Tiger Milk

by Stephanie de Velasco

  I pull the box of photos out from under the bed, here I say, handing a photo to Jameelah.

  Papa has me on his lap and is playing chess with the person who shot the photo. I know for a fact that Mama took the photo. If I didn’t know it for a fact it would never occur to me that Mama had ever played chess. Mama and chess are about as far apart as I don’t know, whatever the farthest apart two things can be is.

  Never seen him, says Jameelah staring at the photo.

  Of course not, how would you?

  I don’t know, on Kurfürstenstrasse maybe.

  That’s enough, I say ripping the photo out of her hand.

  Just imagine, says Jameelah, picture us on Kurfürsten sitting on our usual electrical box and then all of a sudden your father comes past, that would be something.

  That would not be something, I say, shut up.

  Take it easy, says Jameelah.

  Take it easy my ass.

  Gingerly she takes the photo from me again and looks at it for a long time.

  Be happy, she says, at least you still have a father. Mine can’t ever pop up somewhere, not even on Kurfürsten.

  It doesn’t do me any good. If you don’t hear from somebody they might as well be dead.

  Bullshit, says Jameelah, if you really wanted to you could see him. Or at least write to him.

  I wanted to, I say, because of the ring.

  Then do it. Just call him. That’s what I’d do. I’d tell him off. Just up and leaving his family like that.

  Call him, I don’t know. I’m not sure I have the nerve.

  Does you mother have an address book?

  Yeah.

  I’ll bet your mother has his number in it.

  Why would she? They don’t have anything to do with each other.

  Parents have that sort of information, especially when they’re enemies. Believe me parents who are fighting with each other are more tightly bound together than parents who get along.

  Jameelah stands up and swats the cookie crumbs off herself.

  Come on, show me the address book.

  When we’re in front of Mama and Rainer’s bedroom I knock before I open the door just to be safe but there’s nobody there and the bed is freshly made, the decorative quilt is even on top, that must have been Rainer. There’s a table next to the window with a small TV on it and beneath the TV is a drawer where Mama keeps the remote and the TV magazine. Underneath the magazine is her address book.

  Here, I say handing Jameelah the book with my heart pounding.

  What’s his name, she asks.

  Jameelah sits cross-legged on the bed, wets her pointer finger and starts leafing through the book. I watch over her shoulder as she goes through G, H, I, the quilt is all rumpled, hopefully nobody comes home, I think, Mama doesn’t like it when we go into her room.

  There he is, Joachim, right below my number. Funny, eh, that we’re right next to each other, says Jameelah grinning, come on you’re going to call him now.

  My head starts to throb.

  You’re nuts, I say.

  Why?

  I haven’t spoken to him in forever.

  All the more reason, says Jameelah.

  I can’t.

  Come on, at the end of the day he’s just your dad!

  No, I say, there is no chance.

  Fine, says Jameelah grabbing the pen on the table and writing the number on her arm, then I’ll call him

  Together we smooth out the quilt and go back into my room. I carefully close the door.

  Like the old days, says Jameelah changing the settings on her phone so the number is anonymous.

  What do you mean like the old days?

  Prank calls. Good afternoon we just wanted to notify you that you won the lottery. Your house will be demolished today. Remember?

  It’s not like the old days, I say, and what do you want to say to him anyway?

  Not sure yet, says Jameelah typing the number and turning up the volume. I sway nervously back and forth on my bed. I hear it ringing.

  Hello?

  He’s there on the line, from one second to the next suddenly there on the phone, but somebody must have stuffed an insane amount of cotton in my ears because all of a sudden I can barely hear anything and the blood rushes at the speed of light into my head and then back down to my legs, everything pulses and whooshes and jumps, heart and lungs and stomach. As if from very far away I hear Jameelah talking to Papa.

  Hello Joachim, so, how’s it going?

  Who is this, I hear Papa say.

  Come on, says Jameelah acting surprised, don’t you recognize me anymore?

  I don’t believe so, says Papa and laughs.

  It’s been years, says Jameelah.

  It’s been a light year since the last time I heard Papa laugh, exactly one light year, the living room was dark, I was on his lap, pretzel crumbs everywhere, the TV flickering in front of us showing a movie where Bud Spencer is punching everybody. I can still hear the sounds distinctly, Bud Spencer’s fists landing and Papa laughing.

  I’ll give you three guesses, says Jameelah.

  Papa laughs again and this time he sounds unsettled.

  I really don’t know, I hear him say, there’s a rustling sound on the line as if the wind has just blown into the mic on his phone.

  I’m sorry, says Papa, I’m afraid you must have dialled the wrong number.

  No, I definitely have not.

  Hang up, I whisper but Jameelah doesn’t listen.

  Make like a sundial and count only the hours when the world is bright.

  Excuse me, asks Papa.

  Make like a sundial, says Jameelah again, and count only the hours when the world is bright. What kind of stupid expression is that anyway?

  It’s dead quiet on the other end of the phone. My head and heart pound.

  Nini is that you, asks Papa.

  Before Jameelah can answer I grab the phone.

  Papa?

  Nini, he says again, is that you?

  Yeah Papa, it’s me.

  Suddenly I have a horrible squeaky voice.

  My God has something happened, where is your mother?

  No idea.

  Is everything okay?

  Yes, I say.

  What a scare you gave me dear child, says Papa, I thought it was something serious.

  To be honest I don’t really understand what he’s talking about with a scare and something serious. I would love to ask that and a thousand other things. I close my eyes and try to form a sentence but my mind is completely empty and just like that loose thread and the action figures in the drawer the words get all tangled up in my lungs, in my throat, in the air.

  There’s a rustling on the line again.

  I’m on a train, says Papa, I can’t hear you very well.

  I can’t hear you well either, I say.

  He answers something but his voice and some of the words break up into unintelligible snippets and at some point the call is dropped and there’s nothing more than the radio silence of a dead zone. Papa is gone. There’s a beep and I hold the warm phone in my hands for a while longer, it feels a bit like a warm hand, I think, like the still-warm hand of someone who’s just died, since hanging up is a bit like dying, hanging up is a little death.

  Fucking dead zones, says Jameelah, come on call back.

  No, I say and I realize that my voice is back to normal.

  A thousand things go through my head, all the things and questions I wanted to ask, all the tangled up words are suddenly lined up like toy soldiers, perfectly straight lines, rifles aligned with their feet, standing at attention forming perfect sentences. I wonder if he still has the key chain I made for him out of bottle caps in kindergarten, whether Chico is still around and Grandma Muelsig, why he sent me the Bodyguard soundtrack, whether it was supposed to be a sign, you know, like I’ll protect you even if only from a distance, and why he didn’t just take me with him instead of protecting me from a distance. At least he could have asked me
. But then again maybe he didn’t want me to go with him, maybe I was little and irritating and useless, dirty and tangled up like the stuff in the drawer of junk, like Mama’s clothes in the basement or Rainer’s useless electrical devices, the kind of stuff you weed out when you move because you don’t want it at a new apartment.

  You okay, asks Jameelah.

  I don’t know. Strange situation. It’s been so long since I spoke to him. And it was all so sudden.

  At least you have his number now, says Jameelah, you can call him whenever you want. It’s great.

  Yeah, I say, that’s true, even though I know I never will. I’ll never call Papa again and then it occurs to me that the reason I wanted to talk to him was the ring. Fuck that ring, what business is it of mine, Mama’s whining about the ring, why should I care whether Papa took the thing or not and then I catch myself wishing that I really had met Papa on Kurfürsten. Sure, there would have been trouble, Mama and Rainer would have found out and the school principal, and Papa would be incredibly disappointed in me, all of that is true. But at least he would have to have thought about me and the fact that he had a daughter out there somewhere, one who got herself into a lot of shit, and then he’d have to worry about me like it or not. At least for one single moment he’d have to worry about me.

  Noura always says you should do something nice once in a while, something that belongs just to you and you alone. Today I’m going to do something nice, and all by myself. Mama and Jessi aren’t home, they said goodbye this morning and Mama gave me twenty euros before they took off and another twenty for the taxi.

  My rolling suitcase, the one I got for the school ski trip, is packed and waiting in the hall. I look at the time, I can only eat and drink for exactly one more hour and then not until tomorrow when everything’s all done, but I’m so worked up that I haven’t been able to eat since breakfast anyway. I take my suitcase and go down to the street and wave down a taxi. I’ve never been in a taxi by myself, the best I ever did was once together with Rainer but luckily Rainer has the late shift today.

  When I’m in front of the hospital I fish around in my trouser pocket for the doctor’s referral. A girl is sitting at the entrance, she’s not much older than me, maybe sixteen or so, but she looks like a real nurse, she’s wearing a white smock with a white cardigan over it. She hands me a clipboard and I have to fill out all sorts of forms. Once I’m done with that another nurse comes over to me, an older one.

  You’re far too early, she says taking my suitcase and putting her arm around my shoulders. We walk down the hall together. The walls are painted from floor to ceiling but not the way Nico does it, the way sick children would, sick kids who are bored. There’s a pink rhino, a yellow crocodile, a smiling crab with huge pincers, a colourful clown and next to that a black guy saying to the clown, I don’t have anything against people of colour. It’s the worst joke I’ve heard in I don’t know how long, but as I’m walking by and read the speech bubble I find it somehow funny, it’s so harmless.

  The nurse opens the door next to the clown and there are two beds in the room. The one in the back, by the window, is empty but there’s someone in the closer bed, I don’t know if it’s a boy or girl, I mean I could probably tell if I looked but all I can do is stare at the legs in the bed, they distract me from anything else. The legs are charred, born to a crisp you could say in O-language, it would be a bit of an exaggeration but you’re allowed to exaggerate in O-language, in fact O-language is made for exaggerating because you use it either for a laugh or because things are way too cross and mossed up and regular language just can’t express how cross and mossed up things are, but anyway the legs are burned.

  This is your bed here, says the nurse pointing to the empty bed. She pulls up the shade and opens the window, sun streams in, I have to squint. Outside is a big park with lots of trees and in between the trees are bushes with white flowers, the only thing missing is a lake, then it would be like it is in Italy.

  So, says the nurse walking around the bed and fluffing the covers, we’ll see if the anaesthesiologist has time to meet with you.

  I look over at the other bed again.

  What happened, I ask.

  The nurse sighs.

  Nylons. Matches and nylons. She’s still very weak. She was in intensive care until yesterday.

  She goes to the door and her nurse shoes clop on the floor like my flip-flops, just healthier. As I unpack my things and stow them in the drawer of the nightstand I feel pretty grown-up, in a different way from on Kurfürsten. I look over at the girl. Her wounds are yellow and red, the scabs are spiky and saw-toothed and in between are big black spots. Hospitals are something serious, you don’t mess around, and that’s good because everyone here knows not to mess around. I stretch out on the bed and wonder to myself whether anyone has ever died in this room or even right here in this bed. It wouldn’t be so bad, with a view of the park, the sun shining in your face, there are worse ways to die. People who say hospitals are creepy places really don’t have a clue, it’s such a throwaway thing to say. I mean sure, this isn’t a playground, but anyone who seriously thinks it would be nicer to die at a playground than here must have lost their chador.

  There’s a knock at the door.

  Come in, I say.

  It’s Jameelah.

  Salam! What is this the Four Seasons, she says letting herself drop onto the bed next to me, couldn’t wait to check in, could you?

  I put my arms behind my head and smile.

  It’s almost as nice as Italy, I say.

  Wait until you see the food, it’s usually crap, says Jameelah and then she looks over at the other bed.

  What happened to her, she whispers.

  Nylons, I say, and matches.

  Really?

  There’s another knock at the door. Three doctors in white lab coats come into the room. You can tell which one is the boss right away. He’s the tallest, looks great, and he walks ahead of the others.

  Guten Tag, he says smiling, I’m Doctor Berkenkamp, I’ll make sure that you are fast asleep before the operation tomorrow. We’ll give you a shot and then send you off to a beautiful island, what do you think?

  Sounds good, I say.

  He sits down on the bed next to me. His eyes are deep blue like Tarik’s.

  Can I come to the island too, asks Jameelah flopping into the wicker chair next to the window.

  The lead doctor laughs. He gently feels my neck with his cool fingers. He taps on my cheekbones and asks if it hurts and then he looks down my throat.

  Which would you prefer, Greece or Italy, he asks tossing the tongue depressor into the bin next to my nightstand.

  Italy.

  Good, in that case we will send you to a beautiful island off the cost of Italy.

  Fine with me, I say, but the important thing is the anaesthesia.

  Don’t want to have to wake you like Sleeping Beauty, says the lead doctor pinching my cheek, his hands smell like expensive cologne and I think that it wouldn’t be so bad if he woke me like Sleeping Beauty.

  The next morning a nurse wakes me. She rolls me down the hall in my bed to the lift. We go down to the basement, past fluorescent lights and through some thick glass doors that swing open and then the lead doctor is there. I recognize his blue eyes even though the rest of his face is covered.

  We’re off to Capri, he says putting a needle in my arm and attaching it to a long hose but after that there’s nothing, no Capri, nothing at all.

  I wake up slowly. Mama and Jessi are sitting at the table next to the window. Jessi is playing with her rubber hand clackers and Mama is looking out at the park and the first thing that comes into my head is what Mama would have answered, Italy or Greece.

  Nini, calls Jessi jumping up and sitting at the end of the bed, you look like a Chinese mental patient.

  So do you, I say. It hurts a lot to talk. The stitches in my jaw hurt.

  How do you feel, asks Mama.

  Okay.

  Mam
a looks at the time.

  We have to go, she says and kisses me goodbye on my forehead, you slept for such a long time.

  It’s fine, I say and fall back to sleep.

  I only wake up again when a nurse pushes a trolley in with two trays on it. On one is normal food, on the other one, the one the nurse puts down on my nightstand with a smile, is a plastic container filled with puree, it looks like diarrhoea with a straw in it. I start grumpily slurping.

  Come on another bite, says the nurse to the burned girl holding a piece of bratwurst under her nose, but when she turns her head away again the nurse gives up. As she goes to the door Jameelah comes in.

  She grins at my container of diarrhoea.

  Tasty?

  Ha ha.

  I told you.

  She gets a great meal and doesn’t even touch it, I whisper nodding at the burned girl.

  She must have private health insurance.

  I’m hungry.

  Go ahead and take hers, says Jameelah.

  Very funny.

  What, are you scared, she says walking over to the other bed.

  Hello, she says, your food is getting cold, hello, she repeats waving her hands in front of the burned girl’s face. I can’t help giggling.

  Well then, as long as you don’t give a shot, Jameelah says grabbing the tray and sitting back down next to me.

  Give me some, I say but Jameelah shakes her head and shoves another delicious looking piece of wurst into her gullet.

  You were too scared to take it, so enjoy your diarrhoea.

  Come on just a piece of bratwurst.

  Man you’re not supposed to eat any solid food with those stitches in your mouth, they’ll pop and then it’ll be a huge mess.

  Then mosh up a piece for me.

  Mosh for mash, that’s good. But don’t give a shot wasn’t bad either, eh?

  Give me a piece.

  I’m going to call the nurse if you take any, says Jameelah putting her hand on the red call button next to my bed.

  Blackmailer, I say.

  The squeaking sound of the food trolley wakes me. A sweet guy in white clothes walks in.