Shorter Days (19 page)

She doesn't want to ask questions. The bell that swings them all, that brings them safely and securely through the days, mustn't be disturbed, mustn't lose the full, dark tone that deafens them to the whisper of fear.

Klaus loves the boys. He loves them so much that he'd like another one. A tiny new bundle wrapped in a yellow-brown wool blanket. A girl would be nice. She could call it Rike, like in Mörike: “Are you sleeping, Rike?” And Klaus can cut the umbilical cord again, laughing, his face covered in tears as the child emerges from her spread legs. The tiny child's thin whine will carve up Klaus's nights and weaken him, bowing his back and making his penis droop. She sees Rike's fuzzy head in the crook of Klaus's arm—a tiny lady Venus, demanding her huge Tannhäuser's attention, until he finally falls asleep in a mountain of pillows and sheepskin, clouded in mists of milk and post-birth discharge, next to Judith's ruby-red-suckled nipples. As with Kilian and Ulrich, he'll be a devoted father, home every evening, even Thursdays.

Once again, she tries to fix her mind on the place where these redemptive scenes will take place. Just a few minutes and she'll be there, at home. At home: Judith murmurs it like a mantra as she wheezes up the steps, then passes the Baden-Württemburg Farmer's Association building, from whose glass foyer a black-and-white-painted cow points its sharp horns in her direction. She can see the “snake path” winding up the hillside across the way. The lanterns sprout from the undergrowth like curious mushrooms and illuminate the cul-de-sac, which is unusually full of cars. Cars turn and back out, humming as they disappear up the hill in the opposite direction. On Constantinstraße, which Judith finally reaches, breathing hard, cars are bottlenecked in front of a row of red-and-white-striped traffic cones topped with flashing lights. A policeman waves. The flashing blue lights of emergency vehicles light up the area like a little fairground.

Sluggish clouds of smoke drift through the blue lights and rise into the reddish-brown evening sky. The fire truck stands at the edge of the street next to two ambulances; the sidewalk is blocked off. Judith sees firemen with yellow helmets, EMTs, and policemen. Nâzim's big display window is shattered. The shards that still cling to the sides form a giant star filled with blackness and smoke. Judith stands and looks, a rubbernecker among the other gawkers, whose comments are loud and penetrating: “Arson, no question.” “Islamists!” “Don't be ridiculous, it was the PKK!” “It's a Turkish shop.” “Nâzim—they're taking him away now.” She hears the distorted metallic directives through the emergency team's walkie-talkies, and the policeman's irritated voice: “Go home, folks, there's nothin' to see here!” Slammed car doors, and then the siren, piercingly loud. Judith presses her fists against her ears. Holding her head as if she's worried it might be torn off, she stares at the second ambulance, which is still parked. Two people are sitting between the open back doors, garishly illuminated from inside. Leonie's face is smudged with black and her red hair hangs in strings over her eyes, which look like holes in a piece of paper. A blanket covers her shoulders. An EMT passes her a paper cup. Her husband sits next to her, looking at the ground. Judith lowers her eyes to avoid meeting Leonie's. Maybe she didn't even notice. What she really wants is to bury her face in her hands like a child who thinks it can disappear by closing its eyes. Standing on Constantinstraße, she finds herself catapulted into the middle of the evening news, and she's almost surprised not to see headlines running along the curb or the station logo lurking in the corner of her field of vision. This is what the images from Kabul, Kandahar, Baghdad would smell like if they had a smell. Now she has to look at Leonie and her husband, a big sporty guy who's bent over, hands folded in his lap, and at the star in the window with burnt-out darkness behind. Just yesterday she'd stood here holding Kilian's hand. None of this belongs here, yet somehow it found its way, between the baskets of apples and pots of basil, into her paradise.

The EMT speaks to Leonie, and she turns her face from Judith. Judith pivots and walks away, bumping into a few passersby in her haste. She looks up. The buildings along her path look the same as ever, although many of the windows are open, with black heads in the illuminated frames. They hang out over the street, letting the smoke and cold into their warm rooms. Judith breaks from a trot into a run, abandoning all reserve and fleeing with quivering nostrils: a cowardly animal—a rabbit or something that can be cooked into a ragout. She sees her building, like a huge ship anchored in the darkness. The Hutzelmännle is there with his friendly grimace, hanging over the door as always. Melter-away of bad luck, comforter, protect me, let me come back in under your stony grimace, a child on each hand.

Her gaze climbs up the floors: Lights on at the Posselts', dark at the Rapps': shiny black panes with nothing moving behind them. Even in the back rooms there's no one to make tea or warm up the casserole that she'd set out on the counter before they went out to hang the lanterns. It's seven-thirty, and Klaus isn't home yet.

Judith shifts from foot to foot outside the Posselts' door. Her short, polite rings have turned into prolonged attacks in under a minute. Finally she just holds her finger down on the doorbell. The door remains closed. The light behind the fluted panes seems to mock her, and she can hear the dog's yelps, which finally become a drawn-out howl.

In the garden Judith finds four apple cores on the table; the crispbreads have disappeared too, a few crumbs cling to the remains of the fruit. Her basket sits in a corner next to the gardening tools. Just as she did hours ago, she stands at the open glass door of the old couple's apartment, pushes aside the heavy velvet curtain, and enters. She walks through the room, illuminated only by the light from the hallway, her shoulders hunched and tense. The lace doilies on the furniture glow through the gloom. The doors of the sideboard are all wide open. Drawers are pulled out, tablecloths and napkins lie on the floor, candles and silverware lie in desolate piles. It smells strangely of alcohol. There's an empty decanter on the coffee table. Did the old people get drunk? The kids, my God—and why is it so dark? Judith hurries down the hallway. The lamp on the hall table is on, lighting up the old-fashioned telephone with its dark green velvet cover. Now she hears the dog, and children's voices. It's Uli, thank God, Uli and Kilian. Where are they? “Ulrich, Kilian!” she calls softly. “Frau Posselt, are you there?” She glances into the kitchen, where there are shards of porcelain on the floor and the closets are turned out as if there's been a break-in. Her heart beats faster. She's at the end of the hallway. She's never been here before. Which room is this? Dürer's rabbit and two mangy squirrels stare from the papered wall, next to an oil landscape: mountains and woods. The door is ajar and the children's voices drift out; she opens the door.

The boys stand at the foot of the wide double bed, next to two redheaded girls in pink jackets: Leonie's kids. What are their names? Sweets are strewn on the white duvet: bonbons, sugar cubes, and round, chocolate-covered cookies. Kilian's jaw moves, Uli crinkles tinfoil. The girls are chewing quietly too, their heads lowered.

A lamp with a fringed shade sits on the bedside table next to a wax-covered candleholder which now holds only stumps. Light streams onto the pillow and illuminates Wenzel Posselt's head. His severe, eagle-like face with its white mustache is now walled in by a wet rag over his eyes and a lemon under his chin. His legs are covered and his arms are crossed over his chest. He's wearing a suit, a shirt, and a tie. His hat lies next to him on the pillow. The room is ice-cold: one of the windows is cracked open. It smells nonetheless of vinegar and feces.

“Mama!” Uli cries. Kilian clings to her leg. “Mama, Herr Posselt has gone to be with God and we're looking after him. That's why we get the treats. Really they're supposed to go on the casket, but Frau Posselt says it's not coming till tomorrow.” “For God's sake, Frau Posselt!” Judith's voice is shrill as she turns to the old woman. She's sitting in the chair next to the vanity in her fur coat and hat. The dog lies at her feet. Her heavy, pale face is impenetrable and numb under her sweaty white hair; her eyes are closed. Though slow breaths flutter her coarse nostrils, she's unresponsive.

“Mama, can we have another candy?” Judith nods and then takes the younger girl's hand. “Uli, Kilian, let's go home.” The older girl—she still can't remember her name—takes her sister's hand. Kilian and Ulrich pad along at Judith's right side. “Your mother is waiting for you.” She leads the children out and closes the door without looking back.

Marco gobbles down his plate of sausage. He doesn't bother with the green plastic trident and fishes slices out of the gleaming sauce with his fingers. The curry-ketchup burns his mouth and warms his belly. He's been freezing since he walked into the reddish-brown hall of the train station. It's drafty as a sieve in here—another of Grandma Bine's expressions. He set up at a tall table outside of the fast-food joint, so he can run if they come for him. He has a good lookout here—he can see the blue departure board and the crowd of people wandering through the restaurants and stores with their suitcases and bags.

He tears a piece off the tough roll and sops up some sauce. The big chunk hurts as it goes down, but it feels good to have something inside. The hunger really took him by surprise once he saw and smelled all the stuff here. It's mostly just food stands: burgers, fries, mountains of fruit, candy, bakeries, a fish place. As if you can't get on a train without eating first. Carefully, Marco reaches into his inside pocket. The other guys near him stare into their beers and babble at each other, suitcases between their legs: potbellies and bald heads. If only they knew. He feels the packet of cash. It's not particularly thick. He has the rest in his left sneaker: the green ones—hundreds. He didn't even know they made hundreds. There were only three of them in the register, he found them under the sweaty drawer and folded them up a few times, for later. He feels lame having to keep turning his head right, left, right, like a penguin. They're always turning their heads back and forth—he saw them in the Wilhelma Zoo once with Eino. Eino will really be surprised. I'm coming, Eino. That's what he thought as he ran out of the burning shop. Now it sounds empty, idiotic. Will Eino even recognize him? Marco drinks his Coke slowly. It fizzes coldly into his belly, giving him a cramp. He doesn't feel all that great, really. The truth is, he'd rather have a hot cocoa—hot cocoa with whipped cream on top. Sometimes Grandma Bine made him one of those. Whipped cream from a light-blue can that Marco thought was hair spray at first. But the waiter might have made some dumb remark, and the last thing Marco wants is to be noticed.

When he walked up the hill from the fountain to Nâzim's with his bag and the pistol stuck in his waistband, its pressure reassuring against his skin, he'd still felt good. He walked down the street imagining that he was a mega-monster, a dinosaur with huge clawed feet whose every step left behind a gaping hole, whose tail could hit the second-floor windows and whose fiery breath could blaze into those assholes' apartments. He hated Constantinstraße: the tall buildings with the stupid curlicues on the front, fat angels that grinned nastily down at him, sidewalks swept clean, signs with inscriptions he didn't understand, like Ayurveda. Hawaiian bodywork. What was that supposed to be? Fucking, probably something to do with fucking. How else could they afford to live there? He saw the entrances paved with terracotta tiles, the wrought iron gates. Everything seemed to be saying: Get out of here!

His anger gave him courage; when it dawned on him that things were serious, that it was now or never, he had felt a little queasy. There was some action on the street, and people kept going into Nâzim's—one motherfucker after another. Finally, things got a little calmer, except for a couple of retards—a man and a woman—who came running into the store. They were really in a hurry. Marco gave himself a kick in the ass: Do you want to go to Estonia, to Eino, to the house by the sea, or not? The dough's in there—a whole chickpea can full—go on, go get it!

Marco wipes beads of sweat off his mouth and nose with the arm of his jacket. He's sweating, even though he's freezing and shivering in his thick coat. He feels like he's on the verge of losing it and fumbles in his pocket for the money again. It's still there, he looks right-left-right again—if this keeps up, he'll be in the loony bin before he can set foot on the train. That bullshit had thrown him off: the idiots in the shop, Nâzim and the others, the redhead from the ginormous apartment. It was only when she screamed that he realized he knew her. She'd been wearing green tights then. Her face was really pretty: nice eyes, small mouth. He almost said “Hello” or “Hey.” He hadn't noticed her before, all he'd seen was Nâzim hollering, then immediately getting quiet when he saw the pistol. She lay on the floor next to her dude and stared at him while Nâzim stood there with his mouth hanging open. Pretty funny the way they all went down at the sight of Porno's souvenir from Berlin—shit, it was only a lighter. If the thing had been real, he would happily have bumped off the old garlic-muncher. He felt like he could have done it: stopped his mouth once and for all, for all the shit he'd spluttered—filthy scum and all that. Whatever, he got what was coming to him, standing in a puddle of that stuff. And then there was only fire. Marco has been hearing their screams this whole time. He can't get them out of his head. The curtain of wooden beads had kept dancing in front of his eyes, cutting everything he saw—the storeroom, the fire—into strips, making everything fuzzy. The fire hissed up the shelves. Marco was surprised how loud the flames were—a deep, penetrating sound, like a big hair dryer. It roared onward, consuming as it went. He felt the heat on his face and heard shrieking. Clothes, hair, fruit, heads of lettuce—they could all burn! If the piece had been real, he would have blown them all away just so he didn't have to hear any more. He got out of there—he'd had enough.

Marco opened the storeroom door and ended up in a concrete courtyard. Whatever you do don't run outside on the street, just keep your cool. You've kept your cool this whole time, pull yourself together, this will keep them busy a while. He looked around. Behind him, the old buildings' kitchen balconies and glassed-in winter gardens jutted out at him through the night. Where lights were on, he saw baking pans and colanders hanging on the walls. Other than that, most of the windows were dark, which was lucky. Something next to him grumbled loudly, and he spun around. It was only a thick pipe that ran down the side of the building—probably somebody had just flushed the toilet upstairs. A wind chime tinkled on a balcony. It would be enough to make anyone flip out. He had to get away. There was a wire fence and a stupid wooden lattice that you could grow plants on right in front of him. Behind that the ground sloped down three or four yards into a dark garden. Bushes, trees, and then more buildings—Olgastraße. Through the gap he could see cars driving past. Marco gripped the fence and climbed up, swinging a leg over and squishing his balls in the process. Then he closed his eyes and jumped. He lay on the muddy grass for a moment. He actually saw stars, red ones on a black background, and he couldn't catch his breath. Finally he heaved himself up and ran through the garden until he came to a wide, paved driveway that led steeply uphill. He recognized the nursing home: the place with the wooden guy on horseback out front, the triangular concrete spikes jutting out, the tiny glowing windows, the fenced courtyard, the
CAUTION: EMERGENCY VEHICLES
sign. He stood there on Olgastraße, panting. Across the street, the ground-floor windows were lit in red. He saw the outlines of naked women moving languidly behind the glass like fish in an aquarium. Next to that was the wooden fence with the playground behind it—the one with the huge concrete steps that led down to Mozartplatz. Anita used to take Mini-Marco there. Now Marco and his buddies play on the carousel sometimes, at night, after the brats have gone home—they spin the thing so fast they almost puke. Anita used to push Mini-Marco on that carousel. He remembered her laughing face and her hands fluttering past, over and over. When he staggered off, she'd pick him up under his armpits and lift him up high in the air.

Then he saw the bus.
#43 KILLESBERG VIA FEUERSEE
, it read in glowing orange. The bus roared down the hill and Marco started to run. The stop was right in front of the nursing home; he just made it and jumped on, sitting down in the back with his hat pulled way down and his face leaning against the window. Outside, the African stores flashed past—stripes of red, green, and yellow; the baguette shop, he saw the lit vending machine, where the hookers got their nightly meal, and the huge floating loaf of bread over the entrance; the video store—Rosebud, Jill Kelly—rent or buy; Olgaeck, transfer to the subway, all passengers please disembark. He was waiting on the elevated platform when he nearly shit his pants. Back in Blumenstraße, in the light of the neon tits blinking in the sex shop window, were Murat, Hassan, Ufuk, and maybe some others. When they found out what had happened to Uncle Nâzim, it would be curtains for him. They'd kill him, no question.

He lays a bill on the counter and leaves. Eventually he's going to have to turn his attention to getting away. Beyond the archways that lead to the tracks is darkness, where the cold night air rushes in. Out in the blue-black night, the waiting trains lie like sleeping caterpillars, surrounded by red and white lights and incomprehensible voices from the loudspeaker, the jolting of rolling suitcases and the laughter and chatter of travelers.

Did Eino take the train when he ran away? He digs out the note and reads the address again:
Eino Rännumees
,
Rahu mois
,
Pedassaare
,
Lääne-Virumaa
,
Eestimaa
. He has a terrible realization that he doesn't have any idea which train to take. He looks from the Estonian address to the timetable and from the timetable back to the note. Between him and Estonia, where he wants to go, there's way more stuff—a whole bunch of places he knows nothing about. All he knows is that Marbach is somewhere outside of here, last stop on the S4, and he knows Tübingen—they went there on a field trip in fourth grade. Tübingen and the Neckar river, the yellow tower, the strange trees with the branches that hang down into the water. And all these names on the blue timetable: Heilbronn, Bruchsal, Mannheim—they're just words that lead to nothing, they have no meaning. He gropes his pocket again. The only thing that calms him is the feeling of the bills, which are still right there where he left them.

There's one of those little huts with a glass roof over by the stairs, next to the fruit stand: a “Help Point” with two people in uniform. But the last thing he wants to do is talk to some bozos and attract attention. Instead, he slinks around like a ghost, looking at schedules, arrivals, departures. There are ticket machines, too—he presses a few buttons, A to Z, Enter your destination; Estonia doesn't work, of course. A couple of skaters with plaid pants and hoodies are hanging out near the candy stand; there are grinning pumpkins and sugar skeletons everywhere. They smirk and snicker. Guys in suits, women quacking into cell phones, train workers with red caps—they all know exactly where they want to go. He's the only one just hanging around, and soon the fuzz will come asking what he's doing here so late. He goes over to the stairs: post office, convenience stores. A couple of pigeons are dozing on the illuminated sign. The blue of the timetable flickers, and he reads the list again, stupid bullshit: Heilbronn, Bruchsal, Heidelberg, Berlin Ostbahnhof, 18:51 from platform 12. That's the one. Berlin Ostbahnhof. That's where the pistol's from. He can continue on from there, somehow. Marco takes a deep breath. He's going to make it, this is where it all starts. He even manages to get the ticket from the machine: Enter your destination, Stuttgart to Berlin Ostbahnhof, one-way, €122. He's got that much—he stuffs the bills casually in the slot and the card pops out down below—it's so easy he can't help grinning as he turns around to go to his platform.

And there's Anita, right in front of him at the jewelry stand, with her back to him. His heart starts pounding like crazy, he gasps. He recognizes her silver down jacket immediately, the fluffy pink scarf and her blonde, almost white hair, blown out and hairsprayed so that her head looks like a huge dandelion. She bends over the knickknacks—elephants and other creatures made of gemstones, eggs and hearts. She loves that kind of thing. Her backside swells grandly out of her low-rise jeans. Marco sees a strip of white skin between her jacket and belt and knows there's a decent ring of soft fat hanging over the waistband in front: flabby Anita. She's alone, pawing through the stones. Maybe she chased Porno away and is coming to pick Marco up. Maybe they'll go home to a quiet apartment and sit in the kitchen and flabby Anita will ask: “Do you want a Nesquik?” She'll make Nutella toast and they'll sit on the couch together and watch TV—maybe
Spongebob
or some soap. Flabby Anita falls asleep and snores. Her mouth hangs open and Marco can see her incisors. On the right one she has a little stick-on gem—Porno made her wear it. Marco looks at the clock. It's 18:47, his train leaves in four minutes. Marco wipes his sweaty hands on the inside of his pants. Then he turns and runs. Platform 12, Platform 12, he says to himself, he sees the sign with the black numbers. The train is already there, it's an ICE, slim and white with red stripes. Marco presses the button next to the door. It hisses open and lets him in.

. . .