Six months renovating. Alone. The works.
Now there are old chandeliers hanging wonkily from the ceiling. That means the walls aren’t straight either, but they glitter so prettily.
I spend the whole day taking photos of the first day.
JOE
The longer I do this job, the more I disappear. Sometimes I don’t even know myself if I’m actually still there.
Fine by me.
I’D LIKE TO GO SOMEWHERE, RIGHT NOW, WHERE I CAN SMOKE
It rains and squalls, and then the sun shines again. The sky’s in motion, spring’s showing its forceful side. On the radio they say there’s a storm coming in this afternoon. I’m standing in my kitchen, a glass coffee mug in my hand; the clouds outside my window are racing eastwards. It’s just beautiful. When the weather’s all turned inside out. The hair stands up on the back of my neck and I get an age-old feeling in my belly. Like there’s a fight ahead. Like something’s really about to go off.
But it’s usually wrong.
It usually is really only the weather.
I go for a shower, get dressed and walk to my office. See if there’s anything on.
Of course there’s nothing on.
I don’t exist in the department any more. I’m as invisible here as I was yesterday at Steindamm police station, but there’s a subtle yet toxic difference. Here, it’s deliberate. As if there was a new regulation: wherever possible ignore Riley, so that one day she’ll simply dissolve into thin air all by herself.
Nothing being on doesn’t take long, and now it’s raining like the angels have knocked over their bucket, so I take a taxi to St Georg.
The wheelchair is standing outside the hospital room, as discussed. I really had to work hard on the young doctor yesterday to get it. At first he acted like he didn’t want his patient to leave his bed, but then he blurted out the real issue:
‘Who’s paying for all this?’
‘We’ll talk about that tomorrow,’ I said, and we will. The child doctor and me.
Today he looks a little older than yesterday; he doesn’t look seventeen any more: he looks more like nineteen, or maybe twenty. He looks like he’s just off a hard night shift and he knows there’s another night shift ahead, and he won’t get home before tomorrow morning. And that’s probably precisely the case. He’s standing next to the wheelchair, holding the thing with his right hand gripping the backrest. As if to say, ‘This is my wheelchair’.
‘We still have no idea who the man is,’ he says. ‘We have no personal data, no insurance information, nothing. Social security will pay if he’s homeless. But this man arrived in a fancy suit and won’t tell us his name. We won’t get anything out of them, I can tell you that much.’
‘What does he say about it?’ I ask the infant doctor, and fall deeper than I was really intending into his tired eyes.
‘He said he’d pay cash. I said that he’d have racked up quite a bit on the meter by the end. He said, “That’s fine”.’ He shakes his head ever so slightly. ‘The guy’s a puzzle to me.’
‘Me too,’ I say.
He smiles at me.
OK.
I smile back.
He lets go of the wheelchair, slips his hands into the pocket of his demigod coat, inhales deeply and breathes out again.
‘Have a good trip,’ he says, and then: ‘See you.’
Er, yeah.
Carting someone from a bed to a wheelchair when nearly all his bones are broken is almost impossible. Especially when the patient to be carted is tall and imposing, and understandably mostly concerned with preventing his hospital gown, tied on only with two strings at the back, from slipping off. I can understand that. Those gowns are degrading enough when you’re lying still. When you’re moving, they’re just plain mean. So I shove and pull and push carefully – but with all my strength – at the gentleman held together by splints; my neck muscles hang out the stop signs and I get the feeling I’ll need a few splints myself in a moment, or at least some drugs. It’s only when I tell him there are cigarettes waiting if he gets into the chair that he gives his body a decent shake at the hips, and all at once there he is, actually sitting in the thing. Legs propped up, arms out at an angle.
Lying down, there was something pious about his posture; now he looks more like a big cartoon character who’s been bashed about by an even bigger cartoon character. He looks as though someone has grabbed him and hurled him against a wall with all their strength.
But what I say is: ‘Looking good.’
He gives me a tormented glance. ‘I’d like to go somewhere, right now, where I can smoke.’
‘I know,’ I say and pull his blanket off the bed, laying it over his legs.
He growls.
I say: ‘It’s cold out.’
We head off. In front of me is the back of his big head, his short, silvery hair, all kinked from lying down, his powerful neck, his constantly surprisingly broad shoulders. I sense that he’s tense, that he feels watched – by everyone and everything. I notice that he’s in exactly the same state as I’ve been in every time I’ve found myself at police HQ since I became a kind of outsider – the state of having slipped out of the world.
I wonder if even he actually knows exactly which world is his.
In the old days, hospitals still had smoking cages – those glass boxes like you get at airports. Generally a shabby waiting room with the window open, whatever the temperature. After all, if people smoke, they’re not going to have anything wrong with their lungs, are they? Or at least, not yet.
Of course there’s nothing like that in hospitals any more. If you want to fuck yourself up, you have to put a bit of effort into it. Or at least stand outside, right in the wind.
We take the lift down. I stand next to his wheelchair; we don’t look at each other. I stare at the ceiling; he looks straight ahead.
Down at the bottom, I weave him quickly left then right. I wish it was Klatsche in the wheelchair, or Carla, or some other Ernie type, so I could be Bert and we could have some fun.
No idea if Joe notices me using his wheelchair for rally driving. I don’t know how Austrians think about that stuff. He ought to appreciate it, because of Niki Lauda. He says nothing.
Outside the door, I park him by a bench. It’s pretty windy, but the sun’s just shining now; it’ll be all right for a couple of fags. I pull a cigarette from my coat pocket, light it and stick it in his mouth.
He goes at it like he went at the red wine yesterday evening. He does things the way someone does the things they always do alone. Without caring about incidental noises. If nobody’s ever there to do the normal stuff with you, you just march more ruthlessly through whatever you do. He smokes like an efficient machine. I look at him and suddenly it all becomes clear: I’m the first regular company he’s had for years. Probably the first for decades. And it’s because he can’t run away.
When he’s finished smoking, he looks at me.
‘Thanks,’ he says.
‘What for?’
‘For being a good guy,’ he says, pulling up the right-hand corner of his mouth.
‘Stop that,’ I say. ‘I want to get something out of you, that’s all.’
‘I know.’
‘And?’ I ask. ‘Am I in with a chance?’
He looks at me.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Three minutes.
Roughly.
I light another cigarette and give it to him. Then one for me. We look each other in the eye again.
We smoke.
After a few deep drags, there’s nothing left of his cigarette but ash and smoke and a crushed filter. He chucks it away and says: ‘I need to think. Come again tomorrow evening.’ And after a brief pause he says: ‘Please.’
Course I’ll come again tomorrow evening. I’ve got nothing else on.
I wonder if he knows that.
Rocco’s cooked for everyone. The café door is shut and there’s a sign in the window saying ‘closed’.
But people still knock. It looks so lovely in here. It’s warm, almost humid, we have no jackets on, and red cheeks. Outside, Hamburg’s caught in a storm. It’s been pouring since late afternoon; the fire brigade keeps getting called out to pump out the cellars near the Elbe. Now it’s gradually calming down, it’s only drizzling puppies and kittens now, but the city’s not exactly at its most welcoming. I can understand people wanting to come and join us. But sadly I can’t help them there.
We’ve pushed a few of the small tables together; we’re sitting by five big plates, Carla, Rocco, Calabretta, Faller and me. There’s a tin waiting for Klatsche in the kitchen; we’ll fill it later and take it round to him. In the middle of the table there’s an Indonesian salad with loads of vegetables bathed in a thick peanut sauce. And two grilled octopuses, crisp outside, tender inside, the colour of rust. We drink rosé from thick glasses.
We don’t talk much. Carla and Rocco have talked and yelled and shouted enough today, and Faller, Calabretta and I aren’t generally what you might call chatterboxes.
We’re eating.
We’re together.
It warms our hearts as well as our bellies.
Rocco and Carla call it mixing the glue. Holding the family together. We do this every few weeks. And every few weeks, something’s different. A different person needs a bit more glue than the rest. For months, it was me. Then it was Calabretta. Today, nobody really knows. Calabretta’s turned in on himself, but seems stable and fairly solid, staring out at the world as if he were a sphinx. Faller looks a bit like his Pontiac. Not pale blue, but a glittering sort of silvery grey, with a face out of late-sixties America. And when he does say something, it’s the same rumble.
There’s schnapps for dessert.
After two glasses, Faller stands up, picks up his hat and coat. ‘I’ll be off then.’
We stare.
‘Where to?’ I ask.
He shakes his head and just rumbles: ‘Got to go out again.’
‘OK then,’ says Carla, going to the door and opening it.
She hugs Faller and comes back to the table. Rocco starts clearing up.
Outside we can hear a dark spluttering. Faller’s starting the Pontiac.
‘Something wrong?’ Carla asks when she sees my face.
‘Maybe I should go after Faller,’ I say.
She looks blankly at me. She has no idea.
‘I thought we’d take Klatsche something to eat and stretch the evening out at the Blue Night,’ she says, and then, to Calabretta: ‘Should she go after Faller?’
‘No,’ says the Sphinx. ‘She shouldn’t. If anyone should go after Faller, it should be me.’
Carla shrugs. ‘Suit yourselves,’ she says. ‘I’ll go to the kitchen and pack up the food for Klatsche. You’ve got that long to figure out if you’re coming with us.’
She grabs the rest of the plates and shoves the chair hard enough with her hip it crashes – gently – into the table. She always does that when her mood’s tipping from busy towards I’m-not-sure-I-can-take-any-more.
I try to avoid Calabretta’s Egyptian stare and ask: ‘Smoke?’
He nods and before I can reach for my coat, he’s got it in his hand and is laying it across my shoulders. He holds the door for me; I offer him a cigarette. Calabretta only smokes when I smoke.
I give him a light.
‘So what’s he doing now?’ I ask. ‘He’s not heading home to watch the NDR Talk Show.’
‘I don’t know what he’s doing,’ says Calabretta. ‘But it’s none of our business, is it? Or he’d tell us about it.’
‘That’s how you see it?’
‘That’s how I see it,’ he says. ‘A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.’
‘James Stewart?’
‘Gary Cooper.’
He reaches out his hand and catches a couple of rain ribbons. His dark eyes gleam. Very slowly, life is reawakening within him.
‘Aren’t you at all worried about Faller?’ I ask.
‘Is there anyone who doesn’t need worrying about?’
I think. Nobody comes to mind.
‘Let’s not deceive ourselves,’ he says, chucking away his cigarette. ‘The times when you could save anyone from anything are over. Good night.’
‘Where are you going?’
‘Home,’ he says. ‘I’m going to try and spend a night at my flat for a change.’
‘And if you can’t?’
‘I’ll ring you,’ he says. ‘Say goodbye to Carla and Rocco for me.’
He briefly lays his hand on my shoulder, then he does up his leather jacket and vanishes towards Altona. I watch him go, until he’s swallowed up by the drizzly haze. His boots make cowboy noises on the wet cobbles.
I smoke another cigarette and feel abandoned by Calabretta. The way you always feel when someone you’ve spent a while caring for is getting back on their feet. And, hey, it was him who put the bee about Faller and his Albanian hunt in my bonnet. Now he’s acting like it’s nothing.
Thanks for that.
Carla’s café windows are almost completely misted over; I can just about see in through the clear space left in the middle. Carla and Rocco are behind the bar, standing opposite each other and talking. I can’t hear what they’re saying but I can see that it’s a serious conversation. Carla’s shaking her head. Rocco’s gesticulating. They’re not getting anywhere; Carla’s started gesticulating now too – she throws her hands up in the air, the cloth that she was presumably about to wipe a table with almost landing in Rocco’s face. They’re both talking louder now, but I only hear fragments. And then Carla suddenly turns round. Turns her back on Rocco. Lifts up her hair and holds the bare nape of her neck towards him. The tension ebbs out of his body. He pushes a hand into the dark curls. They stand like that for a long second or two. Then he pulls her to him with his free hand and lays his mouth on her neck. It looks a bit like he’s biting her, but their little dance is too tender for that. I’ve smoked my cigarette to the end but daren’t go back in.
Whatever they’re doing, it’s very private.
They pull away from each other. Carla turns around, kisses her husband on the lips and goes to wipe the table. Rocco disappears into the kitchen. I hold my breath for a moment, then, slowly and noisily, I open the door and walk back in.
‘Calabretta sends his regards,’ I say. It’s meant to sound casual. I don’t think it succeeded.
‘Has he gone?’ asks Carla. There’s a strange expression in her eyes. her cheeks are slightly flushed. She looks as though she and Rocco have just had sex.
‘Yeah, he’s gone home,’ I say.
‘Well, how about that?’ she says. ‘Are we cool with it?’
‘I think it’s OK,’ I say.
‘Then it’s OK,’ she says, smiling at me. She goes to the bar, picks up a brown-paper bag and presses it into my hand.
‘Here,’ she says. ‘Can you take Klatsche something to eat?’
‘Aren’t you two coming too?’ I ask.
‘Er…’ She ums and ahs a bit.
I see. They’ve got plans.
‘I see,’ I say.
‘Thanks,’ she whispers. ‘And now, clear off.’
‘Thanks for this evening,’ I say, but she’s already vanished into the kitchen.
I turn the light off, go out and pull the door to behind me.
It’s stopped raining. The clouds suddenly break up. You can even see a few stars in the sky.
I turn up my coat collar, light a cigarette and get on my way.
People are bunched outside the door at the Blue Night, and they’re standing in the doorway too, so it looks like they’re spilling out. The joint is boiling over. Inside it’s all Motown classics – Klatsche’s weekend music.
I say ‘excuse me’ and ‘sorry’ and ‘could I just?’ and work my way through the door and bit by bit over to the bar. Klatsche’s brown shirt is open, the white vest he’s wearing underneath is clinging to his chest and his dark blonde hair is wet,
but because it’s so thick and so all over the place, it’s still sticking up from his head. He’s sweating and toiling, and he’s smiling at me. He’s so busy with glasses and bottles it’s like he’s got eight arms.
‘Hey, Mr Octopus,’ I say.
‘Hey,’ he says from the other side of the bar.
I hold up the paper bag.
‘Food!’ he cries
‘Do you want it?’ I ask.
He nods, reaches an arm across the bar, takes the bag from me and puts it behind him on the shelf below all the liquor bottles.
‘Where is everyone?’ he asks.
‘Oh, them,’ I say. ‘They had other plans.’
‘My girl’s here, that’s the main thing,’ he says, leaning over the bar again; he reaches for my head with his long arms, pulls me to him and gives me a sweaty kiss.
Then he piles on the pathos: ‘Could you help me out a bit, please?’
I squeeze past people, which works out OK because everyone’s moving to the music, and they’re actually all on the same beat. Behind the bar, I take care of the bottles – beer, cola, lemonade and water – while Klatsche deals with all the drinks in glasses. He’s mainly mixing long drinks. It’s still early, a long way off midnight. So the twenty-schnapps orders aren’t due for another couple of hours or so.
We dispense drinks, making it a party. One day, I’ll pack in the whole bureaucratic lark and open a pub. I’ll call it The Last Cigarette.
‘I’ve got to pop downstairs,’ says Klatsche, opening the hatch to the cellar. ‘Out of gin.’
I hand four beers over the bar to a woman in a grey coat and cash ten euros.
Before I can take the next order, I hear Klatsche yell from the cellar: ‘Come down a mo, babe!’
I climb down through the hatch. It’s cool and damp and dark – I can hardly see. There’s only a fragment of the dim light prevailing upstairs. And only half the racket makes it down here too.
‘Klatsche?’
‘Over here.’
He’s standing right at the back on the left, in the darkest corner.
Blue Night Page 7