by S J Naudé
‘My cousin and I then took a shower, silently washing the crusts of semen and ash from each other’s bodies.’
There is silence after Frederick’s story.
Chapter 34
Exhaust fumes rise through the gaps in the Kombi’s floor. And the smell of hot rubber. Are any of these stories true, Etienne wonders, these stories of fire and ice? Where in the northern hemisphere, for instance, are lambs born in December? And who harvests grapes in winter?
The three of them concentrate their attention on Etienne. He is thinking of the animal that ran across the road a while ago. Did the Kombi graze it? Will the border guards waiting for him at Helmstedt find a bloody tuft of fur clinging to the chrome bumper? Will they touch it with forensic circumspection before leading Etienne away by the arm, making him disappear forever, so that he and Axel will never see each other again?
He banishes these thoughts, hesitantly tells them the story of Axel again. He repeats what they have already heard, fills in the gaps, changes a few details. He describes the meeting in the substation. He tells of himself and Axel lying under the green-and-purple London sky, looking at Blake drawings. Tells how they observe a possessed blind dog chasing a fox. He elaborates on the exhibition in the attic studio, on the photographs of dead Victorian boys.
‘But when was the exact moment? When did you fall in love with him?’ Frederick’s eyes are emitting silvery-blue light. His voice is shiny and cool.
Etienne thinks of how he and Axel would pounce on each other like animals, carve each other up in a fog of sweat and spit. He wonders whether he loves Axel. And, if so, when it started. Are his visions of Axel symptoms of love? Or the sharp pain when he thinks of him? The underwater voice that emerges from his sinuses? Etienne’s story, or his ability to tell it, can’t compare to the others’. He isn’t even gripped by it. He shrugs his shoulders in the dark. ‘I don’t know.’
Cool, familiar sparks are flickering among the four of them. Frederick pulls Etienne across his chunky upper legs, so that he is now half-sitting, half-lying on Frederick’s lap. Frederick starts stripping off Etienne’s clothes. Christof smiles a white smile in the dark, takes off Etienne’s shoes and socks. The heater and the instruments rattle. It is as if the Kombi is on the verge of shaking apart. The cabin has now heated up. Etienne relaxes his muscles; sweat is running down his sides. Matthias glances back. He changes gear, starts whistling an unfamiliar tune. Frederick’s and Christof’s clothes also come off in the tangle of cushions and legs. Christof rolls Etienne onto his stomach, lets his palms glide across Etienne’s back and buttocks. Frederick lowers his chest until it touches Etienne’s shoulder blades. Etienne’s cheek is pressed against the steel; the vibration rises from the East German tar into his skull.
Etienne surrenders: to the signs with their warnings, to the trees and the clearings next to the road where meetings between East and West Germans may be unfolding in the dark, to the mutated animals testing the tar with their hooves. The ropes that tie the instruments together are loosening, the muted noises of a ghost orchestra sounding. All these impressions merge with Christof and Frederick’s bodies, with their insistent hands and their generous emissions. In this moment, at least, Etienne belongs to no one but them.
Later, Etienne thinks of the three friends’ stories. They date from the same time. Their last high-school holiday, apparently the only time the three had ever been apart from each other since childhood. It would seem that each of them tried out the world on his own, but then returned to the others. And has never looked back since. They are, after all, each other’s first – and only – loves.
And now he is being invited in, after months of courtship, via this elaborate ritual. He isn’t just here to play the drums. He is the missing piece of the puzzle.
The border guard opens the side door, aims his torch into the Kombi. They are like bushbabies shrinking back from the light. The beam settles on the heater. The guard barks at them to get out, takes away the passports and titre de voyage. They stand sleepily on the road. Two other guards order them to open the back doors and unload the instruments. It takes them several minutes to untie the ropes. They sit sheepishly on the kerb while the guards search everything, ignoring the conventional instruments, focusing instead on the pipes, machine parts, fragments of car wrecks. Dissonant noises sound as they move items about. The guards are composing something, Etienne thinks: the first notes of a border requiem.
Etienne waits for them to come and arrest him. The other three cluster ever tighter around him.
The guard returns with their documents. ‘Etienne Nieuwenhuis?’ Frederick tries to hold Etienne back, but he steps forward. The guard smiles. It is the first time Etienne has ever seen an East German guard show emotion. He first hands back the three West German passports. Then he turns to Etienne and, with an exaggerated gesture, hands over his travel document.
They pass through the West German border post in minutes. For a while no one says a word. Matthias turns on the radio. A West German station. The song is ‘99 Luftballons’ by Nena. Matthias immediately switches it off again. Frederick folds his arms around Etienne, looks through the window. Or what would have been the window, had it not been spray painted black. Matthias looks at them in the rear-view mirror above the windscreen. Christof puts his slim hand on Etienne’s shoulder. It feels like the grip of an old man.
They arrive in Hannover after eleven at night. Christof is navigating using an outdated map. On his lap is also the page with Axel’s address, which still shows Volker’s paper-aeroplane folds. They get lost. Everyone is simultaneously trying to give Matthias directions, including Etienne. He sounds just like them now. Another bird on the branch. They stop in front of a dark warehouse. Etienne suddenly wonders whether he was given a false address. Have they come all this way just to be tricked by Volker? He looks up at the building. On the top floor, he can see dim light. Achtung! he hears the refrain inside him. Achtung!
He might have been expecting surprise or astonishment, even consternation. Shock, perhaps. Joy, anger or shame. But what he is completely unprepared for is Axel’s utter indifference. His dead eyes.
It isn’t that Axel doesn’t recognise him. ‘It is you,’ Axel says when he opens the door. His voice is as flat in tone as his face is without expression. Sharp light from inside illuminates Axel’s and Etienne’s faces. Behind Etienne, his three friends are standing at the ready, like bodyguards. They found their way up here through the labyrinth of corridors with Etienne.
‘I’ve been looking for you,’ is all that Etienne says. He swallows. ‘For so long.’ Axel’s hair, previously shaven close to the scalp, has grown to almost shoulder length. His face has become thinner. Here they are, standing in the light, the two of them. It is almost midnight, is Etienne’s only thought. Behind Axel, two men appear from the gloom. An uncomfortable symmetry: Etienne and Axel standing opposite each other like delegates of the figures behind them. As if to settle some dispute, prevent an imminent war.
In these rooms that Axel and his two companions inhabit, no food is to be found.
Christof clears his throat, asks in an overly polite tone whether any shops might be open this time of night. Axel shrugs his shoulders. Matthias and Christof go out, return with bread and salami and beer. They sit on mattresses, eating in silence. Etienne notices Frederick surreptitiously observing Axel. Matthias and Christof keep an eye on the other two men. Nobody has been introduced, nobody says a word. Etienne can see in the two nameless men’s eyes that they are on something. Every now and then they, as well as Axel, disappear into another room. What they are swallowing or sniffing, Etienne doesn’t know, but he is sure that, but for that, they wouldn’t be this docile. One of Axel’s mates has a tattoo on each wrist: im knast, it reads on one. frei frei frei on the other.
Axel may be acting as if Etienne’s arrival is of no consequence, but Etienne picks up contradictory signs: eyes turning away too quickl
y, fingers hovering for a moment, as if reaching towards Etienne. Axel turns his back on Etienne. The oak branches are only just visible through his grubby long-sleeved vest.
There aren’t mattresses for everyone. Etienne will be sleeping up here with Axel and the other two; Matthias, Christof and Frederick will have to spend the night in the back of the Kombi. The three of them are uncomfortable leaving Etienne alone with Axel and the other two characters. Axel has in the meantime, at Frederick’s insistence, introduced the latter; they are called Horst and Ulrich.
‘Everything will be ok,’ Etienne whispers to Frederick. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’
Frederick purses his lips, lets his fringe hang over his eyes. He whispers loudly. ‘Come on. Please. Leave this bunch. They’re bad news. Let’s just drive straight through to Bremen. Right now.’
‘I’ll come with you in the morning. They won’t do me any harm.’ He gestures towards Axel, Horst and Ulrich. What exactly, Etienne suddenly wonders, is it that they won’t be doing to him?
For the first time Etienne and Axel are on their own. An iron floor lamp is standing next to the mattress, the kind used by factory workers for sorting or soldering. It casts a narrow band of light, hardly illuminating anything.
‘Shave it off,’ Axel says.
‘What?’
‘My hair. Shave it off. Like when we knew each other.’
Don’t we know each other any more?
Axel kneels, his back facing the dark, only his head visible in the strip of light. He hands Etienne an electrical hair clipper, takes off his shirt. Blood hisses in Etienne’s temples at the thought of Axel’s tender white scalp.
His skin erupts in goosebumps when he switches on the clipper. Buzzing blades connect with skin, tufts of hair tumble into darkness. He dusts the hair from Axel’s shoulders and back. Under his palm are strange new skin textures. Axel winces, as if Etienne is hurting him. Etienne continues shaving, but tries to turn Axel’s back towards the light without his noticing.
Suddenly the light goes off. The clipper slips under Etienne’s hand, stops. He can hear Ulrich or Horst swearing in another room.
‘Jesusfuckingchrist,’ Axel says. ‘The power again. This thing’s probably short-circuiting, this torture machine of yours.’ But you want me to torture you. For a few seconds they don’t move. Ulrich or Horst stumbles around audibly in another room. There is the click of a switch; the light flickers on. Simultaneously the clipper starts vibrating in Etienne’s hand. Startled, he drops it. It rattles and spins on the floor.
Axel gets up, stomps his foot on it. A single trail of blood is running down his temple, and further down, into the dark. Etienne looks at Axel’s nicked scalp from close up. There are shaven strips and spots in his hair. He looks like a cancer patient. Etienne quickly lets his hand slide over Axel’s dark back. There are rough patches of skin, like misshapen fruit hanging in the oak branches. Are they scars?
Axel quickly pulls away, retreating to the deeper shadows. Just half of his face is visible.
Etienne swallows. ‘What is that on your back?’
‘I was in jail,’ Axel says brusquely.
Etienne’s throat is pulsating. ‘I know,’ he says. Axel frowns at him. ‘But what happened to your back?’
‘How do you know about me being in jail? And, while we’re at it, how the fuck did you find me?’
Etienne swallows. ‘Tell me about the scars.’ Axel looks as if he is going to physically attack Etienne. His head is bonier than when they knew each other before, and the half-shaven skull makes him look feral.
Axel looks away. ‘Shave off the rest. Finish what you started. You probably want to shock me to death, finish me off . . .’ Etienne can hardly see him where he is standing in the dark. ‘Or, no. Just leave it as is.’ He moves a little closer to the light, tousles his patchy hair. It looks as if rats have gnawed at his head. ‘I like it like this.’
For a while they stand in silence. Then Axel lies down on the dark mattress. Etienne lies down behind him, his lips touching the scars. Axel stiffens. Etienne can feel Axel’s heart racing against his cheek. He pulls a blanket over them. The marks feel like burns, like skin that has melted and hardened. Axel is like a wound coil, barely tolerating the intimacy. Etienne keeps rubbing his face against the rough fruit, falls asleep in that position.
He dreams of border guards scorching him with lit torches. He wakes up sweaty. It is pitch dark. He takes Axel’s pulse. ‘Are you asleep?’ Axel just sticks a sleepy thumb in Etienne’s mouth. Etienne probes the scars on Axel’s back with the tip of his tongue, one by one. Every groove and welt. Axel makes little noises under his breath.
They study each other’s bodies as if each of them is encountering a new species. Axel’s hands become dumb again, slacken. He pulls the blanket up to his chin. He is asleep again, or perhaps he was never awake. Etienne hovers over Axel’s face, tastes the lids. The eyeballs are jerking and jumping under the skin, as if he is having a fit. Who knows what Axel may be sniffing and swallowing with Horst and Ulrich all day long. Etienne sits upright, watching Axel, waiting. A glimmer of morning light is filtering through. Sweat is glistening on Axel’s forehead.
Axel’s eyes open. ‘They branded me.’ Etienne flinches, moves away a little. Axel looks up at the ceiling, continues. There were factions in prison, he says. Gangs of neo-Nazis. He became a kind of mascot, a trophy. Each faction wanted to demonstrate that they owned him. Each side branded him with glowing iron rods. Over and over again. ‘Now I’m forever theirs.’ Axel lowers his head onto Etienne’s chest, then rolls away again after a few seconds. ‘They always came at night. I had needles. I tattooed myself in the dark. Over and over. Trying to keep myself awake.’ He reaches for the scars on his back. ‘I reckoned, if I could colour my entire body, every centimetre, I just might become invisible.’
The morning sun catches Axel’s lashes. His eyes close, his breathing deepens. Etienne doesn’t sleep again. After a while Axel is awake again. He kicks off the blanket. Etienne’s heart starts beating heavily. On Axel’s arms and chest, there are words and lines and shapes. Criss-cross, over each other. Like angry schoolboy exercises on a piece of slate. And on his sides, on his legs. They look like charcoal marks rather than tattoo ink. Etienne touches them; Axel doesn’t stop him. There is no texture; it is all below the skin. Here and there Etienne can make out words in the chaos: Fieber, Junge, Sehnsucht. Like the crooked writing of someone who is half-literate. There is also a target, a rough black rose and a spear with poison (or blood?) dripping from its tip.
Axel as living parchment. It looks as if his entire body is legible. But nothing makes sense. Words have been scratched out and rewritten, then deleted again. Etienne recently saw something similar – on Volker’s chest. This is worse.
Etienne has questions for Axel. For instance: did he in fact brand himself, his story about the supposed neo-Nazis notwithstanding? This isn’t the time for asking, though. They look at each other in silence, exchanging undecipherable codes in the current of their gazes. There are loose strands of hair on the pillow. And, on Axel’s head, wild tufts alongside raw strips of white scalp.
Etienne wants to add something. Wants to write on Axel until the pen breaks through the skin, slips into a vein and infects his blood with all the alphabets of the world.
‘Under no circumstances,’ Frederick says when Etienne proposes that they take Axel with them to Bremen, to the gig. They are standing on the pavement outside the warehouse. There is a new stiffness between Etienne and his three friends. Since Etienne came down early that morning, after his night upstairs with Axel, they have hardly looked him in the eye. Christof’s gaze remains fixed on the Kombi’s wheels; there is a scabby rash on his arm. Matthias’s eyebrows are twisted; he is looking down the street. Frederick surreptitiously tries to sniff Etienne’s shoulders, as if he wants to smell Axel on him.
‘Non-negotiable
,’ Etienne says. ‘Otherwise I’m staying behind. We can’t just leave him here with Ulrich and Horst. Who knows what will happen once their drugs run out? When the two somnambulists wake up? They are probably the ones who mutilated Axel.’
Etienne thinks of a moment from last night, when Axel started pulling at his skin, as if wanting to flay himself. As if his body were a book whose offensive pages should be torn out. Only after a while could he make out what Axel kept muttering like a mantra: ‘Set me on fire. Let me burn . . .’
Frederick retreats. He avoids Etienne’s eyes, and his touch.
Chapter 35
The hour or so to Bremen passes in silence. Matthias is driving again. The Kombi is too full. Axel is sleeping next to the mountain of shuddering instruments. Before their departure, Matthias and Christof tightened the ropes. As they drive, the ropes slacken again and the pile of iron and electronics comes to life. The Autobahn’s tar is whispering below them. Here in West Germany, the black Kombi with its black windows feels out of place. The perfect highways and the orderly cities and towns are hardly the ideal habitat for Berliners. In Hannover they drove past the prison with its silver rolls of barbed wire, where Axel had spent a year. Even that looked new and neat: the high gates, the anonymous buildings, the concrete surfaces. All impeccable. From the outside, in any event.
Near Bremen they turn onto a secondary road, then onto a narrow single lane. Christof is giving directions. They stop at the edge of a field, slide open the Kombi’s door. The day is unseasonably warm. Only now that Etienne can feel the heat on his skin does it erupt in goose pimples in memory of last night’s chill. The mineral scent of tomatoes starting to ripen rises from the field.
‘Shit,’ Christof says. He puts on his sunglasses, looks out over the expanse of tomato plants. ‘This is where we’re supposed to be playing tomorrow evening. But look at all the fucking tomatoes!’ He tugs at the scar in his neck, as if to dig out something from underneath it. He gestures: ‘There will be the stage. And here, right in front of us, the fans will be hanging out. What possessed the bloody owners? Why did they plant tomatoes for all of Germany? They know the place is booked for tomorrow. The photos showed only a bare piece of land. And a little snow.’
