Blue Night

by Simone Buchholz

  ‘Just something quick and easy,’ I say.

  ‘Sure,’ says Rocco with a forgiving smile as he vanishes into the kitchen, coming back a few minutes later with two serious sandwiches: one ham and mozzarella, one mozzarella and parsley. The rolls are warm. He wraps them in thick paper.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say, leaving a twenty on the bar for everything, before Calabretta and I vanish into the night, while Carla and Rocco set to work rounding off the day and the mayhem.

  Riley, you take over.

  ‘’S good to walk a bit,’ says Calabretta. He’s dug his hands deep into the pockets of his brown leather jacket.

  We walk down the glittering Reeperbahn. On a cold Monday evening the place is dead. All shut, nobody at the ready. Not even the homeless. They headed for the city’s less draughty corners, or even the emergency shelters, at the beginning of winter. They’ll be back in late April, early May. Only our boots clatter over the cobbles.

  There’s only the road.

  And above it the pretty lights.

  Below them is the memory of the weekend, when there was singing and dancing, when there was kissing and whooping and beating into the early hours, like there’s been on this stage for more than a hundred years. Places notice these things and hold onto them.

  Now and again a couple of tourists come towards us, wondering as much about the scenery as about themselves. They feel instinctively that this isn’t their night. We turn right, then left and right again, and we’re back at a bar. We drink an arsenal of long drinks. Cuba libre for Calabretta, vodka and tonic for me. The outline of a guitar-playing cowboy shines in the window in blood red and citrus orange and late-summer yellow; the bass from the speakers over the bar smacks me in the gut. There needs to be more smoking. That’s what I want to say, the way you have to say that kind of thing when you get a phrase on the tip of your tongue after three beers and four vodkas, but all I can get over my lips is the ‘more’, and the cigarette just makes it into my mouth, whereas something comes over Calabretta, as it so often does when you drink a lot for a long time: he’s flooded with a sudden clarity.

  ‘There’s a problem with Faller,’ he says.

  ‘What problem?’

  I can’t make anything of his speech. Nothing.

  ‘He’s getting more and more restless,’ says Calabretta.

  Oh, right.

  ‘Oh, right,’ I say. ‘He’s having … a … thing … midlife crisis … you know…’

  ‘I don’t mean that,’ says Calabretta. ‘Although that might be part of it.’

  A sudden whistle goes off in my head.

  ‘I think,’ he says, ‘he wants another go at the Albanian. He wants to do something himself – take action, you see? He’s said stuff like that recently, more than once. He’s planning something. But I’ve got no idea what it could be.’

  And I’ve got no idea where Calabretta’s suddenly getting all these words from.

  I look at him. His eyes spin before my eyes, and I feel the information spilling out of my ears; it hasn’t even made it as far as my brain; the only thing that sticks is a difficult feeling. I pull my colleague down from his barstool, haul him out onto the street and then on to the next bar. I put him down next to me and order two aquavits.

  ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘Linie.’

  1987, autumn.

  FALLER, GEORG

  Homicide squad. I’m new here.

  And spending more time in the red-light district than ever.

  There’ve been so many deaths since coke hit the Kiez.

  First the pimps snort holes through their noses, then they shoot holes through the other pimps’ faces.

  The gangs and bosses are new too. They speak Turkish or Kurdish or Lebanese.

  We don’t understand their language. We don’t understand what they do. Or how they do it.

  A colleague always says: Shit, they’re wired differently from Hein and Klaus and Johnny.

  I say: Calm down. We’re still getting to grips with them. We just need to get deeper into the business.

  RILEY, CHASTITY

  Everyone keeps falling in love now.

  What’s that all about?

  CALABRETTA, VITO

  Mum cries in Italian. She cries loud and she cries a lot.

  Because Dad’s a womaniser, she says.

  I hold her hand and then we smoke Aldi cigarettes together.

  VELOSA, CARLA

  We’re not in Lisbon any more.

  Only Grandma stayed in Portugal.

  She didn’t want to go anywhere any more. She didn’t want to come to Hamburg. She wasn’t going anywhere without Grandpa, she said. And Grandpa can’t go anywhere, because Grandpa’s in the cemetery.

  My parents wanted to come here even though no one hits octopuses against the walls by this harbour.

  Here, the wind hits you in the face. But from my parents’ restaurant I can see and hear the ships. I like them.

  And the gulls.

  First thing in the morning, when Mum and Dad head for the kitchen to prepare the fish and peel the potatoes, Dad gets out his fado records and the sound fills the whole restaurant.

  The day starts like that, and the day stops like that. With songs of longing.

  KLASSMAN, HENRI

  I play with keys a lot.

  Those plastic keys.

  MALUTKI, ROCCO

  My keys are metal ones. You can cut them to any shape you want. Then you really can get into anywhere.

  Other things I can do:

  A standing somersault.

  A wicked BMX stunt.

  Send a dead ball scorching down the pitch.

  And that trick where you steal people’s wallets on the train and they even thank you for it.

  Don’t you know that trick?

  Well, I’ll come round and show you then.

  JOE

  Nobody knows my name.

  They only know my way of dancing with them. In the moment it happens. Quick and quiet.

  I mostly work in St Pauli. My room’s the other side of town. There’s wallpaper with mountains and a cold lake in the middle.

  WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU CARE HOW DARK IT IS OUTSIDE MY WINDOW?

  I don’t know what to do with the telephone. It’s too loud.

  It’s got to stop.

  I thrash around with my hand, raising my arm as far as I can, and try to find the thing. There. Left of my bed. That takes so long, a thought filters through to me: throwing the phone at the wall would not be good.

  Answering it would be good.

  Cough, breathe, hack. I feel dizzy. Lying down.

  ‘Yes?’ Oh God. My voice sounds like an old crow making a crash landing.

  ‘St Georg Hospital here, surgical ward. Good morning. Am I speaking to Ms Riley?’

  ‘Yes, I think so.’

  ‘He’s awake,’ says the hospital voice, sounding a bit offended. ‘You wanted us to call you immediately.’

  ‘I did,’ I say. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘Half past five.’

  I see. No wonder I feel dizzy. I only went to bed three hours ago and not with particular aplomb. More of a stumble really. I think I can vaguely remember crashing into a door frame between the bathroom and bedroom. I feel my head. Right. There’s a bump. I open my eyes a crack; the full moon glitters right in my face. Not a cloud in the sky.

  Unusual for the time of year.

  My current condition is not. Alcohol helps me through the winter. I was overjoyed when I was finally old enough to drink properly.

  ‘Has he said anything?’ I ask.

  ‘No. He doesn’t speak. He just looks at us strangely – sort of … annoyed.’

  ‘Hasn’t he even asked where he is?’

  ‘He seems perfectly aware of that.’ The hospital voice is becoming impatient.

  ‘I’ll come as soon as I can,’ I say, although at the moment I’m not quite sure if that’ll even be today. ‘If he speaks, will you please take note of what he says?’


  ‘I can’t remember everything patients come out with.’

  ‘Then bloody well write it down.’

  I hang up and feel guilty. Firstly because I’m not sitting at the beaten man’s bedside, which is the only job I actually have at the moment. And secondly, because I was rude to nursing staff, a dying breed. I sit on the edge of the bed and realise that I shouldn’t even start thinking about the day without a serious batch of headache pills.

  I try to stand up and cling onto the wall.

  Uh-huh.

  Oh boy!

  On the other side of the wall, Klatsche’s asleep in bed. The wall feels like one big heat pad. I go even wobblier at the knees and have to watch myself or I’ll fall on my face.

  I could just lie back down again.

  It seems like there are lots more white coats wandering around here than usual. And they’ve picked up the pace. They zoom past on either side of me, as if Old Nick himself was at their heels.

  It’s probably just a change of shift.

  Day is breaking, even if there’ll be only moonlight outside for some time yet.

  Ward B2, room 5. Outside the door is a chair, and sitting on the chair is one of the officers posted to make sure that no one but me and the hospital staff gets in. I give a tiny salute and show my pass; the policeman nods back. He looks tired. I reckon he’s still the night shift, like me.

  The man in room 5 is sitting up slightly in bed – the head end’s been raised and a couple of pillows shoved under his neck, one flowered and another chequered. From the look of the pillows, nobody’s been to shake them out for a while. They probably don’t dare. The man looks like he might bite. It almost sounds like he’s growling at me. When I actually have the nerve to step through the doorway into his room, he turns away and stares out of the window as if to say: She’s all I need.

  ‘It’s still dark out there,’ I say. ‘What’s so fascinating, apart from your own reflection?’

  ‘What the fuck do you care how dark it is outside my window?’ he asks.

  He was more charming asleep.

  He speaks with an accent, but I can’t place it. I pull a chair up to his bed and sit down.

  ‘I don’t remember offering you a seat,’ he says, and now he’s clearly an Austrian.

  ‘I’m not the type to wait for an invitation,’ I say.

  He’s still looking out of the window.

  ‘My name is Riley,’ I say. ‘I’m a public prosecutor and I take care of people like you.’

  ‘People like me?’

  He starts to laugh. It’s not a crazy laugh; he seems genuinely amused. Then he looks at me for the first time. Blue eyes. Bright blue, forget-me-not eyes with a pale ring around the pupils. With his down-to-earth face they could make him look like an outdoorsy type, a guy who lives for the water or the mountains, but he’s a touch too elegant for that. Something tells me he’s rooted in civilisation. It’s that George Clooney thing. Perhaps I just have the tailor-made suit on my mind, but it’s got me a bit confused, and I don’t know what to focus on. How to approach him. I need a clear message when I’m getting to know someone. An unambiguous signal to heart and mind, an unmistakable clue about who I’m dealing with. Otherwise it’s too complicated for me. I’m not very good at that stuff. When it comes to relationships, I’m an amateur.

  ‘My job is to protect you,’ I say, ‘and to make sure that we catch the people who beat you up.’

  Of course I know how corny that sounds, but like I said, it’s hard for me. It’s easy to end up sounding like a cop show.

  ‘Bullshit,’ he says. He glowers at me. ‘What was your name?’

  ‘Chastity Riley,’ I say.

  ‘Funny name.’ Flawless Austrian accent.

  ‘I know. I’ve learnt to live with it. And what’s yours?’

  His gaze strays back to the window; the dark blue in the sky is growing paler with every minute and the reflection of the room is starting to fade. The moon is still shining brightly and it’s coming in through the window now.

  ‘Pick something,’ says the Austrian.

  ‘Rumpelstiltskin?’ I ask.

  ‘Not bad.’ A soft Austrian smile.

  ‘You won’t get rid of me that way,’ I say.

  He looks at me; no, he stares at me, and then he whispers: ‘I’m Joe.’

  ‘You’re Austrian. Your name’s not Joe.’

  ‘Have you ever been to Austria? Skiing?’ he asks.

  I shake my head.

  ‘You see,’ he says. ‘You’ve got no idea.’

  ‘About skiing?’

  ‘About everyday naming customs in the Alps.’

  ‘OK,’ I say, ‘Joe. Who broke all your bones?’

  ‘Life,’ he says, shutting his eyes, turning his head away and acting like I’m not there. Seems he makes a habit of pathetic posturing. Seems our conversation’s over.

  There’s no rational reason to feel like this, but it’s pretty clear: I like this Alpine son of a bitch.

  I stand up and say: ‘I’ll leave you in peace for today. But I’ll be back.’

  He frowns and deep wrinkles form on his brow.

  ‘I can bring a couple of beers,’ I say, already halfway out of the door.

  As I close it behind me, I think I hear someone mumble, ‘Prosit!’ but I’m not quite sure.

  The policeman on the chair looks at me and says: ‘You’re brave.’

  Clearly he’s been in for a visit too.

  It’s light at last. A pale but bright sky. And, very slowly, my inner light bulbs are coming on. I walk a little way down Lange Reihe, the city’s most colourful street. No two of the old townhouses are the same, and every one of them houses a café or a restaurant or a shop selling clothes or pots or chocolate or books or tea or gay porn or floor lamps, and often a bit of everything, over two floors where they can. And it seems like there are signs everywhere: We kindly ask you to enter this world in as many colours and shapes as possible.

  But the street is still sleeping. And without its people, the brightly coloured road has lost its cheer.

  It’s hard at the best of times in a north-German port city in wrinkly March – laughing, I mean. The rest, i.e. everything you can do without laughing, is almost easier here than anywhere else. We just let ourselves fall into the mist and all the sad things run under their own steam. Loneliness, for example. Or fear. Or being cut off from everything. Things like that.

  So he’s an Austrian. Traditionally, Austrians up here are in one of two industries: publishing and the red-light business. No idea why that is, or who was the first to move north to work for a magazine or for a Reeperbahn boss, or to become one themselves. That’s just the way it is.

  The Austrian in the hospital looks like a big editorial beast, but acts like a big shot in the Kiez. Of course he might still work in a smart office, but people who don’t want to give their names generally don’t even trust themselves – not an inch. And people who mistrust themselves mistrust others. They have no friends. People don’t know them. They don’t join in with normal stuff. And if you don’t join in, you’re practically not there.

  And then you’re perfect for crime.

  Klatsche always says: If you see a gangster, they’re no good.

  I think Klatsche quit his career as king of the burglars because he realised – in jail, if not before – that as a criminal he could crack safes but not hearts. And he loves doing the hearts. He tries it with me every day. I’d like to say he’s biting on granite but that’s not quite true. I’m more like toast in his hands: a bit chewy, but generally rather brittle.

  Before Klatsche was Mr Barkeeper, back when he was the most popular locksmith in St Pauli, he tried out his skills on closed doors. Since he stopped doing that, he’s been working on my locked-up soul. He thinks it’s good for me. Carla thinks so too. I think there’s nothing I can do about it.

  Not being able to do anything about it reminds me of Calabretta and our wild night yesterday evening. I make a mental note: call Cal
abretta. Because there was something. Something he said was important, but I can’t quite grasp it. I can feel it though – there’s a dark patch on my brain, stuck on my thoughts like an exploded black felt-tip.

  I flag down a taxi. Now I need coffee and cigarettes and a warm face. Somebody happy. I like sleepy places, but the empty Lange Reihe is doing me in. On top of the foul-mouthed Austrian in the hospital it’s just a bit too much UGH, NOT YOU this early in the morning.

  The taxi drives through the city and while the sun tiptoes surreptitiously past the clouds, while the knot in my head works tentatively looser, someone adds a soundtrack to my hangover, which until then I’d barely noticed. As I get out of the car outside Carla’s café, there’s something buzzing in my ear like an old David Lynch film. If you could put a punchy beat over it and sell it, it would go like hot cakes.

  I stretch and my spine cracks. Someone desperately needs to go for a run again. That’s the thing: when winter comes to an end, everything’s a bit askew. I keep stretching on the pavement gym. It cracks again. I resolve to lace on my running shoes as soon as possible, and my hangover muscles through, adding fuel to my resolution; but then the door opens and Carla pops out and presses a thick glass mug of steaming latte into my hand and says she’s put the sugar in already, and, whoops, everything’s slid back to a whole lot more horizontal again. I light a cigarette to go with the coffee, puff little clouds into the air and relax, which is easy with Carla’s place behind me.

  Wonder where Faller is; I call him.

  He doesn’t answer, which never happens. I blink into the sun a bit longer as it reflects off the window opposite, accept the buzzing in my head as a given and go in to order another coffee.

  I like my friend’s café best in the mornings, when you’d never guess that it’s a restaurant in the afternoons and evenings now. In the mornings, time slows down here – Carla’s just too tired for stress before ten. She’s getting everything set with careful movements that shift the air cautiously from here to there. The fado streams from the speakers as dark and soft as the coffee from the silver espresso machine; a slight smile billows through the room. Rocco is standing in the kitchen, beating eggs in a bowl. He looks freshly showered, almost freshly hatched – his hair is wet and shining and combed smoothly back. Only later in the day will the curls on his head assert themselves and start giving incomprehensible orders to the kitchen utensils stacked all around.