’s company took care of it. Are you getting the picture?”

  “I am.”

  “Neil, who’s this girlfriend of yours?”

  “A passing acquaintance.”

  “Get rid of her.”

  “What?”

  “I said, get rid of her. If she has a problem with Desche, no one can help her. What has she done?”

  “She took something that didn’t belong to her.”

  “What’s something?”

  “Five kilos of heroin.

  “…”

  “Ritchie, are you still there?”

  “Of course I’m still there. I don’t understand, where do you keep finding these airheads? I thought you had your life under control. Doesn’t your mother teach you anything? Do you want to end up like me? It’s no fun being me, you should have learned that by now.”

  “What should I do now?”

  “Stay away from the whole thing. No one takes something from Ragnar Desche and gets away with it. No one, you understand?”

  “I understand.”

  “Does your mother know about this?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Say hi from me.”

  “Do you want to talk to her? She’s—”

  “I’m too tired.”

  “You’re tired, but you can talk to me?”

  “You’re different.”

  “Ritchie, I’m your son and—”

  “I know you’re my son, you’re rubbing it in every time we talk.”

  “But she—”

  “I don’t want her to hear me like this. I don’t care what you think about me, but I want your mother to remember me the way I was. Is that so hard to understand? It’s how I protect her.”

  “And what if she doesn’t want to be protected?”

  “You don’t know your mother, and anyway it’s strictly between you and me, grow up and sort out your own shit before you start messing around with mine. And now let’s hang up before I go all sentimental on you.”

  He hangs up before you can say another word. You stand by the phone, and once again you don’t know what to make of your father. He’s never accepted the role, he’s just Ritchie and nothing more. Ten years ago he was diagnosed with cancer, for eight years he’s been hiding away in Berlin. He doesn’t want to see your mother and he only lets you and your half brother visit him. Ritchie’s thin, he’s ill and the chemo’s made his hair fall out, but as if by magic he clings to life. A dead man walking who doesn’t want anyone standing near him.

  “You’re awake already.”

  Your mother is standing behind you, tired eyes, tired movements. She turned sixty last year, and you’re sure Ritchie wouldn’t recognize her. She seems to be enfolded in a constant state of tiredness. Sometimes the cloak lifts, when your mother surrounds herself with people, but as soon as she’s alone again, all her strength leaves her and the tiredness settles on her again.

  “It’s been a long night,” you say.

  “I can see that. Have you had breakfast?”

  You kiss her on the cheek and go with her into the kitchen to keep her company as she makes the breakfast. You can’t just disappear now. You’ve taken your father’s place, and that carries obligations. The girls have to wait.

  You bring your mother coffee, you hand her the mail and listen. She takes you as you are. Since you finished school, you haven’t done much but spend money, watch movies, and meet friends. Nine years on the pause button. It’s a mystery to you how time could pass so quickly. You planned to study, you wanted to set up a club with a friend, you even tried your hand as a computer programmer. All your plans stayed just that. Plans. Sometimes you wonder if everything would have been different if your father hadn’t left Hamburg. You’re not a loser, you’re just pleased with this way of life—the world expects nothing from you, you expect nothing from the world. Your mother believes you’ll find your way eventually. But what if there is no way? What if you’ve already got there? The son of a rich heiress and a cancer-ridden crook. The end.

  Darkness attracts darkness. Maybe that’s why you’re part of this story, who knows. The roots go deep. For three decades your father’s family was a big player in Hamburg’s crime scene. Everyone knew the name of Exner, and it all started with your grandfather Maximilian, also known as Grandpa Max, even b
etter known as the Emperor. He founded his empire in the late 1960s, financed every rising nightclub on the Reeperbahn, and set up a regulation whereby signs were displayed on the barrier to the notorious Herbertstrasse, forbidding access to the prostitute-lined street to minors and women. The Emperor keeps Hamburg clean was his motto. Not only did he collect protection money and promise security for everybody, he also controlled prostitution and made sure that the whores underwent regular medical examinations. He was even in charge of farming out cash-in-hand building work. In the early 1970s he put the first fruit machines and pinball machines in pubs, engaged in property speculation, and extended his empire by moving stolen cars. In all those decades he stayed away from the drug and weapons trade. His two sons from his first marriage were Ruprecht and Ritchie. Ritchie never had the ambition to take up the Emperor’s legacy. He was useful for small-time deals, like when a car had to be taken from A to B, but when it came to the hard stuff or a few people had missed their payments and needed an arm broken, Ruprecht was your man. Ruprecht was two years older than Ritchie and knew what he was doing. For him, there was only the Emperor’s empire, the rest was crumbs from the table.

  Who knows where your father would be now if he hadn’t met your mother. Perhaps he’d have spent five years in jail like Ruprecht, or hidden himself away in a little Italian mountain village like your Uncle Fredo. At the end of the 1990s your father turned away from the family, and after Grandpa Max’s death he gave up on his legacy. Perhaps he was saved by money, because your mother has noble blood, owns a villa on the Alster, and doesn’t have to worry what the DAX looks like. But it could also be that your mother showed him another way of enjoying life. Whatever it was, your father’s now sick and alone in Berlin, and afraid to look his great love in the eye. No, you’re really not interested in being like your father.