The Scream of the Butterfly (17 page)

2006

HAMBURG

THE DARKNESS HANGS
over Grosse Freiheit — the horny mile, the beating heart of St. Pauli and Hamburg. The street exudes raw, pent-up desire and hungry eyes. Coloured lights and neon signs span a gaudy canopy across the narrow road. It's a circus, a freak show. Men and women stroll up and down: standing, posing, chatting or displaying themselves, alone or in small clusters. Everything is permitted and can be bought or viewed. Further ahead, at number 36, young people, boys and girls her own age wearing leather and makeup, are waiting to be admitted to tonight's concert.

There are speed freaks, old queers, and teenagers high on poppers and vodka-laced apple juice. The cocaine flows freely; the night is beautiful and terrible.

She sashays down the sidewalk in white stilettos, power-clicking her heels, moving in and out between the groups, the tourists, and the desperate. She is at ease and confident: this is her turf, her family.

“Serafine?” A six-foot-five drag queen grabs her. They kiss on both cheeks and he offers her a cigarette. “I haven't seen you for ages. Jürgen and I thought you were . . . well, you know.” He laughs, flaring his nostrils, and flicks his long hair.

She waves her cigarette in the air.

“Had to find somewhere else to live. The old place had become too gross.”

He touches her dress lightly.

“You look gorgeous. Are you working tonight?” Then he gets excited. “Are you going to Georg's party later? Everyone will be there. It'll be
so
decadent.”

Serafine leans closer and whispers, “Might be. Have you seen Doctor Stromberg?”

“The street-doc? But what do you want with him, sweetie?”

She runs her hand across her cheek, the latest acne breakout hidden beneath foundation and powder. She knows it doesn't show, but the thing between her legs rages inside her body, ripping it apart. Soon her voice will break and she'll get hairs everywhere.

“You know —”

“Sera, stay away from that
scheisse
.”

She clicks her tongue.

“But have you seen him?”

“Someone came by just now, saying he was backstage. You could always try there.” He nods scornfully in that direction, but then he softens and smiles.

They air-kiss and she crosses the street, waltzing under the neon sign with the elephant and into the darkness, where anything could happen. She greets Valeria, the cloakroom attendant, and continues into the twilight. The backstage area is a tangle of stagehands, and topless women wearing makeup and selling cigarettes. Helga and Roxette wave as she enters. They are on shortly. Helga is crawling into the coffin where she will hide until she rises just at the right moment, wrapped in a vampire's cloak. Roxette is playing the grieving widow, dressed all in white — and with deep cleavage. Serafine waves back, mouths
good luck
and blows a kiss, then turns right. She spots Horst, the stage manager, with his shiny bald head and his cheeks glowing red.

In the dressing room, the usual eight to ten women and transsexuals sit in various stages of undress. The room is filled with flesh-coloured underwear, mirrors, cigarettes, alcohol, make-up, and powder — both for the cheeks and the nose. The smell of female sweat and the female sex. Oh, how she's yearning.

The wooden floor creaks under her stilettos. Doctor Stromberg sits in a corner wrapped in his coat, his pale face sweating behind his glasses. Juliana hands him the money; he pushes a small wrapper across the table in return, which immediately disappears into her pants.

“Serafine?” Juliana turns to her. “You're not usually here this early.” Juliana is a friend. She took her under her wing the moment she started working here almost a year ago.

“I just want a word with the doctor.” She starts to shake.
What if he says no?
She sits down beside Juliana, too scared to look at Doctor Stromberg. Juliana gives her a quick squeeze, and doesn't say anything.

“What do you need?” The doctor's voice is coarse. It doesn't fit his sweaty face and glasses. She raises her head.
He has to . . .

“Pills. For —” But she can't even make herself continue. Doctor Stromberg, however, can tell just from looking at her.

“Estrogen? It's not good for you. You know that, don't you?”

“What other way is there? Not taking it?” The rage surprises even her. “Sandra killed herself last week. Angie tried last month.” She says nothing more.

“How much, doctor?” Juliana asks the question for her. The other girls have stopped talking, and stare at their reflection in the mirror, pretending they are not there.

“An initial dose for one week is a hundred and fifty. You should probably expect to pay three hundred euros per week later on.”

Three hundred euros a week? How will she get that kind of money?

Doctor Stromberg licks his thin lips.

“Or you could always get an appointment with a psychiatrist, who might refer you for public health treatment. After all, that's free.”

Her heart sinks. She knows it is not an option. She has lived here in Hamburg illegally for seven years now.

“No, I'll find the money. Here.” She opens her makeup bag, taking out the crumpled notes and counts them. “Here's a hundred and fifty. When will I need to increase the dosage?”

Doctor Stromberg opens his bag and takes out a small jar.

Later in the evening, once she has finished, she says goodbye to Juliana and the other girls. The jar with Doctor Stromberg's pills is in her makeup bag. She has already taken the first pill. She can't feel anything yet, but she is on her way. The butterfly wings flutter inside.

The show went like clockwork. She sang old German pop songs but didn't strip. The old gays adore her. But what will happen to her once her voice breaks? Who'll want to listen to her then? And three hundred euros? How will she afford that?

The crowd outside has grown in number, their hunger a bleeding wound in the night. All veils have been dropped. The first drunks have fallen asleep in the gutter. Teenagers ramble about with their arms around each other's necks. Further up the street, near the Reeperbahn, beefy bouncers with icy gazes shovel tourist flesh into the strip joints.

Should she go to Georg's party? The only thing waiting for her at home is a cold, damp room with a tiny window overlooking a lightwell. Her life is confined to seven square metres, filled with a few bottles of rum and tequila. She never gets drunk in public; only at home alone does she dare to let go.

She takes out her cigarettes and lights up. Two country boys stop and stare. They're drunk and unpleasant.

Serafine clicks her tongue, turning away.

“So how about it, hun? How much for a blow job?”

“Are you gay or what?” says the other one. The first one laughs so hard he buckles. This is clearly a change of scenery from the turnip fields.

“Why don't you two assholes go back to the barn and suck each other off? After all, that's what you really want to do.” The country boys' heads jerk back. She knows that the contradiction between her high-pitched voice and her language makes most people bridle.

“No need for you to be sassy.” The bigger of them steps closer. His gaze has taken on a different hue; the brutality simmers just beneath the surface. It's time to leave. Serafine turns, sashaying away from them as fast as she can in her high heels. She might be able to escape them at the rock club, as long as one of the bouncers she knows is on duty.

A hand lands on her shoulder, forcing her to turn around.

“Don't you —” He gets no further. The bigger of the two freezes halfway through his sentence, then releases his hold on her. Two other faces appear behind the country boys.

It has been a long time, but it's them, there's no doubt. She reverses quickly into the crowd, only just managing to see the country boys pushed out of the way. She catches a glimpse of the black barrel of a gun. Then her uncles are on either side of her, frogmarching her across the street and into Dollhouse Diner.

“Ukë? Meriton?” She looks from one to the other. “What about —”

“Oh, they ran away.” Meriton grins and sits down in a booth, placing himself on the outside. Ukë waddles up to the bar. He certainly hasn't lost any weight since she last saw him in Copenhagen.

“What are you doing here?” She tries to look relaxed.
What do they want?

“Looking for you.” Meriton's gaze scans the diner. He doesn't look at her. Ukë returns with Franziskaner vom Fass beers for him and Meriton, and a cola for her.

Meriton and Ukë clink their glasses.

“We thought we had lost you, Arbën.” Ukë wipes the froth off his chin. His tiny eyes are fixed on her, blinking. Meriton takes over.

“Dora and Bekim couldn't find you. And then we discover you've been here all along . . . in the red light district.”

Meriton gives her the look. She has brought shame on the family. The blood curdles into frosty lumps in her veins. Anything could happen now, but the odds are that she will be found with her hands tied behind her back in the Elbe River tomorrow morning. She turns her gaze inward and leaves her body, as she has trained herself to do. The same way she did when she ran away from Dora and Bekim.

But they don't hit her. Instead, Ukë hushes Meriton.

“There,
vëlla
. Arbën needs us. And we need him.” He turns to her. “If we can find you, so can he. No more performing, do you understand? We need you alive.”

“But —”

“No. It'll be like we said.”

She clutches her makeup bag and the jar of pills, refusing to back down.

“I need money.”

Meriton turns and looks at her for the first time.

“For what? Drugs?” His gaze is contemptuous.

What can she do? Would they understand? She hunches her shoulders and stammers as she begins to explain about her body and the pills. When she has finished, Meriton snorts. Ukë says nothing and twirls his empty glass around and around. Eventually he looks up.

“Three hundred euros? A week? That's a lot of money.”

“I don't know how else to get it.”

Ukë's eyes narrow again.

“If you agree to stop performing, we'll send you seven hundred euros every week. Then you'll have enough for food. I guess you have rent to pay as well?”

“Are you mad? Seven hundred euros?” Meriton squeezes his glass and stares at the remaining beer at the bottom. His face has gone red.

“Now, now,
vëlla
. It's still a good business. And we won't have to pay Bekim and Dora anymore.”

Ukë thrusts his hand into the pocket of his sweatpants, finds a greasy bundle of notes, and counts out seven hundred euros.

“Here. This is for the first week. Remember: no more performing. And you must promise to keep in touch. Meriton, give him the phone and the bank card.”

Meriton is still sulking, but pulls out a cell phone and a Commerzbank card, then slides both across the table to her.

“You'll use it only to text the number in the contact list every week when you've withdrawn the cash from the bank. Do you understand?”

HAMBURG—COPENHAGEN

This transaction has been declined.

Please contact your bank.

She scrunches up the receipt printed by the ATM. The staff in the bank stare at her through the glass. She is so used to it now that she hardly notices. She doesn't exist in their world; she has no name and no number, only the bank card for the Commerzbank account from the uncles. She chucks the receipt in the wastebasket beside the ATM and turns around. Perhaps the money will arrive tomorrow? But who is she trying to kid? It should have been here more than a week ago. The last five-euro note lies neatly folded in her makeup bag: the last of Juliana's money. The thought alone makes her feel sick. Juliana let her stay at her place and Serafine thanked her by stealing the money Juliana needed for her daughter's medicine. That's the kind of friend she is. But she needs to eat. And the pills matter more than anything — or anyone — else. She hardens herself. She no longer buys from Doctor Stromberg, fortunately, but that doesn't make the drugs any cheaper. She'll never get a regular job. There is only . . . The chill spreads from somewhere in her groin. The long nights on the street, the cars, and the customers.

So far she has managed to avoid sex, apart from that one time with Lothar — the one time she couldn't avoid. She has buried the memory in the same darkness that swallowed up the last terrible evening and night in Copenhagen. But just because she has avoided sex doesn't mean that she has escaped the desire. She knows that people want her. She can see it in their eyes on the streets and on the U-Bahn, in the Penny Markt and in Kaisers. And those few times when she can't afford any pills, the desire — the enemy — also ravages her body.

She has obeyed the uncles' ban on performing — so far. But she needs money. Horst has opened a new club, a secret club. It is sleazy, not artistic like Safari. She'll dance and sing, but there are also private rooms in the back where customers can retire with a girl. She closes her eyes. The prospect is better than long nights on the street. And Horst has promised her she can say no if the customers are too disgusting.

But she has one more option before she goes to see Horst: her old foster family — Dora, Bekim, Qendrim and his brothers. Perhaps they have news from Copenhagen?

She takes the U-Bahn to the industrial estate and walks through the old streets, past the dilapidated houses. She hasn't been here since she ran away and hasn't seen them, even though they must have known where to find her. The uncles must have told them to leave her alone.

The place is even more grey and desolate than she remembers; it's a wasteland. Black shadows creep along the house walls. Dusk is falling when she finally finds the alleyway to the yard where Dora and Bekim's tiny shed stood against the back fence. But now . . .

She gets to the end of the alleyway and finds herself in an empty yard. There is no house. There is nothing, just a building plot, weeds, and lead-coloured grass growing in holes in the tarmac. Garbage is piled up in the corners. The sound of dripping water comes from somewhere in the darkness.

She lowers her head and turns to leave. But a voice from the shadows calls her back.

“Arbën?”

She peers into the darkness. A figure, lying along a half-demolished wall, flings aside a blanket. Qendrim — it has to be him. He sits up and grins. He is missing three front teeth; the rest are black and rotten. He must be all of twenty-five now.

“What happened?” she asks, but she's not really sure whether she wants to know the answer.

“The council decided to renovate and rebuild. They started knocking everything down. The next year they ran out of money.” He shrugs his shoulders and lights a Marlboro. “How about you? You look like you're doing all right.”

The place is deserted and no one else is here. More than anything she wants to turn around and leave. But Qendrim was family once. Serafine smooths her skirt at the back and sits down on the brick wall. Qendrim passes her the cigarette.

“I'm okay. Staying with a girlfriend,” she lies. Then it dawns on her. He lives here.

Qendrim grins and blows out smoke. Neither of them says anything.

“And Dora and Bekim?”

“They moved back to Pristina and took Iskender. But there's nothing there for me. I've got a future here. There's . . .” Qendrim inhales, staring out into the darkness. A small animal, likely a rodent, darts across the plot. Something squeaks. Then there is silence.

How would he have any news about her uncles? But now that she has made the long journey out here, she might as well ask him.

“Have you heard anything from my uncles?”

Qendrim shakes his head. She closes her eyes. It means that Horst is her only option. She gets up quietly, glides across the ground, and heads for the street.

“Arbën,” Qendrim calls out after her. “Arbën?”

But Serafine walks on — doesn't turn around.

Early morning, two weeks later. The grey daylight falls through the rectangular window. The back room with the black walls and the mirrors is quiet. The Danish businessman is snoring lightly; he has fallen asleep in the armchair with his pants around his ankles. He is drooling slightly. The thing lies limp and white between his hairy thighs.

The exhaustion is overwhelming and her jaw aches. Her throat hurts. She needs to use the bathroom but can't go because of the pain in her backside. Instead, she pours herself a drink from the tequila bottle on the table. She drains the glass, letting the alcohol slosh around, trying to wash away the taste and the smell. There have been so many these past two weeks, many more than she would like to remember.

The newspaper lies folded on the floor next to the armchair with the snoring Dane. There is a colour photograph of him, smiling and shaking hands with another man on the front cover. The Dane had swelled with pride as he showed her that he was on the front page, next to the mayor of Copenhagen. But Serafine only sees Moo-genz, Moo-genz, who has now become the mayor. He must have power and money. If anyone can help her it's him.

There is 963 euros in cash in the customer's wallet: she's counted it. The credit cards are no use to her. But 963 euros is enough for a few days worth of pills, a ticket to Copenhagen, and for her to repay Juliana so she can buy medicine for her daughter. She pours another tequila and stands with the wallet in her hand, weighing up the pros and cons.

Fifteen minutes later she is running down Simon-von-Utrecht Strasse, past St. Pauli — the bar she has never been into — and the laundromat in the basement. She's clutching the 963 euros in her hand. Traffic is busy: the people of Hamburg are on their way to work or taking their children to school. This is where Juliana lives with her daughter, in a damp basement apartment at the back of the building. Up until recently, Serafine lived here too.

She stares at the sidewalk, trying to make herself invisible. It's the easy way to get through the day — to avoid all the normal people and make it to evening. But every now and then she is forced to look up, to dodge bicycles coming toward her on the sidewalk or to check the traffic lights. Right by Möbelheim, when she stops to let a flustered mother with a stroller pass, she looks up — and it feels as if an ice pick is sliding through her.

He is standing in an archway with his hands stuffed in his pockets, his stomach bulging under the polo shirt. Narrow eyes check the street but constantly return to the archway, to number 85: Juliana's building.

Serafine can't move; an icy hand closes around her internal organs, squeezing them. He has tracked her down. The uncles warned her about this. He has come to finish it. She sees her sister's dead body; the sticky pool on the linoleum floor at Margretheholm; his cheek on her sister's chest with the red flowers; a big baby at his mother's breast; a twitch at the corner of his mouth with a little saliva drooling down. He heard her open the door. His eyelids twitched and opened. His narrow eyes looked straight into hers.

The man in the archway freezes, taking one hand half out of his pocket. The icy hand tightens its grip on her inner organs, squeezing a thin sound out between her lips. Then the ice shatters into a thousand pieces and she is free. She starts to run and he chases after her. His heavy footsteps get closer as he accelerates. She can already feel the cold steel of the scissors in her back; she has to get out of here. She flees straight down Simon-von-Utrecht Strasse, passing the low, red factory building on Millerntorplatz, and runs on toward Hamburg Hauptbanhhof.