Hooligan

  With her voice—unusually deep and scratchy for a woman—she said, “Take it easy, little Heiko. Love you.”

  She gave me another kiss to the forehead. I didn’t wipe it away. When she stood up, she glanced briefly at the glass cabinet next to the wall with her ugly figurines. She briefly considered it and said, “Oh, whatever.” Then she turned to Manuela, who looked at her grumpily. Before Mom had reached her, Manuela retreated to the sitting room and slammed the door, making me jump. Mom sighed. Then she smiled again and waved at me, although she walked past very close. A man was taking the bags from the stoop by the front door and carrying them to the car. She grabbed the door, waving once more. Threw me a kiss. Then she closed the door. I heard the car doors slam and the car drove off. I stood in the hallway and froze. I went into the sitting room. Manuela had kneeled down on the old armchair in front of the window and was looking out. It’d been her favorite chair when it was still Grandpa’s house. That’s always where he’d sat with his beer. Or with his cup of coffee, if it was early in the morning. I grabbed the remote control, threw myself on the sofa, and turned on my cartoon about a Japanese school football team. I liked the cool, long-haired adversary of the main character much more because he wasn’t so nice and kind. Never took any shit. From the grown-ups either. And because he could kick so hard. He always had the sleeves of his dark-blue jersey rolled up. I lounged around. Manuela briefly glanced over at me.

  “You’re so stupid,” she said.

  But I hadn’t done a thing. Hadn’t bugged her. Then she turned back toward the window. I didn’t understand a thing.

  ———

  I rush down the stairs. Almost fall on my face. Then I knock open the screen door, which bangs against the outside of the house and hangs crooked because a hinge has come loose. The bell over the door rings hollow. I quickly reach up to muffle the sound.

  “What are you doing here?” I call out as Manuela and Andreas are just climbing out of their car. They look at each other in astonishment, as if they’ve never seen such a run-down house in all their lives. Especially Andreas can hardy conceal his opinion and lifts his upper lip with such disgust, it’s as if Arnim’s house were a dead, rotting whale. You ain’t seen nothing, you bastard. I walk toward them. The gravel in front of the house keeps jabbing the soles of my bare feet. I ask them again what they’re here for, and my sister has difficulty prying her gaze from the weathered, mold-green wooden siding of the house.

  “I thought I’d been completely clear when I said that no one can just show up here!”

  Without looking at me, Andreas says, “We didn’t really choose to come here.”

  He’s smartly tucked his ironed shirt with the fine, light-blue–checkered pattern into his beige pants. He plucks at the obviously extra-starched collar. Then his hair, formed with gel into an understated spiky peak, probably thinking it’s hip or something. Though he looks more like a child that’s been spiffed up for his church confirmation. Not to mention his condescending attitude. All of this disgusts me incredibly. I briefly consider asking them in and at least introducing Poborsky and Bigfoot. Give that fancy ape a taste of real life. Not the sheltered, well-heeled home he considers to be real life. But I can’t do that. Manuela would probably lose the last shimmer of understanding for me, and her husband would call the cops, guaranteed.

  “I’ve been trying to reach you for days, Heiko,” says Manuela.

  She closes the space between us and takes my hands into hers. There are bags like overripe fruit under the glasses she keeps on wearing even though she doesn’t need them. Her hairline is reddened. She tends to have eczema when she’s under stress. She had it frequently when we stilled lived at home.

  “I turned off my phone,” I say, frankly.

  “Can we come inside? I’d like to sit down.”

  “That’s not possible,” I say because I can’t come up with a plausible excuse so fast, “you can’t come inside.”

  “Why not?” Andreas asks and makes a face.

  Because it stinks inside of animal blood and bird droppings. Because of chemical potions and tranquilizing darts. Because there are two fighting dogs and a fucking tiger living in the backyard. Because Arnim flips out if he comes home and sees strangers in his house.

  “Because it’s not possible! Enough said,” I say.

  I have no clue where Arnim’s off to again and when he’ll come back. I have to get rid of them! As quickly as possible.

  “We have to talk, Heiko,” Manuela says.

  Her voice sounds brittle. Like just before losing consciousness. There’s thunder in the distance. I can see a storm brewing, past her hair, through the tips of the trees.

  I hold up two fingers as a peace sign and say, “Two minutes. On the porch.”

  I try to give my face an incredible resolve. We walk over to the steps of the porch.

  I retrieve a cushion from a chair and place it on the stairs for Manuela. Doesn’t make any difference, because the cushion is dirty too and covered in dark stains. But the gesture counts. We sit down next to each other. Andreas remains standing in front of us with his arms crossed, scanning the porch derisively. I try to repress the urge to smack him. It smells like rain.

  “Well, what’s up?” I ask.

  Manuela looks at Andreas. Then me. She gulps.

  “Dad. He fell down the stairs a couple of days ago. He’s in the hospital with a hip fracture.”

  “Aha,” I say.

  I can’t think of anything else to say, and for some reason I’m too exhausted to simulate a different reaction. Manuela looks at me with incomprehension.

  “Did you understand what I said, Heiko?”

  “Yeah. Broken hip. Isn’t that something senior citizens get usually?”

  “Unfortunately, anyone can suffer a hip fracture,” Andreas says in a pedagogical tone.

  I pull my cigarettes from the pocket of my jogging suit and light one up. I feel Manuela’s gaze resting on me as I smoke. She still appears to be waiting for more of a reaction from me.

  “Heiko …”

  “Drop it, dear. He doesn’t give a darn,” Andreas groans. I really have to try hard to ignore him. Otherwise he’ll catch one from me.

  “Was he shitfaced again?”

  “Is that all you can think of?” Manuela asks, and moves a bit away from me.

  “What do you want from me?” I ask, my voice rising. “Am I supposed to cry a little? Yell at the sky: how in the world could that happen?”

  “Heiko!” Her voice cracks in accusation, as if I’d farted at a funeral.

  I scrape the ashes from the tip of my cigarette by rotating it on the stair step beneath me, and say they have to go now.

  Manuela starts to sob quietly. I turn my head away in annoyance and lift myself up.

  “How can you be this way?”

  “How can I be this way?” I repeat, screaming at her. “Do you suffer from loss of memory? Did you forget what happened a month ago? How you sat in his kitchen, crying?!”

  I was too loud. The dogs are barking from out back. Shit! Andreas takes a step forward. His facial features are furrowed by fear.

  “What is that?” he asks harshly.

  “What could it be?! Those are dogs.”

  A growling can be heard between the barks. Oh God, please let that be thunder. But I picture the tiger is jumping from its darkened pit and touching the wooden lid with its paws.

  “I think we’d better go now,” Andreas says and pulls out his car keys, jangling.

  “No, wait,” Manuela says. She’s clearly struggling to keep her composure, and manages to mask the quavering of her voice beneath firmness. “Heiko, I know that everything is going terribly wrong, but we’re a family. Your father is in the hospital. And I would like … No, I demand that you visit him at least once. He’s so stubborn. We have to make the first step. And you in particular. If not for his sake, then do it for me.”

  So she’s making a big scene of this now. I’m just about to say no
and send her away. Then I would finally have my peace and quiet. Wouldn’t have to see them. But the image in my mind’s eye, of how she’s sitting in the kitchen and crying while Hans is raging in the bedroom, is suddenly covered over by other images. From before. When we were younger. And how she told Hans he should leave me alone. How she made me an extra evening meal after school—whether I was home yet or not—because I had silently refused to even touch Mie’s food. How she came into my room and asked if I had dirty clothes that needed to be washed. These are actually completely irrelevant things, but somehow they mean more to me. My head becomes clear and bright for a second. This means that there’s someone I mean something to. Not because she wanted it that way or because she considers me so sympathetic. We’re fundamentally different people. Instead, for the simple reason that I’m her brother. And because it’s easy for her. Maybe even as easy as always forgiving our father for his constant fuckups. Overlooking them.

  “Sure,” I say, “I’ll visit him when I’m ready. But you really have to go now.”

  She hugs me good-bye. Andreas is sitting behind the wheel, motor running. He honks. Then she starts to get in.

  “Tell Damian hi from me,” I say and pat her on the back.

  “He’s already asked about you. Kicks your ball around the garden every spare minute.”

  “That’s fabulous,” I say and gently push her away.

  ———

  A single topic has dominated all the conversations at Wotan Boxing Gym since the German Cup draw: the game against Braunschweig. Whether hooligan, martial artist, biker, bouncer, or right-wing extremist. Everyone is only talking about the match of the year. Suddenly, everyone’s an expert and offering analysis. Not just about the football match as such. Of course, much of the focus is on the trappings. The historic significance. That the last time they met, in 2003, it’d also been a Cup match and 96 had been sent home without a whimper with a 0–2 result is something everyone seems to have repressed.

  The last couple of weeks haven’t been easy for the gym. After the raid, which everyone heard about, naturally, most of the customers stayed away to be on the safe side. Something resembling normal returned only slowly. Unfortunately, the right-wing guys were the first to come back on a regular basis. But since then, the Angels have come back, and Gaul has resumed his anabolic business in the locker-room. Axel now has a visit almost every day from the bikers, who come into his office without bidding and without knocking. He doesn’t make them go back out and knock, “as you’re supposed to do.” I can hear sharp words now and then when I go by. Axel snorts more than ever. Talks to himself the whole time while he’s stomping through the rooms. His normally reddish, seemingly enflamed skin color is duller than usual.

  I’m standing at the back door when he pokes his blocky head out the office door and bellows my name without realizing I’m a couple meters down the hall.

  “Come over here. Need to help me with something.”

  I carefully step on the tip of a cigarette I’d just lit and put it back in the pack so I can go on smoking it later. When I enter his office, he’s standing on top of his massive desk, in his socks. His head disappears into the ceiling. He’s removed one of the drop-down ceiling tiles from its frame.

  “Need you to hand a couple of things to me here.” His voice is muffled from up there, as if coming from another room.

  He points a finger at the new stack of paper with lists that’s lying on the desktop next to his feet.

  “Don’t mess them up!” he says threateningly as I’m passing him stack after stack.

  He accepts them and pushes them around in the dead space. You can hear the dry sliding of the paper over the ceiling panels. A fine cloud of dust floats down. I’m supposed to hand him a bag from a desk drawer. The translucent baggie is three-quarters full of pills. Beneath it in the drawer is a bush knife at least eight inches long with a black rubber handle. The blade side sparkles sharply. The other is equipped with nasty teeth. After stowing the bag in the ceiling, he retrieves the missing tile from somewhere and maneuvers it into the appropriate spot.

  I hold out my hand to help him climb down from the table, but he ignores it and climbs down on his own, groaning. We inspect the ceiling. Looks like before. I need to take a seat.

  “December 18th,” he says, and crosses his hands like a boss, cracking his neck, left and right.

  “Braunschweig,” I say, taking his pass. He nods and says, “Exactly. The preparations are already underway. As soon as the police measures are available. My friend at the station will let me know.”

  “Preparations?” I ask, sitting up on the edge of the chair. I can hardly conceal my curiosity.

  “This is the big show, Heiko. The chance for revenge. And the chance to finally put Hannover on the map. Even more important after our defeat in Frankfurt. And after your … unfortunate stunt.”

  He doesn’t blink. Watches my reaction very carefully. I don’t let anything show.

  “Who knows when a chance like this will present itself again. We have to take advantage.” He clenches a fist and again looks like a greasy neo-Nazi politician raging against the foreigners stealing our jobs and wanting to fuck our women. “We have to do something really big. Completely in keeping with tradition.”

  He takes on a dreamy look, which on Axel seems more like mental illness.

  “What are you thinking of?” I ask, making an effort to sound neutral, as if I didn’t care about all that and my interest was only slightly aroused.

  “Match on the day of the game. Not far from the stadium, preferably. Like it used to be. Before cameras, directional microphones, and surveillance systems were installed. It can’t be in the stadium itself, we shouldn’t kid ourselves. But beyond the immediate police radar. Somewhere in the city center.”

  “How about the Ihme complex?” I blurt out.

  He points his sausage-sized index finger at me, smiles, and says, “That’s my nephew. That’s why I haven’t chucked him on his ear. When you have ideas, Heiko. You’re a visionary. Just like your uncle. I’ll suggest that right away.”

  “What do you mean, suggest? To who?”

  He leans back. His gaze has drifted off away from me and through the room. He rocks back and forth on his chair.

  “I’m expecting visitors soon. They should show up here any minute. Sent Tomek to pick them up and lead them here.”

  On command, someone knocks on the door. Axel grins. He straightens his T-shirt and clears his throat.

  “Come in,” he says.

  Tomek comes into the office. He’s followed by four thick-necked, wide-shouldered guys. They smile as if they’d just shared a joke in the hallway and it was still being digested. Two of them are wearing Stone Island canvas jackets. Another a washed-out Lonsdale jacket. The last one, with a severe blond part, has a hoodie with old German script on it. Axel rises and shakes hands with each of them, saying: “Gentlemen. Nice that you were able to arrange it.”

  “It’s an important occasion,” says the guy with the part. From the roots, I can see the hair is just dyed. A fucking fake Aryan. The only thing missing is he’s not wearing blue contact lenses.

  “Heiko, make some space,” Axel says.

  I get up and give one of them my chair. He grins at me as if I’d had a big fat booger hanging from my nose that he doesn’t want to draw to my attention out of consideration. He slips past me, almost touching. He stinks from his mouth like a polecat’s ass.

  “Is that him?” he asks one of the others and nods in my direction.

  Confusion. I look at my uncle, who once again clears his throat.

  “That’s him.”

  All eyes are fixed on me and scan me from head to toe.

  “And the other one?” the stinking mouth says and lights a cigarette without asking.

  Axel looks at him, grinding his teeth. I can see it churning inside him and he’d like to bash his face in for it. And I hope he does. But Axel quickly opens a desk drawer and pulls out a gl
ass ashtray he deposits in from of him. The others immediately start to puff, filling the small office with smoke in no time.

  “The other one is in the hospital,” Axel says and I think I noticed him darting a glance at me.

  They grunt. It’s what it would sound like if pigs could laugh.

  “Then let’s not waste any time wrapping up this deal so we can finally return to Braunschweig,” says the guy who’s sitting in my spot and adjusting his Stone Island jacket like a business suit.

  “Heiko. Please,” Axel says and makes a slow hand motion, as if we were here in the Sports Center broadcast studio and he’s moderating the transition to the next guest.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Apologize.”

  My stomach contracts, as if anticipating a punch to the pit of my gut.

  I ask what I should apologize for.

  My uncle groans, says, “You know what for. Come on.”

  I don’t say anything. I just look at him. My arms stiffen into ice picks at the sides of my body and prevent any further blood flow to my fists. The guys from Braunschweig are waiting. They have patience now, the stupid puddles of piss. Axel pushes off his chair, grabs me by the arm, and turns to his shitty guests, saying, “Excuse us for a sec.”

  He closes the door behind us. I hear them grunting with laughter. Axel pushes me against the office door. He’s almost touching the tip of his nose to mine in an Eskimo kiss.

  “You’re gonna apologize right now for your attack on one of their people.”

  “I’m not doing shit.”

  “Heiko, listen up for a sec.” His breath smells limy. Probably rubbed some leftover coke onto his gums. “I don’t give a shit if you mean it, but you’re going in there right now and saying you’re sorry. So that we can proceed.”

  “What they did to Kai—”

  “What they did, what they did,” he mimics, hissing at me, “doesn’t interest me one damn bit! If I tell you to, you do it!”