Hooligan

  He shoves me against the door and scoots me aside. Then he pushes me into the room, walks past, and sits down in his manager’s chair. Everyone has turned around. Tomek is standing between them like something foreign. He looks at me. In commiseration. But with rage in his eyes. I can see clearly that he dislikes the taste of this as much as I do. I’d like to yell at him that he should grab the knife from the drawer and throw it to me so I can put an end to these dirty fuckers. Maybe they were in Leipzig. Beating and kicking Kai. Made him half-blind. The image of ripping open their throats with the rough side of the knife sends a pleasant, warm feeling down my spine. Axel stares at me. His neck muscles are tense, making him look like wires have been run beneath his skin.

  I say it. I actually say it. Say, “Sorry.” And I’ve never hated myself more than in that brief moment. Like a dirty traitor. One like my uncle. A dirty, hypocritical, fucking traitor. I haven’t even completely finished saying the word when I push open the door and escape to the hallway. I run to the toilets. Have the feeling I need to barf. Simply vomit everything out. Only sour bile comes up, and I pant and scream into the bowl so my own gagging is thrown back into my ears by the porcelain.

  ———

  Relegation to the second league. One of the most infamous games in our history. Uncle Axel had gotten our mothers’ permission to bring Kai and me along, saying he’d take good care of us and nothing would happen.

  We two twerps, wearing our 96 scarves, were standing among the men in the away side’s section. The songs roared around us, and the fans threw their fists in the air, and we jumped around on the perimeter fence like we were on fire. Things were going on like in a wave pool, and the sluggish masses of Hannover fans repeatedly washed against the lateral fences separating us from the other spectators. Monkey sounds rang out across the field of play. Every time our players Addo and Asamoah had the ball. I asked my uncle why they did that, and he said because they were Negros, and I didn’t have the slightest notion what that meant. And I jumped on the fence, Kai along with me, and we hoped our curses reached the Cottbus fan section. No one was allowed to insult Otto and Gerald. Regardless of how! They were our best. Playmakers and goal getters. Assured Hannover’s offensive attack. But we weren’t loud enough. Our flat boyish voices drowned out in our own crowd’s yells. A wall of faceless policemen behind heavy riot helmets set up in front of us, but we didn’t care. Even back then, I’d learned there’s no backing down. Even when the first beer cups filled with gravel flew into our section and a couple people next to us hit the ground, bleeding. Here in the Cottbus Stadium of Friendship, you get stones and shit thrown at you. Axel, Tomek, and Hinkel formed a circle around us. Protected us from the projectiles next to the fence. I tried to look through their bodies. Those hit were helped up. Got something to drink. They wiped the blood away or held tissues to the gaping wounds till the fabric itself stuck to them and their hands were freed to beat their fists in the air.

  The game would be over soon. The score was 1–1, and 96 was gaining the upper hand. When the floodlights went out and the corner flags were cloaked in darkness. Game put on hold. The evening air vibrated with thousands of voices that were screaming their heads off and driving me crazy. But in a good way. So I would have liked nothing more than to take the monkey sounds as a reason to race up the fence, perch on top of it, and scream like mad. Scream Hannover. 96.

  From then on, everything went wrong on the field. And when the lights went back on but only on one side, and Sievers, our keeper, was blinded, the fan section crowed in unison, “Fixed!” And the team’s rhythm was thrown off. Cottbus got back into the game and the visitors’ section boiled over. We watched as our own people destroyed a sausage stand, and a charcoal grill was knocked over. And the whole thing burned like an oversized torch in the partially darkened Stadium of Friendship. And Kai and I stood there shoulder to shoulder and cheered them on, and the light of the flames flickered against our bared teeth, and Tomek and Hinkel and Töller and my uncle brawled with the police. They beat down on us with batons, but we didn’t budge. Only had our own fists. And hit back. And Kai and I looked at each other and he thought the same thing as me and we swore to ourselves we’d never budge and we’d stand there some day. In the front row. And we sealed our oath with a handshake.

  ———

  I can barely look Kai in the eye. Can’t anyway, because they’re still glued shut. So it’s not even possible. But even looking at him is hard for me after my denial. That’ll change after the match on the 18th. Once the score has been settled. Kai’s eyes will heal completely and we’ll be able to get back to normal. Everything like it was before.

  Kai gets up from his bed and says something. I’m scrolling through the pictures I shot with my smartphone of the winding passages and alleys in the Ihme complex. It’s the perfect place for a match in the city. Enough space and room for movement for a clash between forty, maybe even sixty people. And the labyrinth-like structure and visual cover of the residential towers and empty shops offer enough hiding places to carry out the whole thing before the police force us to break it off prematurely. If it even got that far. And even if the cops do catch wind of it in time, the complex offers more than enough escape routes. But because of the low level of occupancy, it’s more likely we’ll be sitting in Timpen long before that and raising our glasses to our victory before a single rank-and-file cop shows up.

  Kai works his way to the foot-end of his bed, expertly reaching for the other bed and pushing his way past it. Extends his hand and touches the corner of the wall behind which the room’s small toilet is located. He’s mastered the route by now and you don’t have to lead him by the arm like a resident at an old folks’ home. He leaves the door open while he takes a piss. From where I’m sitting, I can only see his feet, over which his lowered boxers are draped. Then the flush. He washes his hands and comes out.

  “Did you hear?” he asks.

  I look up from my phone and say, “What? Yeah. No.”

  “I said that I’m thinking of doing an internship abroad,” he says, “for a semester. Or maybe two.”

  Without looking, I turn off the phone and put it away.

  “And where?” I ask, although the “where” sounds furious.

  “London. One of the advisors for my masters’ program has a friend at Deutsche Bank. Already said that he’d recommend me.”

  “London in England?”

  Kai feels the dry rustling of the sheets and sits down with a groan. That’s one of the annoying characteristics of hospitals. All of a sudden, everybody mutates into the worst kind of handicapped people, moaning and groaning with every move. I mean, sure, his body’s probably still fucked up, but it’ll heal again. The eyes are what we have to be most worried about.

  His face twists in scorn and says, “Nah, London in Rhineland-Palatinate. Of course England, you idiot.” A young Turkish nurse comes in, greets us, and rolls in Kai’s lunch, protected by a plastic lid and positioned on a mobile table next to his bed. A while ago I’d mentioned to him that she’s really cute. But he lets her go without a word. Didn’t used to be this way. I ask what the hell he’s thinking, going to England. He flips the lid on his food and steam billows into his face. He waves it away, wrinkling his nose. Then he touches the eye bandage and presses it tight on all sides. He feels for the cutlery.

  “It’s crazy. I couldn’t tell you what I’m eating right now, based on the smell. You could present a fried rat’s ass and I wouldn’t be able to smell it. Snorted all the smell nerves.” He groped the spoon to make sure it’s a spoon and not a fork. Then he dunks it onto the plate and leads it to his mouth.

  “Hey!” I say.

  “What?” he asks, blowing a couple of times and carefully pushing the spoon into his mouth. “Whoa, disgusting. Lentil soup. Awesome!”

  “When do you plan to go to England.”

  “Well,” he says and points to his face, “this here has to be back first. Otherwise, I’ll get on the wrong plane and land
in Kazakhstan or something. Could be pretty embarrassing if I ask directions to Trafalgar Square.”

  “Hah, hah, funny,” I say.

  “Man, Heiko. No idea, but sometime next year. Before I start my master’s thesis.”

  “Cool. Great. And I’m sitting on my ass all year …”

  “Or just a semester,” he says, annoyed, and lets the spoon slip back onto the plate in disgust.

  “Yeah, right, completely stupid of me to assume we’d really kick some ass. The two of us in the front row. You probably don’t remember, but that doesn’t matter.”

  I can’t stand my own attitude at this moment. Like a sulky kid. Manuela was always good at just letting me be when I was in this mood.

  Manuela, always reasonable. But he didn’t leave me any option.

  “Course I remember. But maybe you missed this: I’m fucking blind!“ he screams and waves his finger back and forth in front of his eyes.

  “But you’re not gonna stay that way, man! Once you’re back on your feet, we’ll get going again. At some point Axel will step down and then we can do things our way. Then Ulf will get back in gear. Just has to find a better balance with his private life.”

  He groans exaggeratedly, slides farther back on his bed, and puts his feet up.

  “You don’t seriously believe that, right?”

  “What?” I ask.

  “Everything, Heiko. Everything! Ulf is out and nothing’s going to change that. Can’t blame him either. And Axel. He won’t quit in a hundred years. He’ll keep at it till he falls over on some field someday.”

  I pull my pack of cigarettes and my lighter out of my pocket, get up, and say, “You just wait. After the match with Braunschweig—”

  “Heiko, wake up! I’ve had enough. That’s it for me. And you should finally get down to real life too.”

  “After the Braunschweig match …” I say, but don’t know how to end the sentence. I open the door and say I’m going out for a smoke. I slam the door behind me. Kai calls something like wait, I want to, too, but don’t stop. Need fresh air.

  ———

  At first, I didn’t get what was going on. Half-asleep, I groped through the darkness. Felt my mattress. The covers, which had slipped down to my knees. My pillow is drenched with sweat. My T-shirt, too. Images echo in my head. How I’m standing on a long street at sunrise or sunset. Although the street is straight, it rises and falls over impossibly steep hills. Everyone’s there. Kai, completely healthy, and without those patches over his eyes, is grinning like a shark. Ulf, Jojo, and even Joel. Yvonne is there. She’s thin as ever but looks surprisingly healthy in the orange light of the half sun. And Manuela’s there and my parents. And I think we’re all wearing inline skates. But I’ve never used them. Each of them is laughing, and we set off. The street, down the hill. Then up the next hill. I’m left behind. I just don’t manage to get up the next hill, though all the others do it with ease. They’re standing there and smiling at me. I panic and try to use the street like a halfpipe, get some momentum. But I don’t make it, much as I try. Then they wave at me and keep on going. Disappear beyond the hills of streets. I make an effort, but can’t move forward. All at once, something bangs. I’m awake immediately. The sounds come from the living room. It bangs so loud, as if Arnim’s throwing furniture around in a drunken rage. I lay my forearm over my eyes and mumble, “Hey, Arnim, you old fart. Go to sleep.” I try not to listen. Ignore the ruckus. Just get back to sleep, quick. He’s yelling something. I can’t understand it. He should just shut up. There are other voices. At first I think I‘m not hearing right, and slowly take my arm off so the pillow’s not covering my head and I can hear better. There are several voices mixed together incomprehensibly. But it keeps on banging and thundering. Sounds like someone’s demolishing wood. Then a shot rings out and makes everything else fall silent and I jump up, ramrod straight. The dogs in their cages are the first to get loud after the shot. They’re barking like they have rabies. I grab my baseball bat that’s in the corner leaning against my mattress, and sneak back to the door, barefoot. The voices slowly crescendo again. I open the lock as quietly as possible and yank the door open, because it would only creak if I opened it slowly. I peer into the hallway. The ghostly light of the moon shines onto the wooden floors through the window at the other end. The stairs down start right next to it. I can’t tell how many guys are down there. They talk among themselves in whispers, which is completely unnecessary after the gunshot, but what you probably automatically do when you break into strangers’ homes. Can’t decide if they’re too quiet for me to understand them or if they’re speaking a different language. I slip out the door and leave it slightly open. I’m holding the baseball bat by the middle, and I make sure not to step on the spots on the floor that creak the most. I know them by heart after years of walking back and forth. I slide along the wall. My T-shirt scrapes barely audibly against the old wallpaper. At the end of the hallway, I risk a glance around the corner. Definitely not German, what they’re speaking down there. I don’t want to think about why I haven’t heard Arnim’s voice for several seconds now. The light in the living room is off. The weak, burnt smell of propellant rises. The light of a flashlight dashes over the wall by the staircase.

  “Davai,” I hear someone say, then some kind of quick mumble I don’t understand.

  The cone of light on the wall downstairs remains still now and becomes smaller and smaller.

  “Shit,” I whisper and turn back. I twist the handle of the door to Siegfried’s room, slip inside, and close it behind me. I hear the sound of the steps on the stairs. Since my eyes had already adjusted to the darkness, I’m immediately able to make out Siegfried’s large shape. Like always, he’s sitting on the edge of the chair, and his head is stuck between his wings.

  “It’s just me, old boy,” I whisper. “I just have to hang out with you. Everything’s fine,” I say to myself more than to him.

  I slip between the rows of paper, continuing to whisper comforting words to him and myself. The footfalls outside become louder. He must be standing on the other side now. Siegfried peeks at me from below his wings and rustles his feathers.

  “Just want to get comfortable behind you for a second. No problem. Just keep on sleeping. I won’t bother you.”

  Crouched down, I waddle around the chair, keeping an eye on Siegfried. I really don’t need him to start hacking away at me. But he keeps cool and lets me pass. I press very close against the armchair, under the pitch of the roof in the corner of the room and try to keep my breathing flat. The doorknob turns and the door opens. The caustic stench of fresh vulture shit makes my eyes water. I make myself as small as possible and look between the legs of the chair, straight through the room. The black outline of a man stands in the doorway and looks inside. A quiet click. He tries to turn on the light, but the switch hasn’t worked for years. Then a louder clicking follows. The man’s shaking his flashlight. I can hear the batteries sliding around inside. He clicks away on the flashlight. Then he finally gets it and turns the light into the room. The cone of light falls in the corner, to the left of us, where I always dump Siegfried’s food. The guy is quietly carrying out a conversation with himself. He’s probably asking himself why there’s a pile of bones on the floor. Then the light continues inspecting the room. The floor, the newspapers, and the bright piles of shit. Then it wanders over in our direction. From bottom to top. Shit! He saw me, but then the yellow circle of light stops on the chair and Siegfried. The guy is saying something to himself again. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck! Now he has me. The coarse feathers rustle in front of me. Siegfried pulls his head out, beats his wings, taking over the room. The man in the doorway emits a surprised sound. Siegfried answers him. I’ve never heard him make a sound. In all the years I’ve been living here. Much less a noise like that. It almost sounds like a hacked-off rooster’s crow. If the rooster were the size of a dog, a chain-smoker, and had swallowed a live rattlesnake. Something between a rattle and a hiss. Siegfried pushe
s off from the chair. Jumps forward as effortlessly as a gazelle. The huge wings extended threateningly as if he wants to shoo off a bear. The guy, who by now must have halfway grasped what was rushing toward him, yells and slams the door shut in panic before Siegfried can reach him. Too bad. The vulture stops and stands behind the door, waiting. I hear the man yelling something through the house. There’s no answer from below. Then the man yells something back, sounding pretty pissed off. His colleagues probably didn’t believe that a real fucking vulture wanted to rip him to pieces. I can hear him walking down the hallway, cursing, and can only hope he won’t find anything in my room that might indicate someone’s still at home and hiding somewhere in the house right now. I remain seated in the corner, motionless. I feel pins and needles in my legs, which are slowly falling asleep, but I ignore it. Siegfried hops through the room, rewarding himself with something from the pile of bones, and returns to the chair. He jumps onto the seat, then onto the arm. Either he’d already forgotten I’m there or he simply doesn’t care. Maybe he’s just cool with me hanging with him. He shakes himself into his usual position and tries to sleep. The steps come back to our room a short while later, pausing for a moment. Let it go, boy. Siegfried will hack your eyes out. Then steps that go down the stairs. My body immediately relaxes and I exhale all at once. A splotch of feces splashes onto the arm of the chair in front of me. I wouldn’t even be upset if he’d shit on me.

  I wait for several minutes and listen. At some point the voices and the moving of furniture leaking through the wooden floor dies down. I slip out of my stiff crouch once I’m relatively sure no one will find their way up here. I thank Siegfried many times. He doesn’t even look up from his bed of wings. While I creep through the hallway and back to my room, I think I can hear the dogs are briefly riled up. As soon as I’m in my room, I slowly lift my head from below the window and peer into the yard. I can hardly make out anything through the holes in the camouflage netting. Even with a full moon, it’s actually supposed to allow very little light. I guestimate there are about five men in the yard, but I’m not sure. They seem to be discussing something. Then sudden movement under the netting and I hear the metallic clack of the makeshift cage and how the men yell at each other. Two more shots are fired, and a little later it’s oddly quiet again. A couple of them come back into the house. I immediately lie down flat and press my ear to the floor. It doesn’t help much, but at least I can hear them walking around down there. Then the front door rings and the door closes. I stay there, lying motionless. Several uncomfortable minutes pass. The sound of motors. Then absolute silence.