I found a huge, undeveloped plot at the end of the street. It was a field of potatoes dotted with black wooden huts. A thread of light slipped out of the occasional hut. The field was surrounded by the precipitous, scary walls of the neighboring blocks. There was a vertical line of lights: seven toilets, one atop another. Silhouettes of tall trees loomed over the non-built-up corner, magnified by the low sky and milky gleam of twilight. Rain pattered monotonously on the half-dead field. The wind occasionally swept up the rain, slanting gusts hit the ground, and the raindrops made huge bubbles that popped.
I ambled back. On the first street corner, the wind blew the screams of kids my way. I walked in their direction. This street seemed constructed of equally cheap and characterless cardboard. A gang of boys was playing football in the light from a street lamp. I stopped and gaped. One of the boys had one leg shorter than the other and his gammy leg hung inside a huge, black, lumpy, monstrous shoe with a wooden sole, the kind worn by children with dropsy joints. I imagined the thin, spindly bone under the longish stocking. The knee stuck out like a rock under his clothes — a yellow blob.
The young lad was never still, capered like a goat and booted the rag ball with his monstrous foot. When he kept goal, he stretched out his whole leg and that vast shoe described a semicircle over the ground to stop the ball getting through. The shoe grated on the asphalt. That scraping sound went straight to my heart. I stood there a while, my hand over my eyes, listening as the heavy, sodden ball hit the lame boy’s foot. I felt his leg could snap at any moment like a reed and scatter shards of bone in the lamplight or that his leg would dangle like a broken branch.
I took a few steps as if to walk away, but then turned round and moved closer to the boy. I had a clear sight of him in the dull glow. His red puffy face and anxious eyes were glued to the movements of that bundle of rags; he ran to and fro, screaming, like an apparition. He kept leaning the palm of his hand on his gammy knee and taking the weight of his body on the ball of his foot, with a grimace of pain. The grimace was short-lived, then he tilted his head back and his face brightened. His eyes and entire body resumed their frantic movements, the wooden sole echoed on the asphalt and against the soft, sopping wet ball while he screamed as diabolically as ever. I was dripping with sweat, my heart thudded and my hands shook.
All of a sudden, I could stand it no longer; I entered the circle of light and grabbed the young lad’s arm. He squealed hysterically and was stunned. Then he leaned on the toe of that huge shoe, twisted round and took three or four quick jumps. All at once he turned round and stared me in the face. My heart missed a beat. That young lad was Roby, Frau Berends’ nephew.
Roby recognized me straightaway and his first reaction was to lift both hands behind his head. Then he backed away. Finally he came tearfully over, his teeth gleaming in what was a sad, apologetic, faltering smile. Rain and sweat poured down his face. He kept his hands on the back of his neck.
“What’s the matter with your head? Is it hurting?”
He didn’t answer and took another step back. Perhaps he wanted to tell me something, but couldn’t. Then, still staring at me, his eyes moistened and more tears rolled down his cheeks. His faltering smile seemed to freeze on his lips. As a result, the game had been called off and five or six lads encircled us, one by one, their eyes full of mischief. Roby was quivering and glancing fearfully in turn from the lads to me.
“What’s that behind your head?” I asked with the friendliest look I could muster.
He hesitated for a moment and then lethargically dropped his arms, an anxious glint in his eyes. A black object rolled down from the nape of his neck. I stooped and picked it up. It was my bowler in shreds: a soft, ridiculous, shapeless bundle, like a dead black cat. The other lads couldn’t stop laughing. Roby stood straight on his good leg — the other hung down, not touching the ground — tears now came in a flood, he sobbed, looked at me askance, then his face blanched and contorted in terror. I smiled as I put my hand on his shoulder.
“It was an old hat,” I said, “We’ll soon buy another … Why must you play so frantically? You’ll hurt yourself one of these days. Is your leg hurting?”
As he was crying, and didn’t move or say anything, I took his hand and pulled him towards me. He walked by my side for a time, limping horribly, accompanying each step with a sob. The other boys followed a few steps behind, then stopped between the shadows and the arc of light. When they saw we were a distance away, they started chorusing: “Roby! Roby! Lamey! Lamey!”
Their shouts were deafening. I wanted to stop, but Roby squeezed my hand and looked at me with a livid, almost purple face. His eyes bulged out of their sockets and his teeth chattered. He aroused horror and infinite pity. I walked back and sent the other boys packing. They took off like a flock of birds but we could still hear their distant jeers: “Roby! Lamey!”
“Come with me,” I said. “I’ll buy you some chocolate.”
“No, it’s late. I’ve got to go home.” And wiping his eyes on his shirtsleeve, he sniveled: “Frau Berends is expecting me.”
“Frau Berends …? I asked, more at a loss than ever. “Isn’t Frau Berends your aunt?”
“So they say, but I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t!” he answered, standing straight energetically, his hands in his pockets, as if annoyed I’d doubted him for a second.
We walked down the middle of the road. It was still raining and the wind whined through the trees. Roby was sopping wet. His monstrous shoe dropped into a puddle of water, slurped and splashed out. His shoes hit the ground, one after another, awkwardly. I accompanied him to the front door. I was itching to ask him about Frau Berends but restrained myself. In the doorway, I laughed and asked: “So why did you take my hat?”
“I’d promised …” he rasped “They never let me play. They always shout: ‘Lamey! Lamey!’ We went to the saddlers yesterday to stitch up a ball. The saddler heard them say they wouldn’t let me play today. He said: ‘Roby, you have a subtenant at home who must have a bowler hat. Bring that, and you’ll play the whole of tomorrow afternoon. We’ll patch up the ball with the bands from the bowler …’ The others agreed. I took your bowler before lunch. I used Frau Berends’ key to get into your room without making a sound. And you heard nothing … They punched and screwed it up … It wasn’t the saddler’s fault, he’s a good man.”
“Why do you say he’s a good man?”
“Because he is!” said Roby abruptly, a tear hanging on one eyelash.
I said nothing, but thought it was all very peculiar. I looked at Roby for a second. I saw a patch of blue in eyes that were large, open, motionless, and melancholy. He stood in the doorway, mouth half open, hands in pockets, nose in the air …
I shrugged my shoulders and disappeared down the street.
After supper I went into a café and wrote to my brother:
The first thing I’d ask, said my letter, is for you to pacify Sr N … Then I’d like to admit that you’re absolutely right in what you say about me. I agree entirely. And, then, I’ll tell you that you made this a wretched day for me. I’m shivering with cold and, if I’ve not got a temperature, I’m not far off.
I write to tell you exactly what my situation is at the moment. First of all, don’t doubt for a second that I’m living in Berlin, in the Wilmersdorf district of the city. I couldn’t tell you whether the street that counts me as one of its residents is central or on the outskirts. Lots of people believe that living centrally means you live round the corner from a cinema. If you apply the cinema concept of centrality to me, you’d conclude I’m on the outskirts. I’d say I’m a good quarter of an hour from the local Town Hall, and the nearest tram is four minutes away. The part of the neighborhood where my street falls is, in any case, notoriously interim. It’s that indeterminate part of the city where the countryside invades the urban space which in turn melts into country. It’s forlorn and remote. When darkness descends, all those still out and about are apprehensive: we stride along quickly.