“What the . . .” A tall guy in a leather jacket swears, but then falls silent immediately. Valmir has arrived and is now brandishing the knife. He makes no attempt to hide it or his predatory eyes. Serafine throws a tall stool at him, runs out and to the right, around and down the narrow passage behind the shops, then back to the stairs with Valmir still on her heels. The pain in her chest almost causes her to black out. Her lungs are about to give up.
She zigzags in an attempt to dodge the knife dancing in the air behind her. Valmir grunts; his footsteps are heavier now. Serafine’s shoe catches a tile and she trips. Valmir reaches her immediately. He grabs her T-shirt and flings her up against the wall, knocking the air out of her. Her back is burning. When she is finally able to open her eyes, all she can see are his eyes under the merged eyebrows and the knife coming toward her with incredible speed. This is the end — she is going to die. She is surprised at how calm she feels. But then something inside her rebels.
She takes a step toward the knife and Valmir, who is moving forward and off balance. He has no time to change direction. As the knife plunges into her T-shirt, stabbing the flesh between two ribs, she knees him in the groin. Valmir buckles with a strangled scream and the knife falls impotently to the ground.
Serafine ignores the burning pain in her side and runs past Valmir, who tries to get back on his feet to continue the chase.
At the end of the narrow passage, a group of seniors are pulling along their suitcases. Serafine musters her last remaining resources and sprints. She leaps as high as she can, over a wheeled suitcase. Valmir, lacking a clear sightline and still groggy from being kneed in the groin, carries on. He has no time to stop or jump, but crashes straight into a suitcase, knocking it and its owner over. He swears, and the case springs open. Pale blue shirts and underwear spill across the floor.
A door labelled POLICE is opened behind the seniors and several officers rush outside.
She can’t hear Valmir anymore, so she risks looking over her shoulder for a brief second. He is snarling and trying to disentangle himself from the pile of seniors and suitcases. He has dropped the bloodstained knife, and the police officers are all over him now. A female officer chases after her. Serafine starts running down the stairs and disappears onto a side street.
Several blocks later she dodges into a basement, through the darkness, and up into the courtyard on the other side. She finally stops, pressing herself against a wall behind some garbage bins. She starts hyperventilating, and doesn’t know if she is still being chased. She is too scared to examine the cut in her side. All she knows is that she has to hide and get away from the street. Out there, she’ll die.
PUPA
[Pupa (from Lat. puppa, a variation on pupa, “little girl, doll”), last adolescent stage in insects with total transformation. At the pupa stage the adult insect’s body is constructed after a major or minor breakdown of the larva body. See also insects and transformation.]
The Great Danish Encyclopedia
1999
COPENHAGEN—HAMBURG
SHE BITES, LASHES out. Scratches and screams. Afërdita is gone. The uncles forced her to hold the lamp while they dug her sister’s grave. Now Afërdita lies in the cold earth outside their room. Meriton holds her tight, whispering in her ear, and sings songs she has heard since she was born: Dritë Kosovës, Këmbana e paqes, Xixëllonja, Ëndërrova. Songs that used to mean security, warmth, and love.
Now there is only emptiness, terror, and the stench of blood.
Serafine screams, “Baba, mami!” But no one answers. Nothing matters anymore. She stares into space and shuts down.
The following evening she arrives at Hamburg Hauptbahnhof. Five hours earlier Meriton put her on the train with a note around her neck. She doesn’t know what it says, but the grown-ups on the train nod when they read it and smile at her. A sweaty ticket inspector with bad breath even pats her on the head.
Meriton promised that someone would meet her, but she has no idea who they are or what they look like. She stands alone in the darkness on the platform, clutching her small cardboard suitcase as the other passengers disappear.
Why couldn’t she stay with the uncles? She tries to cry, but there are no more tears left. She ran out of tears long ago.
“Ah. There you are.” She jumps and drops the suitcase. The small, bowed man with a flat cap and woollen coat speaks a strange kind of Albanian.
The man looks her up and down and glances briefly at the note around her neck, then tears it off.
“Shame about your sister. Come on.” He turns around and starts shuffling down the platform. He doesn’t check to see if she follows him.
It has grown dark, the air is cold and damp. Halos of light surround the station’s lamps. She tries to pretend that they are butterflies or angels, but she already knows there are no angels. No one is coming to her rescue. She has only herself.
The traffic roars past on the wide road that runs above the railway tracks. The man with the flat cap turns right and walks down a side street, then opens the door to a battered, light brown car. The seats reek of onion and sweat.
“In you get. We’ve a long way to go.”
She slumps inside the car, clinging to her suitcase. While the lamps pass by outside, the heat inside makes her drowsy. Her head lolls, her eyes keep closing, and . . .
Blood. Blood everywhere. A dark, sticky puddle that stretches from one wall to the other, running from the gashes in Afërdita’s body, which is underneath the Dane on the bed. Afërdita. Her throat hurts when she shouts her name, but not a sound comes out. Her sister’s teeth glisten in the redness of her mouth. Red and black flowers spring up across her small breasts, seeping out onto the filthy white bed linen. The window clatters against the frame on its rusty hinges.
Half-asleep, she lets out a small scream, and kicks out her feet.
“Easy, boy. Not long to go now.” The man doesn’t look at her. He just concentrates on driving.
The car zooms through the night, rattling ominously every time they go over a pothole. They drive through dark streets, under iron bridges and scaffolding, past deserted industrial areas. There are no people on these streets, and the lamps are broken.
“Where are we going?” Her voice is shaking. She has to make an effort even to ask the question.
“Home,” is all he says. Shtëpi.
When the car stops, he nudges her out, shoving her in between two derelict houses. There is a small, crooked shed at the very back of the last courtyard. It presses up against the wooden fence around a scrapyard behind it. A light flickers behind the small windows. An old woman welcomes her and lifts her up, holding her tight for a long time. And, for a moment, she thinks that yes, this could be home.
But her dream bursts as early as the next morning. The couple’s sons came back late at night, and they stare at her with distrust when she gets up from the mattress in the corner and splashes her face with water from the bowl. After a breakfast of tomatoes, olives, Turkish feta, and bread, it is time for her to get dressed. And it is when she takes her doll out of the suitcase that she receives the first slap across her face.
2004
HAMBURG
THEY HAVE TRIED for five long, dark years: castigated, disciplined, abused, and punished her, both at home and at the Albanian school. The teachers, refugees like her, have scratched their heads, boxed her ears — and there was never any shortage of slaps. They have pointed their fingers at her, and tried taunting her when they can think of nothing else to do. The mere fact that she calls herself a she is a provocation. It is impossible to conform to their expectations when everything inside her cries out to do the opposite of what they want.
At home, Dora and Bekim and their big sons’ contempt slowly turns into indifference and coldness, thrashings and daily humiliations. She is given the heaviest and filthiest work. Only the monthly payments from the uncles
in Copenhagen stop them from throwing her out.
At the same time, the enemy within rises. Something is growing inside her, threatening to take control, thrusting itself to the front. She is on her way back from Penny Markt the first time it rears its ugly head. She has taken the bottles to the recycling centre and is clutching the few euros she got in exchange, when a German schoolgirl walks by on the opposite side of the street. The sun shines on her short, blonde hair. Tender breasts strain behind the girl’s T-shirt and her gaze is downward.
The fire makes her blood flare up, fuelling fantasies. The useless little spout between her legs twitches. It is all alien, all wrong. She runs off, sobbing, overcome by shame. The next morning when she wakes up, there is a sticky patch on the sheet. Qendrim, the oldest of her new brothers, tears the blanket off her. It’s time for her to empty the latrine bucket. When he sees the stain, he doubles up with laughter and dances back and forth between the two little rooms in the shed while waving the sheet in the air in triumph.
Even her own body has betrayed her.
She runs away that same night, weaving through the narrow streets of the suburbs. She rides the U-Bahn without buying a ticket and heads for the city centre. She has been to the main railway station on one occasion since she arrived — with Qendrim.
Once she reaches Hamburg Hauptbahnhof, she asks around. She knows now where she is heading: the Reeperbahn.
When she finally locates the street, it is a shock: women wearing practically nothing hang around outside with busloads of men and tourists. There are old and young people, even children. She finds them further down, on a street with the tantalizing name “Grosse Freiheit.” They are everything she can’t articulate, but she instinctively knows that she is one of them. She walks up and down the street, too nervous to talk to anyone, hardly daring to look. She puts one foot down on the sidewalk, then the other. She sniffs their perfume and listens while they talk. They are wearing dresses and high heels, and have makeup on and hoarse, deep voices. Her heart flitters in her breast. She is not alone.
Later she finds a bar and goes inside. She has no money, but she knows she needs to get closer. The room is long and narrow, the walls red. The bar runs down one side. A giant mirror hangs behind the bartenders in tank tops, leather caps, elaborate wigs, and heavy makeup. The mood is moist and aroused. But she feels at home for the first time in years. For the first time since she lost Afërdita, she is able to be herself.
Serafine sits down by a table near the wall. A wild party is in progress around her: men kissing men, women kissing women, women kissing men. Everyone is kissing and embracing each other. A group of transvestites are singing cheesy pop songs near the bar. She needs something to drink, something strong. But she doesn’t have any money.
A man sits down next to her and says hello. He is big and broad.
“Want a beer?”
He smells nice and freshly washed, not of smoke and sweat. She says yes. Soon he returns with two tall, slim, frothing beer glasses. Lothar is funny and nice, and his smile makes her forget about Dora and Bekim, and Qendrim and his brothers. He grabs more beer. Now she forgets that she is hungry, too. And when he asks if she wants to go for a walk, she forgets to be careful.
She walks with him back across the Reeperbahn, down to the river. Lothar puts his arm around her and squeezes her tight. It is comforting and lovely. The beer sloshes around her stomach, making her head spin.
They dash across the street, laughing as they dodge the few cars driving past much too fast, and reach the port. She is tingling all over. Lothar helps her over the wall, and explains that the smell of fish in the air is coming from the market to their left.
“It’s nice here, isn’t it?”
The sky is dyed purple from the city lights, except for a few inky spots where the stars peek out. Cranes are silhouetted against neon advertisements, and giant ships pass by on the way in. It smells of tar and oil.
“Yes.” She hugs him. She feels so safe and light. She looks up at Lothar. He bends down, kisses her carefully, and she kisses him back, letting him part her lips. His tongue forces its way in and explores, gliding along her teeth. His breathing gets heavier and quickens. The kiss is violent and becomes greedy. His hands are everywhere and hard, pressing into her groin. She tries to push him away, but Lothar — nice, gentle Lothar — holds on.
She pulls back her head.
“Stop.”
Lothar pants.
“Come on. You know you want it too. I’ll give you fifty euros.” He rips off her pants and throws her over a garbage bin in the same quick movement. A cruise ship, a fairy-tale castle, passes silently through the harbour, all lights illuminated. A distant world radiates out into the night as he thrusts into her. Something tears inside her and the pain makes everything spin, disappear, while her screams are drowned out by the hooting of the boat’s horn.
Once she can see again, she is alone. She is sitting on the cold ashphalt, her clothes in a pile next to her. The pain is indescribable; something is leaking out of her backside. Her hand squeezes a twenty-euro note.
2006
HAMBURG
THE DARKNESS HANGS over Grosse Freiheit — the horny mile, the beating heart of St. Pauli and Hamburg. The street exudes raw, pent-up desire and hungry eyes. Coloured lights and neon signs span a gaudy canopy across the narrow road. It’s a circus, a freak show. Men and women stroll up and down: standing, posing, chatting or displaying themselves, alone or in small clusters. Everything is permitted and can be bought or viewed. Further ahead, at number 36, young people, boys and girls her own age wearing leather and makeup, are waiting to be admitted to tonight’s concert.
There are speed freaks, old queers, and teenagers high on poppers and vodka-laced apple juice. The cocaine flows freely; the night is beautiful and terrible.
She sashays down the sidewalk in white stilettos, power-clicking her heels, moving in and out between the groups, the tourists, and the desperate. She is at ease and confident: this is her turf, her family.
“Serafine?” A six-foot-five drag queen grabs her. They kiss on both cheeks and he offers her a cigarette. “I haven’t seen you for ages. Jürgen and I thought you were . . . well, you know.” He laughs, flaring his nostrils, and flicks his long hair.
She waves her cigarette in the air.
“Had to find somewhere else to live. The old place had become too gross.”
He touches her dress lightly.
“You look gorgeous. Are you working tonight?” Then he gets excited. “Are you going to Georg’s party later? Everyone will be there. It’ll be so decadent.”
Serafine leans closer and whispers, “Might be. Have you seen Doctor Stromberg?”
“The street-doc? But what do you want with him, sweetie?”
She runs her hand across her cheek, the latest acne breakout hidden beneath foundation and powder. She knows it doesn’t show, but the thing between her legs rages inside her body, ripping it apart. Soon her voice will break and she’ll get hairs everywhere.
“You know —”
“Sera, stay away from that scheisse.”
She clicks her tongue.
“But have you seen him?”
“Someone came by just now, saying he was backstage. You could always try there.” He nods scornfully in that direction, but then he softens and smiles.
They air-kiss and she crosses the street, waltzing under the neon sign with the elephant and into the darkness, where anything could happen. She greets Valeria, the cloakroom attendant, and continues into the twilight. The backstage area is a tangle of stagehands, and topless women wearing makeup and selling cigarettes. Helga and Roxette wave as she enters. They are on shortly. Helga is crawling into the coffin where she will hide until she rises just at the right moment, wrapped in a vampire’s cloak. Roxette is playing the grieving widow, dressed all in white — and with deep cleavage.
Serafine waves back, mouths good luck and blows a kiss, then turns right. She spots Horst, the stage manager, with his shiny bald head and his cheeks glowing red.
In the dressing room, the usual eight to ten women and transsexuals sit in various stages of undress. The room is filled with flesh-coloured underwear, mirrors, cigarettes, alcohol, make-up, and powder — both for the cheeks and the nose. The smell of female sweat and the female sex. Oh, how she’s yearning.
The wooden floor creaks under her stilettos. Doctor Stromberg sits in a corner wrapped in his coat, his pale face sweating behind his glasses. Juliana hands him the money; he pushes a small wrapper across the table in return, which immediately disappears into her pants.
“Serafine?” Juliana turns to her. “You’re not usually here this early.” Juliana is a friend. She took her under her wing the moment she started working here almost a year ago.
“I just want a word with the doctor.” She starts to shake. What if he says no? She sits down beside Juliana, too scared to look at Doctor Stromberg. Juliana gives her a quick squeeze, and doesn’t say anything.
“What do you need?” The doctor’s voice is coarse. It doesn’t fit his sweaty face and glasses. She raises her head. He has to . . .
The Scream of the Butterfly Page 15