Authors: Clemens Meyer
‘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 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 shot 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.
‘Sweetheart,’ I call again in my gentle seduction voice, ‘Please don’t be angry with me any more, please, please, please.’
And then I hear her over in the bedroom, saying something really softly; she’s got a real talent for talking so softly that I go all quiet and calm too. ‘No, no,’ I say, ‘you mustn’t worry, I’m staying here, I’m staying here with you until we’ve got through it all.’
And then she says something else, and I want her to come out of there at last, I want her to come to me, I’ve hidden the shotgun especially, I want her to come to me on the sofa with the shotgun hidden underneath it, and then I want us to sit on the sofa and I’ll rest my head on her chest and she’ll stroke my hair. I let my hair grow especially for her. I’d always trimmed my hair down to a grade one or two. That was to do with the way I’m scared of a lot of people. No, no, it was nothing to do with being scared of spiders. Mind you, what happens when a big spider drops on your head when your hair’s so short, almost shaved off? Does it slip right off again or can it hold on better with its long legs than on a full head of hair? ‘Take the shotgun, sweetheart, and shoot that giant spider off my head please.’
So now I have a real quiff, like James Dean or Elvis, and I have to say I like it much better than that short stubble on my head. I always used to tell myself, well if one of those people you’re so scared of wants to get you one day – and shit, that’s happened often enough – where’s he going to grab hold of you if you’ve hardly got any hair on your head? But I’m not scared any more when my sweetheart’s around, not even of spiders. ‘Please, please, please,’ I call, and my voice isn’t as gentle and flattering now as I like it to be. That stupid fear’s coming back now, and I squat down on the floor, and I crawl over to the sofa, wait a moment, wasn’t I just sitting on the sofa? I wish I could crawl under the sofa where my shotgun’s hiding. And I take my shotgun out from under the sofa, stroke its cool rifle and the smooth wood, remove the twenty-shot magazine, filled up to the top with black .177 pellets; they’ll even break windows and street lamps. I lie on the floor like that for a while, the shotgun next to me, and when I’m lying like this my sweetheart can’t see me, I bet, the table’s above me and there are all these bottles on it too. Loads of juice and a bottle of vodka, 120 proof. So we’ve got pure kiwi juice, lemon juice, undiluted, and all this multivitamin shite. I’ve been drinking the lemon juice straight, for days now. Kiwi tastes better, and I only drink the vodka in tiny sips when I can’t take it any more. Lemon juice is supposed to get rid of the really bad pressure, that’s what they told me, and my sweetheart fetched all the different juices so that the bad pressure wasn’t quite so bad. ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, pressing my beautiful shotgun up close to me, ‘Sweetheart, I’m a walking vitamin C, please, please, please come out here. Please, please, please.’ I always say please three times and sometimes four times, because I love her so much and I’m totally helpless if she doesn’t come out and stay by my side. But my sweetheart’s angry with me and she’s hiding out in bed, and I can’t understand it because when she was asleep yesterday, I haven’t slept for three or four days now, so when she was asleep yesterday and I started out sitting on the bed next to her and watching her sleep, and when she was asleep like that, my God, she looks so beautiful, she looks so gorgeous when she’s asleep, the face is … no, no, no, why am I saying ‘the face’, it’s her face, and it glows, really glows, her face. And as it’s glowing like that with all the lovely blonde hair all around it, I can’t help but think of Monroe. I told her that once, that she looks a bit like Monroe, her lips and her nose, but she just laughed and said I was crazy, but I think she knows it herself really and she’s proud of it too. Got her hair done the same way, or at least a bit like it. I watched a couple of Monroe films with her to prove it, kept on pressing ‘pause’ and saying, ‘Look, Marilyn Monroe, you and Marilyn Monroe.’
I shove my shotgun back under the sofa; I’m all mixed up, and when I’m mixed up like this my shotgun’s no good to me at all, because then stupid stuff happens with me and my shotgun.
Because then I get up and go to the window. With my shotgun. And then I open the window and cock my beautiful shotgun. It goes clack-clack. Then I position the shotgun and aim at the street lamp. And it’s not as if it’s just any old street lamp; it’s one of those disturbing street lamps, one of those lamps that never stop annoying you. And don’t anyone try and tell me street lamps don’t annoy you. This one annoys the hell out of me. The damn thing’s broken. Shines all day even though you can’t see it until it gets dark. The street lamps only go on at a certain time, but this damn lamp is totally out of sync, and that doesn’t just get me mixed up, it drives me crazy. So the gun’s positioned, I take good aim, and then my finger’s on the trigger. And then I feel that all I have to do is move my finger slightly so the .177 pellet hits the street lamp. And I don’t pull the trigger straight away. I always make the most of the moment before I pull the trigger. Not just with the shotgun and the street lamp. And that’s why my sweetheart’s mad now and not talking to me and hiding in bed so all I can see is her nose. Oh, that nose. I always want to tweak it, just a little tweak with one finger. Her gorgeous nose could make a nose fetishist of me, though I don’t even know what a nose fetishist does. Honey rose, honey rose with your beautiful nose. I had a woman once, I didn’t have her for long, just one night and not even all night long, and in that half or quarter of a night she kept on calling me ‘honey’, but she probably said that to all the guys, and I have to admit … ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, ‘Sweetheart!’ and I’ve had about enough now.
Yes, I made a mess of things while she was asleep, I have to admit it. I couldn’t stick it out. And what does she know about what it’s like when you can’t stick it out any more? But Jesus, that’s no way to behave, hiding under the covers in the bedroom. So I pull the trigger. I only have to move my finger a tiny little bit. And then there’s a bang, but not like I was shooting a real carbine, it’s just a short, dry pop! – and then there’s a fraction of a second before I hear my lovely little .177 projectile hitting the street lamp. But that damn street lamp’s a tough one. I can hit it as many times as I want, it just won’t break, and it shines and shines and drives me round the bend. The protective glass around the bulb’s just too tough, too thick, too solid, too stable, too protective, but then that’s what it’s there for. So I close the window again. Put the shotgun away, suddenly feel utterly sickened by the shotgun, utterly sickened, starting in my feet and rising incredibly fast, so fast that I only just manage to wrench the window open, lean over and puke out of it. I hear it slapping onto the pavement, and I wish I could puke in a curve high enough to hit the street lamp. I wipe a hand across my chin. Smells of lemons. And now the lemon smell rises slowly from below, and I close the window again quickly.
She’s crying. She’s crying softly in the bedroom, heard me shooting and puking. She cries so softly I can hardly hear it. She’s actually very strong, or she’d long since have given up on me, long since have chucked me out, and I’d be sitting back in my little one-room flat. And it wouldn’t end well there, oh no, never. But it’s all ended well now, I believe that, I believe that so firmly it almost hurts. I wouldn’t make it without her though, and it’s doing my head in that she’s crying because of me now, because I’ve been so weak again and I’d promised her never to be weak again, and all the juice she got for me, and all the pills, garlic capsules, hawthorn, ginseng, valerian (high-dose), St John’s wort, as if all that shite could do me much good, but she said it’d help me, so I want it to help me, and it’s doing my head in that she’s crying because of me now. And I want to go to her and tell her she doesn’t have to cry any more because of me and I’ll never be weak again, really and truly, honestly. But my shirt’s covered in puke and I’m so scared she’ll send me away if I sit down next to her. Or that she won’t say anything at all, that’d be even worse – me sitting there next to her and her not saying a word, and the tears, it breaks my heart to see tears in her eyes. Marilyn Monroe should always be smiling. And I go to the table where all the packets of pills are scattered between all the bottles. A sip of vodka, just a tiny sip, I’ve earned it now, haven’t I? It’s just as a disinfectant really, because of the puke. I screw the cap off the bottle, but before I drink I take a few of the pills and put them on the palm of my hand. ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, ‘I’m taking your healthy pills!’
Three of the green garlic capsules, no, better take six, a double dose. Two long red hawthorn capsules, they’re good for my circulation, regulate my blood pressure, the garlic does that too but hawthorn improves blood flow to the heart muscle, and I need a strong heart so I don’t go back to my shoes again. In my shoes, out in the hall. I’ve hidden something in there under the orthopaedic insole, it’s a sort of emergency supply, but I don’t need it any more, I’ll chuck it down the toilet later and flush it away, but actually an emergency supply’s only for a real emergency, and I’m sure that won’t happen now, and if it does I’ll stick it out, so I might as well just leave the stuff in my shoe. You should never throw away emergency supplies, and certainly not flush them down the toilet. It’s a pretty clever hiding place and all, under my sweaty insole.
And the way she searched me, turned every pocket inside out, patted down my shirts with both hands – but she never thought of my shoes. I’m proud of that hiding place and I add three ginseng capsules to the other pills in my palm. So now I’ve got six garlic, two hawthorn and three ginseng capsules. Isn’t there a joke about impotence, how you’re supposed to tie a ginseng root to your dick or something, but I don’t think that’s why my sweetheart got me the ginseng capsules. I’ve been taking the stuff for days now though, and when we’ve got through all this I’ll spend a whole day and a night in bed with her. I’ll make us a baby, oh yes, how often have I dreamt about the two of us having kids? And she has too, I know she has, she wrote to me when I … No, no, don’t think about it, don’t think about the toilet brush, toilet brush, toilet brush, what are those bastards doing with the toilet brush …? So one of these extra-large valerian capsules as well then, they used to take valerian root in the old days for heart palpitations, St John’s wort. ‘Sweetheart,’ I shout, my voice almost cracking, ‘I’m taking all your healthy medicine!’