Tomorrow Berlin

by Oscar Coop-Phane

Ten minutes go by. Armand has a sensation of self-awareness that is both simple and confused. Not like a sudden slap in the face, more of a hazy feeling of happiness; a synthetic calm. Relaxing with the same simplicity as when you dance. You breathe lightly. The first times you take it you don’t have a powerful high. You feel happy without really knowing why. You don’t get the too-violent effect of other narcotics. Before you abuse it, it’s a subtle background state. You feel happy, talkative, and come to think of it, like you could fuck well, too.

  The two of them chat, Tobias rolling his cigarettes, Armand taking bigger and bigger drags on the hookah, which looks like a holiday souvenir. What’s he come here to do? Paint. Yes, that’s what we need, painters. Above all, to live. What about girls? What sort do you like? Tall and blonde, a bit pale, ethereal. He likes it when they look lost in male company. Tobias knows some like that; he’ll introduce him. Even better, they’re not a pain in the arse like French girls.

  Shall we do a bit more? Yeah, it’s been an hour. It could be ten minutes or two hours; you lose track. It’s nice not worrying.

  ‘There’s bound to be a bit of speed in Otto’s room. I’ll go and look, we’re pretty wrecked. A little bit will do. That’s fine. No, don’t use your money, that’s disgusting. There are straws in the cupboard. Yes, cut it. Ah, that’s better, this’ll buck us up. Oh shit, the juice. I’m going to take some vitamins. They’re better than Coke. They also take the taste away and you get the benefit of the calcium and magnesium. That’s important. When you get high, you need to know how to keep in shape. I’ll give you some cream for your hands. That’s important too. Speeds dries your hands out. Here, have some vitamins. How much do you want? 1? 1.2? Yeah, one’s enough. Here. I’m going to take a bit more. 1.1 should do it. It’s not too much and you feel it more. I’ve been taking it for four years and I’ve never had a problem. Well yeah, I have, but that’s from something else. What’ll we do next? Let’s go and see Chrissi; she has good speed. You got a bit of dough? We’ll see, but we only need two grams. Ten euros each. We’ll be sorted for the whole weekend. Chrissi’s cool. She might give us a bit of free ketamine. She’s fifty-five. She’s a drug therapist. She looked after me, you know, when I wasn’t well. I slept at her place and cooked for her. Risotto, soup – gloopy stuff like that. She likes that.’

  Chrissi has a little ground-floor apartment. The big window looking on to the street is hidden behind curtains. The old druggie girls hide themselves away here. They know they can gossip without being spied on. It’s a little world of recluses. They get high together, here or somewhere else, though they don’t really like each other. There’s not much laughter, the only thing being shared is drugs. It’s a little community of loners, all of them seeking their own mind-numbing pleasure. Would they still be friends, if they had no drugs to share? But they do share, and you might mistake it for a real community.

  There’s sheeting on the floor in the living room. A few books, very few. Like in the homes of people who read out of boredom. There’s also a desk; some scattered papers – that’s the way of it – and a computer pumping out music. There’s a guy sitting at it. He doesn’t speak, he’s selecting tracks.

  Beyond that is the bedroom with a mattress on the wooden floor. Chrissi’s lying there; it almost looks like she’s asleep. It’s the ketamine, Tobias says. Some clothes, a bed, Chrissi sleeping, that’s it.

  On the other side is the kitchen. That’s where it happens. On top of the fridge, a mirror, a card and two heaps of white powder, speed and ketamine. On the worktop beside the sink are a large carafe of vitamins, three syringes in a glass and a phial of GHB. One by one, people help themselves at their own pace, on top of the fridge or beside the sink. Tobias is talking to Rémi. Their paths haven’t crossed for several months. They used to party together a few years back, in the good old days. They fill each other in on people they no longer see. Since Rémi comes from Toulouse, they speak French. Sophie? Yeah, she’s quit, she’s got a kid. She’s working and stuff. Marion? Give over, she’s in Kottbusser Tor. That’s a way of saying that she’s gone to another level: heroin, crack, the Kottbusser Tor squats. Pierre? I heard he’s gone back to Austria. Yeah, Martin’s out of jail; he’s being careful.

  Standing in Chrissi’s little kitchen, Armand feels he has entered a little world whose ways he hasn’t mastered yet. He doesn’t know how much to take. He’s feeling his way. Sometimes he’s a bit scared, but it passes, because he likes the state he gets into. He’s speaks to Rémi.

  It’s odd, we’re a bit limited. Chrissi gave us speed because we gave her juice. It’s hard finding GHB at the moment. David got caught. You can order on the internet, but that’s risky and anyway you don’t always have an address or a bank account. Lucy has some from time to time; we’d better call her next week if we don’t run into her this weekend.

  Hey, the guy at the computer’s put on a great track. People start dancing. It’s dark outside. Makes no difference, the curtains protect us. Chrissi’s still asleep on her mattress. Rémi, Gando, Tobias and Armand throw themselves into the dancing in the living room. The bedroom door’s open. Chrissi doesn’t look like she’s about to wake up. The guy at the computer smiles for the first time. He’s a DJ or something. He’s obsessed with his machines. He doesn’t get as high as the rest of them. But from time to time he gets up from his chair to go and do a line in the kitchen. Because everyone’s dancing, he gives them a smile. Maybe that was what he was waiting for after all.

  Time passes; soon it’s 5 a.m. Armand and Tobias are leaving.

  ‘You coming? Let’s go. To the Golden Gate. Hey, you look spaced out, Loulou. Me too. That’s ketamine for you. Makes you elastic. Marshmallow legs. I can’t walk any more; I’m folding. You seen my knees? They’re bouncing. I get scared every time that I’ll end up walking like this forever. Rémi’s cool, isn’t he? And Gando. Did you meet Gando? Everyone’ll be at the Golden Gate. It’s 5 o’clock, it’s cool, we’ll arrive at the right time. You’ll see, it’s nothing but mates. Party people. No little Frenchies. You’re going to be a big hit with your pretty face. There are loads of girls. And guys for me too. Small, bearded, a bit muscly. Yeah, I need to feel their strength. That’s what I really like, you know. I want them to take me like a whore. Rémi used to say that all the time. In French. No one understood him. In the middle of the dance floor he’d shout it out. “Take me like a whore! Take me like a whore!” He’s not gay, it just made him laugh. You hungry? I think I am. I dunno. You want to go to McDonald’s? No, you’re right. Let’s see after. Anyway, there’s a Burger King beside the Golden Gate. At worst, we can go out and get something. A Whopper or something.’

  Rémi doesn’t go out any more, so he’s not coming. Gando’s in no state to go anywhere. Chrissi’s asleep. They say goodbye. The guy at the computer has stopped smiling.

  It was great; we’ve got to do it again. Call Chrissi, she’s got my email.

  There are very few people in the underground now. Some revellers, the odd worker, some tramps. Armand and Tobias take some GHB on the platform. That means taking out the Coke, the phial of juice, and most important, the syringe. Armand looks like he knows the ropes by now. He’s no longer worrying about discovering who he is. He’s walking around, his spirit free and his heart numb. He feels that at last he’s living a little more intensely. He’s discovering the side of existence that seems independent of Time. It’s 5.30 a.m., they’re high but beginning to come down – they’ve been like that for eighteen hours but nothing can stop their bodies. It’s time to go and meet people. Have some fun.

  ‘So, we take the U2 to Alexanderplatz. Then change – there’s a McDonald’s in the station, we can get a cheeseburger – then U8 to Jannowitzbrücke. The Golden Gate’s right by the exit from the underground. Under the bridge, you’ll see. Yeah, a cheeseburger would be great. I should have enough.’

  ‘How do you pronounce the name of the station?’

  ‘Jannowitzbrücke’

  ‘Yanno–’
>
  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Veets–’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Broo-keh. That’s funny, broo-keh separate from the rest. Wait, let me try. Yannoleetsbookeh. No, sorry, Yannovitzbroovkeh. Hey, I’ve got it. Jannowitzbrücke. Will you help me learn some German? If I’m going to stay here, I need to be able to speak. Speaking matters. You can say things to yourself and try to understand others. And instructions. When it comes to language it’s not always straightforward. You get closer to people’s thoughts. Course, they need to express themselves. Yes, that’s it, they need to express themselves. It’s never enough just hearing what they tell us. When I’m painting, I’m thinking about certain things, but what am I saying deep down? I don’t know, maybe I should be trying to write them down. It’s not easy to give all that you have, to strip yourself bare, as they say. You owe it to yourself to be sincere. Simple and sincere. Like the greats. The rest, the minor talents, lie, and in order to be believed they dress up what they say in false complexity. They count on our loss. Illusion through loss. It works, you know. And people often speak to each other like that. Little complications invented so as not to reveal too much. Maybe they think like that, I dunno. They can talk about insignificant stuff – I don’t mean the little stuff of everyday poetry, no really, I mean the kind of stuff that has no meaning because it’s empty – oh yeah, they can talk about that for hours. Empty heads. That’s what it must be, empty heads. Or full of formaldehyde.’

  It’s a strange journey for Armand. As he’s talking, he goes up to objects on the underground. The seats in the carriages are not the same colour, there’s no turnstile, there’s one platform for both directions, the train comes in from the right, all these things which are different from what he knows give him a feeling of huge freedom.

  They change at Alexanderplatz; long corridors and empty doorways. Neon reflections shine on the marbled floor. You could walk on it barefoot. Some bad food smells, a staircase and then another platform. Armand flexes then folds his identity card. In the middle, a fat white line to share.

  ‘Stop halfway. I’ll have the rest.’

  Armand obeys; he slowly registers the smell of the Polish dumplings; that smell will lodge itself in the back of his throat every day and for so long that it will never leave him. These are his first experiences with amphetamines, which he’ll cherish. Speed is strong, it attacks the nostrils, you have to be prepared for it.

  ‘It doesn’t have an anaesthetic side to it like cocaine, but don’t worry, it won’t last long. That feeling that the powder is going off in your head like a rocket. In two minutes, you’ll be as good as new, able to dance for days. You don’t need to keep taking it every twenty minutes, you’ll see, if it’s good, one fix and you’re sorted for four hours. Well, only as long as you don’t do something dumb with the juice. Take my advice, if you feel the juice is taking you over, a good line of speed and it’ll be gone, it’ll put your feet back on the ground. But stay off the booze, I’m not kidding, Loulou, not even one beer. And if you’ve had too much, and you’re flailing around and your muscles are moving on their own, a nice line of speed will bring you back down.’

  The Golden Gate

  Entry is through a small metal door. The bearded bouncer is intimidating – but he hugs Tobias, gently. He’s introduced to Armand in German.

  ‘Hallo, ich bin Armand. Ich komme aus Paris. Alles gut?’ – the only sentence he has mastered.

  ‘Klar!’

  On the right beyond the cash desk, there’s what looks like a little garden with lots of sofas and armchairs. It’s not daylight yet; there aren’t many people outside. The club itself is on the left of the cash desk under a U-Bahn bridge. The corridor is dark and the music pounding. You go down some stairs, then there’s the cloakroom, a bar at the back, armchairs if you fancy a break. It’s festive, steamy, exists beyond time.

  Another room. Everyone’s dancing, facing towards the DJ. The atmosphere seems serious, the dancers’ movements repetitive and jerky. This is minimalist dancing, not like in Paris’s few techno clubs. The boys are not pawing the girls; though everyone’s high, there’s a kind of restraint. You go all out to get high, you leave yourself, but to be respected by others, you have to behave properly. Armand catches on fast, he grasps the customs.

  The toilets are upstairs. People go in singly, in couples, even in fives.

  Hours go by, it gets light outside. Neon lights, sweat. Druffis wander about, disorientated. A taste of GHB in your mouth. Talk is sporadic – you OK? – Tell me your name again – yes, I’m from Paris, I came here to paint – you want something? – Give me a kiss.

  In a cubicle in the bogs. There’s filth on the floor. Armand has his arms round a girl he doesn’t know. He gives her some juice. She kneels down, unbuttons his trousers, briefly slides his cock between her lips and then stands up. They’re going to dance. Already he’s almost forgotten her. He won’t bump into her again. Like everyone else, he has picked up an empty beer bottle that had been left against a wall. In the toilets he rinses it out and fills it with water; to rehydrate himself, and help the juice go down. After a few hours, he seems used to it. But he’s new to this all the same. Other people can tell easily, they’ve never seen his face before. It’s a small world where everyone ends up knowing everyone. Whether they say hello or not, you know the people dancing beside you. That’s where the Drogensolidarität comes from. A whole recreational community that gets high together, among fellow initiates. Some people are in fancy dress, suspender belts and lace basques; confetti gets thrown in the air, and there are glitter balls too. The joys are synthetic and outsized. It instantly feels like a new facet of existence. The feeling of living more intensely, the pride – perverse and displaced – that gives.

  Armand and Tobias meet up again. They dance side by side. They haven’t seen each other for about an hour. They are moving to an odd track, tribal voices, broken rhythms.

  ‘Armand, I’ve got to tell you. I’m HIV-positive.’

  Armand stops dancing. Tobias takes his hand.

  ‘Come on, fuck it, let’s dance.’

  There’s something strange about the idea of this evening going on forever. Outside it’s broad daylight. They can’t see it, they’re dancing in a little club that has no windows.

  ‘I saw you with a girl a while ago. I didn’t think she was your type.’

  ‘Oh, it wasn’t like that. She’s nice, kind of lost.’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve seen her before. She gets high on the juice too. What’s her name?’

  ‘I forget. She’s nice. Shall we go out for a fag?’

  In the little garden, dozens of people are sitting in the armchairs. Sunglasses or troubled expressions. They’re smoking cigarettes and joints. You can hardly hear the music. You can talk here, and take a bit of a rest.

  ‘You still got the bottle I gave you?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘You got much left?’

  ‘Half.’

  ‘Ten mil each. Plus the twenty I left outside. That’s good, we’ve got enough for the Berghain. You’ll see, there’s nothing better than the Pano on a Sunday. Everyone’ll be there for sure. I’ll introduce you. You’ll be a star.’

  A few joints, several fixes of GHB. Tobias talks a lot, in the toilets, as he prepares the drugs. There are always other people sharing the cubicles with them. The conversations are disjointed, often funny and meaningless.

  They hang around for a while.

  Outside, the daylight blinds them. It’s funny how calm it is, when you cross Holzmarktstrasse to get to the S-Bahn station.

  ‘Shit, I forgot to pick up the juice. Wait for me, I’ll be right back.’

  Like everywhere in this city, the streets are huge. Waiting on the other side of the street, Armand feels good. He watches the regular flow of traffic. He’s smiling. He’s discovering the narcotic effect of GHB, of existing outside time.

  ‘It’s OK, I got it. One stop and we’re there. We’ll take the juice inside. You’ve got
to look in shape for the bouncers. Just like before. Hide your bottle, syringe and speed in your pants. They search really thoroughly at the Pano. There are approved dealers, you see. And you mustn’t mention the juice too much. People don’t like that. A year or two ago they had a lot of problems. The ambulances were turning up every weekend because people didn’t know how to take it; they were boozing and everything. Don’t tell anyone that you’re taking G. It’s good though, isn’t it?’

  ‘Fuck yeah.’

  IX

  Tobias recognises the guy who’s coming out of the S-Bahn at the same time as them. It’s Franz. He’s going to the Panorama too. They join up. They can go together, Armand, Franz and Tobias. Another regular Sunday at the Berghain.

  X

  Armand goes home from the Berghain alone. It must be thirty hours since he slept. He remembers Sigrid offering him her body in the toilets at the Panorama. He also remembers the brunette at the Golden Gate.

  He doesn’t feel tired or hungry. He’s only going home because the evening has gone on long enough. He thinks of a line in a book by David Goodis, which he savours sometimes, after a while it gets so bad that you want to stop the whole business. The evening was starting to turn sour, Armand could feel it turning, that all he would end up with was a great, jaundiced feeling of melancholy and he had to go, go home to bed.

  It’s dark outside. It could have been daylight and Armand wouldn’t have been surprised. He hasn’t just stepped outside Habit, but also Time, though it’s hard to know whether Time is friend or foe. He’s humming that song: Time won’t let us stop.

  He’s not in a hurry. The idea of taking the underground, of finding himself sitting opposite people he can’t escape causes him real anxiety. He prefers the streets, drifting along as a pedestrian; you pass others by and they can’t look at you for very long. They’re following their own route, going who knows where. There are none of those underground-carriage faces judging you.