All the Lights

by Clemens Meyer

  He flicked through and looked, Canada, northern USA, the North West, Mexico, there right on the edge was Yucatán, but where was Cuba? He turned more pages, Central America and the Caribbean. Then he saw the Yucatán peninsula again, large and wide, and a little way above the tip was the narrow, long-drawn shape of Cuba. He put his forefinger on the map and then his thumb. The sea was only a thumb’s width between Yucatán and Cuba. Did Wolfgang go over on a little boat? How long must he have been at sea? A fishing boat, a little fishing boat, bobbing on the very top of the waves and then vanishing and then popping up again. He pulled the letter out from under the atlas and laid it on Venezuela and the Antilles. ‘Chichén Itzá is the largest Mayan city in Central America. From up here I can see the dense jungle, green without end. I’ve rented out a little hut nearby, and at night the jungle makes noises, whistling, singing, high-pitched screams like children, I reckon the birds and the other animals hardly ever sleep.’

  ‘Mr Mose, please!’ A woman’s voice, and he saw the woman standing in the open doorway, calling out again, ‘Mr Mose, please!’ And her voice seemed high and shrill now, the birds and the other animals hardly ever sleep. Mr Mose walked past him, giving him a dirty look because he laughed and Mr Mose must have thought he was laughing at him like the kids used to laugh at his name. A door slammed, and then he carried on reading, one finger on the little black dot on the map next to the words ‘Chichén Itzá’.

  ‘I’ve been here ten days now, wandering around the old Mayan city and the jungle and the little town nearby with all its clay huts. There’s a bar there, they call them cantinas here. Have you ever drunk tequila? Some people in the cantina drink it like water, even though it’s hot and muggy here. They drink it with salt and lemon, first the salt on your tongue, then you knock back the tequila, then you bite into the lemon. I saw it once in a bar in Berlin, but I had to come to Mexico to try it out for myself. Go into some bar, Frank, and drink a tequila to my health, maybe I’ll be sitting in the cantina at the same time, drinking to you. I saw something really beautiful a couple of days ago. A woman showed me it. She’s beautiful as well, and she’s not just any old woman. She’s a Red Indian woman, an India as they say here, and when the jungle’s so noisy at night she sits and lies with me. Frank, a Red Indian woman, imagine that! I can’t help thinking of how we played Red Indians as kids, and there was that little girl from down our road who used to be our squaw. And Maria Pilar, who’s something like my squaw now, looks just the way I always used to imagine a Red Indian woman. Skin like bronze, and hair so black it shines like fresh shoe polish. And she smells really different, she has a special smell, slightly sweet and bitter, not like the women in Germany who stink of either perfume or sweat.’ Another name was called, somewhere at another door, and again Frank looked up for a moment and saw a woman sitting next to him; she hadn’t been sitting there before. He leant over slightly in her direction and took a deep breath through his nose. Then he thought of his wife, who’d been a friend of the little girl they used to play Red Indians with as kids. He thought of how long he hadn’t seen her now, but he didn’t want to see her any more, he was glad she was a long way off, just sad that she’d taken Klara with her and he could only see her once or twice a year. He ran a hand through his hair a couple of times; it was still quite thick, only thinning a tiny bit at the temples. Hadn’t Wolfgang been almost bald? Bald Wolf with his young squaw.

  ‘I like her a lot, but you know I want to keep going to Brazil. Not right now or tomorrow, but one day, maybe soon, I can feel it. But I wanted to tell you what the beautiful thing was that she showed me. She came to my hut in the evening and took me by the hand and led me to a little hill. The sun was very low in the sky, and it was almost dark, and the light and the shadows of the setting sun fell on the steps of the Kukulcán Pyramid and made the shape of a giant snake winding down the steps.

  ‘There’s nothing to see there usually, only the stone steps, but now this giant snake seemed to be creeping towards us. Then I saw all the tourists standing around the pyramid, but we were all alone on our hill. Maria Pilar only speaks a tiny bit of English and I only have a few words of Spanish, but later someone told me it happens exactly twice every year, every twenty-first of March and twenty-third of September. And as I was standing there on the little hill with Maria Pilar …’ He closed the atlas shut. He looked at the date on his watch, even though he knew very well it was the twenty-eighth of September today. How did the letter get to him from the jungle in such a short time? ‘Mr Eisner, room thirty-two please!’ He put the atlas with the letter in it in his bag. Maybe there was a little airfield there somewhere. Wolfgang had money … Or he’d been standing up at the top of the pyramid, the night was very bright, and he wrote the letter up there. Weren’t the nights always very bright in the tropics? Five days to Germany, of course, why not? Maybe Wolfgang had gone up again on his own the next morning. Maria Pilar was waiting for him in his hut, she’d made strong Mexican coffee. He gazed at the vast jungle, green all the way to the horizon, thought of home and his old friend and took out pen and paper. ‘Mr Eisner, room thirty-two please!’ He said, ‘Yes,’ took his bag and saw the letter between the pages of the atlas and stood up.

  He had got three letters now and he’d been waiting for the fourth one for months. In his last letter, Wolfgang had written about leaving Mexico, about leaving Maria Pilar, the beautiful Red Indian woman. ‘Do you know what I called her? Mi clara estrella, that means “my bright star”. And the stars up above us at night were really so bright, not like anything I’ve ever seen in Germany. They seemed to be incredibly close too, right above the trees. She’s all alone in Chichén Itzá now but I promised to go back to her, maybe then I’ll take her with me to Brazil. You know I’ve always been a dreamer, but I swear on our friendship that I’ll marry that wonderful woman one day, but first I have to travel. South America, you know.’ The letter was from Honduras, from the capital city Tegucigalpa, there was an airport there, and Wolfgang wanted to fly to Brazil from there.

  He was in the bar that had once belonged to Wolfgang’s Uncle Rudi. Everything had been stripped down and converted; he hadn’t even recognised the building. Back then it had been a real German corner bar with wooden tables and wood-panelled walls. Now it was one of those modern places, neon lights and brightly coloured cocktails served by young girls.

  He’d been to see his mother; he’d saved a bit of money and put it secretly in her little savings box. He’d taken a twenty-euro note out again, and now he was sitting at the black bar, which was made of cool metal, and drinking. He was drinking tequila like Wolfgang had suggested. He’d been here a couple of times now and drunk tequila. He moistened the little dip between his thumb and forefinger with his tongue, then sprinkled a little salt on the wet spot, took the glass in one hand and the slice of lemon in the other, licked the salt from his hand, knocked back the alcohol and then bit into the slice of lemon until tears pricked his eyes. ‘To you,’ he said, ‘to you and Maria Pilar and Brazil.’

  The year was almost over, the nights were getting frosty but there was no snow. It was summer in Brazil right now, and soon Wolfgang would be celebrating New Year in summer, if he was in Brazil by now. ‘Another tequila please,’ he said, ‘and a beer.’ The young woman behind the bar nodded. It was nearly ten and he wanted to go home soon. He had to get up early; he had a place on a job creation scheme now, working at a tourist information stall in town. An old man sat down on one of the bar stools next to him, knocked on the bar and nodded at him. Frank knocked back at him and smiled. The old greeting in a bar. The barmaid put the beer and the tequila down in front of him. ‘I’ll have a large one as well,’ said the old man. The young woman took a glass and went to the pump. The old man turned around to him. ‘They drink cocktails here now,’ he said, ‘but back in the old days …’ He leant on the counter and looked Frank right in the face.

  ‘You live round here, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Always have done.’<
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  ‘I’m from round this way myself.’ The old man pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and put them down in front of him, searching through his pockets again and putting a lighter on top of his cigarettes. Frank looked at his thin, wrinkled fingers.

  ‘Thanks,’ said the old man, and took the beer from the barmaid’s hand and drank. He tipped his head back, then he put the glass on the bar and wiped the foam from his chin. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. He raised his glass again, and Frank picked up his beer as well, and they clinked glasses. ‘To the old beer-drinkers.’ Frank took a drink and laughed and said, ‘To us old beer-drinkers,’ then he knocked back his tequila, without the salt and lemon.

  ‘You know this place from the old days, do you?’

  ‘You can say that again,’ said the old man. ‘It was pretty much my second home.’ He took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it up. ‘One for yourself?’

  ‘No thanks. I never started smoking. Just a good cigar every now and then.’

  ‘Oh aye,’ said the old man, ‘a good cigar’s a good cigar. Can’t hardly beat that.’ He tipped his head back and blew the smoke up to the brightly coloured lamps on the ceiling.

  ‘You used to come here quite often in the old days, am I right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank, ‘quite often. But that’s about thirty years ago now.’

  ‘Thirty years.’ The old man breathed out loudly. He leant against the bar again, and again he looked him right in the face. ‘You were a friend of Rudi’s nephew, weren’t you?’

  Frank drank a swig of beer and nodded. He tried to remember – who could this old man be? He must have been about the same age then as Frank was now. Round about. But there’d been so many regulars at Rudi’s, spending their evenings and their days at the bar or one of the round wooden tables.

  ‘I knew it right away.’ The old man pressed out his cigarette. ‘I used to know them well, Rudi and his nephew. Often saw you two here. Rudi was risking his licence serving you two alcohol.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘But we never went over the top.’

  The old man gave him a wink. ‘I remember differently.’ He drank his glass dry and pushed it across the bar. The barmaid had turned the music up – something electronic with a lot of bass, and Frank heard voices behind him but didn’t turn around. Then there were a couple of young lads next to him, ordering something, and he saw the barmaid juggling bottles and chopping up a couple of limes. ‘I always got him the best stamps back then.’

  ‘Stamps?’ Frank emptied his glass and pushed it next to the old man’s. ‘Two more,’ he said, ‘and two tequilas,’ and the barmaid said, ‘Be with you in a minute.’

  ‘I worked for the post office,’ said the old man, ‘in the old days.’ And suddenly Frank knew who he was. They’d sat at Rudi’s bar and turned the pages of the big stamp album. ‘Two new Pelé stamps,’ said Wolfgang. ‘Really rare, no postmark.’ They looked at the stamp and the tiny Pelé, who seemed to be holding an even smaller ball on the tip of his foot, and the longer they gazed at Pelé, their heads resting on their hands, the quieter it got around them, the noise of the pub fell silent, and then the ball danced on the tip of Pelé’s foot, and then Pelé too moved on the little stamp.

  Frank took a deep breath. ‘He made some money, Rudi did. Came into a lot of money, over in Hamburg.’

  ‘Money?’ The old man sniffed at the tequila. ‘Is this Korn?’ He was used to German spirits.

  ‘No,’ said Frank. ‘Just do what I do.’ He moistened the small dip between his thumb and forefinger with his tongue, sprinkled a little salt on the wet spot, handed the saltshaker to the old man and waited for him to do the same. ‘And now the lemon.’ The old man smiled, and they took the slice of lemon in one hand, the glass in the other, then they licked the salt from their hands, tipped back the alcohol and bit into the slice of lemon, ‘Ahhh, Jesus, what’s that?!’ and then the old man laughed and asked, ‘Rudi made money?’

  He was running through the night. It was really cold, and his breath came steaming out of his mouth. He could still hear the old man laughing – ‘Rudi made money, you’re telling me Schnapps-Rudi made money out of a bar in Hamburg!’ He couldn’t understand why the old man was laughing so wildly. He slowed down now, putting his hands in his jacket pockets and passing the playground, which was dark and empty. Where did the young lads go when it was so cold? Maybe to some bar or other, if they had any money.

  ‘And the stars up above us at night were really so bright, not like anything I’ve ever seen in Germany. They seemed to be incredibly close too …’

  They were bright, the stars up above him, not a cloud in the sky, but they must have shone much brighter over there, and close … no, they seemed tiny and far away to him. He kept walking. He took out his key, even though he was still a good way away from home. He jangled the keys, the street was empty and silent, and he could hear his footsteps. ‘You know I’ve always been a dreamer, but I swear … but first I have to travel.’ He unlocked the door to his building. He stood in the dark stairwell and looked for the keyhole, then he locked the door again, once, twice. He turned on the light and stopped in front of the letterboxes on the wall. ‘Everything’s muddled in my head; I’m on my way to South America.’

  Maybe Wolfgang hadn’t written for so long because he’d taken Maria Pilar to Brazil. He was certain the two of them had long since seen Sugarloaf Mountain. The light went out automatically, and he switched it on again and jangled his keys as he walked up to his flat. He tried to jangle his keys so it sounded kind of South American. What did they dance in Brazil? Salsa, cha-cha-cha? He’d bought himself a book about Brazil; it had said something about samba schools, next to photos of beautiful women wearing next to nothing, decorated with sequins and feathers. He had sat at the kitchen table night after night looking at the photos, not just the ones of the beautiful women. The Church of São Francisco with all its gold, the white foaming waterfalls of Iguaçu, Guanabara Bay off Rio de Janeiro. He jangled his keys, stamping his feet as he walked, and then he started whistling, trying to whistle a tune that matched with the jangling and stamping. Once he reached his front door on the fourth floor he went silent and took a deep breath.

  ‘I’m standing on the peak of Sugarloaf Mountain, looking down at Guanabara Bay. It’s night, and there are lights everywhere on the little islands, and between the islands and further out are the lights of the ships. Behind me the sky is bright, no stars. Rio de Janeiro.’

  THE SHOTGUN, THE STREET LAMP AND MARY MONROE

  The room I’m sitting in is pretty small and shitty. There are shittier rooms, in jail and that.

  No. I open my eyes. I’m not in my little room at all, my little one-room flat, I like my little one-room flat, but I kind of lost control of everything there. There’s too much stuff on the floor, the shelves are empty; just a few plates on them with dried-on leftovers. And now that the weather’s getting warmer the flies and other creepy-crawlies are having a ball, and it’s all theirs now because I don’t go to my little flat any more. But I took my shotgun with me. It’s a great shotgun, an air rifle, .177 calibre. It’s a spring-piston rifle; you have to pull back the cocking lever before every shot to produce the air pressure. The butt and the shaft of my shotgun are made of beautiful brown wood and the gun looks pretty real, like a carbine. But it’s not as if I take my shotgun with me everywhere. It’s actually a shotgun for at home. I used to spend hours shooting at the flies. Once I got a spider, one of those long, thin-legged spiders that don’t live in webs. Got it right in the middle of its little body. I didn’t hit first time – the wall and ceiling were covered in bullet holes, and when I did hit it its little body got stuck in the wall and the long thin legs kept moving for a while. That did my head in. I chucked the gun in the corner, and if I’d been religious I’d have said a prayer for that poor spider. But that’s stupid really; I’ve never had a good relationship with spiders. I don’t have a good relationship with a lot of people, but I’ve never actually s
hot one. I have to admit, I’m scared of a lot of people and all, just like I’m scared shitless of spiders. Like, there’s a bar down on the ground floor of the building where my one-room flat is, the flat I’ve left to the flies and all the other creepy-crawlies. It’s called ‘Feasters’ Retreat’, and there are always hundreds of Neo-Nazis in there, feasting. Usually on beer and spirits. I’ve had a drink in there once or twice, and every time I wished I’d taken my shotgun down with me. But I bet they’d only have laughed at my beautiful spring-loader. You can do a lot of damage with the butt, though. And the thing has a twenty-shot magazine, and I wouldn’t very much like to get one of those 0.177-inch balls of lead in the eye.

  ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out. ‘Sweetheart,’ and then I hide my shotgun under the sofa. She doesn’t like my shotgun, that’s why. I don’t know if she can see me; the bedroom door’s open. My sweetheart doesn’t like my shotgun, so I only get it out when my sweetheart’s in the bedroom. But she’s not asleep. She’s lain down in bed because she’s angry with me.

  Oh shit, what have I done now? ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, making my voice all gentle, the way she likes it. I’m a master at making my voice gentle the way women like it. But my sweetheart’s the only one I want to love my gentle seduction voice. And I really love that girl, even when she’s angry with me and hiding in the bedroom. And I think she loves me too, or she wouldn’t have stuck it out with me so long in my one-room flat. She already had her flat back then, the one I’m in now, but the thing was I couldn’t leave my flat, I used to hide out in bed, and she’d sit on the edge of the bed and wipe my forehead and really sweet things like that. She didn’t even have a go at me for having my shotgun in bed next to me. The shotgun had to go though, whenever she slept next to me. But I was clever; I squeezed my little rifle in the wee gap between the wall and the bed so I could always get at it. I can’t say I was in a very good way back then, even when my sweetheart slept next to me. And I could never have imagined such a great girl sleeping in my bed and me not getting it up. Oh well, I guess she didn’t expect it of me in those days. But shit, I expected it of me, because I loved her so much, shit, I still love her so much.