Hooligan Read online

  “Only fair,” he says, and raises his can.

  I don’t clink my can with his, just keep on drinking. He shrugs his shoulders, his old man chest briefly becoming visible under his oversized muscle shirt. He empties the can in two slugs. There’s a dirty blue van in front of the house. Bremen plates. Who knows where he dug that up. The half-scratched-out vestiges of some carpentry company’s logo can be seen on the side of the vehicle. Arnim bangs the hood. It sounds like he banged against a kettle.

  “Off we go! Gonna get my tiger!” he shouts eagerly.

  We climb inside. Slams it into reverse and turns the van around. We rumble out of the woods and over the field lane. Then we turn onto the country road toward the autobahn.

  Arnim lets me take the wheel for about two hours. It’s already dark. We’re somewhere in the Brandenburg wasteland before Berlin and Potsdam. At the last rest stop, I stocked up with around twenty iced coffees and Red Bull cans. I knock back one after another, till I feel nauseous. Arnim is completely worked up and babbles away to himself nonstop.

  “And where are we meeting with your tiger people?”

  “They’re Lebanese or some shit. Not tiger people.” He coughs into his fist and wipes it on his seat. “In Landsberg on the River Warthe. A little town just behind the Polack border. Worked something out where we could meet. Always good to know people everywhere, I tell you. You still okay?”

  “Yeah, sure,” I say, “enough.”

  “Hey, Heiko. About what happened. Didn’t mean it that way.”

  “Aha,” I say, and focus on the illuminated surface of the road in front of us. Otherwise everything around us is pitch-black.

  “I really appreciate it, you know, my boy? That you help an old warhorse like me fulfill his dream.”

  “That’s all right,” I say. “Let’s just get this thing done.”

  I can’t imagine how it’ll work out, loading a fucking tiger like a load of kebab meat. But there’s no going back now.

  “Sure is crazy, the way life goes, right?”

  “Mmmm,” I mumble and roll down the window a crack. I think Arnim cut one.

  “Back when I was doing my butcher apprenticeship. That I go to jail for murder. Man, oh man. Fucking vet,” he mumbles, “and when ya get out. Then no one’ll hire you, my boy. Be glad you’ve never done time. Well, did work out all right in the end. But that I’d end up doing something with live animals, I wouldn’t have imagined it. Back then. And that I’d get rich, to boot.”

  “Rich?” I ask and look at him.

  “Well, I mean for our kind, my boy. Ass-load of cash. Yep. But I’ll tell you what: There’s more than that. Than dough. Live your dreams. I read that somewhere, I think. It’s true, for sure, yep.”

  “Sorry, Arnim, but could we maybe have a little bit of peace and quiet for a sec?”

  He looks at me as if I’d insulted his mother. But then his face relaxes again.

  “Come on, pull over. I’ll take the wheel again. Way too wound up to sleep.”

  Crossing the border in the dark at Kustrin went off without a hitch. We didn’t go through a check and didn’t even see a cop car! Three cheers for open borders! Even though I’d feel better if we’d get stopped on the way there. Better than on the way back, when we may not have a tiger in the tank but one in the back.

  I ask myself what category of crime and severity of penalty there could be for smuggling exotic and dangerous animals.

  Arnim doesn’t know either. “Knock it off, my boy! I’m sure not going to the slammer again. There”—he points ahead vigorously—“that there is the city limits.”

  “Gorzów Wielkopolski,” I read aloud.

  Then we’re past the sign.

  “Hogwash, that’s Landsberg on the Warthe,” Arnim corrects me, giving the old German name. “Can’t be much farther. So shut up.”

  The blurred silhouette of the city emerges from the blue morning light in front of us. Abandoned factories lie beneath a delicate shroud in front of crumbling, seemingly bombed-out facades. Like the fuzziness of a young animal. The icy blast of air whistles in through the open window like knife tips. I close it. Also to lock out the oppressive burned coal stench that seems to coat the entire region. The signs you see on the buildings and roadside give the impression they were put up decades ago and never replaced. They’re usually only attached on two or three corners and flapping sluggishly in the wind. A muffled hum hangs in the air. As though the city was powered by a huge, subterranean generator. But for who? When I look at the houses, I can hardly imagine anyone living here. This is almost how I always pictured cities after bombing raids. Well, maybe that’s a little worse. But I still get the feeling a nuclear power plant blew up here or something. Arnim steers us through the dead streets on a course I’m not following. The van pounds over the potholes, but the bumps are mostly absorbed by our well-cushioned seats. When I look around, I understand how the Polish hooligans can have blossomed into some of the most notorious in all of Europe. I mean Hannover isn’t to be scoffed at, and I like its gray drabness. But this here. If you grow up in a city like this, then the rage starts embedding itself inside in your skull from day one. I decide suggesting a match against a Polish team back home. Surely, Tomek will still have some connections in his homeland and be able to set something up. Would just love to measure myself against the Poles. Maybe from Warsaw or Lodz. Or Poznan. So. Assuming everything gets right again. And also only once Kai is fit again. No point even mentioning it if I don’t know the boys have my back. At least Kai and Jojo. Or maybe just Kai. Damn.

  Arnim wakes me up. “There! There’s the street. With the rental garages.”

  He went to the effort to lean over and poke me with an elbow.

  “Yeah, sure, I see it. What kind of rental garages?”

  “Belong to an old friend of mine. From the dog-fighting scene. He lives in Frankfurt on the River Oder, but he has some sticks in the fire here too. Even a stall full of top-notch bull terriers.

  We idle along a street at walking speed, and it turns into sand. Halfway down, they must have run out of tar. Then we turn to the right, through a passage between two rows of garages. The grounds spread out behind that. It looks as expansive as five football fields. The lowest foundation walls of a factory complex protrude from the weeds that have overrun the place. The first tentative beams of light emerge from behind the surrounding buildings. There are two vehicles in the middle of this. A transporter, slightly smaller than ours. And a black Mercedes sedan. Both with tinted windows. I can only recognize the shape of heads inside. We stop a couple meters away from them. Arnim grabs my arm and pulls me a little closer.

  “Listen up, Heiko. Those guys there are no jokers,” needlessly pointing at the two vehicles. Sure, it’s certainly supersmart to point a finger in their direction. Couldn’t possibly be taken the wrong way. “You be sure to keep your trap shut and leave the talking to me.”

  “It’s your thing anyway,” I say.

  He raises his finger in front of his face, just like my old-school principal.

  “Hey! Shut up. Don’t open your big mouth and no sudden moves. You might spook them. Then we’ll load the tiger. And everyone can go their own way in peace. Got it?”

  I nod. I can’t resist rolling my eyes, but Arnim doesn’t see it or just ignores it.

  “And now pass me the gun from the glove compartment. But make sure to keep it down. They don’t have to see it.

  We stand next to each other. More out of habit, or because I think it seems appropriate in this fucked-up situation. And it’s not because I’m freezing that I pull on my hoody and zip it to the top. So the collar goes over my mouth. The doors of the sedan open and three men climb out. Even from a mile away, you could sniff out that two of them are bodyguards. Both have roughly Axel’s build. Or that of the Klitschkos. Well-trimmed bull necks in XXL bulky sweatshirts that barely conceal the mounds of muscle beneath. Professionally inscrutable facial expressions. Two things are immediately noticeable. Th
e first is the guns they’re holding very casually, as if they’re everyday objects, beneath folded hands. The second is their round-framed glasses, which make them look like genetically modified nerds. Those glasses seem so false and completely wrong on these faces. Like a pigsty in a mosque. Or typical neo-Nazi Thor Steinar jackets on left-wing politicians. I don’t know why, but the glasses make me even more nervous than the pistols. The other guy doesn’t look any less strange. Bushy eyebrows like fat caterpillars mark the hard contours of a Slavic face. His slurry-black beard and hair tied in a ponytail don’t fit him at all. As for his nationality, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. He wears an Adidas warm-up jacket and a pair of puffy, gray jogging pants. Matched with highly polished patent-leather shoes. The two mutant nerds position themselves on either side of him. Arnim yanks the envelope stuffed with cash out of his pocket and goes over to him. I can recognize the silhouette of his gun at his waistband beneath the muscle shirt. It’d almost be smarter if I had it. But, on the other hand … I know how to shoot. Done it a couple times. But just for fun and at stationary objects. So maybe it’s better after all that Arnim didn’t entrust me with the gun. I watch as his counterpart comes slightly toward him. They shake hands. They’re talking so quietly I don’t catch the least suggestion of what the conversation’s about. I can distinctly feel the glasses’ gazes on my skin and try not to seem all too interested or even nervous. But my legs are starting to itch, from the feet up, so I’d like to shake them. Arnim holds out the envelope. The guy looks at it for a moment. Why doesn’t he just take it? Arnim’s hand is frozen in the air. Any moment I expect the guy to pull out a pistol and suddenly shoot Arnim in his paunch. Then he finally reaches for the money. I want to cough from the intense coal stench, but I pull myself together. The ponytail guy opens the envelope. It takes a while. My feet are falling asleep. Then he nods and pats Arnim on his relatively toddler-sized arms. He yells something in a language I can’t identify, and suddenly the van’s motor revs. Apparently, someone else is sitting in there. The vehicle turns till it’s pointing its back end toward us. The animal dealer and Arnim shake hands one more time. Then he runs over. Even though it’s walking speed, Arnim throws up his bent arms and takes awkward strides. By his standards, it’s running.

  “Heiko, back the wagon up,” he says.

  I climb behind the wheel, start the van, and turn it around. While backing up, I watch through the lowered windows, paying attention that no one gets run over. Not that they’d ever think of mowing us down just because I ran over the boss. I hear the cargo doors open, get out, and walk around the car. The fence ignores me completely. For them I’m probably just a henchman. Just like the two steam hammers wearing glasses. The doors of the other vehicles are opened. The heavy, sweet zoo smell of the animal lying there in the back immediately washes over me. The dealer says something to his bodyguards, and they slip out of their Golem posture, put away their guns, and climb into the back. The driver joins us, and installs a ramp. The bodyguards remove the cargo. A reverent gasp escapes from Arnim’s mouth. I’m also at a loss for words. Zoo or no. This here is something very. Very! Different. In a huge crate, where you can see inside only through the bars, there’s a monstrous big cat, unconscious. I’d put it at around a good three meters. It’s lying there with its face on its front paws. Each one of them is as large as my face. It purrs slightly. Even if the purring is understated, and it sounds more like a highly tuned muscle car standing there with its motor running. Its ears flutter like an oversized species of butterfly, and the apparently painted stomach rises and falls calmly. Even the bodyguards seem not to be left cold by the critter, and touch the box only with extreme care. Their boss doesn’t seem to give a rat’s ass, ’cause twice he proudly pats the tiger box with his open hand after his henchmen have lugged it down the ramp. That makes my gonads retreat into the torso. But the tiger continues to doze undisturbed.

  The dealer guy laughs and says in a heavy accent, “Sedated.”

  “What?” Arnim asks.

  “Tranquilized,” I say.

  “Here.” The dealer reaches into the trunk and hands Arnim a gun and a small box of cartridges.

  “In two hours,” he says and holds up two fingers, “is present.”

  “Huh, he’ll be present?” Arnim asks skeptically as he accepts the gift.

  “No. 'Present' means gift,” I say.

  The guy looks me up and down sinisterly. Probably doesn’t please him when an employee opens his mouth. The four of us—Arnim, the stiffs with the glasses, and I—heave the tiger box up the ramp and into our van, having first opened the van doors. Puffy pants doesn’t join in. He just looks at his sparkling Rolex and says, “Time. Now go.”

  I lock the doors, and Arnim and he shake hands once again.

  “Have fun,” he says, and the hair stands up on the back of my neck at the sight of his smile.

  The others don’t wait for us to fuck off, just get in their vehicles and peel out. Clods of dirt are thrown into the air as they speed off. We get in and, first of all, an anvil-sized weight falls from my heart. I’m familiar with this from matches. You can set the clock by it. But only now, in that minute, do I notice how amped I am from adrenaline.

  “Good job, my boy,” Arnim says, handing me the gun from his waistband, and turns the key. Careful not to touch the trigger, I return the pistol to the glove compartment.

  We’ve been back over the border for less than an hour when we hear the scream of sirens from somewhere. I almost rip my arm out rolling down the window.

  “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”

  “Well, where are they? Where are the cops?” Arnim asks.

  “No idea, man. I don’t know!” I bark at him and lean out the window.

  I look around. The hoodie flies up against the back of my head. I can’t make out anything behind us. In front of us either, of course.

  I fall back inside, saying, “Shit! Can’t see nothing. Or are we just paranoid?”

  “Nah, my boy. Now listen for once.”

  The van’s motor is so loud it’s hard to make out, much less locate another sound. It doesn’t absolutely sound close, but the sirens are definitely not imaginary. The motor roars because Arnim’s given it even more gas.

  He prattles, “I’m not going back,” repeating it again and again, till he can’t say anything else.

  “What are we gonna do now?” I ask, but don’t get an answer because Arnim is almost biting the steering wheel. “Ah, fuck it!”

  I unbuckle and check briefly to see if there are any obstacles or low-hanging signs ahead. Then I hold tight to the window and climb outside, twisting so I’m holding only onto the window going at full speed, with my crotch at roof level so I can better scope around. To our right, the landscape descends into a broad valley full of fields and a couple of villages. There are wooded areas scattered all around. The misty morning light and patches of fog that keep on drifting over obscure the view. But then I see a police car with flashing lights below us on the plain, and even with the rush of air, which whistles coldly in my ears, I can hear the howling sirens. I jump back inside the cab and tell Arnim the cops are heading parallel to us in the valley, but I can’t tell whether they’re chasing us or just happen to be nearby.

  “Holy shit, my boy. They’re gunning for us. I’m not going back in—”

  “A deep rumble cuts off Arnim’s tirade, and we simultaneously look back. Then we look at each other, eyes wide.

  “Fuck, what now?!” I blurt. “The fucking tiger’s awake! Arnim!”

  “Shit, shit, shit. All right. Heiko. Now you take the gun and shoot a tranquilizer dart into his pelt. Don’t dilly-dally!”

  “What?! Have you totally lost your mind?” I scream, and I can’t control my hands anymore, which are waving around my face in panic.

  “Well, come on!” he bellows.

  Somehow I manage to reach behind me with a wildly groping hand and retrieve the tranquilizer pistol. I tear open the box of the ammo, crac
k the barrel of the gun, and, shaking, slide a cartridge inside.

  “And now?” I ask.

  “Well, fire away, damn it!”

  I turn and slide open the little window to the cargo bay. The animal stench fills my nostrils. I hastily begin to breathe through my mouth. Then I shove the gun barrel into the darkness where the menacing growl is coming from, amplified by the boxy cavern of the cargo bay. I try not to aim too high. Don’t want to shoot the critter in the face, after all.

  “Shoot!” Arnim screams into my ear.

  “Yeah, sure,” I stammer and pull the trigger. The tiger hisses and the rotten stench from its mouth wafts toward me.

  “Well? And?” Arnim prods, and revs the motor again.

  “What do I know? Can’t see anything. Listen for a sec.”

  I stretch, pressing my ear up against the little window, and listen. It’s still growling, but the sound is definitely getting weaker. There’s silence again a short while later. I take a deep breath and ease back down. Arnim has the presence of mind to turn off the headlights. A narrow turn-off into the woods appears on the left ahead of us.

  “In there!” I yell and point to the forest track.

  Arnim yanks the wheel hard and for a millisecond I’m almost floating as the van’s right wheels lift off the ground and we crash into the woods. Twigs and branches slap at the hood and windshield. I hold tight to the dashboard and door handle, but then the tires smash back onto the ground and we come to a stop. Surrounded by trees.

  “Fuck!” I spit out. “God damn ass-fucked son of a bitch! I think I’ve pissed myself.”

  I touch my crotch. Everything dry. Wouldn’t have taken much more, though.

  “My, oh my,” Arnim pants.

  Then he drives us deeper into the woods. At this point, it doesn’t fucking matter if we get lost. We park the van a little off the track where the trees get thicker, and climb out. I feel the simultaneous need to barf and pee. I calm myself by lighting up and letting myself fall back onto the wet, brown leaves beneath me.

  ———

  What a screwed-up, shitty day! Erich Ribbeck’s worthless national team had just lost 1–0 against the Brits, and I was tossing the sofa cushions across our living room while the television reporters together with the players were scrounging around for some sort of reason for the national team’s failure. With the three beers I already had in my system, I didn’t really care if I hit the tube when I kicked the sneakers off my feet.