To Greet the Sun

by Claus von Bohlen

  I picked up the magazine and searched for the article about ‘a Juventude Hitleriana’ in the index. I was about to turn to it when the store suddenly darkened. Looking up, I saw two men burst through the doorway into the shop. Both were burly, both wore flesh coloured stockings on their heads and both were carrying pistols. One of the two men levelled his pistol at the shopkeeper behind the till and screamed at him:

  ‘Mãos na cabeça, rápido!’

  The shopkeeper put his hands on his head and took a step back as the second man opened the till and started to empty the contents into a plastic bag. Strangely, neither of the gunmen had seen me enter the shop – I assumed they had staked it out for a while before bursting in. But at that moment one of the two men looked up and saw me for the first time.

  ‘Merda, tem um velho aqui,’ – there’s an old man in here – he said to his accomplice.

  The second gunman, who still had his pistol levelled at the shopkeeper, turned round.

  ‘Está quase mumificado,’ – he’s practically a mummy - he said to the first man. Then he shouted at me: ‘Oi, velho, no chão, mexa-se!’

  I laid my walking stick down beside me and got to my knees, a very uncomfortable position given my arthritis. The first man had returned to emptying the till; seeing me on my knees, the second man also turned back round. I could see the back of his bull-like neck and his shaved skull, not at all appealing. Through the fine fabric of the flesh-coloured tights I could even make out the outline of a tattoo which ran from his shoulder up the side of his neck to the back of his head, like ivy on a marble statue.

  I was not afraid – the gunmen had nothing to gain by shooting me. But I was angry. ‘Quase mumificado’! And they were quite happy to leave me unobserved while they emptied the till. Would they be so confident if they knew that I had been recommended for the Iron Cross Second Class? If they knew that the man they had left unwatched behind them was Hitlerjunge Otto Eisinger who, as a young boy, had single-handedly destroyed the lead tank of the Allied 7th Armoured Division? I think not.

  Having emptied the till, the first gunman unhooked a large, jangling key ring from the shopkeeper’s trousers. He gave it to the second gunman, then strolled casually out of the door with the plastic bag, removing the stocking from his head as he went. The second gunman used his pistol to indicate the storeroom behind the till to the shopkeeper. The shopkeeper opened the door to the storeroom; it was little more than a cupboard. ‘Entra aí,’ the gunman said, pushing the shopkeeper into the storeroom. Then he closed the storeroom door. While he tried the different keys on the key ring in order to lock the door, I heard a motor start up outside the shop.

  The gunman was still fiddling with the keys – there were many on the ring. I picked up my walking stick and stood up. He didn’t notice. I took a couple of tentative steps. Still he did not turn around. I took a few more steps until I was within range, then I gripped my walking stick tightly by the end with the rubber foot and swung the pointed handle as hard as I could at the back of the gunman’s head. It must have twisted in the air since, when the handle made contact with his skull, it merely glanced off. The man turned round and grinned at me hazily through the stocking. Then he grabbed his pistol by the barrel and swung it lightning-fast at the side of my head.

  Chapter 4

  IN THE weeks following Senhor Eisinger and Vovó’s visit, my situation didn’t improve. Quite the opposite. The night at Divino continued to lose money. I started handing out fliers on campus myself. The term before, I’d employed a number of attractive students to do that for me. That is actually how I first met Sara. I didn’t even have money to pay a second dj, so I continued to dj myself. I borrowed João’s cds and used the cd mixer in the club. João studied music and he has a huge collection. Obviously most of his stuff is no good for a nightclub like Divino, but he has some dance music too. I also borrowed the red knitted hat which I saw in his room and which he’d bought to go skiing in Argentina the year before. The dj booth was raised above the dancefloor and was pretty dark; with the hat on, it was hard to recognise me. I didn’t want people to realise that the dj was the same person who had been handing out fliers. That would not be glamorous. People come to Divino because they like to think it’s glamorous.

  I’d learnt to mix while I was still at school. I sometimes dj-ed at birthday parties, though I always had to borrow other people’s music. I’d even played the opening set at the carnival in Florianópolis, but that was because I was friends with one of the organisers. They had gone over-budget and I was the cheapest they could get, plus they could claim that I was the in-house dj from Divino. Mixing music is not all that hard, at least not the way I do it. You really have to screw up for it to be obvious to anyone apart from yourself, and maybe to a few others who are more interested in the music than in hooking up. In Divino, there’s not many like that.

  Sara was one of the girls who used to hand out the fliers for me. She also came to the club herself every Tuesday night. Of course she already knew me, and she also knew that I was now handing out the fliers myself, but I think she just liked the fact that I was the dj. I know it’s a cliché, but some girls really are like that – or at least Sara was.

  The first time I dj-ed, Sara kept coming up to the booth during my set. She’d lean over the low glass partition and whisper something to me and wink. With the noise and the headphones and having to concentrate, I never understood what she said, but I smiled and nodded and that seemed to satisfy her. She’d disappear for a while and then come back again after a bit, a little more drunk each time. After my set we had a drink at the bar and once we went to the backroom where she sucked me off. I didn’t enjoy it much the first time; I was thinking about the takings that I had to collect from the doorman and wondering what they would come to. At that time the club was still busy, but nothing like what it had been at the beginning, when there used to be people queuing in the street, and not just students. Back then there were plenty of professional people too, people with large salaries who reserved tables and bought bottles and generally dropped a ton of money.

  I didn’t have to worry about Marina turning up at Divino. She worked at the Jungle Bar on week nights, so I was usually home before her anyway. I’d have a shower and then sit on the sofa and watch the late night news on tv until she got back. I always felt like I was covering my tracks pretty well. It’s amazing how being clean and watching the news can avert suspicion. Maybe that’s why so many married men watch the news.

  I was always pretty careful about not being seen to spend too much time with Sara. There were lots of people who knew me at the club and I didn’t want rumours getting back to Marina. Sometimes Sara would be with a date, and then nothing would happen. Other times she would come and find me, but I always made sure that we went to the backroom to kiss or whatever. However, there was one night when Marina got back to the apartment pretty angry. I could tell she was angry because she’s usually very talkative after her shifts – she likes to get stuff off her chest. But on this occasion she just let herself in and closed the door and didn’t say anything.

  It was a hot, humid night. The television cast a flickering blue light across the room. I’d had a shower and was sitting on the sofa in my white jiu-jitsu trousers. I haven’t trained for years but the trousers are loose and comfortable. Often Marina is in the mood for sex after her shift, especially if she’s been drinking, so I was sort of anticipating that too. Sara had sucked me off earlier in the evening but that was a while ago, and anyway, I guess I liked the idea of getting it on with two girls in one night. Isn’t that what being young is all about?

  ‘Marina? Are you ok?’

  Marina didn’t answer. She sat down at the far end of the sofa to take off her shoes.

  ‘Come here,’ I said, placing a cushion for her on the sofa next to me. She ignored me.

  ‘Marina?’ I repeated. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Silence. The tiny buckle on one of her heals appeared to be stuck. Suddenly, violentl
y, she tore the shoe off. Then she fixed me with her gaze.

  ‘Pietro. Answer me honestly. Are you screwing the girl who used to hand out fliers for you?’

  Maybe I should have been expecting this, but I wasn’t. ‘What?’ I asked, buying time. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Just answer me honestly: are you or are you not screwing someone at the club?’

  Feigning incredulity: ‘No, of course not.’ Technically true, we had only had sex at her house. Once. At the club she had only sucked me off. ‘Why would you ask that?’

  Marina’s gaze still fixed on me. Her eyes becoming glassy. ‘One of the girls from the bar told me. Promise me it’s not true.’

  ‘Does she even know me? What makes her think–?‘

  ‘Promise me it’s not true.’ Marina’s grey-green eyes are boring into me.

  ‘It’s not true. I promise.’ I don’t feel good about saying that. Though it is technically true, I suppose. Marina is still gazing at me. ‘I love you,’ I say. That’s true, at least it is right now. I reach out to put my arm around her. There is a tiny moment of resistance, then she rocks against me, her head on my naked chest. I feel dampness – is it breath or tears? Hard to tell. She pulls her legs up under her. I stroke her hair. I do love her. But do I only love her because I have hurt her? Again, hard to tell. Either way, I feel pretty shitty.

  We sit like that for a while. I continue to stroke her hair. International news is followed by national news, then local news. CCTV footage of a newsagent’s in black and white. The image quality is poor but I see two gunmen bursting into the store. The gunmen’s features are obscured by stockings pulled over their heads. The small holes for their mouths are menacing, as if they are not men but machines intent on devouring the world. One of the men holds the shopkeeper at gunpoint while the other empties the till. There is movement in the back of the shop; the gunmen appear to be unaware of a customer in the store. One of the gunmen turns round and spots the customer. The customer lies down while the men finish emptying the till. One of the gunmen leaves the shop, removing the stocking from his head as he exits. The other gunman is ordering the shopkeeper into the storeroom; he does not notice that the customer has risen to his feet. The customer shuffles towards the gunman. He has the gait of an old man; he leans on a stick for support. As he comes closer to the hidden camera it becomes possible to distinguish more details. The man is wearing a dark suit. He is indeed old; his silver hair is brushed back over his scalp. He looks very familiar.

  ‘Meu Deus! I know that man! That’s Seu Otto!’ I have rocked forward to the edge of the sofa.

  ‘What? What are you talking about?’ asks Marina.

  ‘That man. That’s my grandmother’s employer. I used to stay in his house in São Paulo when I was a boy.’ Marina looks blank. ‘That’s the old man who moved here – the man I drove around the island in the Mercedes when you were in Curitiba.’

  ‘Oh, him,’ says Marina.

  Now we are both staring intently at the television. Seu Otto has shuffled to within a metre of the gunman who has still not noticed him. He lifts his walking stick and swings it at the gunman’s head. Next to me Marina emits a little gasp. The gunman turns round and fells Seu Otto using the butt of his pistol. He picks up the bag with the cash and calmly saunters out of the shop.

  The scene cuts to the newsroom where the presenter announces that Senhor Otto Eisinger is the former Vice-President of Feldmann Breweries, now retired. He emigrated to Brazil after the war and recently moved to Santa Catarina from São Paulo. He was taken to the University Hospital Florianópolis, where his condition is stable. The presenter introduces the mayor, also in the studio. The mayor’s dark hair glistens in the studio lights. It looks as if it has been dyed – it’s too dark for his face. The mayor begins by praising Otto’s bravery, then he says that this is exactly the sort of crime that has to be eradicated. What is the world coming to, he asks, when an elderly gentleman cannot leave home to buy a newspaper?

  I sit back and Marina leans her head against my chest again. ‘What an amazing man,’ she says.

  ‘Yes,’ I say. And it is true, I am full of admiration for him. In his position, I would never have dared even to look up. In fact, I’d probably be face down at the back of the shop even now. I’m young and fit and I still wouldn’t have stood a chance in a fight, not against toughs like that. Seu Otto is an old man; he cannot walk unaided. What was he thinking? Is he suicidal? Delusional? Incredibly brave? Or all three?

  ‘I wonder what made him do that,’ I say.

  After a short while, Marina says, ‘You said you know him quite well.’

  ‘Yes,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, you should go and visit him in hospital. Ask him what made him do that. Maybe you can sell his story to a newspaper.’

  I think about that idea. It is not bad, not bad at all. After all, when I last saw Seu Otto, he invited me to visit him whenever I wished. What is more, I do genuinely want to know what motivates a man of his age to act the way he did. In fact, I want to know what makes any man act bravely and honourably. Does it come naturally? Is it an effort? These are pressing questions.

  I pull Marina closer towards me. She looks up at me with trusting eyes, then touches her lips to my shoulder. Marina’s eyes close and her breathing deepens. She is falling asleep. But I am still thinking about Senhor Eisinger. This may well be a stroke of good fortune for me, if not for him. Maybe I can interview him for my investigative assignment? If an interesting story emerges, then I could talk to him about selling it to a newspaper. We could split the proceeds and I could pay my debts and my tuition. And if nothing worth selling comes out of it, well, at least I will have completed the assignment and sated my own interest

  Chapter 5

  I OPENED my eyes but the world refused to resolve itself into recognisable shapes. Outlines were blurred and the brightness was too intense and hurt my head. I felt something pressing against my right eye. I blinked and heard a soft scraping sound. Then I closed my eyes again and drifted back into the velvety depths of dreams which I now know were morphine-induced.

  The next time I woke I was able to open my eyes without the light causing such pain. Almost as soon as I had done so, I heard a familiar voice exclaim:

  ‘Nossa! At last! Thank God!’

  Turning my head to the right, I saw Anna-Maria perched on the edge of a grey plastic chair in front of a white curtain. There were dark rings under her eyes.

  ‘Anna-Maria, bom dia,’ I said, or started to say. The movement caused a jolt of pain to shoot through my jaw. Anna-Maria placed her hand on my arm which lay on the bed sheets, palm upwards. I noticed a clear tube emerging from a plaster above my wrist and disappearing out of sight above me.

  ‘You brave, foolish man,’ she said, looking at me with that slightly idiotic expression which women usually reserve for very young children.

  I closed my eyes and asked, ‘What happened?’

  ‘What do you mean, what happened? What do you think happened? I’ll tell you: you tried to get yourself killed, that’s what happened. You’ve got a broken hip, a fractured jaw and a black eye, that’s also what happened. And now you’ve woken up I have to call the doctor and they’re going to operate on you as soon as they can. My God, at your age!’

  I opened my eyes to see Anna-Maria’s buxom figure lean over my bed as she reached for a small control panel near my left hand. She pressed the little red button with a picture of a nurse on it. Then she indicated a plastic button half way up the rubber tube that came out of my wrist.

  ‘If you are in a lot of pain the nurse said to press this, right here,’ she said. ‘It increases the morphine. Do you need anything else? Shall I plump your pillow? It doesn’t look very plumped to me.’

  My head was beginning to hurt. ‘Please, press the morphine button,’ I said. Then I closed my eyes and seconds later I felt a wonderful calm flood my body.

  ‘I hit him with my stick,’ I said, remembering the bull neck and t
he shaved head. ‘Like ivy on a marble statue.’

  ‘I know you hit him,’ said Anna-Maria. ‘I saw it on the news. That’s when I found out you were here. What were you thinking?’

  ‘On the news?’

  ‘Yes, there’s a camera in the shop that films all the time. It saw everything and the shopkeeper sold the tape right after the ambulance took you away.’

  As I lay there with my eyes closed, I began to imagine how differently things might have turned out. I pictured myself felling the bull-necked gunman, having my photo taken by the press as I stood over his enormous body like a hunter posing with a stag he has just shot. I am sure that the morphine contributed to this fantasy; it felt as vivid and immediate as a dream and yet I seemed to be able to steer the events in any direction I pleased. I continued to enjoy this fantasy until a man’s voice interrupted me:

  ‘Senhor Eisinger?’

  I opened my eyes to see a thin, neat, grey-haired man in a white coat beside my bed. He was holding a clipboard. His plastic name badge read ‘Dr. Antonio da Silva’.

  ‘Me chamo Antonio, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. In fact we have already spoken today, though I doubt you remember.’

  ‘No, I’m afraid I don’t,’ I said.

  ‘How do you feel now?’

  ‘I feel well, very well,’ I replied.

  ‘Good.’ Dr. da Silva looked at me appraisingly, then he said: ‘You were unconscious when the ambulance arrived but the trauma team woke you without intubation. We did a brain scan but everything seems alright there. Well, there is an abnormal amount of activity in the parietal lobe, the part of the brain which we associate with bravery.’

  Dr. da Silva waited for a few moments before smiling at his own joke. ‘Just a little pleasantry, Senhor Eisinger,’ he said, then he continued:

  ‘The head x-ray revealed a hairline fracture in the zygomatic bone, between the eye and the maxilla. That is where the blow landed. It will be sore for a while but will repair itself. Your right eye will remain black for a few weeks. The body scan showed us the hip fracture. It’s stable for now, and the internal bleeding is local but we need to operate on it as soon as possible. Considering your age, I’m going to suggest a full hip replacement. It’s less likely to produce complications than internal fixation with an intramedullary nail, although in the long term there is likely to be some loss of mobility. We will start you on physiotherapy the day after the operation. You’ll be here for no more than a week, assuming everything goes well.’