Great now we have to go all the way around, what a bunch of shit, says Jameelah but all I can do is look up at the play fort and the slide and at the cloudy sky above and that’s when I see it as clearly as the digits that Rainer’s alarm clock projects onto the ceiling above the bed, I see our clock which yesterday had only just struck fourteen minutes past birth, meaning we had about another fifty to go, is now at twenty-past, meaning we’ve only got another forty minutes of life left. That’s not possible I think but then again maybe it is, what do I know.
The pavement in front of the building is full of journalists. They’ve brought their cameras and are leaning on their gangly legs against the building’s façade drinking coffee, the crap coffee Frau Stanitzek sells, and talking, smoking, laughing. I’d love to know what there is to laugh about here.
Should we really go over there?
Of course, says Jameelah, I know how to act in a situation like this. We’ll do it just like Hollywood actors. Hold your backpack to your chest like it’s as precious as a Louis Vuitton and then we’ll shove our way through them all slick and cool and if they get pushy we just say no comment like Angelina, you know. Sunglasses would be helpful but who cares we can do it without them, okay?
Okay I say, got it.
It’s not so bad that we don’t have sunglasses with us because they don’t actually pay any attention to us. They just stand there staring blankly as we push our way through them to the entryway, which is lit up by the cameras like they’re shooting a movie here. Sure enough there’s Frau Stanitzek with her mangy pooch in her arms standing in the doorway telling her life story to some creep from the tabloids, talking about her dead husband and her shop and all her fucking health problems and whatever else.
I could tell you things, says Stanitzek, but I won’t because I’d just get threatened again. If I said what I really think I might as well close my shop.
Just as we’re about to go up the steps and inside a journalist comes up to me, the same woman who was here the time before, when Jasna jumped off the balcony.
Just a broken leg, she says looking at me scornfully, is that still your story?
No comment, I say and press my backpack to my chest.
Jameelah is trying to pull me up the steps when a police car drives down the street with its siren blasting and blue lights flashing. The tabloid reporter leaves Frau Stanitzek standing in front of the doorway.
We go back into the street and I get hot flashes as the door of the police car opens and Tarik gets out. He has Selma in his arms. Together with a police officer Tarik helps his mother out of the car. She hides her face behind a big white handkerchief, a rag so completely soaked with tears that it’s see-through and you can see her face shimmering through it like a ghost. Another cop gets out and slams the car door shut and hands Selma a chocolate and tickles her tummy but she just throws the candy on the floor.
Majka, she screams and starts to cry again.
There’s your mummy, says the officer pointing at Tarik’s mother but Selma just screams louder and squirms in Tarik’s arms.
Majka, she screams, Majka.
Tarik puts an arm around his mother. A few journalists shout questions. Tarik answers gallantly as if nothing has happened. That he can be standing on the street here with Selma in his arms like that, it’s just not right. God’s earth is rotten. It must be. Because if there were any such thing as god or justice then there’s no way Tarik could stand there with Selma. If there were then you know what would happen, at this very instant fire would rain down or at the very least frogs would rain down or maybe a giant bolt of lightning would strike Tarik. But it’s not raining at all, not even the tiniest spark or most pathetic frog is falling from the sky and the only blitzes of lightning are coming from the cameras.
Have they arrested anyone, the tabloid reporter asks the police officer.
No comment says the officer.
The cameras are glued to Tarik and his mother. Maybe this is all just a movie I think, like one of those gala premieres you see on TV except that we’re not the famous actors, Tarik is. The only thing missing is the red carpet and for Tarik to start signing autographs. There’s one other thing missing, too. Amir.
Where’s Amir I whisper.
Jameelah shrugs her shoulders and at that moment Dragan comes around the corner. When he sees Tarik he stops in his tracks as if he’s grown roots then suddenly starts running directly toward Tarik.
Uh oh, I think, and just as I do I also realize I’m scared of Tarik.
I’m going to kill you, you fucking cripple, screams Dragan, you better start praying to your Allah right now!
The two cops try to wrestle Dragan to the ground but it takes a while before they can subdue him even though there are two of them. I can see he has tears in his eyes, tears of rage and tears of grief. Tarik’s mother screams, Selma cries even louder, and the journalists stand there with their cameras trained on the scene. All of a sudden I hear someone shout from above.
Get up here this instant!
It’s Noura standing in the window staring angrily down at us.
You have no business being down there, says Noura, no business you hear me!
It was by accident, says Jameelah upstairs, we couldn’t avoid it, and anyway what happened?
Take your shoes off, there’s food.
The table is set in the living room. Noura gently shoves me into a chair and grabs a third plate from the kitchen.
I’m not hungry, says Jameelah.
It’s lunchtime and we’re going to eat.
But I’m not hungry, Jameelah says again crossing her arms.
Then don’t eat, I don’t care. But you shouldn’t be hanging around downstairs, says Noura.
What happened, asks Jameelah again.
That poor girl, dead, Noura says, they murdered her, little Jasna.
Really, says Jameelah with a look of disbelief on her face, why, or, I mean, who?
There’s no reason why, says Noura passing me the bowl of parsley salad, it’s just the evil in the world.
I’m not hungry either but I don’t want her to notice so I take some salad. I guess this is what Jameelah means by staying a few steps ahead, ask questions first so you know what everyone else knows, your thoughts always galloping out in front of events, but I don’t think I can make my brain get out ahead, it’s like with maths and science, I just can’t do it, it makes me dizzy trying and so I stare at a piece of tomato in the salad. That’s what you do if you don’t want to lose your balance, you keep your eyes on a fixed point.
Do they know who did it, asks Jameelah.
They took the entire family to the police station, says Noura.
Amir too, I ask.
Yeah him also, says Noura.
But Amir’s not an evil person, I say.
I know but sometimes, not always, but sometimes, how do you say it the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. These people don’t know any other way. All they know is war and sorrow, they’re used to it. But we didn’t come to Germany to witness this kind of thing, she says putting her hand on Jameelah’s shoulder.
Enough Mama, says Jameelah.
No it’s true and it scares me.
It’s annoying Mama, says Jameelah.
Noura looks at her angrily.
It’s annoying that a girl in our building is murdered?
Stop it, screams Jameelah jumping up and running into the kitchen.
Jameelah, calls Noura, then she says something in Arabic and follows her into the kitchen.
I sit alone at the lunch table, just like in the old days when Mama and Papa used to fight. I stare at the cabinet on the opposite wall of the room. In it are black and white photos of Jameelah’s father and brother. I stare at the luminescent green parsley salad in front of me, back to the photos in the cabinet, at the salad, at the photos. Stupid Lukas and his stupid green life, I think, if it wasn’t for him we’d never have been scattering rose petals at the playground.