Cafe Babanussa (23 page)

“This is what I hope happens to you,” she jeered at Ruby. “You're fucking with my man. Do you think he will stay with you? You? Sleazing around like everyone else in this town? Don't count on it.”

Ruby grabbed Issam's hand. He squeezed her fingers gently as Ruby spat back, “You two-faced bitch. You're so fucked up! You've already hooked up with someone else. What else do you want?”

Ute measured her words through clenched teeth. “Get her out of here or you will never see your son again. Get her out.”

Issam slammed a fist down on his bed, jostling the intravenous tubes. His eyes pleaded with Ruby to understand, but she was too unsure of her place in this crazy triangle. She felt terrorized by this woman whose eyes burned holes through her head. In that moment Ruby was flooded with a hatred for all Germans, for the power they wielded over her life. The swell of wet salt stung her eyes.

Ute rattled the bedrail again. “Do something about her!” she commanded.

Issam sighed. He turned to Ruby and whispered, “Think of Magdi. Go. You must go.”

Ruby's body sagged. Slowly she stood up from the chair, leaning on the back as her legs began to tremble. She took a step towards the door, then paused to look back at Issam. Her thoughts flashed back to the day she first saw his face in Café Babanussa. Smooth, dark skin flushed against high, sculpted cheekbones, Asiatic eyes. They had reached out to her, sparkling with laughter and mischief. Now they were faded, expressionless.

She faced Ute angrily. “You can't touch what we have. You don't come near it.”

She turned back at the door to gesture to Issam that she would call. He nodded slightly.

Outside, Ruby shivered while waiting for the bus. Her head pounded from the strain of holding back tears, from the voices raging inside. An hour later, she stepped off the bus and hurried past the bodies huddled together in the shadowy entrance to the Zoologischer Garten subway station. An old man tried to block her way and hissed,
“Raus, geh heim.” Get out of here, go back where you came from
. She stumbled as she ran down the steps to the subway platform. A ragged body lay in a pool of vomit at the foot of the stairs.

“Einsteigen bitte. Einsteigen,”
bellowed the conductor. The subway doors slammed shut behind her. Ruby shuddered and leaned up against them.

Inside Café Babanussa the high-pitched wails of an Egyptian singer cascaded from the tape deck, casting a haze
over Ruby as she made her way through the crowd, clasping hands, hugging friends. African, Arabic, English and Turkish words mixed in with the music and the din of the kitchen to form a swirl of noise around her. She could hear a voice booming over in the corner. She followed its rich tenor. Standing in a corner, head tilted down, one of the regular musicians, Joe, was running his fingers over the strings of his bass. His American blackspeak—jazzy, lyrical and fifties hip—charmed the people around him into a place and time they had only dreamed about. He looked up and called out, “Hey sis,” as Ruby wove past him. The silky, syncopated sound of his voice, his bass, bathed her with their familiar soulfulness. She smiled and sank into a chair. She was home.

Ali was working the bar tonight. He came over and took her hands in his, his eyes searching her face. The flecks of grey she met in his eyes almost matched the silvery wire of his hair and beard. “Ruby, how are you? Come, have a coffee. Would you like something with it? It's on the house.”

She asked for brandy and went over to the bar with him. He stood behind the counter, taking orders, chatting with people, pouring drinks. Someone was passing a joint around.

“How is he?” Ali asked gently when he had a moment.

Several heads turned her way, waiting for her answer. She took a sip of the steaming black liquid before her, swallowed, and said, “Not good. I didn't stay long. Ute showed up.”

Faces looked at each other knowingly.

Ruby moved wordlessly away from the bar with her brandy and sat down at a table where some Sudanese friends
were playing backgammon. They ordered food for the table and invited her to eat with them. Fingers grazed deftly together in the large platter of falafel, beans, tomatoes, tahini and crusty Turkish flatbread. More people joined their table. She got high. She laughed a lot and drank a lot. She cried on the shoulder of a stranger, a geologist on his way to Costa Rica. He wanted her to go home with him. She considered it, but decided to stay in Café Babanussa among her friends.

When Ruby went home the next day, she doggedly climbed the five flights to her flat, a haze of stale dope and booze still swirling about her head. In front of her door lay a wilting bouquet of red roses—exactly thirteen. The leaves were starting to crinkle and the petals had taken on the hue of dried blood. A note, written in perfect block letters, stated clearly: “Please come see me!”

R
UBY FIRST SAW HER ON THE DANCE FLOOR AT
Satchmo's. Tall and slender, with hair woven in tight, narrow braids that spread across the top of her scalp and spilled down over her shoulders. As the hi-life music hummed brightly in the background, she flung her arms, adorned with tinkling African bracelets, to her sides just so, legs spinning out and around from underneath. She definitely had her moves down. Issam whispered to Ruby, “That's Abena. Isn't she gorgeous? I'll introduce you.”

Ruby was glad that Issam knew so many people from working at Babanussa. It was a great way to meet people. But she was still worried about him. He had taken just under six months to recover in hospital, and now that he was finally home he had had to hire a lawyer to try to get a divorce without losing his right to stay in the country.

As they approached Abena, she smiled. Issam introduced her to Ruby.

“Are you new here?” asked Abena.

“Nope, been here about four years now.”

“Why haven't I seen you around before?”

Ruby laughed. “Well, we must be just missing each other all the time.”

“Let's put an end to that. Come on and dance with me. The music's great tonight.”

Issam took off to search for friends while the two women hit the dance floor. As the music heated up, they stopped trying to yell questions at each other and heeded their own rhythms and the beat of the music. They teasingly gravitated towards each other, then sidled and swayed around each other, coming to meet in the middle once again, arms reaching out. Ruby was thrilled to be out dancing again, and it showed in her springing, carefree manner.

At one point, Abena stumbled. Ruby grabbed her arm, preventing her from falling. The music changed to something slower and the two women made their way slowly to the bar stools.

“Are you all right?” Ruby asked Abena.

“Oh absolutely, I'm fine. I guess I must have two left feet tonight,” Abena answered. She leaned in to Ruby and said, “Actually, I seem to be having problems with my balance lately. Gotta get that checked out, I guess. I live in Schöneberg. You should come by sometime and I'll show you around.”

Ruby knew that Schöneberg was a beautiful part of town, full of cafés and shops and restaurants.

“I'd love to. Let's make a plan.”

Two days later, Ruby found herself wandering through
Schöneberg, looking at the beautiful gardens peeking up out of the spring earth, yearning to see some such colour on her own working-class street. Abena's building had a paternoster elevator. This was the kind that moved constantly up and down and where you crossed your heart and said a prayer every time you jumped on, hoping not to fall between floors. She lurched out onto the fifth floor and knocked at Abena's door. Abena answered the door in full African regalia.

“Wow, you look beautiful. So early in the morning, too!”

“Yeah, I like to do myself up and prance around town and get all the folks gawking. It's so rare to see people wearing African clothes here.”

“I know. It's not very diverse that way here.”

Ruby looked down at her grey sweater, charcoal pants and black lace-up granny boots and smiled. “No competition here.”

Abena ushered her into a sunny living room that had a bright orange hammock stretched from wall to wall.

“So where are you from, Ruby? The States?”

“You're pretty close—Toronto.”

“Ah, the north lands. Haven't been there yet. Come sit down and I'll bring out coffee and food.”

Ruby stayed standing while Abena stepped into the kitchen. She surveyed the small room and was immediately taken in by the sunlight dancing off the millions of particles of sand that filled the ledges in between window panes, and all the sea creatures and shells she found on it.

Abena came back with a tray full of cheese and bread, jam
and boiled eggs and sausage and caught her fumbling with a seahorse.

“Aha! You've found my little treasures. Wherever I go in the world I collect sand and shells and such. This sand comes from South Africa, Kenya and Cuba, as do the shells.”

“You've travelled a lot, then.”

“Yes, I try,” she mumbled as she put the tray down. “Now tell me about yourself.”

In between mouthfuls, Ruby explained how she had chosen to come to Germany, and Abena leaned in and burst out in a fit of appreciative laughter. She told her about Werner and her early years here and that during that time she had been out of step with whatever Black community there was in Berlin, but that she was setting that straight now. She explained that she was living with Issam and hung out frequently at Café Babanussa, where she had friends from around the world. Then Ruby said, “What about you?”

Abena closed her eyes. “You know, my childhood sucked. But I really don't want to talk about it right now. I'll tell you about my life as it is now. I'm a dancer, but I'm getting ready to take off for Ghana in a month. I have a friend, a lover, who's from there, so we're going down together and he's going to show me around.”

The women cleared the dishes from the table and carried things into the kitchen. Then Abena said, “And now, we are going out. Just follow me.”

The women flew down the five flights, their feet clattering loudly. Once outside, they linked arms and strolled jauntily
along, heading towards what Ruby could only guess was the subway. More clattering down steps and then finally they were on the platform. Fifteen minutes later, they rolled into Charlottenburg, where Ruby could see the striking grounds of the Charlottenburg Palace straight ahead of her. Ah, hospital days—these were her former stomping grounds. Ruby wondered whatever had happened to Irina and Frau Jungblut.

She had no idea where they were going. They turned down a quiet little street with rather plain buildings, and Abena pulled her into one very quickly.

“We're here!” she said.

Abena rang a buzzer on the main floor and a rail-thin woman with long braids opened the door, blinked and then smiled broadly. “Abena. Hallo!” she said in a thick West African accent. “I see you have brought me another customer. Who is this?”

“Ruby, this is Mouna. She's a great friend—and she does hair! She's the best braider in town!”

Mouna reached out and first tousled Ruby's hair and then felt it carefully, lifting her curls and then letting them fall back in place. “Ach! Girl, I don't know if I can do anything with this. It's too soft and fine.”

Ruby smiled at the irony of having an African critique her locks. Considered “good” hair by Blacks in North America, her hair had garnered many oohs and aahs over the years. Ruby never quite understood all the attention because she had always wanted to have the lovely kinky hair that others so often seemed to shun.

Abena laughed. “Now, now, Mouna. You can work wonders with all kinds of hair. I've seen you work with Germans.”

Ruby watched Mouna's face as she harrumphed and then turned back into her flat. Several ragged scars etched themselves across the height of both cheekbones. “Come in, come in. But don't take your things off, we're going down to the corner bar to get beer.”

Ruby was used to almost everybody drinking beer at all times of the day in Berlin, so this came as no big surprise. Still, she didn't relish the thought of stepping into the local sports bar to pick up a case of the stuff. Mouna was ready in a minute and the three of them stepped out into the crisp spring air and walked down to the corner. Outside the bar it reeked of piss, while inside the air was stale and smoky. Several men were hunched over at tables scattered throughout the room and two short, husky guys stood at the bar.

Abena had on a lovely African dress that hung down below her knees under a lightweight jacket, and Ruby was dressed comfortably but managed to look sharp nonetheless. The women made a grand entry, and Mouna marched boisterously up to the counter.

“Hah, they know me in here. Hallo, you! I want beer, please. Twenty Pilsner to take with us.”

The bartender headed to the back to get a carton of beer. The pasty-faced men standing at the bar stood gawking at the three black women as if they were from outer space. Ruby started to stir, feeling uncomfortable under their unrelenting gaze.

“You all don't drink beer, you drink coconut wine or something like that,” one of them finally snorted.

Abena turned slowly to face them head on. “What do you mean, ‘you all'? Who are you to talk to us like that? Do you think I'm not German? I'm as German as you.”

A chair screeched behind them as one of the men from the tables stood up. “Not looking like that, you aren't!” he shouted. “Get the hell out of here.”

Ruby tugged urgently at Abena's arm. “It's not worth the fight,” she said. “You're not gonna change any minds here. Let's get the hell out of here. Now!”

But Abena and Mouna didn't move an inch. The air hung like a sullen gauze about them as the bartender banged the carton of beer on the counter, breaking what seemed like an interminable silence.

Ruby swallowed and then swirled and glared at the men standing around her. “I'm outta here!”

Her two friends reluctantly followed, both of them exclaiming shrilly, “You can't fucking tell me where to go” as they stepped out into the bright afternoon sunlight.

Mouna looked dourly at Ruby. “What's wrong with you? Have you no courage? You have to stand up for yourself in this country.”

Ruby stuttered, “I've been in this kind of place more than a few times in this city. I don't care for the same old battles anymore. Not with these types.”

Mouna shook her head, her leonine tresses flying. Then she took her kaleidoscopic cloth scarf off her head and folded
it in half. She bent her sylphlike body forward towards the pavement, picked up the carton of beer and balanced it deftly on her head. She thrust her hips forward and proceeded to walk with a rhythmic sway back down the street to her flat. Ruby was in awe of her stature and her perfect sense of motion.

Abena whispered to Ruby, “Don't be jealous. She's been doing that since she was a kid. And besides, she's also a dancer.”

Back at the flat, they cracked open the beers and sat Ruby down on a cushion on the floor. Mouna placed herself on a chair behind her and began to part Ruby's hair into different sections and then swiftly and tightly braid together tufts of her hair with extensions from the base of the scalp. Mouna kept Ruby busy as her ebony hands glided at full tilt over her head, slapping her hand or shoulder to tell her to hold this piece of hair or these bobby pins, or that bag of hair. Ruby's forehead felt taut and her scalp stung with little darts of pain. Her eyes teared up more than once as she watched Abena, busy in the kitchen stirring up chicken stew and keeping fufu warm in another pot. Ruby had taken a peek at the fufu. She had never seen it before. It was made of ground cassava and plantain and looked like a giant dumpling. After an hour or two passed, they took a break to eat, all the while keeping up their drinking and chatting about their experiences in Berlin. Ruby felt she had to explain her inaction at the bar.

“You know, I don't believe it's my job anymore to convert all the fascists and racists running around Berlin. I've had people spit at me and Issam and call us monkeys—I always yelled back, and sometimes I spit back at them, too. But in
the end it's a waste of time. There are no laws to help you out here, anyway.”

Mouna argued that it was always better to say something than just stand idly by, but she forgave Ruby her transgression: “You're getting tired of it all, I can see.”

Abena said, “Living my life here as a nothing, being put down all the time, even by my own parents, I know a little about racism. I prefer dual action—say something and then get the hell out. Ruby, you can't give up yet. I've got places to take you, things to do with you. Tonight, when you're all done up, I'm taking you out to meet some friends. You look great. How much longer till you're done, Mouna?”

“In another hour she'll be ready to go.”

Ruby was tired of sitting and started to sigh and squirm a lot on the cushion while she waited for Mouna to finish her work.

“What's wrong with you, girl? Can't you sit still? You're acting like a child! You North American Blacks have forgotten your ways. Here, have another beer.”

Ruby took Mouna's chiding in stride and pondered Abena's comments. “Abena, tell us what it was like growing up here.”

Abena looked startled. She cracked open another beer and took a long swig as if trying to stall for time. “I don't usually talk too much about these things. They're better left for dead. But you two are sisters. And Ruby, I know you have gone through some rough spots, too. I think you will understand what I have to say. My mother gave me up as a baby. My father
was African, from Ghana. He was here studying. She didn't want a nigger child on her hands. I guess she didn't think much about the implications ahead of time. She was young and uneducated and worked in a restaurant. She didn't know what to do with me so she gave me away. I have never met her. I never met my father either, though I have more information about him than my mother.

“I was adopted by a white German family. They thought they were doing me a favour. Throughout my life they treated me as if I wasn't clean enough. If I got a little dirty, they always said people would call me the nigger pig. Sometimes even they treated me like I was just that and scrubbed me down as if they were trying to wash off the black. They treated me like I had to be on my best behaviour every single moment of my life, because ‘what would the neighbours think of the nigger child.'”

“They actually used those words?” Ruby said. “They said ‘nigger' directly to your face?”

“Yes, they did. They tried to be good to me, too, of course, but always when they were angry or tired things would slip out and I'd be humiliated in front of the rest of the family, always because of my race. Even when they weren't angry, they used belittling expressions without knowing or thinking that they were wrong. They didn't know any better, but it hurt nonetheless.”