One Another

  Yes.

  He says it as if he were confirming his name. Yes, period.

  Next question, he says.

  Now it’s your neighbor’s turn. The second question is for you, Oreo—you’re name is Derric, right? He remains expressionless.

  Derric, do you believe in God?

  Partly.

  The next question is for Big Bang—the teacher shrugs. Abdul, Big Bang says. Thank you, Abdul. Tell me, do we live in a just country?

  Abdul thinks this over. There are worse countries. He shakes his head. He thinks it over some more. So-so, he says.

  Warrior Mouse, who’s that? The teacher whispers to me. Jennifer? She gives me a hostile look. She’s one of the two who were ready to go at each other earlier. I skip one question and ask her: Jennifer, have you ever been in a fight? Peals of laughter.

  Yes, Jennifer answers, and I’ve even been knocked out.

  Next question. Tayfun. That’s his real name, the teacher says. Good. Tayfun, are the police your friends and helpers?

  No, he replies, anything else?

  I work my way around the circle with my questions. Whenever possible, the students answer with just yes or no. Most of them answer very quickly, as if to show they’re not even listening.

  Next to last question: Gloria, are there any modern heroes?

  No, Gloria says.

  I ask the question again, she repeats her answer. I ask the whole group: modern heroes? They shake their heads.

  Last question—hang on, how did I end up with you again, Mathieu? Did I miss anyone?

  Büşra’s not here today, Nesrin, the crystal flower, calls out.

  I’m happy to answer another question, Madame, Mathieu says. Knocking. Long short long short / short short short short / short short / short long short short / long short short. Mathieu looks at me expectantly.

  If you had the power, what would you outlaw?

  Without hesitation he says: cyber-bullying, discrimination, racism, despotism. He smiles at me. That was easy, he says.

  I still have the baby shoes. I’d forgotten about them. I didn’t think of them when I gave birth to my sons two and four years ago. Nor when my sons were learning to walk and I bought them their first shoes. I keep them in the big black chest we used when we went on summer vacation, my parents, my brothers, and I. It still has a label with my dead father’s name and the address of my parents’ house, where I’d found it in the attic. The shoes are made of blue leather. The shoelaces, stitching, and soles are blindingly white. They’ve never been worn. I hadn’t noticed this back then when I saw them in the Vienna flea market and grabbed them. That rag market, as the Viennese call it, sold second-hand things. I can still remember the musty smell of that Sunday morning in autumn on the Danube Canal when I let myself drift with the tide of people rummaging through the stalls when my eyes fell on the pair of tiny shoes, for my son. I took them and hurried away.

  The teacher is waiting for me outside the classroom and apologizes for the fact that seven of the students are absent. She called each of them during the free period, but she has to admit, it’s very hard to keep hold of her clientele. There’s no consistency, in either their attendance or performance.

  You shouldn’t take it personally when your students skip class, I tell her and she gives me an irritated look. She holds the door open for me. Mathieu is not there. I look around. He’s not there! The teacher watches me. I slowly take out my notes. Why is Mathieu not here? I read out the list of nicknames, they answer with here or absent. Anyone know why? I ask each time I hear absent. For Mathieu96, the warrior mouse Jennifer answers: He’s sick. I want to ask how she knows but assume the teacher will think I’m going too far. She’s standing right next to me. You shouldn’t take it personally, she says softly and smiles. The homework topic was What makes me really furious. I make my way down the rows and collect their work. Most of the students, and this puzzles me, have added exactly the same phrase: I don’t want you to read this to the class.

  If I don’t name any names, may I read your work out loud? I ask.

  They hesitate. I’d rather you didn’t, Snoopy says, everyone will recognize me anyway. I look for Snoopy’s homework and read it through:

  I get furious when I realize that people are talking about me behind my back and don’t have the guts to talk to me directly. And when some chick flirts with my friend (and makes a pass at him)! Or when I don’t have any cigarettes or when someone stupidly comes on to me without making it clear.

  Okay, Snoopy, I’ll keep it to myself. But part of writing, I tell them, is the desire to be indiscreet. Your next assignment is: A secret I have always wanted to tell. Naturally you can also tell secrets that aren’t yours, which may make it easier. All right, get started!

  I gather the papers at the end of the period. The teacher promises to get the assignment from the seven who are absent. A deadline is essential, she says, the shorter, the better.

  Then let’s say by ten PM tonight.

  It’s best to communicate with the students on Facebook, it’s a medium with positive associations, one the students trust.

  Was that a joke? A teachers’ inside joke? Apparently not since she asks: You do have a Facebook page, I hope? I nod and she looks relieved. That’s good. I’ll tell the students they should write you directly and send a friend request, OK?

  I hesitate.

  Naturally you can unfriend them when the project is finished.

  It’s quarter past nine. My husband is working the night shift as he has almost every night lately. I’m alone with the sleeping children and the sleeping dog. Under my desk, she twitches in her dream. I sit down and read the sixteen secrets that had wanted to be told. The sixteen that I collected at the end of class.

  From Jennifer Heitmann. I saw my friend’s father in the train station with a strange woman, but I can’t tell my friend. If her mother finds out, she’ll kill him. Or herself.

  From Nesrin Gül. I know that my friend doesn’t go to her tutoring sessions on Tuesdays and Thursdays, but meets her German boyfriend who she loves more than anything else.

  From Marvin Gosch. I have a friend whose father has a new family. Now he pays his old family less support so they’ll get welfare. But the son can’t work after school anymore or the welfare checks will be cut. That father should be reported to the authorities, he’s ruining his son’s life.

  Always about friends ... and yet the first word is always I. I glance at the clock: a few minutes before ten. I look at my Facebook page. There are two messages. Nothing from Mathieu. I make myself a cup of coffee. The clock strikes ten. I see that Mathieu is online. I can’t help it, I write him.

  Are you thinking about the assignment, Mathieu?

  He answers right away: Don’t panic, almost done.

  My coffee’s finished, but nothing has come. It’s already ten-thirty. Horrible brat. I decide to go to bed. A new message.

  Good evening, Madame, here’s my secret. My father is an Evangelical-Presbyterian pastor. If he finds out I have a girlfriend (atheist), he will disown me. With best wishes, Mathieu.

  I shut down the computer.

  We’d chosen a name for the fun of it. If we have a child, we’ll call it Paul, Jakob said.

  Even if it’s a girl?

  Jakob laughed. If it’s a girl? There are no girls in my family.

  And why did you choose Paul?

  It’s a nice name, Jakob answered, and it rhymes with bawl.

  I shook my head. Let me read, Jakob, please.

  Yes, you need your peace and quiet. You yourself said you can’t stand screaming children, that’s why I chose Paul. Paul, don’t bawl.

  You’re crazy, Jakob.

  No, you’re crazy, with your neurotic need for quiet. If someone’s got a pulse, he bothers you, whether his name is Jakob or Paul. Think about that. I’m going for a walk, that way you’ll have some peace and quiet.

  Freshly fallen wet leaves cover the bike path. I’m late and can’t ride as fas
t as I’d like. Behind the main train station the underpass is being repaired and is closed off. Heavy traffic. I swerve onto the street abruptly and a car shoots by me so close that my handlebars shake. I brake. My front tire veers, I fall. A van honks, swerves around me, soaks me with spray. My leg hurts. I pick up my bicycle, swing into the saddle, and push on the pedal as if I were in a race.

  The bicycle stands in front of the school are empty. As I’m locking my bike, Tayfun runs up to me. I’m lucky. You’re late, too. He’s breathing so hard, he can hardly speak. You’re all wet.

  I know.

  And dirty. The back of your coat is completely black. Do you want to go into class like that?

  I don’t have any choice.

  Good morning, sorry I’m late, let’s get started right away. I’ve read the secrets you’ve always wanted to tell, put them together, and made them into one long text. We’re going to read it together now.

  The students stare at me. Only Mathieu is studying his pencil closely.

  I give the class a friendly nod. So, who would like to read?

  I hear Tayfun whisper: She came by bike. Giggles.

  Exactly, I say, I rode here on my bicycle, like I always do. If you have any questions about that, I’ll be happy to answer them after class.

  Silence.

  Mathieu, please.

  Please what?

  Please read out loud.

  No thank you. He keeps studying his pencil.

  The teacher steps in. Mathieu, would you please read?

  No, I’d rather not, he replies and bends down to get his bag from under the desk. He opens it and tosses his pencil in. He straightens up. We wait. I look at him impassively. Finally, he picks up the sheet of paper, looks at it contemptuously and starts to read—haltingly—in a soft voice, as vulnerable as a small child learning to speak. Every time he pauses, the other students help him with the next word, the next phrase, the next sentence. He repeats after them, he stretches some words out, shortens others, he mumbles and coughs through others. If I didn’t have the text in front of me, I couldn’t have understood him.

  At the passage with the pastor father and the atheist girlfriend, everyone laughs, even Mathieu. His confidence is restored.

  So, what’s your girlfriend’s name? Derric calls.

  Latoya, Mathieu answers, pursing his lips and blowing a kiss.

  Latoya, a few of them scream. Mathieu makes a calming gesture. Guys, stay cool, always. And to me: Is that enough, or do I have to keep reading?

  He comes up to me after class. What’s up, Mathieu? I ask casually and pack up my notes.

  You said we could ask now. Your pants look bad, here, on the side, look.

  Thanks, I know. I fell.

  You fell? He opens his eyes wide, like he did when we first met. He looks me up and down. He nods. You were lucky, Madame, very lucky.

  I pick up my bag and go to the door. He follows. I can’t find the light switch.

  Here, Madame, you can turn them off here, he says, reaching past me.

  Thank you, Mathieu.

  I walk down the long hallway to the front entrance, Mathieu at my side.

  And you, why don’t you tell a secret, too? he suddenly asks.

  I’m so surprised, I stop walking. A secret?

  Do you have a boyfriend?

  No, I’m married.

  Maybe you have a boyfriend anyway?

  Mathieu, that’s enough. See you next week, goodbye. I walk away. After a few steps I turn back. He’s gone. The hallway is empty except for Jennifer, the warrior mouse, who is standing next to the yucca plant, watching me. I wave at her. She turns away.

  Mathieu is almost two heads taller than I am. Most boys these days are so tall. Jakob, Paul’s father, is 5’11” if I remember correctly, almost short by today’s standards. And Paul, how tall would he have been? Would he have towered over me like Mathieu? If Paul put his arm around my shoulder and I looked up, what would I see? An enormous, pointy Adam’s apple, follicles inflamed from shaving, acne? I put the blue baby shoes on my desk. Size 19 is stamped in the shaft. Forty-seven minus nineteen equals twenty-eight. There are twenty-eight sizes between these blue shoes and the sneakers Mathieu wears. That would make a six-yard long, double row of twenty pairs of shoes, as long as the hallway from the kitchen to my office. Knocking. Now I recognize it: CHILD.

  I got a message from Mathieu. Madame, you forgot to give us an assignment. But I’m asking for your consideration. I have two important games this week.

  Consideration?! Excellent word choice. I look at the clock. Philipp is picking up the children for once, so I have time. I write back: Mathieu, you’re absolutely right. Thanks for reminding me. Here is a special (very considerate) assignment for you: What should our book be about? By 10 PM tonight.

  P.S. What do you play?

  A minute later, at 4:13, Mathieu’s answer comes.

  I play basketball, Madame. The story should be about love and violence. About shady dealings, possibly. Betrayal wouldn’t be bad. And there should be some sex (a little), so the book will sell.

  (4:14): Mathieu, can you think of a worthy protagonist?

  (4:14): What’s that?

  (4:15): A main character.

  (4:18): A man, then. I see him as eighteen years old, a drug dealer. He earns money on the side from illegal cage fights. He dreams of being a famous rap star. He comes from Mexico. I’ll call him Kalim. He’s ruthless and a racist.

  (4:20): That’s good, Mathieu. Good luck in your games.

  (4:25): Thanks, Madame, I will be lucky.

  I click on Mathieu’s profile and look at his friends. At seventeen, he has 377 friends. I don’t see a Latoya.

  I’d always liked Jakob’s profile. He looks much more tender in profile than from the front. Forehead, nose, cheeks, chin: a perfectly composed hilly landscape. When Jakob noticed that I was looking at him from the side, he would look at me from the corner of his eye, without turning his head until I was afraid his eyeball would pop out and yelled look out! Paul would have inherited his profile, but with my dark eyes, my red mouth, and my small ears. However, his hair would have come from Jakob, thick, honey-colored, wavy. And his long, thin hands and feet. And his strong eyebrows. And—I look for a photograph of Jakob and pin it on the wall in my office above my computer. What did you do that for? my husband asks when he comes home with the children. I’m trying to imagine what my son would look like, I reply, he’d be seventeen now.

  Philipp looks at me. If I can help, I’ll be in the next room. He leaves and shuts the door behind him. I take the photograph down and throw it in the desk drawer.

  Today we want to start sketching out our story, I say and look up because a cell phone is ringing. Jennifer, please turn that off. The warrior mouse looks at me with hatred. But it’s urgent, she says, I have to answer. Hello? She stands up and goes to the door. Yeah, hang on, she says, wait! The teacher runs after her, holds her back, tries to take the phone away. Jennifer throws it at her feet. Now we’re going to the principal’s office, the teacher says. Jennifer bursts into tears. No! You know what’ll happen.

  Jennifer has been given a final last chance. She sniffles into a tissue. Her telephone is on the lectern in front of me. The teacher had put it there, but not turned it off. On the screen, there’s a picture of a cheerleader squad in a pyramid, in their blue sequined sweaters.

  All right, let’s take it from the top. We’re now going to begin inventing the story. We have a few starting points: We’ve got a young man, Kalim. He’s eighteen and he came from Mexico City to Hamburg five years ago. He dropped out of school and is a dealer. It’s Sunday night, just after eleven. Kalim is sitting near the escalator in the square in front of the train station, waiting. For what? Or for whom? Invent a character who has something to do with Kalim. Who is this person, where does he or she come from, what does this character have to do with Kalim. You have a half-hour.

  Madame! Mathieu raises his hand, already talking. Madame, you fo
rgot that Kalim is also a rapper and an MMA master.

  How do you know that? Abdul shouts.

  It’s simple, guys, Mathieu says, pointing at himself proudly several times, I invented Kalim.

  They all look at me. Is that true? I nod. So if you have any questions about Kalim, ask Mathieu, his imaginative father. By the way, Mathieu, what’s MMA?

  Mixed martial arts, Madame, it’s a kind of martial arts with very few restrictions or rules, extremely brutal. Kicking, hitting, grabbing, throwing, they’re all allowed to defeat your opponent. And guys—Mathieu looks around the class—Kalim isn’t just anyone. He earns money as a cage fighter, got it? If he weren’t such a racist, we’d probably be friends. Mathieu leans back and crosses his arms. So, come up with something good. Something pretty, too, that’d be nice. He laughs.

  Still sniffling, Jennifer lowers her head and starts writing. After ten minutes, she comes up to the front of the classroom, throws the crumpled tissue into the trashcan, and puts a sheet of paper on my desk. Done. Can I have my phone back?

  What’s this picture? I ask and point at the screen.

  None of your business.

  True. But I’m curious, it’s my job to be curious. Are you a cheerleader?

  I don’t want you to write about me.

  I promise.

  That’s my squad. The Angels.

  Who are you cheering for?

  The Blue Devils.

  I glance over at Mathieu. Could you please come up to my desk? Thanks, Jennifer, I’ll read it at home. I give her back her phone. The teacher raises her eyebrows. Jennifer asks if she can go to the restroom. Of course, I say, even though the teacher is making signs at me. Mathieu ambles up to my desk. Madame?

  How did your games go?

  So so. He grins. Are you interested in basketball?

  Did you lose?

  What do you think? Won one, tied the other.

  What is your team called?

  We’re the Devils. Guess what position I play.

  The Blue Devils? Thanks, Mathieu, you can go back to your seat.

  He ambles back to his desk, turns and says: Point guard, Madame. I’m the key player.

  Love and violence; shady dealings, possibly; betrayal and sex (a little) runs through my mind as I cycle home. I invented Kalim, guys. Mathieu, the key player. We’re the Devils. Are you interested in basketball, Madame? The trees are bare, the leaves have been raked up. How quickly both happened. At a red light, I look up at the sky. A flock of greylag geese flies over me in an arrow formation, honking hoarsely. Their beaks glow dark yellow. Be sure to come back safe and sound, don’t let yourselves get picked off, I say. The pedestrian next to me, an older gentleman in a hat, comes a step closer. He puts his hand to his ear. Excuse me, I don’t hear well, he says. I was just wishing you a lovely day, I say and ride on. Yes, it is a lovely day, he replies and the sentence echoes in my ear.