Hooligan Page 8
“Okay, everything’s okay.” We look at each other. “It’s just me.”
In the course of our acquaintance, Siegfried and I have tangled only once. It’s certainly very different than with the silly pigeons. I was new here and hadn’t worked out yet how to handle him. He probably viewed me as an intruder and thought what the hell does the dweeb want. He tried to snap at me. And that’s no joke. When a huge, old bearded vulture grabs at you, then you shouldn’t be surprised if your hand’s gone. I was so startled I almost fell over. But I reflexively pulled back and whacked him with the back of my hand. Not everyone can claim they’ve bitch-slapped a fucking vulture. It’s still one of Kai’s favorite stories. For weeks I refused to set foot in the room. But because Arnim threatened to kick me out or make me pay rent, I did it again. And since then we’ve been cool with each other. What’s more, I like the old buzzard.
He jumps from the back of the chair onto the floor with a thump and hops over to the pile of bones. When he’s moving around on the ground, ’cause there’s not much chance to fly in here, then he doesn’t walk but hops instead. By getting up some momentum and jumping forward with both legs at once, but somehow he always stays slightly sideways. I stand still for a second. Smile. I like watching him when he moves around like that. Because his body is covered with thick, rusty feathers down to the talons, which are almost as large as human hands. It looks like he’s wearing pants. Only the outside of the wings and his head have a different color. His face is black all the way to his beak, where there are the beard feathers he’s named after. The underlying red tones shine through. He pokes with his beak among the pile of bones and starts with a chick.
“Tastes pretty good, right?” I say and begin pushing the papers together and balling them up so I can replace them.
When I’m done spreading them out, he’s sitting up on the back of the chair again and looking out the window. I ask myself if birds—or animals in general—can feel bored. I hope not, because his life here is even more dreary than before. I decide I’ll ask Arnim when I have the chance why he doesn’t build him an aviary. Then he’d at least be able to fly a couple yards, assuming he hasn’t completely forgotten how. It’s probably like riding a bike. He’s already had to spend fifteen years staring out this window. There’s nothing interesting to look at. At least as far as the one eye can see. Arnim tells me he lost the other one to a monster of a raven that some Bulgarian brought over: “That was a brute, all right. I’d never seen anything like it, my boy. About this big.” Then he spread his thick arms. “I had no clue they could get that big. Thought it just couldn’t be, that it must be a Lilliput he stuck in a black costume.”
The football-sized wad of paper sticks together pretty well with all the bird crap. I kick it out into the hallway, tell Siegfried to enjoy his meal and that he shouldn’t take everything so seriously. As if he has a swivel stuck in his craw, he turns his head at an angle impossible for humans and looks at me. I give him a thumbs-up, who knows why exactly, and say, “Keep your head up, bud.”
Then I close the door behind me.
———
A true football fan places great emphasis on tradition, on time-honored things. Nothing embodies this more than our local Hannover bar, the venerable Timpen in the old streets of the Calenberger Neustadt district. Surrounded by traffic-free cobblestone streets and half-timbered houses gussied up for the tourists, into which eye-wateringly expensive yuppie cafés had been dropped, the Skipper, with his, or rather our, Timpen, is one of the last bastions of true Hannover culture. And I swear, if it should ever cease to be, which isn’t unrealistic, then we can just climb into the casket. From time to time, my uncle makes some pronouncement about taking over the place to keep it afloat, but seriously. Once in a while, he bugs Skipper about the liquor license and the whole nine yards. There’ve also been efforts by Axel to shift the focus of our “company” to his gym. But that was met with such resistance not even he could bring it off. I’m telling you: hooligans and our customs. Try to cut us off, and we’ll hit the barricades. But Axel is basically just as much a traditionalist, and I don’t think he’d trade Timpen for anything. The old farts are still the ones who tell the best stories. Hinkel, more than any other. When he’s a little lit and starts to “spin,” there’s no holding back. About when all this was still a free country, which Kai, Ulf, Jojo, and me didn’t ever really experience. None of this constant surveillance with cameras on every corner, battalions of policemen with helicopters for every pitiful match that’s suddenly declared a problem game. And even outside the stadiums. Things must have been really hairy here. There were cases of bricks and benches flying through thick-barred windows.
Every time I sit here and nurse my pilsner, I feel a little like I’m in a museum. Listening to the talk of back when. Back when everything was better, la-di-da. But I did have some good times before Timpen. Back then we weren’t really accepted and had to wait outside. Except in fall and winter. That was fucking hell. But it always paid off. Skipper sometimes even sent us a spiked pot of coffee. We couldn’t have beer yet, but in a thermos like that you couldn’t see something’d been added.
Today I feel like I’m a part of that story. Whether that means our “company” or the football club. Or even the city. It just feels good to sit here in the middle of all these idiots and lift one glass after another.
Ulf, Kai, and I are perched there like roosting chickens receiving our next freshly poured beverages into our parched throats. Because the weekend and match day are ahead of us, Jojo’s doing an extra shift of coaching his youth squad.
“To you, Skipper”—Kai raises his glass—“and may the well never run dry!”
“Cheers!” We clink glasses with Skipper.
Axel, Tomek, and the rest of the crew are seated at the regulars’ table at the end of the taproom. Behind them, the pennants of various Hannover-based sports teams hang thickly, partially overlapping on the dark, chocolate-colored wood paneling. Of course, every second one is from 96. The adjacent wall, which you follow to the shitter, is covered with pictures and photos. Besides the photos of him at sea, Skipper’s particularly proud of the autographed team picture from the group that won the German Cup in ’92. Hannover was the first second-league team to ever win the Cup.
Kai wants to start in with his Facebook spiel, but I get up and say, “Gotta take a leak.”
“Think about it,” he yells behind me. Startled, I glance quickly over at the regulars’ table, but Axel’s engrossed in a conversation. I go to the ladies’ room. I can have peace there. Not that Kai would follow me to the crapper with his harebrained scheme. Since women never come into Timpen, Skipper summarily declared the ladies’ room as his second storage room. The crapper still works, of course. You just have to make sure there’s tp. Otherwise you can scoot your unwiped tush over to the other stall. And if both stalls are occupied, then cheers. The old farts here need ages to take a dump. Not to mention the stench of old-man shit. I luck out, and there’s still half a roll next to the bowl. And because I’m not in a hurry, I choose a nice bottle of suds for the toilet. I can open the door to the stall and reach into a case and pull out a beer without lifting a cheek. Skipper’s not opposed to people taking advantage in here. After finishing my business, I slip the bottle back into the case and tug my jogging pants back into place. In the hallway to the facilities, I hear a loud hubbub from the taproom and the sound of a chair or stool being knocked over. I open the door and see Kai in the middle of the room, holding a skinhead firmly by the scruff of his neck. The skin is slightly smaller than Kai, and his head has half disappeared into the collar of his Lonsdale jacket Kai’s holding him by. Ulf is standing behind Kai. I know that face. It’s his “you’re in deep shit” face.
“What’s goin’ on here?” I ask, and several heads turn toward me.
“I just told that son of a bitch and his buddies they have no business here,” Kai reported and pushed the skinhead away. The guy slips back a step and bumps against
the table in the middle of the room, under which a chair lies on its side. Only now do I notice the other two Nazis. One of them is standing behind his buddy, the other next to the regulars’ table.
The one Kai just manhandled says to me, “You’re Heiko Kolbe, right?”
He clucks his tongue against his yellowed teeth.
“You wanna have my address, you cocksucker? You guys have no business here. So get lost already.”
The Nazi at the regulars’ table, the biggest of them, with a wrinkly, fat face and hamster cheeks, takes a hesitant step toward me and tries to put on a scary grimace. I just glance and blow some air through my lips. They make a pfff sound.
Kai’s adversary says, “We for sure aren’t getting lost, dude. We were invited.”
“Then you must have gotten the wrong door, you idiots,” Ulf said, his deep bass echoing in the beer glasses.
I nod. “Fo’ sho’. I’m certain no one here invited you.”
Then I walk toward Ratface with the yellow teeth, fists full of rage and all out of patience.
“Which isn’t completely true,” Axel says, loudly but completely relaxed.
I turn toward the regulars’ table and look at him, dumbfounded, as he calmly sits there. One arm resting on the table. The other spread, his hand on his thigh.
“I invited them.”
Ratface walks past me, knocking aside Kai’s hand that halfheartedly tried to hold him back, and grins at me stupidly in a challenge. Then he pulls the chair from under the table, deposits it opposite Axel, and plants his dirty rat ass on it. The two other skins reveal teeth no less yellow. Hee, hee, hee. You dirty little bitches! Then I recognize them. They’re the same ones who were sitting in Axel’s office recently. And what’s more, they’re part of a group of Nazis from Hannover’s Langenhagen district known for causing trouble.
“What do you have do to get a fuckin’ beer around here?” Ratface said without turning around.
My feet are bolted to the floor. I look at Axel and simply can’t close my jaw. He catches me with a stern look. Then he gradually releases the clamp of his stare and groans briefly. But not in a relieved way, more like he’s annoyed. As if we were little boys who were annoying the shit out of their dad.
“Three beers, Skipper,” Axel says soberly.
I feel the rage radiate out from my fists and temples, spreading across my body. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to do what I do next: I extend my index finger and say, “Skipper, they don’t get nothin’ here!”
He takes his hand from the tap and mutters, “Too right.”
Before the Nazis or Axel or anyone can react, I grab Ratface by the shoulders, yank him up from the chair, and throw him at the middle table. His back slams against the edge of the table, and the table slides sideways. It was all too fast for him, and before he’s back on his feet I grab him again, pull him close to me, and give it to him. Straight to his crooked fucking nose, immediately producing a cut to the bridge. Falls over limply. I register chair and table legs scraping over the floor tiles through what feels like a down duvet wrapped around my head. Then Fatface is coming at me. Lumbering and uncertain what he even wants to do, I’m able to deftly step aside and smack him. He grunts in pain as my fist slams into the side of his belly. Ulf’s already there and grabs his neck with both hands, pulls him away, and throws him to the floor as if he were made of marshmallow. The third Nazi runs at Kai, but Kai doesn’t mess around. He takes his beer glass from the counter and knocks it over the dude’s dome with a crash. He yells, and the blood flows down his forehead and over his face so he has to pinch his eyes shut. We grab the three assholes. Töller, who’s standing close to the door, holds it open for us with a broad grin. We throw the Nazis from Langenhagen out on their ear. Stay in front of the door and watch how they check out all their individual parts and disappear with their tails tucked between their legs. However, Kai doesn’t pass up the opportunity to hawk a loogie from way deep down.
“Yeah, fuck off, you fucktards!” I yell after them, middle finger extended.
We go back inside.
Kai jokingly slams his fist against my bicep and says, “Ah, man, what a beautiful thing. Now time for a beer.”
I shake my head, don’t say a word, and walk past him. Then I push the tables and chairs back in place and apologize to Skipper, who waves me off.
My uncle. Sitting there at the regulars’ table. Still sitting there. Like Jesus on one of those paintings of the Last Supper. I just look at my uncle. My skull feels electric. My cheekbones are almost bursting out from the pressure. Then I grab my phone and wallet from the counter and leave Timpen without a word.
After spending the evening not answering my phone and stalking through Hannover, cursing to myself silently, I calmed down somewhat and was sitting with Kai on the roof of his house. We bought a chunk of hash from his roommate and smoked one doobie after another, and I was just venting to him, with him adding “exactly” and “hmm” and “fo’ sho’” at precisely the right moment. He didn’t have to do anything else. I didn’t ask for anything more. Just being able to rant about what a crock of shit, and what the fuck was my uncle thinking when he decided he could invite in anyone and everyone he wanted, what was the point of the whole Sun King act, and why, of all people, this particular group of brown-assed Nazi sons of bitches, as if he wasn’t aware of what kind of example that would set, as if he’s from the fucking moon, as if he wants a situation like they have in Aachen or Rostock or even Braunschweig, and then I tell him we’re gonna do that thing with Braunschweig, that we’re gonna drive over there and really kick their asses, and if we do it, then we’ll do it right, and do it my way, you’re goddamn fucking right we are!
And Kai yells: “Damn right! Goddamn fucking hell!” from our roof down into the canyons of the buildings below. And Hannover is lit up from a thousand wounds in the darkness.
And from somewhere down below someone bellows, “Settle down! Can’t a man drink a beer in peace anymore?!”
———
“Stupid idea, Heiko, just a fucking stupid idea,” I say and examine myself in the rearview mirror of my car. The impression of the headrest can be seen clearly on my cheek. I don’t even know why I do it to myself and keep coming back again and again. But I’m also not able to prevent myself.
A glance at the clock: it’s just after 3 a.m. I’ve been hanging here for a good two hours. Should at least have grabbed something to drink at the gas station. I lean my seat back as far as it goes. It clicks, and I try stretching my tingling legs to find a more comfortable position. I look up at Yvonne’s bedroom window. It’s the only room on the street with the light still on. Here and there you can see the blue flicker from a television screen on the visible ceilings and walls. I shift the driver’s seat lower so I don’t have to move my head to have a direct view of Yvonne’s window. I turn the spare key to her apartment over in my fingers, running my thumb over the teeth. Just like I did when I swiped it from the basket in the hallway. When we were still together, I was never allowed to have it. Of course, I always asked why, but the question soon became pointless. Maybe she already had the locks changed long ago.
“Fuck it,” I groan and deposit the key in the glove compartment again. Then I lean back, room in view. No shadow or any indication in the part of the bedroom visible to me. Just white, blank ceiling.
While my eyes continue to watch, I stray mentally. Mie came into the kitchen as I was working with the pigeons and cleaning the feces from the boards. I only saw the rough silhouette of her head. Can’t even say whether she saw me at all. Come on, of course. She has to have looked out into the fucking garden at least once while she was in the kitchen. Even if it was by accident. I nodded to her. Briefly. Not too friendly. Didn’t want to give her the feeling she should come out now and we’d chat while I scrubbed the shit off the wooden roosts. I hadn’t treated her very well when my father showed up with her and she moved in with us. I mean, I didn’t do anything bad. I just acted like sh
e was invisible, which isn’t hard to do with her, because she already acts pretty much like a ghost. But I don’t know, maybe that was unfair. Maybe not, either, but that’s how it was.
My eyelids are gradually becoming heavy. The light’s still on. I don’t want to, but I wonder what she’s doing right now. If she’s doing anything at all. Who knows if she didn’t already fall asleep hours ago. She always was so tired after shooting up. At least the couple of times I was along for it. When I didn’t go, not wanting to leave her alone for a week till she came around by herself.
I’m tired. Exhausted. Axel and I mostly avoided crossing paths in the gym. I know he won’t do it, but somehow I expect him to bring up the thing at Timpen. Explain himself and what he was thinking. He won’t do it. I still don’t have the right words. Can’t do it without preparation, otherwise I’ll go down without a whimper. I couldn’t care less. But I do. I want for it to work. I want what he held out for me, even promised formally.
I nod off in the driver’s seat.
———
Match against Karlruher SC. They were actually still in the Bundesliga then, like Hannover. You almost can’t imagine that today. But they do sort of belong there somehow. Unlike Cottbus, especially, who were also in the top league then. 96 may have been meandering through the season, but we all agreed that regardless of where they ended up, the main thing was that Cottbus was below them. Even if that meant the Reds got relegated to the next league, coming in second to last. Fucking irrelevant if Cottbus came in last.
It’s one of those things about seats in the stadium and affiliation. Generally. Sure, everyone has a seat number that’s indicated on their ticket. Even in the North Curve, where the ultras own the stands. The oldest ultra groups are in the upper tiers. The younger groups are down below. Which is also probably some hierarchy thing. So the established groups can look down on the young mob. But we wouldn’t have given a rat’s ass anyway. Contrary to the so-called journalism produced by the media that always wants to lump us together with the ultras. What do they know?