‘Stamps?’ Frank emptied his glass and pushed it next to the old man’s. ‘Two more,’ he said, ‘and two tequilas,’ and the barmaid said, ‘Be with you in a minute.’
‘I worked for the post office,’ said the old man, ‘in the old days.’ And suddenly Frank knew who he was. They’d sat at Rudi’s bar and turned the pages of the big stamp album. ‘Two new Pelé stamps,’ said Wolfgang. ‘Really rare, no postmark.’ They looked at the stamp and the tiny Pelé, who seemed to be holding an even smaller ball on the tip of his foot, and the longer they gazed at Pelé, their heads resting on their hands, the quieter it got around them, the noise of the pub fell silent, and then the ball danced on the tip of Pelé’s foot, and then Pelé too moved on the little stamp.
Frank took a deep breath. ‘He made some money, Rudi did. Came into a lot of money, over in Hamburg.’
‘Money?’ The old man sniffed at the tequila. ‘Is this Korn?’ He was used to German spirits.
‘No,’ said Frank. ‘Just do what I do.’ He moistened the small dip between his thumb and forefinger with his tongue, sprinkled a little salt on the wet spot, handed the saltshaker to the old man and waited for him to do the same. ‘And now the lemon.’ The old man smiled, and they took the slice of lemon in one hand, the glass in the other, then they licked the salt from their hands, tipped back the alcohol and bit into the slice of lemon, ‘Ahhh, Jesus, what’s that?!’ and then the old man laughed and asked, ‘Rudi made money?’
He was running through the night. It was really cold, and his breath came steaming out of his mouth. He could still hear the old man laughing — ‘Rudi made money, you’re telling me Schnapps-Rudi made money out of a bar in Hamburg!’ He couldn’t understand why the old man was laughing so wildly. He slowed down now, putting his hands in his jacket pockets and passing the playground, which was dark and empty. Where did the young lads go when it was so cold? Maybe to some bar or other, if they had any money.
‘And the stars up above us at night were really so bright, not like anything I’ve ever seen in Germany. They seemed to be incredibly close too …’
They were bright, the stars up above him, not a cloud in the sky, but they must have shone much brighter over there, and close … no, they seemed tiny and far away to him. He kept walking. He took out his key, even though he was still a good way away from home. He jangled the keys, the street was empty and silent, and he could hear his footsteps. ‘You know I’ve always been a dreamer, but I swear … but first I have to travel.’ He unlocked the door to his building. He stood in the dark stairwell and looked for the keyhole, then he locked the door again, once, twice. He turned on the light and stopped in front of the letterboxes on the wall. ‘Everything’s muddled in my head; I’m on my way to South America.’
Maybe Wolfgang hadn’t written for so long because he’d taken Maria Pilar to Brazil. He was certain the two of them had long since seen Sugarloaf Mountain. The light went out automatically, and he switched it on again and jangled his keys as he walked up to his flat. He tried to jangle his keys so it sounded kind of South American. What did they dance in Brazil? Salsa, cha-cha-cha? He’d bought himself a book about Brazil; it had said something about samba schools, next to photos of beautiful women wearing next to nothing, decorated with sequins and feathers. He had sat at the kitchen table night after night looking at the photos, not just the ones of the beautiful women. The Church of São Francisco with all its gold, the white foaming waterfalls of Iguaçu, Guanabara Bay off Rio de Janeiro. He jangled his keys, stamping his feet as he walked, and then he started whistling, trying to whistle a tune that matched with the jangling and stamping. Once he reached his front door on the fourth floor he went silent and took a deep breath.
‘I’m standing on the peak of Sugarloaf Mountain, looking down at Guanabara Bay. It’s night, and there are lights everywhere on the little islands, and between the islands and further out are the lights of the ships. Behind me the sky is bright, no stars. Rio de Janeiro.’
THE SHOTGUN, THE STREET LAMP AND MARY MONROE
The room I’m sitting in is pretty small and shitty. There are shittier rooms, in jail and that.
No. I open my eyes. I’m not in my little room at all, my little one-room flat, I like my little one-room flat, but I kind of lost control of everything there. There’s too much stuff on the floor, the shelves are empty; just a few plates on them with dried-on leftovers. And now that the weather’s getting warmer the flies and other creepy-crawlies are having a ball, and it’s all theirs now because I don’t go to my little flat any more. But I took my shotgun with me. It’s a great shotgun, an air rifle, 177 calibre. It’s a spring-piston rifle; you have to pull back the cocking lever before every shot to produce the air pressure. The butt and the shaft of my shotgun are made of beautiful brown wood and the gun looks pretty real, like a carbine. But it’s not as if I take my shotgun with me everywhere. It’s actually a shotgun for at home. I used to spend hours shooting at the flies. Once I got a spider, one of those long, thin-legged spiders that don’t live in webs. Got it right in the middle of its little body. I didn’t hit first time — the wall and ceiling were covered in bullet holes, and when I did hit it its little body got stuck in the wall and the long thin legs kept moving for a while. That did my head in. I chucked the gun in the corner, and if I’d been religious I’d have said a prayer for that poor spider. But that’s stupid really; I’ve never had a good relationship with spiders. I don’t have a good relationship with a lot of people, but I’ve never actually shot one. I have to admit, I’m scared of a lot of people and all, just like I’m scared shitless of spiders. Like, there’s a bar down on the ground floor of the building where my one-room flat is, the flat I’ve left to the flies and all the other creepy-crawlies. It’s called ‘Feasters’ Retreat’, and there are always hundreds of Neo-Nazis in there, feasting. Usually on beer and spirits. I’ve had a drink in there once or twice, and every time I wished I’d taken my shotgun down with me. But I bet they’d only have laughed at my beautiful spring-loader. You can do a lot of damage with the butt, though. And the thing has a twenty-shot magazine, and I wouldn’t very much like to get one of those 0.177-inch balls of lead in the eye.
‘Sweetheart,’ I call out. ‘Sweetheart,’ and then I hide my shotgun under the sofa. She doesn’t like my shotgun, that’s why. I don’t know if she can see me; the bedroom door’s open. My sweetheart doesn’t like my shotgun, so I only get it out when my sweetheart’s in the bedroom. But she’s not asleep. She’s lain down in bed because she’s angry with me.
Oh shit, what have I done now? ‘Sweetheart,’ I call out, making my voice all gentle, the way she likes it. I’m a master at making my voice gentle the way women like it. But my sweetheart’s the only one I want to love my gentle seduction voice. And I really love that girl, even when she’s angry with me and hiding in the bedroom. And I think she loves me too, or she wouldn’t have stuck it out with me so long in my one-room flat. She already had her flat back then, the one I’m in now, but the thing was I couldn’t leave my flat, I used to hide out in bed, and she’d sit on the edge of the bed and wipe my forehead and really sweet things like that. She didn’t even have a go at me for having my shotgun in bed next to me. The shotgun had to go though, whenever she slept next to me. But I was clever; I squeezed my little rifle in the wee gap between the wall and the bed so I could always get at it. I can’t say I was in a very good way back then, even when my sweetheart slept next to me. And I could never have imagined such a great girl sleeping in my bed and me not getting it up. Oh well, I guess she didn’t expect it of me in those days. But shit, I expected it of me, because I loved her so much, shit, I still love her so much.