Nobody Can Stop Don Carlo

by Oliver Scherz

  Another man took us down then, through corridors and down the stadium steps. And suddenly we were in front of the dressing-room. It was just like a dream. The dressing-room’s the most sacred place in the world!!! The man pushed me inside to the celebrating players. He caught the goalkeeper and pushed a pen into his hand. And the goalkeeper wrote his name on my keeper’s jersey. Right in the middle! With his penalty-saving hands!

  “Papa, how did you manage that? How do you know the football president?!” I asked him on the way home, roaring above the noise of the moped.

  “Why do you think I know him?”

  “Well you were talking to him!”

  “Of course, I talk to people. When you want something, you’ve got to talk to people, even presidents, just like that,” Papa bellowed against the wind.

  I sit on a bench on the platform and pull my keeper’s jersey out of my case. The signature is almost as black as on the first day. I run my finger over it. I can’t understand why Papa can’t manage to visit me in Bochum, when he could get right to the dressing room in the stadium. He tells me on the phone that he’s coming then nothing happens.

  The night train comes into the station! It’s dark blue and the brakes screech. I pack my goalkeeper jersey back into the case. The people on the platform surge through the train doors. Suddenly my determination is gone. Whispering through the night into another country, with no ticket or bed is a bit different from eating in the restaurant car. And I remember, from old gangster films, that it’s not that easy to get over the border. You need to show passports and open bags, in case of smuggling. And I hadn’t even thought of a passport.

  The guard whistles, loud and long. The sound goes down into my toes. When the doors beep, I jump up after all and run from the bench to the train. But the doors are closed already by the time I reach them.

  “Over here, if you still want to get on,” bellows the guard from the last open door.

  I look down at the ground while I’m running, so that he won’t see my face. It’s just too noticeable. Besides me there’s no one else running along the platform.

  “Next time get in earlier!” grumbles the guard, as I stumble past him into the train.

  I disappear among the people and push my way along the corridor, just to get away from the guard. People grumble at me but I just shove my way onwards. I don’t know where to go. There are no seats, only compartments with beds, all made up for other people. At the end of the carriage I disappear into the toilet and splash water from the washbasin onto my face. In the mirror I look like I do after a breaktime fight in the school yard. I’m sweaty and red in the face.

  The train shoves me against the wall as it curves its way out of the station. I sit on the toilet seat and look out through a gap in the window. The train wires crisscross the black sky. I’m really on the night train! To Italy! I really can’t believe it.

  Maybe I can sit on the toilet seat until I get to Rome. And when I change trains I can disappear into a toilet on the next train, right until I get to Palermo.

  I straighten up on the toilet seat. I could sleep like that, with my head leaning on the wall. I close my eyes and try to sleep. Only the light is bothering me; there isn’t a light switch anywhere.

  I pack my suit jacket and sweaty shirt in my suitcase and pull on my keeper’s jersey for the night.

  I leave my tie on to keep Pietro’s knot safe. Then I spray a bit of Papa’s cologne on my jersey.

  I saved the cologne from the bin after Mama’s dumping spree. When Mama is on the night shift I sometimes spray some cologne on my duvet. Mama hasn’t noticed but she keeps complaining that she can’t get Papa’s smell out of the flat.

  I polish off Pietro’s second slice of pizza. My hunger is much bigger than that slice. I could eat up the whole platform snack-machine. First the crisps, then the chocolate bars and jellies.

  Suddenly the door opens! The guard! Like lightning I leap to my feet. I feel dizzy like when I’m doing knee-bends in PE, when I can’t get enough blood to my head. Did I not lock the door?

  There’s an old woman standing in the doorway in her nightdress. At least it’s not the guard! But nevertheless, I’ve been discovered!

  “Well, I never! But it weren’t locked.”

  The old woman has long white hair, like an Native American. I have to hold tight onto the washbasin so that I don’t collapse.

  “Are y’ poorly lad? Y’re as white as a sheet. What’s up wi’y?”

  “Hunger,” I gasp without looking the old lady in the eye.

  “Ah know what that’s like. That’s yer cir-cu-lation. Need t’ raise yer legs, y’ need sugar. Come on, I got summat for y’.”

  She comes towards me and just grabs me by the arm and pulls me out of the toilet. I can’t do a thing about it; my legs are so weak. Luckily there’s no one in the corridor as she pulls me into her compartment.

  There’s nobody else in the compartment. The woman lays me down on the empty lower bunk and sticks a pillow under my feet. Then she gets a bar of chocolate out of her handbag.

  When I finish the chocolate, she gives me a banana and half a slice of marble cake wrapped in a napkin.

  “An emergency rescue, that was,” says the woman. “Anyway, what’s y’name?”

  “Carlo.”

  “Okay, Carlo. Now I’ll bring y’ back to yer compartment. Which one is it?” The woman talks funny, just like my aunt from Berlin.

  “Dunno,” I say. I still don’t look the woman in the eye, I don’t know if I dare. All the same I just want to lie down, I’m so wrecked after the day. I want to lie down and admit everything, just so that I don’t have to hide any more.

  “Yer compartment number’s written on yer booking,” says the old woman.

  “Haven’t got it.”

  “Give me yer ticket and I’ll find it for y.”

  “Haven’t got that either.”

  “What’s that? Who y’ travellin’ with? Wi’ friends or yer parents or what?”

  “On my own.”

  “Stranger and stranger! No booking, no ticket and all on yer own? How’s that then?”

  I look at the few cake crumbs left on the napkin.

  “Did I fish a stowaway outta t’ toilet? That it?”

  “Think so,” I whisper. Now the whole story is out.

  “Then we got some talking to do, Carlo. But first I’ll give y’ t’ best tip; get yersel’ up on t’ top bunk fast and don’t even breathe, till t’ guard ‘s gone past. He’s about to stick his head in t’ door.”

  The old woman grabs away the pillow from under my feet and shoves me up the ladder. I slide over the bunk to the wall, just as the guard opens the door. As he comes into the compartment and punches the woman’s ticket I stop breathing.

  “One question,” he says then. “Did you see a fat boy anywhere, one with black hair? Someone found a case in the toilet. I think it’s his. I noticed the lad getting on the train.

  I go cold all over, shivers down my back.

  “What’s that? What did y’ notice?” asks the woman.

  “That he’s one of these pickpocket types. These guys flit their way through the train and get out at the next stop with their pockets stuffed. There’s a suit jacket stuffed with money in the case.

  I hardly dare to breathe.

  “Y’ don’t say, now weren’t y’ t’ nosey one! Well I din’t see any pickpocket around here,” said the woman. “Well what y’ goin t’ do wi’ t’ case?”

  “Lost property. I’ll keep it till Rome. One more thing, you’d better put your handbag under your pillow. Goodnight then.”

  I hear the guard closing the door and the woman pulls the curtain across the window, “Does t’ young man up there need one o’ me memory pills?” she whispers up to me. “Forgets t’ lock t’ toilet door, forgets t’ case. Y’ re a…”

  I press even closer to the wall. Case, money, guard, pickpocket… I just don’t know what to think.

  “Get down here, now!” The woma
n knocks on my bed. Slowly I push myself out from the wall and climb down the ladder; my legs are shaking like jelly.

  “Now, I wanta know what y’re really doing here, with yer nicely knotted tie and a case full o’ money.”

  “I’m not a pickpocket!” I say.

  “And I’m not a guard. I can see straightaway y’re a good lad.”

  “Is my case gone forever?” I ask.

  “No panic. We’ll get it back.”

  The woman is on my side. At least I’m sure of that now.

  “Now whisper t’ me first what y’ re doing here.”

  “I’m on the way to my Papa in Palermo.”

  “Well, in’t that great. And why y’ doin’ it in secret?”

  “Mama doesn’t know anything about it. And I’m going to surprise Papa.”

  The woman’s forehead wrinkles up more than ever.

  “Yer Mum and Dad know nowt about it?”

  “Nope,” I say.

  And then I tell her that I can’t talk to Mama about it, can’t talk about Papa or Palermo. And that Papa never comes to Bochum, just sends postcards. And they’re scribbled full of writing, with the sentences wriggling around the corners. That’s because Papa writes so much about what he wants to do with me, bring me to the casino, eat octopus, go fishing in the sea at night, go on trips on his moped, roast in the sun…

  I read the cards over and over again, even though I know them by heart. Then I can hear the waves rolling in and smell the fried octopus and see much more than is written on the cards. I can see me and Papa lying on the beach, like beached whales. There’s no one else around. Or we sit on Papa’s balcony and slurp spaghetti. Or we chat about how Bochum is no fun without Papa. And how we will trick Mama into coming to Palermo, if nothing else works. I hear Papa’s deep laugh. “We’ll trick Mama to Palermo, Carlo! That’s it! With sun, sand and spaghetti!”

  I show the old woman the balcony photo.

  “That’s where he lives,” I say.

  “That ‘im?” She points at the scribbled biro-Papa, standing waving on the balcony. “Yer Dad’s a funny one, eh?”

  “Yes, he really is,” I say.

  “And y’re just goin’ to ‘im, goin’ t’all this trouble, jus’ for ‘im… lad, do y’ miss yer Dad so badly?”

  “Yes. I really do.”

  The woman looks out the window, as if she can see something, even though the curtains are closed. It’s ages before she says anything.

  “I think that’s great, Carlo. What y’ dare t’ do. I really do. Ah’m 78 years of age and I’m going after the great love of my life. Shoulda done it years ago. Don’t even know if he’s still alive. But back then, y’ see, me in Berlin, ‘im in Rome. So far away, it wudn’a do, I thought then. So, we missed each other. Now I think it’s my biggest mistake.”

  The whole time I’m looking at the woman’s brown marks. They’re everywhere, on her hands and her arms, even on her face. Maybe you get them from waiting too long for someone or missing them all the time.

  “Now what are we going to do with you, Carlo? Determination is one thing. But there’s other things to think about. Have y’ any idea how worried yer Mum is about ye?”

  “She thinks I’m staying with a friend,” I say.

  “And when it all comes out?”

  I look down at the cake crumbs again.

  “Look here, this is what we’ll do: we’ll let yer Mum sleep on for a while and ring her early tomorrow morning. I’ll help y’. She has t’ know, ye know.” The woman catches my chin and lifts my head so that I’m looking at her face and not at the crumbs. “D’y’ agree?” I nod.

  “Good. An’ now let’s get yer’ case back. The guard can have his pickpocket, if that’s what he wants.

  A minute later I’m standing behind our sliding door, waiting. The old lady is already at the end of the corridor. I’m so excited I nearly pee my pants. She calls the guard until he comes out of his compartment. Then she tells him that the tap in the toilet is broken. That’s her plan.

  “There in’t a drop of water coming outta’ t’ tap!”

  “Did you press the button?” asks the guard.

  “What button? There’s no buttons on t’ tap. Come and see.”

  The guard shakes his head and goes into the toilet with the woman, just like she said he would.

  Now it’s my turn! I whizz down the corridor, like a gangster in a chase, straight into the guard’s compartment. Quick as lightning I look around, behind the chair, under the table, left, right. Where’s that case? My heart thumps in my ears. I open the cupboard. And there it is! My case!

  I grab it out of the cupboard and slam the door shut again. Then I whizz back down the corridor, without turning around.

  Back up on my bed and under the cover. My heart is still thumping, right until the old woman comes back.

  “Well, it’s a good thing, that I look t’ way I do, as if I han’t a clue about how t’ world works,” she says, knocking on my case. “Y’ got it. Well done. Y’d get by as a pickpocket.” She giggles like a girl, not a bit like an old woman.

  “Thanks!” I whisper.

  “No problem. An’ now let’s get some sleep. We’ve got important stuff to sort out in t’ morning…”

  I don’t know how I could close my eyes now.

  I still can’t sleep even though the old woman has been snoring for ages.

  My phone beeps. It shows: Welcome to Austria. I’m in a different country! Without a passport and with a case that’s been searched. I hold my case tight and look at the holes in its lid. I’m tired out. But I can’t stop thinking about Papa and Mama and how he was thrown out, in the middle of the night. I often think about that before falling asleep. Mama just chased Papa out of the flat, down the stairs and out the door. Even though she’s really a little fly and Papa‘s a bear.

  I shut myself into my room for three days afterwards. “Carlo, talk to me, please. It’s not all my fault,” Mama called through the door.

  I often used to ask myself how a bear could let himself be chased off by a fly. A bear would only do that, if he felt pretty small himself, if he had a really bad conscience. Maybe Papa wasn’t really hunted away, maybe he just skived off. I don’t know anything about love but I know there are lots of rules about it. Mama knows them all. She used to explain them all to Papa, up and down, through and through, in German-Italian and Italian-German. But Papa never kept the rules, that’s certain. And maybe he just skived off from love. Maybe.

  During the night I dream that I phone Mama. I’m sitting on the moped behind Papa and shouting into the phone, that everything is going well.

  “Carlo, you haven’t a clue, you’ve no idea how worried I am,” shouts Mama back. “Come home immediately!!!”

  But Papa and I race through Palermo, through every red light, away from the police chasing us, we’re heading straight for a cliff.

  “Arrivederci!” roars Papa, waving at the police.

  Then we’re right over the cliff on the moped. The cliff is more than a hundred meters high. The moped flies off beneath us along with Mama on my phone. Papa and I fall for a whole minute, our legs stretched out. Then we do the biggest cannonball ever, down into the sea.

  When I wake up Mama is still in my head. It’s bright outside already, but the old lady’s still snoring on. I twist and turn, towards the wall and back again. “We’ll ring her early tomorrow morning,” the woman had said. Maybe Mama won’t be raging if I ring her. Maybe she’ll start to cry, because I just left, without a word, like Papa always did, or because she’s worried that something happened to me. And what if she bawls her eyes out, like she did when she threw Papa out? I used to think she would never be happy again.

  I take my case and slither towards the ladder, moving as quietly as I can so that I don’t wake the old woman. Then I climb down the ladder and slip on my trainers.

  The brown spots on the old lady’s face are still there. I can’t wait around for Papa until I get brown spots.


  “I’m really sorry, but I just have to go,” I whisper. I would much prefer to say a proper goodbye to the woman. “But this is the only way.”

  I run through all the carriages, right to the end of the train, as far away from the guard and the woman as possible. I really like the woman but I’ll only phone Mama when I’m safely in Palermo. I’ll ring from Papa’s balcony, with Papa’s help, before Mama discovers my empty bed.

  I’m the very last one off the train in Rome, right at the end. Most of the passengers run towards the main concourse. I get behind a pillar. Luckily, I don’t see the guard. I look at the old woman’s back until she disappears in the crowd.

  Then I put on my sunglasses and throw my suit jacket over my shoulder. Don Carlo is in Italy. I come from here, I can feel that straightaway, even though I was never here before. Italy is in me, from Papa. He’s a real Sicilian. And so am I, at least, half of me is.

  I stroll onwards. Everything around me is Italian, the sun, the people, the advertisements and the announcements on the loudspeakers. I understand them, I’m half-Italian and I half-understand Italian:

  “…there’s a connection for the Intercity Express to Palermo at 10:33, Platform 2…”

  I look at the station clock. It’s 10:30! I get the shock of my life. My phone also says 10:30! The woman in the ticket office in Bochum told me I had an hour before my train for Palermo left! How come it’s only three minutes?

  A notice beside the clock says, “Rittardo”. Delayed! The night train was late. Everything’s late in Italy, Mama says. How can I get from Platform 28 to Platform 2 in three minutes?!!

  I run, just like all the other passengers had, the whole length of the platform, back the whole length I had earlier run through the train, and even further until I got to the first carriage. At last I get onto the concourse and I run on, past all the platforms. 27… 26… 25… there are a lot more platforms in Rome than in Bochum! And there are many more people that I need to dodge around.