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All the Lights

Page 8

by Clemens Meyer


  ‘You had a good fight tonight.’ He saw a man behind him in the mirror. He turned around. There was another guy standing behind the man, but only the first one was talking. ‘Verstehst du, good fight, very good!’

  He nodded. ‘Ja,’ he said, ‘danke.’ The men grinned. They were pretty tall and at least two categories above him in weight, and the one talking to him had almost no nose left; probably down to the light as well though. ‘Very good, Holland fighter, very good!’ The men were still grinning, and he leaned his back against the bar and put one hand down next to his beer glass.

  ‘You gave him a good seeing to,’ said the man with the broken nose, switching to German. ‘Raik’s in hospital now, needs a check-up to make sure his head’s all right. Verstehst du, Holland fighter?’

  He did understand; not every word, but he’d understood. ‘Sorry, say “good luck” to Raik. Guter Boxer, guter Kämpfer, very good.’

  ‘Ja,’ said the other man, the one who hadn’t said anything yet. He didn’t seem to speak English; the conversation stayed in German. ‘Raik’s a good boxer, he could make it to European Champion, Raik’s champion material. We all believed in him, Holland fighter.’

  The Holland fighter tried to smile and pointed at his burst top lip. ‘Good left hook.’

  ‘You lads want a drink?’ The barmaid was standing behind him; he felt her voice against the back of his neck. ‘No,’ said the man with the broken nose, and the other one shook his head. ‘I’ll have another one,’ said the Holland fighter, holding onto his empty glass when she wanted to take it away until she put a full glass down in front of him. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You drinking to your victory, are you?’ They’d come closer to him now, the man with the broken nose leaning on the bar beside him.

  ‘Win, lose, doesn’t matter. Next fight, I lose. Today, I win. Lucky today, Raik is a good man but I win.’ He spoke very slowly to remember the right words in German, then he raised his glass. ‘To Raik, to boxing!’ He drank. He watched the two men as he drank.

  ‘You’re drinking to Raik, Holland fighter?’ The taciturn one was talking now; broken nose took a couple of loud breaths. ‘To our Raik, who you messed up?’

  He put down his glass. Kaputt gemacht. He knew that word. Kaputt. How often had he lain kaput on the floor of the ring, how often had fast young talents beaten him across the ring, and he’d tried not to go down, had looked for a gap, had tried to counter their attacks, had hoped for that one punch to end the whole match. This time he’d found the gap and his punch had landed. Raik fell over, tipped over backwards as straight as a die, and his skull slammed against the wood. The referee didn’t need to count – Raik was out, out cold, and he’d seen his legs twitching as if he still wanted to take that one step back so the right hook didn’t reach him. He hadn’t hit a good right for so long, he’d put his whole body into that punch, he’d felt it hit home right up to his shoulder. He’d gone backwards into his corner, wiping the blood from his lip with his glove, he’d seen the referee spreading both arms wide above Raik, and then he’d thought over and over, not quite believing it: I’ve won, I’ve won, I’m still here!

  But no one had cheered, no one took his arms and raised them up, the sign of the victor. I’ve won, he thought, but the hall was quiet; the local boxer, the local hero had lost, 14 - 0 - 0 was kaput now, and even his corner men, provided by the organisers in return for a dock in his pay, silently avoided his eyes. Raik was carried out of the ring, ambulance men waiting down below with a stretcher.

  ‘Right hand,’ he said, clenching his fist, ‘good right hand, Raik not careful.’ He’d got up from the bar stool, pushing his left leg forward slightly. Now he was standing so that the bar stool was between him and the broken nose, with the other man diagonally opposite.

  ‘What did he say about our Raik?’ The taciturn one turned to his friend for help.

  ‘That he didn’t take care,’ said the broken nose. ‘He said Raik didn’t take care. Right, Holland fighter?’

  The Dutchman nodded and pointed to his nose. ‘You often in England? English boxers very hard, very good. English boxers good to nose, not careful, huh?’ He looked at the broken nose and tried to smile. He’d fought in England twice, he’d been to Italy, had stood in the ring in Barcelona, had taken the ferry to Copenhagen to box there. And soon he’d come in on a boxing club, and the banknotes he felt against his leg through his trouser pocket would be another step in that direction.

  The man with the broken nose pounded his fist against the bar stool, so hard that it tipped over. His mouth was open and the Dutchman saw that he was missing a few teeth. And the Dutchman saw that the punch at the barstool had been pretty powerful, but not all that fast. He’d seen the twitch in his shoulder before the punch came. He stayed standing quite calmly, one fist held loosely at hip level. He knew he couldn’t evade every punch, one man in front of him, one man beside him, but he could take a few blows, he had a good chin.

  ‘No fighting, lads,’ said the barmaid behind them. ‘No fighting, please.’

  ‘Fight? Just because something gets knocked over, doesn’t mean there’s a fight.’ The man with the broken nose bent down and picked up the bar stool, not letting the Dutchman out of his sight, and slowly stood it up again at the bar. ‘Or are you looking for a fight?’

  ‘No,’ he said, lowering his fist.

  ‘There you go.’ The other man put a hand on his shoulder, and he instantly had his left hand on the man’s arm and pushed it away. The man with the broken nose laughed. ‘You’re fast, Holland fighter, you’ve got fast hands. You black boxers are usually pretty fast. Hey, bring him another beer on me, and a shot of something too, he could do with one.’

  The man with the broken nose turned to the barmaid, then he sat down on the bar stool, making him a head taller than the Dutchman, still standing there perfectly calmly with his left foot forwards.

  ‘Money,’ the man with the broken nose said now, rubbing his thumb and forefinger together right in front of the Dutchman’s face, and then he started humming; it was meant to sound like that seventies song, ‘Money, Money, Money …’ The barmaid put a new beer and a schnapps down next to his half-full glass. He didn’t turn to her; all he could see was her hands. Pale blue fingernails.

  ‘Our Raik,’ said the other man, ‘he’s in hospital now, won’t be fighting for a long time, maybe never again. You’re a clever lad, Holland fighter … You are a clever lad, aren’t you?’

  He didn’t answer. He knew now it was going to be a hard night and he took a deep breath in and out again. In and out again. He felt his legs trembling; he’d fought eight long rounds.

  ‘Raik’d be happy if you thought a little about him.’ The Dutchman looked at the guy with the broken nose, who was rubbing his thumb and forefinger together again. ‘You made good money tonight, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘the hard way, with my face.’

  ‘Now you listen to me,’ said broken nose, ‘you, my Dutch friend, have put Raik on ice for a good long while. Who knows if he’ll ever … Raik’s got a wife and a little kid, they’d be really grateful for a little present.’

  ‘No,’ said the Dutchman. He picked up the schnapps glass, held it in his outstretched hand, tipped it and poured the liquid slowly on the floor at the man’s feet. He felt the roll of money in his pocket, he thought of Rotterdam, his wife and the child they were going to have, thought of the boxing club he was going to come in on.

  He slammed the schnapps glass down on the bar, grabbed the beer glass with his left hand and said, ‘No.’

  He was standing in the little room, right by the window; the curtains were closed. Behind him, he heard his wife in the bathroom; the door was open and he heard her using her make-up and cosmetics stuff, a clinking of small bottles, glass and plastic, running water.

  She started humming to herself now and he closed his eyes for a moment. Then he moved the curtain aside slightly. There was a car outside the house. The window on the driver’
s side was wound down, an arm dangling out. ‘Are they still there?’ asked his wife, but it couldn’t be his wife, she was speaking German, and the voice sounded nothing like hers either. ‘Yes,’ he said, pulling the curtain closed again.

  ‘You can wait here till they’ve gone. But no cops – I don’t want any trouble, verstehst du?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘No cops.’ He went over to the table and sat down. He wasn’t in Rotterdam, only his wife was there, alone in their little flat.

  He drank a swig of the whisky the barmaid had poured him.

  ‘I’ve got a room upstairs,’ she’d said to him down in the bar. ‘My shift’s over in a minute. You can come up and wait until those bastards have gone.’

  He drank the whisky, feeling himself getting gradually drunk. His neck hurt, his arms and shoulders ached, and he could feel the swelling beneath his right eye pressing against his eyeball. He was tired; he didn’t want to fight any more. He drank another swig, saw the glass trembling, the ice cubes clinking quietly, and he put his other hand on his trouser pocket. Why hadn’t the bastards tried to see to him in the bar? But they’d left when he’d shown them he was ready to use the heavy beer glass in his left hand. ‘We’ll be seeing you,’ they’d said. Now he was sitting with her and waiting. He put the whisky glass down; he was so tired, his head drooped onto his chest; she was standing behind him. She said something but he couldn’t concentrate properly any more, all he could understand was ‘wait’ and ‘time’ and ‘bastards’. He was dizzy, he meant to hold onto the table but he knocked the whisky glass over, it was almost empty and it rolled across the table and then fell to the floor without breaking. ‘Sorry,’ he said, holding onto the table with one hand and turning round to her. She smiled. ‘No problem,’ she said. She squatted down and picked up the glass.

  She held it in one hand, squatting down in front of him and looking up at him. She had short blonde hair, and now he saw she was freshly made up. Bright red lips, and he turned around and went to the window. As he went to pull the curtains aside she held onto his arm. He looked at her, and she said, ‘I’ve never … never had a …’ she thought for a moment. ‘Black, I’ve never …’ she thought again, ‘never touched such dark skin,’ and then she laughed. She was still holding onto his arm. ‘Soft,’ she said. He looked at the curtains and then at her hand. He was tired, so tired. He’d cheated on his wife once, before a fight in Madrid, with a little black-haired Spanish woman; he’d spent the whole night in a hotel with her. The next night in the ring, he’d taken one punch after another, left, right, hooks, jabs, and he felt like he couldn’t keep his cover up whenever his opponent went for him, a little black-haired Spanish man. Left, right, hooks, jabs. The audience had booed and whistled; he was known for giving all he had, for defending himself with everything he had, for countering, pummelling his opponent’s body, for testing them, his opponents, getting everything out of them, giving them a challenge they could learn from, but that night he’d let the other man beat his head in. His wife had cried when he’d come home, his face swollen and smashed, a cut on his cheekbone. She’d stroked his face and he’d told her quietly about the boxing club he could come in on, if he put a bit of money into it. A few more fights, just a few more fights.

  ‘Come over here,’ she said. ‘Lie down, have a rest. You can stay all night if you like.’ He nodded, and she took him by the arm and led him to the sofa against the wall by the table. It was a pretty large sofa with a couple of cushions on it, and it looked huge in the small room. He lay down and then she was sitting next to him. Her hands were on his chest, he closed his eyes, felt her unbuttoning his jacket and taking it off. He meant to say something, wanted to say no, but she said, ‘Shhhh,’ as if she were calming a young child. He wanted to get up and leave, no matter if they were waiting for him outside, but he stayed lying there, he’d fought eight long rounds. He’d have a rest, get some sleep and maybe let her stroke him to sleep, that was all. He wasn’t going to cheat on his wife again, not ever. She laid her chest on his and said, ‘You can stay all night.’ And that calmed him somehow, her breathing very even, and he thought about a lot of things and gradually fell asleep.

  He leapt up. He leapt up so quickly that she stumbled aside. He was all there again. ‘No,’ he said, laying his hand on his trouser pocket. ‘My money, bitch.’ The roll of notes had moved – had he felt her hands? He hadn’t imagined it, even though he was wiped out and drunk and might have been half asleep, but now he was all there again. He stroked his shirt smooth. ‘Bastard,’ she said as he picked up his jacket and went to the door. ‘They’ll wreck your face, they’ll wreck your face even more, your ugly black face!’ She laughed, loud and shrill, and he could still hear her laughing as he ran down the stairs.

  He ran. He thought of all his running through Rotterdam’s harbour, running and running to keep his form, thought of the ships and cranes disappearing and only the sea still there. He heard them behind him. They’d jumped out of the car; now he saw tower blocks on either side, tall and white, the night strangely bright. He had to get to the dark, he had to disappear into the dark to shake them off. He tried to breathe evenly, took deep breaths in and out again, in and out again. He turned around for a moment; they’d already fallen back slightly. A few minutes ago one of them had been so close behind him that he could hear him breathing. He’d fought eight long, hard rounds, but he had enough breath for at least twelve. Oh no, they weren’t going to get him, he’d be taking his money back to Rotterdam, to his wife, to the boxing club, and he’d run along the harbour in the evenings to keep in shape, he’d run until only the sea was still there, and he’d laugh about them.

  He turned into a narrow, dark street, the street lights almost all broken, and he ran close up to the buildings so they couldn’t see him.

  He ran past old derelict houses, and when he turned around again he saw the tall white tower blocks behind the houses; he didn’t see the men chasing him any more but he kept on running, not slowing down.

  There were people standing there, a tight group outside one of the houses in the light of a street lamp; it seemed like the only lamp in the narrow road still working. They called something out as he ran past them; he heard them laughing, bottles clinking, but he kept looking ahead; he saw the dark street and he ran until he suddenly choked and he had to stop, leaning against a house, then falling to his knees and vomiting. He puked until everything blurred before his eyes and he thought he heard the referee counting. One, two, three … By eight he was back on his feet, wiping the vomit from his mouth and his jacket. All silent behind him. No footsteps, no shouts. He walked on slowly, the street leading ahead of him into a wider, brighter one. There were the tower blocks again, and he was suddenly scared. He wanted to stay in the dark, narrow road until morning came. His things were in a hotel at the station but he didn’t know where the station was, didn’t know where he was. He walked on slowly, no cars coming along the road. He saw the white tower blocks ahead; they seemed uninhabited, large empty rectangles. He’d grown up in an estate of tower blocks in Rotterdam, had spent most of his youth there, often fighting on the street before he’d started boxing, he’d trained every day so he wouldn’t have to fight on the street any more. And he didn’t like the thought that he might have to fight on the street again, here in this German town.

  Later, in a taxi to the station, he couldn’t remember what had happened and how and in what order. He kept saying all the way, ‘I’m still here, you bastards, I’m still here.’ He said it in Dutch, said it in German and laughed in the driver’s face watching him in the rear-view mirror. He was still holding the banknote in his hand he’d used to wave. He’d wrenched the door open, leapt onto the back seat, and then they drove off. A bottle shattered on the road behind them. They shouted something but he couldn’t understand it, didn’t want to understand it either, they were behind him, they stayed in their part of town and he drove off.

  At first he’d thought it was his friends from the bar again, that
they’d spotted him again and caught up with him, but they’d had more hair on their heads than these ones, walking beside him on either side, him in the middle of the road so he had more space, and maybe a car would come after all, he walked down the middle of the road between the tall, white tower blocks, and they were on the pavements, forming a kind of cordon.

  ‘Piss off out of here, nigger!’

  ‘You stink!’

  ‘Get back to the jungle!’

  ‘Looking for trouble, are you?’

  He knew they’d get him if he started running. There was no referee here to take him out of the fight for exhaustion. He walked very slowly, keeping his head lowered, flexing his shoulders under his jacket. Five or six on one side, five or six on the other. He looked straight ahead, only seeing them out of the corners of his eyes. He knew one of them had to start, had to step out onto the road to him, and then the others would come too, then the dance would begin. He had a pen in his jacket pocket and he’d use it. Eyes, necks, all the soft spots.

  The taxi pulled up right outside the door of his hotel. It was almost light now. The street was empty. He handed the driver the banknote. He said, ‘OK,’ and made a hand gesture when the driver wanted to give him change. The driver nodded, ‘Danke.’ He got out and watched the taxi until it disappeared. He put his head back, blinking at the ever-lightening sky. He wouldn’t sleep; he’d pick up his bag and get on the first train to Berlin, from there to Cologne and then straight home. He smelt the vomit on his jacket. It hurt to breathe. His legs trembled, he could barely feel them and he swayed to and fro. But none of that bothered him. Nineteen – thirty-two – three.

  ALL THE LIGHTS

  It’s the last night I’ve got but I don’t tell her that, and we walk through the streets, and I look at all the lights and then at her. She’s just as beautiful as back then, as if we were still fifteen or sixteen, no, she was thirteen, and somehow she still has a part of back then inside her, and I look at all the lights and talk about this and that.

 

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