Hooligan Page 15

“You’ll see in a bit. We just turned onto Barne Street.”

  The doorbell rang a couple minutes later and I pressed the buzzer on the intercom. Jojo, Joel, and their dad came into the apartment.

  “Hey, Dieter! How’s it hanging?!” Kai shouted, sitting on the windowsill, and knocked back a can. One leg in the room, the other dangling out the sixth floor.

  “Hello, boys. How’s it look in here?” Dieter laughed. As always, he was wearing his gray work coat, which almost reached the slight man’s feet.

  “Tip top, right?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But to each his own, right?”

  “Come in, get something to drink. There’s still some in the fridge,” I said and pushed everything off the table. Including the overflowing ashtrays. I didn’t care.

  “That’s all right, I have to leave right away. Just wanted to drop off these two. Joel has something to tell you all.”

  “Dad,” Jojo said, “I wanted to do it.”

  “Well,” Dieter waved him off.

  “What’s up, dude?” Kai asked and jumped from the window and into the room, staggering and only barely catching himself on the wall.

  “Spit it out already,” I pressed Joel, who once again was standing there with his shoulders turned in, making himself seem even skinnier, shaking the part out of his hair. Maybe he just looked that way because of the two ecstasy pills, but I thought he would disappear into thin air any second.

  “Got a call from Hannover two days ago. Yesterday we went there to look everything over and—”

  “Guys, you should have seen it,” Jojo interrupted his little brother, “the best equipment, great setup, top league standards!”

  Dieter pushed Jojo aside and said, “Let him tell it himself, Joachim.”

  Joel continued. Squeakily. He was still in the middle of his voice change. Zits everywhere, the poor guy.

  “We talked to the head coach. Didn’t need much time to think about it. This morning we were back and signed the contract.”

  “Contract?” Ulf asked. I think he was trying to hide the grass from Dieter under the porno.

  “Joel, out with it!” Jojo yelled.

  And Joel reached into the tote bag he’d brought along and pulled out a red Hannover 96 home jersey and, holding it by the shoulders, turned it around. The back was covered with the team name, a big number seven, and finally the name Seidel underneath.

  “I’m on the B-team,” he said.

  I think it took Kai and Ulf just as long as it did me to process what we were seeing. When the realization wound its way through our drug-affected brains and arrived, we jumped up together and ran over to the three Seidels, screaming with joy and yelling, “96!” We gave each other high fives and fist bumps and grabbed our heads because we simply couldn’t believe it. One of us, a true Red. A player for Hannover 96. That’s the last thing I can remember about that day. And the two-day hangover that followed.

  ———

  I think about going home but put it off till evening. Arnim can clean up all that crap himself. I don’t need to deal with wiping up animal blood. Besides, I’m honestly a little afraid of coming home and finding Poborsky or Bigfoot’s cage empty. Not that either of those killers is near and dear to me or anything. But I don’t want them to pass into the sweet hereafter either. At least not that way. I take the next bus to Luthe. Jojo called us in the morning and asked if we’d like to finally visit him at practice. Kai declined. He’d made a date with some girl from class to do a study group for the upcoming test. Of course, study group is just personal code for fuck buddy. But she doesn’t know that yet. Visiting Jojo is clearly the better alternative for me. The other would be having to listen to Arnim recount last night’s events.

  The field belonging to the TSV Luthe field team is located behind the village elementary school, where Jojo and Joel went. It’s bordered by tall, thin trees that I can already see from far away. The tips of their crowns, bare by now, bend from the gusts. Then a high kicked ball appears in front of them. It flies straight up, remains almost motionless in the air for a second, and is blown away by the wind. I can already see Jojo as I step onto the checkered border surrounding the field. Hands forming a megaphone around his mouth and shouting, “On the ground! Try to keep it on the ground!”

  He’s watching over a training match. Jerseys against vests. Jojo’s wearing his black-and-blue coaching outfit. He’s letting his hair grow again. Dressed in his gear, from the back you could almost mistake him for the coaching legend Klaus Toppmöller. If the hair was a little longer and gray at some point, the illusion would be perfect. But, when it comes to facial feature, he more resembles Peter Neururer, without the stache. He also has such a good-natured face with a funny beak. I position myself slightly behind the coaching bench and watch a bit. Fathers and mothers are leaning against the barrier that separates the spectators from the field. Mostly fathers. Two of them are standing not too far away. Just the sight of them gives me the creeps. Outdoorsy jackets. Khaki trousers, and breathable middle-age sneakers. I don’t care much about appearances, but here it’s the connection between the, well, you could almost call it a uniform, and what the douchebags trash talk. While their progeny hump it across the field, they just lean back and play a round of “who’s more successful.” Whose paycheck is plumper, whose vacations are more luxurious, who was able to negotiate a better price with the contractor, raise the roof on the garage so the new, unnecessary family SUV fits even if the old station wagon would have done the job. I’d like to go over there right now and give both of them one helluva bitch slap. Not that either has the slightest clue about football. It’s all just about your own brat’s an undiscovered Lionel Messi and, oh, of course, so fantastic in school, straight As in math. What a bunch of hypocrites! And wondering why that uppity little Turk doesn’t pass the ball, and Junior could have done it with his eyes closed. But he’s already expending all his energy running straight ahead. And then Sonny was even fouled! That was a foul! Coach! Why didn’t he see that?! And did you know that little daughter started dressage? A true talent when it comes to riding, the teacher says. I’d like to go up to that prick and say, “Boy, are you sure the teacher meant horse skills and isn’t just playing grab-ass with your daughter in the stables?”

  That’d be a little harsh. But I’d sure like to give those uptight weekend warriors a bitch slap.

  “Hey, you old motherfucker!” I yell, and cup my hands around my mouth like Jojo.

  Irritated, he turns around. I wink and smile. He hustles over to me.

  “Heiko, dude. Are you smashed?! You can’t yell stuff like that around here.”

  I make a dismissive gesture.

  “Don’t get your knickers in a twist ’cause of those fags over there.” We shake hands. “How’s it going? Are you bossing around the little shits?”

  I must have busted some dam, ’cause Jojo immediately let loose a flood of words. Tomorrow’s an important match, the boys are really making an effort, just have to keep the balls down, a couple talents here. Blah blah blah.

  “Yeah,” I say, and point to the field, “that little guy there. The Turk— ”

  “Kurd,” Jojo corrects me.

  “Kurd. Sorry. He’s really got something. Tight dribbling. Uses his body well, and seems to have a good eye for the other players.”

  As if to confirm what I just said, the kid gets past the fullback down the outside with an expert stepover and crosses low into the area, so that all his teammate has to do is stick a foot out and it’s in the back of the net.

  “Yeah, I think Erbil might be able to make something of himself,” Jojo says and crosses his arms like a pundit.

  “Great this is going well, man,” I say and pat Jojo on the back. He looks attentively at his boys.

  “By the way. National team’s on Tuesday. Friendly against Slovakia.”

  “Yeah?”

  No one gives a fuck about the Mannschaft. Except when the Euros or World Cup is on. Then the daddies pull
their German flags out of the closet and those motherfuckers clip them onto their windshields.

  “Was at Kai’s last night—”

  “Didn’t sleep much, huh?”

  “Right. Can you see it?”

  “You look like you crawled out of an asshole,” Jojo whispers to me.

  “Sure, fuck it. At any rate. Kai’d heard something from the boys in Hamburg. Rumor has it that the Slovakians floated a trial balloon, see if anything might work out.”

  “Where?” he asks.

  “Leipzig. Tickets have already been ordered.”

  “You serious?”

  “Four tickets. You and Ulf, and me, of course.”

  Jojo’s eyes bug: “Ulf?”

  “Yep. Even him. Talked to him on the phone. But he said he’d look for a bar after the match and wait for us there.”

  “Didn’t you have a blow-up with him? He told me you really flew off the handle when he said Saskia didn’t want him to go to the matches anymore and all that.”

  I offer him a cigarette. He declines, waving the hand poking out from under his crossed arms. I light one.

  “Yeah, my God. It’s completely understandable. But no way it’s serious. He’ll feel the itch soon enough.”

  “If that’s what you think.”

  “I do. Okay. You’re coming, right? Just a short-notice match. At least toss around a couple chairs or something. Also depends on how heavy the cop presence is.”

  “Well, if you’ve already ordered tickets, then I can’t really say no, right?”

  “Good man,” I say. “Besides …”—I think about what I actually want to say—“maybe it’ll do some good. I mean. Getting out of here for once. And we’ve never been to Leipzig either. Maybe we could make some connections with the people at Lok or Chemie. That’d be something. They’re supposed to have some really good people, those retards in the fan bloc.”

  Jojo runs over to the touchline and screams, “Diagonal! Diagonal!”

  Then he comes back and asks me if something’s up with me.

  “Huh, something up? Don’t know what you’re getting at.”

  “That thing in Braunschweig and all. Maybe that?”

  I exhale the smoke, pick off some flakes of paint from the barrier, and say: “Hell if I know. Told Axel. Went horrible. Either he’ll come around … well, or he’ll leave it be. Who knows? By the way, kept you guys out of it. So not a word about that to Axel. Was all me. Wanna knock some back tonight?”

  “Man, Heiko! You didn’t have to do that. We all fucked it up. We should at least all take responsibility for it.”

  “Is what it is. Are you gonna be there tonight?”

  “Can’t.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “The game tomorrow. I have to be in shape.”

  “Are you a player-manager now? With a fake badge and everything?”

  He laughs nervously.

  “No, seriously now. I … With this coaching job,” he points toward the field, as if he had to show me again what it’s about, “it’s important to be a good role model. That’s why I don’t smoke here either. In front of the boys. And the boozing … Heiko, man, I just have to take it down a notch.”

  “You’re shitting me, right? Those rug rats don’t know it if you drink something somewhere at night.”

  “That’s not the point, dude. Hey, I have to get back now. Want to go over the strategy with the boys again. Then practice free kicks. Stick around and watch.”

  I flip my cigarette away, blowing out the last cloud of smoke, which is immediately blown away, and say, “I’m gonna head out.”

  We shake hands good-bye. He presses tight. My hand lies on his like a dead flounder. Then he goes back to the coaching bench and whistles at the players. I leave, mumbling, “Role model. For fuck’s sake, Jojo.”

  I look around the parking lot and kick the side mirror of a white, highly polished X5 BMW. Feels good.

  ———

  Leipzig is colder than the crotch of a one-legged, high-priced hooker. The night sky over Red Bull arena is still illuminated by the floodlights. We fall in line with the stream of people made up of families, groups of blond girls wearing Podolski and Hummels jerseys, and other fair-weather fans. The boys from Hamburg we’d spent the match drinking with had already left for the city center even before the end of the match to see whether anything might still happen with the Slovakians. We’re waiting for the streetcar.

  “Fuck, it’s cold,” Jojo says, rubbing his paws and blowing into them.

  If only he’d joined in the drinking, he wouldn’t be freezing his ass off like a fucking pussy right now. But no, instead he just alternated back and forth between shandy and Coke.

  “I gotta piss this place full again,” Kai says and mentions to Jojo, “In case they’re selling hot chocolate somewhere, I’ll bring your faggy ass one, okay?”

  Jojo laughs ironically and flips off Kai, who moves away from us toward the river. Ulf is just standing there passively in our group, checking his phone and looking for the city center bar where he’ll be waiting for us. Can’t resist throwing him a blatantly disapproving look, but he doesn’t even notice.

  The minutes till the next streetcar arrives fly past and Kai still hasn’t shown up. The doors open.

  “Where the fuck’s that tard?”

  “Maybe he got the runs or fell in the river drunk,” Ulf says and positions himself in the door of the streetcar. “I’m going to go ahead. Let me know when you’re done.”

  Yeah, sure, we say. A bell rings. The doors close, and the street car drives off.

  “Later,” I mumble.

  “What?” Jojo asks.

  “It’s okay.”

  My ears gradually start to feel like they’re wrapped in ice packs, and I pull up my hood. Of course, I don’t say I’m feeling cold. The next streetcar toward the city center slowly moves down the digital clock.

  “What’s going on? Where’s he at?”

  Jojo shrugs. My neck’s starting to hurt from looking around. Kai is nowhere to be seen.

  “Maybe something’s happened,” says Jojo.

  “Come on, what can have happened?” I answer, remove my phone from my pocket, and call Kai.

  It rings until the answering machine beeps. I hang up and try it again. Same exact thing.

  “Fuck. Okay, let’s go find him.”

  We go across the street and reach the wide bridge over the river. A park along the water on the other side makes a dark shadow reflected on the river’s surface. There are groups of people in German national team paraphernalia where the sidewalk widens in front of the bridge, sitting around cases of beer they’ve brought and half-blocking the bike lane, making the bicycles ride slalom. They’re singing “Deutschland, Deutschland über alles!” I yell that they should shut up. They look over and fall silent. They start singing again once we’ve moved past. Jojo was on the other side of the bridge and now returns, shaking his head at me. I’m standing at the railing and looking down at the footpath that runs parallel to the river and is only slightly lit. No sign.

  “Maybe he went into the park and got lost,” Jojo says.

  I press the red End Call button on my phone when just Kai’s answering machine picks up, and say, “The hell if I know, man.” The next streetcar rumbles by. “Okay, I’ll try it one more time. When he doesn’t pick up, I’ll yell at him so bad his ears’ll fall off when he listens to the message.”

  My fingertips are cold. I can hardly feel the smooth surface of the display beneath them. It rings again. Nothing. I get ready to yell into the phone when the beep comes, but Jojo grabs my arm and says, “Listen.” I hang up and ask what I’m supposed to hear.

  Jojo looks at the street. There aren’t any cars coming at the moment. He says I should call again because he thinks he heard Kai’s ring tone. “Fix Up, Look Sharp” by Dizzee Rascal. I press to repeat the call. After I’ve made sure it was ringing, I take the phone off my ear and bend my torso over the massive stone railing an
d listen down into the cold. Jojo, next to me, does the same.

  “There,” he whispers, “do you hear it?”

  And now I actually do hear it. The normally pounding base of the “Fix Up” beat, very low.

  “Sounds like it’s echoing,” Jojo says.

  “What the …?”

  I scan the path and the bank below, meter for meter, till I’m staring straight down. The answering machine kicks in again and I immediately press Repeat Call. Then I bend even further, making my crotch rub on the cold, rough stone. The base and the bark of the grime rapper disappears briefly under the roar of passing cars. I have to concentrate to grab the sound. Yes, definitely!

  “The underpass!” I say and run around the railing. A wide, stone staircase leads down to the riverbank. I take it in several leaps and am by the river when Jojo’s still only halfway down the stairs. The tunnel is a black frame where only the rounded silhouette of the other side is visible. Jojo bumps into me from behind when he rushes down the stairs. He bends past me.

  “There’s nothing there,” he says, but I hold my hand up to tell him he should wait a sec. Then my index finger goes taut and I point into the tunnel.

  “There’s something,” I say. My cheeks suddenly feel really flushed. Without looking, I press Repeat once again. A couple seconds later, the connection is made and something blinks in the middle of the tunnel. Accompanied by the rhythmic, pounding beat. I’m about to put my first steps into the tunnel when someone yells the Braunschweig chant: “BTSV! BTSV!”

  I instinctively look up. The silhouette of a person can be recognized above the railing. He looks like he’s cut out of black paper, with the glow of the streetlamps behind him. The figure grabs at his head and pulls something down. Then something falls to our feet. Jojo bends over to pick it up. It’s a coarse balaclava. Mouth and eye holes are outlined in red. The mask is half blue and half yellow. Jojo holds it out to me. I look back up, but the shadow has disappeared. I look up at the dark blue, almost black starry sky. My brain seems to have dissolved into hot wax and run down my throat into my stomach. I sprint into the darkness. Something in front of me glows. Kai’s phone. There’s something next to it, leaning against the wall. Crumpled. I crouch down and reach for it. Feel clothing that gives way under my fingers till they hit against the resistance of an arm. I grab it and provoke a weak groan. I yell at Jojo he should move his ass. He slips out of his frozen state and together we pull Kai out of the tunnel. Into the light.