I found a bench, tucked my supplies neatly beneath its seat and settled myself down with my first tin, pulling the collar of my jacket up. It was pretty bitter down there by the river, but there was a distant gleam somewhere across the sky and it was no longer impossible to believe that spring was somewhere in the beyond. I took a sip of the beer. The liquid was warmer than the air outside, but it was better quality than the stuff I’d been supping in the bar. These old tramps were obviously men of discernment. Who knows what I might learn if I joined their ranks?
Berlin
THE SOUND OF Montgomery’s voice had sent me out into the street cursing Bill with his public-school vowels and his gangster pretensions that got people killed. This whole escapade was nothing to do with me.
There was money in my pocket; I could catch a flight that afternoon if I wanted. I fished out the scrap of paper Sylvie had written her number on. It took me a while to find a phone box, and then it took me a while to follow the instructions in German, but eventually the phone at the other end started to ring. Sylvie picked up and I asked her, 'Still looking for a job?'
'You found something already?'
'How do you fancy working with me for a while as my assistant?'
I left the phone booth with her shriek of excitement still ringing in my ears and started to walk towards the theatre, wondering what was inside the envelope I had sent home.
Glasgow
SEAGULLS WERE CACKLING above the Clyde. They made low, swift, argumentative swoops towards the water, maybe remembering times when they fished for their supper, instead of splitting restaurant rubbish bags and vying with urban vermin for abandoned takeaways. I wondered why they chose to live in this city when there were swathes of white sandy beaches and clear seawaters up north on the coast, but then who was I to judge? I raised my can to the sky and said, 'Go on yoursels. Away and shite on as many heads as you can.'
A posse of neds sloped down the walkway towards me. I lowered my eyes and tilted my head so they wouldn’t catch me following their progress. The last thing I wanted to hear was the immortal line, 'What the fuck’re you looking at?' A prelude to a Glasgow kiss or worse. There were five of them, dressed in trainers and shell suits, each with their hood up, hands in pockets. They had an excited bouncing walk, their heads bowed towards the ground, torsos nodding in rhythm with their feet. I could hear their keyed-up voices growing louder as they got closer and cursed myself for choosing this deserted spot. If they wanted to they could hold me down, fillet me and leave me for the seagulls. I slid my can into my pocket and kept my eyes fixed on the further shore, watching them with my peripheral vision. Their voices were high and nasal, tossing some recent adventure between them.
'You pure gave him a doin’.'
'Split his head like a coconut.'
'A jammy coconut.'
'Jammy donut.'
'Fuckin’ jammy fanny.'
'Fucking mental, man.'
One of the boys glanced at me. I saw a fine spray of rust-red droplets across his nose, like a delicate dusting of freckles. His face was as pale as mine, but instead of the graveyard grey of my complexion, his was the milk white of youth before the acne sets in. In another life he might have been a model or a movie actor. Our eyes locked and the boy peeled his top lip into a sneer. I thought fuck, here we go and got ready to spring into the kick-off.
Then one of his companions gave a shout of sheer joy, and I saw a Miami-blue launch cutting through the water churning two great wings of white spume in its wake. The boys’
heads turned, following its progress, then they began to run, keeping it in their sight. I saw one of them lift a stick and throw it towards the water, knowing he had no chance of hitting it, but wanting somehow to be part of the boat.
I took my can out of my pocket, noting that my hands were trembling. All the same I wondered at the quick stab of fear I’d felt. They were only boys and I had done worse than any of them would ever accomplish.
Berlin
THE THEATRE DOORMAN was slumped behind a newspaper in his booth at the stage door. I rapped gently against the glass and he snorted awake, harrumphing like an old dog who’s lain by the fire too long.
Early in my career I learnt the importance of cultivating that all-powerful alliance of janitors, cleaners, ushers and doormen, the people who can lose your fliers and cut your rehearsal time to the minimum or allow you free access to the building and gift you gossip that might solve all your disputes with the management. I gave the doorman one of my best smiles and he gave me a hard stare that suggested he’d seen my type before and hadn’t been impressed. The newspaper started to go up again. Still smiling, I rapped on the window.
'Guten Morgen,' I nodded towards a poster of the younger brighter version of myself.
The doorman looked at it blankly then returned his gaze to me. His eyes had taken on a deliberate vacancy. The smile was beginning to ache, but I’m a pro, I kept it strained in place and asked, 'Do you speak English?'
The doorman’s stare was cold. I fished out the bargain imprint German phrasebook I’d bought at Heathrow, but there was no entry for, I’m a conjurer performing here tonight; please let me in so I can do some preparation. I stepped next to the poster, pointing at it, then at myself, sure he was buggering me about but not willing to lose my temper.
'That’s me… Das ist…’ I pointed at the poster again. 'Ich bin…'
The doorman grunted and lifted the newspaper. Then something caught his attention, he straightened in his seat, smoothed back his hair and a small smile touched his lips. I followed his gaze and saw Ulla dismounting from her bicycle. She was wearing the same scuffed jeans she’d had on yesterday, but her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail and her shirt was clean. She looked like an advert for shampoo or sanitary towels or some other product that required a fresh, feminine, sporty beauty.
'Morgen.'
Her smile took in both of us, but I thought the doorman got the lion’s share of its warmth. He returned her greeting then said something indicating me. Ulla laughed and the two talked for a few minutes that seemed like an age, leaving me stranded beside the image of my more promising self. At last the guard buzzed open the main door and let us into the building. I gave him a cheery Danke as I passed, but the newspaper was already back in place, shielding his face from the light of the corridor.
Ulla’s smile seemed all used up but her voice was apologetic.
'Sorry, I should have given you a pass yesterday.'
'No problem, you got me through Check Point Charlie.' She gave me a sharp look and I cursed my stupidity. 'Sorry.'
There was a fork ahead in the corridor. Ulla hesitated, probably waiting to see what direction I chose so she could take the other.
'So you have everything you need?'
'More or less, but I could do with an intro to your chippy.'
She looked confused.
'My what?'
'The theatre joiner, carpenter, the man who makes the sets.'
Further down the hallway a door opened and Kolja stepped out. He stood silently watching us, dressed in his sweats again, his chest naked and shining. Ulla smiled and raised her hand in greeting. I muttered ‘Big poof’ under my breath and she turned to me.
'Pardon?'
'Nothing.'
She explained where to find the props department then walked off to greet Kolja. My eyes did an involuntary drop to her taut denim-clad rear. Whatever my trials, whatever my vicissitudes I always retained my aesthetic sense. It was a comfort of sorts. I looked up, saw the athlete watching me and raised my hand in a greeting I knew would go unanswered, then went in search of my quarry, wishing buffed-up krauts and a clumsiness with women was all I had to worry about.