Tomorrow Berlin

by Oscar Coop-Phane

  My beloved cigarettes, which are criticised more and more.

  The smoke that brings us closer to the heavens, to death; and the pleasure of the taste, the act of smoking, unequalled.

  People are accused of starting smoking as an affectation of style. ‘The style is the man’: the saying is so well known, it’s a bit shocking to quote it; schoolboy essay.

  I accord a lot of importance to ashtrays. I hate putting my butts in glasses, or beer cans and bottles. I like stubbing them out, not in bottle tops or any old piece of stone, but in an ashtray that I’ve carefully selected. It’s about the whole nature of the contact I have with these objects. I feel the material through the fag end; I caress them a bit when, as I press with the end of my index finger, making it turn firmly, I extinguish the ashy stub, the last piece of burning tobacco.

  Of all the ashtrays I own, my favourite is the one I call the little gold one. It’s round and palm-sized, and looks like it was made to rest in the palm of your hand. It’s golden, a bit dented; it must often have been bashed on the floor, on walls and faces. It feels as though it’s been through a lot, a terrible daily history of arguments and domestic dramas. It’s old and time-blackened in places, particularly on the back of the little lid that snaps shut. That’s what I like about it; when the lid is open it gives you somewhere to rest your burning cigarette, and when it’s closed, it seals off its inner part, the container for ash and butts. When the cigarette is burning, it doesn’t touch the container, doesn’t set light to the ends in it and more important – and this means this ashtray, as far as I can remember, has always had a place by my bed – you can close the lid, which blocks the horrible smell of stale tobacco, that nasty smell that prickles your nostrils.

  It’s the only object I took when I fled; when I went to live with Emma.

  I really loved her. She haunts me.

  V

  Armand is in the bar when Tobias rings.

  ‘Hey, I’m glad you called. You OK?’

  ‘Yeah, the hearing’s over. They’re sending me to detox. It can’t be worse than prison. You know, I tried to do myself in. With the Russians in my cell, we tore up the sheets to try and hang ourselves. But there was this screw who busted us. Funnily enough, I think that did me a favour. At the hearing, they said I was an addict; that I needed treatment. I’m going to be in detox for a month. I miss you, Loulou. You OK? You having fun?’

  ‘Yeah, too much. I want to take a break.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Last Sunday when I got to the Pano, ten people said to me, “Shit, Armand, you were so funny last week, when you had your shirt off in the toilets and were jumping around”. Shit, I don’t remember a thing. I don’t remember thirty-six hours of partying. That’s fucked up.’

  ‘But when I get out, you’ll still come with me?’

  ‘Yes, but I’ll have to go easy. Look at the shit that it gets us into.’

  ‘We’re a good team all the same.’

  ‘It’s true, it’s cool. Can’t I come and see you?’

  ‘I don’t want you to see me like this. Anyway, I’ll be out in a month.’

  ‘Call me before then.’

  ‘Have the others been asking about me?’

  ‘Yeah, I told them you were in Paris.’

  ‘Thanks, Loulou. OK, I have to go. Hugs.’

  Armand hangs up. There’s something touching about hearing a voice from so far away. Things are pretty fucked up for Tobias, Armand thinks, pretty fucked up for us both. And all for what? To dance together with your arms in the air. Yes, all this to raise your arms to the sky, feel a bit stronger and fuck in a toilet cubicle. For the first time, Armand sees the limits of this life. He’s getting spots on the side of his face. It’s not worth it if you do yourself so much harm, he thinks, just for a synthetic, manufactured pleasure. Tobias is in prison because he wanted to raise his arms to the sky, because he wanted to go on dancing for longer, and be stronger too. Too strong, too long. There’s a sort of injustice to it. The unfortunate ones are punished because they don’t know how to cope with their lives. The disorientated get downgraded. They rot like vermin, in little stinking cells, cells with rapists and snitches; they get treated like those bastards, the conspirators, the wicked. But they’re not like them at all, they’re not bad guys; they just wanted a bit of affection, a place in the world, an armchair or just a bench, a flip-down seat where they can sit with a bit of dignity. If all the useless people, all the losers and the parasites formed an army… if they formed an army, that would make some noise. More than people might think. They’d travel through towns and country; they’d march tirelessly to conquer a new order. A limping army, a bit fucked up, all the losers on the planet in a single regiment. Rogues, fuck-ups, artists and waitresses, tramps, the disinherited, cleaning women, night porters, party animals, plumbers and pen-pushers, all walking in sync, to create the place for themselves that they’ve never been given. They’d advance, with their improvised weapons, scaffolding tubes, bamboo poles and pepper sprays. Hide! They’re coming; the forgotten people are rebelling. Postal workers, long-term unemployed, road sweepers, they’re advancing towards this unnamable power, the power that imprisons lads like Tobias. They don’t know where to strike; they’ll burn everything. The humiliation has gone on too long. From the embers they’ll build something new. They’re angry, they’ll burn everything. Piles of ashes, piles of ashes where they can sit down. Armand thinks about it. He smiles and cries. He goes home.

  VI

  Astrid has gone to work. Franz is bored. He could go gambling; he got the dole yesterday. But for the first time in ages, he’s afraid. If he lost, what would he tell her? Astrid, baby, I’ve lost it all, not another penny will come in for a month. You’re going to have to pay for my fags and grub, the electricity and the extras.

  He knows she’d do it. But he can’t, he can’t ask that of her. Little Astrid, so sweet and pretty; she’ll be cutting hair just now, telling her colleagues that she’s met someone, a guy who’s a bit lost, but he makes her laugh, it’s so good to rest in his strong arms.

  No, he can’t do that to her. He would be too afraid of losing her too. Those few days spent with her were so nice, yet so simple, the joy of no longer feeling alone in this world.

  She’s a nice girl he can rely on. Best not disappoint her. He won’t go gambling. He’ll take a walk; no, he’ll read, it’s been ages since he did that.

  VII

  The walls here are a bit whiter, less grimy, more clinical. The screws wear immaculate overalls, but they aren’t any less violent, no less inclined towards humiliation. As in prison, he’s entitled to two walks in the park, one at 11 o’clock, the other at four; the timetable’s equally strict: wake up at six, lights out at nine. The food is just as crappy, the people you share it with in the canteen, the other inmates, are no more reassuring than the cons. Here, just like in prison, he sees a psychiatrist every other day, they give him capsules to help him sleep, others to get him to wake up.

  There is a difference, though; here Tobias is regarded as a patient and not as an offender. When he thinks about it, maybe a horrible illness has dogged him since adolescence (apart from the bad flu)? Maybe that’s his problem?

  PART FIVE

  Spring

  I

  Little by little, the days are beginning to return to normal. The snows have melted, the pavements are clear. The sun reveals itself proudly, returned from who knows where, the antechamber of hell into which it had sunk. The trees on the boulevards strike poses, without trembling, growing new flowers, new leaves. People are back on their bikes, or just walking around, bareheaded, and sitting on café terraces again. It’s as though there’s a song in the air, something to hum as you watch other people going about their lives. Neurasthenics forget the misery of their condition for a while, as we all do; they go out and cautiously drink in the air. The mild weather takes hold of the body; it blows on the back of your neck like the wind of freedom. It’s good to feel no longer spat o
ut by the world.

  These first days of spring, like a gentle revolution, overturn the established order. You have to make the most of it; it’s worth it for the warmth.

  II

  Armand has done some shopping. This weekend he’s going out, right to the end, from Thursday night till Monday morning. He feels a bit guilty, but he knows that sometimes it does you good to do yourself harm. Last weekend was the first time he hadn’t gone out since he arrived. The first time too that he hadn’t taken drugs. The only time in eight months. All the same, when you think about it…

  Yes, but tonight will be great; they’ll all be there, they’ll recognise him. He’ll dance, outside time, in the unreal world of the druffis.

  Armand arrives at the Golden Gate. The bouncer shakes his hand; it’s like they know each other well now; sometimes they get high together.

  He goes in; plunging into the crowd intoxicates him. He rediscovers the pleasures of getting high together; all the regulars greet him and offer him some gear in the toilets. He dances until he can dance no longer, fucks in the cubicles full of filth. He takes his pleasure and gets wasted. A warm smile returns to his face. It all feels new to him, as though at last he has started living again.

  He gets more and more wasted, until he forgets his body. He dances. He just dances.

  Armand leaves the Golden Gate, his eyes wide open, as though he were waking up from a dream.

  Tobias is coming towards him, carrying a rucksack.

  ‘I knew you’d be here.’

  ‘Oh, I’m really predictable.’

  ‘I just got out. It’s good to see you, Loulou.’

  ‘You too. You OK?’

  ‘I dunno. I feel funny.’

  ‘Come on, let’s walk.’

  ‘Talk to me about something else. Tell me what you’re doing. You painting at the moment?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve been in a good phase for a few weeks. I think I’ve understood something. You see, I’ve never liked my generation. Facebook, texts, all that – it has no romanticism. And then, when I came here, and discovered techno and that whole scene, I felt like I belonged to my generation. And I think you have to be modern, absolutely modern. So, as I’m proud of my generation, I decided to stop running away from modernity. I want to abandon myself to it. I want to abandon myself to modernity. I can’t remember who said this but it’s something like: whoever puts his hand in the wheel of time gets his arm ripped off. I belong to my time; we have our music and our drugs. And I don’t want to be like all the people who talk about that, but I have no choice; it’s what I know, I have to paint what I know. So you have to try to not make too much shit, try to find a little poetry in all this fucking mess. Because I’m the product of my time. But I like old stuff; I never read living guys, they don’t inspire my confidence. But at least as far as what I’m going to try to create is concerned, I need to forbid myself fleeing modernity. I need to attack it. It’s not easy because it’s crummy. But I have to go for it, there’s no choice. You know, when Proust talks about the telephone, it’s really great. I need to completely rethink my painting. I have to be of my time, because we are of our time. It’s as simple as that, but I hadn’t understood it. And that’s something that has changed in me. I am abandoning myself to modernity; I’m stopping trying to flee it. Because we’ve certainly had some experiences; so there are things to say. Come on, let’s walk a bit more. You want to come back to my place?’

  III

  From Armand’s notebook:

  Since last night, Tobias has been back on speed, GHB and ketamine. He seems happy enough about it (after being locked up); in a way, I can understand it.

  On Thursday, when he got out, he was already thinking of Sunday’s after. It’s his life, I mean that that’s the life he’s mastered, there is no other. He says he’s ‘keen to see normal people’, meaning the druffis. He lacks the distance I still have, which enables me to say that it’s not actually ‘normal’.

  It’s cold but I’m going to stay on the terrace; I need the air. The girls on Kastanienallee are blonde.

  Feelings of guilt when I don’t paint; hangover from my uni prep classes?

  In any case, there aren’t many days when I don’t paint (at all). Maybe it’s bad, maybe it’s because I don’t try hard enough to say the essential. I fill up white canvases but I don’t say anything. I would prefer to fight against a lack of inspiration and when I paint only paint the essential.

  This great loneliness (mixed with a breath of freedom) when you have no attachment.

  Could I return to a normal life?

  On the terrace, an old man on his own is leafing through a book; on the spine I make out: Alone in Berlin.

  Only obstacle to a wandering life: the weight of books.

  That obese workman working and sweating.

  In the course of this notebook, the further I go, the more I retract. An echo of my life.

  Study of personalities according to the drugs that suit them (and also cities).

  What would I do with my days if I didn’t read? Drugs for sure.

  What I like about cigarettes is the satisfaction of taking a break (the pose too). You feel pride, with a fag in your mouth, you wait, you smoke.

  I have more and more contempt for idleness. The idle irritate me. I like the tortured; the depressive exasperate me. Egocentrism of the depressive; in which there is nothing of the tortured.

  The waiter’s pride as a necessary bulwark against the humiliating aspect of his profession.

  Ladies’ men; dog men.

  German women with a certain radiance, loving, a young child on the back of their bike.

  The satisfaction of the busy cf. Proust p.1534: ‘and also because of the satisfaction which the busy have – even if their work is the most foolish – of “not having the time” to do what you are doing’.

  IV

  This evening, Tobias and Armand are dining at Franz’s place. The apartment has been cleaner since Astrid moved in; there are women’s things here and there, like discreet decorations. A dress, a pair of boots left on the floor make the air in the living room seem purer somehow; they know that Franz is no longer alone, he has her by his side – a dress, a pair of boots left on the floor like witnesses to his happiness, his peace.

  The dinner is nice. They do drugs without making a big deal of it. They talk about fresh starts. Tobias has brought his bag; tomorrow morning at six he’s catching a train to Cologne. A job and an apartment await him there; a social worker will look after him, she has it all set up. This is their last evening together, Tobias is leaving Berlin and its parties. He looks delighted; he talks about it like a rebirth, finding himself again, far from the worries of the neon lights and the glitter balls. This time I’m really quitting, he says. Tonight is my last. I want to stay with you a bit longer, till it’s time for my train. Then I’m starting a new life. I’ll write to you.

  Astrid, Franz and Armand aren’t quite sure what they are experiencing, the gentle sadness of seeing a friend leave for a better life.

  They talk about their memories, the adventures of the life they’ve shared. The time Franz’s place flooded when they got back from a night out, the pipes that exploded without them realising because they were too far gone. The floor still bears the scars. And the time Armand collapsed from exhaustion on the dance floor at the Panorama. They talk about it with affection and nostalgia, as though they’ve returned from a long journey.

  This evening Bar 25 is reopening. A last party and then Tobias will catch the 6 a.m. train to Cologne.

  Bar 25

  It’s an outdoor venue, so this place is closed in winter. It’s an open-air club on the banks of the Spree. Two bars on each side, like little bungalows, a swing attached to the branches of an old tree. People wander about, talking, like at a little funfair for adults. There are confessionals where people do drugs; a roof too, which shelters the DJ and the dance floor. There’s a strange wind of freedom blowing here, everyone doing what they feel like; lik
e a little park where the druffis all play together. There’s a feeling of celebration, there’s confetti, a crowded dance floor, the best DJs of the moment, and all these places to walk about and dance. The celebrations here last all weekend, sometimes longer, until Tuesday. There are lockers to leave your stuff in. The more seasoned bring a toothbrush and deodorant with them, for this little trip that lasts several days. Everyone’s happy to be here, it’s an atmosphere that grabs you; you smile and dance. A play park for getting high.

  Armand, Franz, Astrid and Tobias are dancing. They get high; it’s the usual thing.

  At 4 a.m. Franz and Astrid leave. They kiss Tobias and make him promise to write.

  At 5.30 Tobias decides he’ll catch the 9 o’clock train. He and Armand dance on.

  At 9 o’clock Tobias postpones it a bit more; there’s a train at 11, he’ll get that.

  Armand can’t reason with him. At noon, he leaves; Tobias is still there, dancing, glitter dust on his face.

  They won’t see each other again. Armand won’t allow himself to go that far. In the S-Bahn in the direction of the airport he gets caught by a ticket inspector for the first time in a year.

  His grey notebook reads:

  Work, pay fines, then die, to see what that’s like.

  That whole thing’s dumb all the same. To want to escape from yourself.