Hooligan Read online

  It was the same with our allotted spots. Also because of hierarchy. So we were standing behind the fans in the North Curve stands, in the corridor behind the upper tiers. Axel, Tomek, and the other full members stood in the middle behind them. As young guns, we were a little farther back. Basically in the middle of the corridor with people on their way to the toilet, or the stands for food or beer, or returning. We don’t go to the stadium very often. It’s just not a place for our type. We move in other circles, but once in a while you just have to show up. Show that we’re still here. In other words, for the ones that recognize us, which is just a fraction of the usual stadium-goers.

  “But this is bullshit, man,” Jojo complained. “Can’t see anything from here. Karlsruhe nailed the penalty kick, right?”

  “Jojo, would you get off my back? Right here is just our place.”

  “Yeah, they made it from the mark,” said Ulf. At almost six foot six, he’s always able to see more.

  Kai pokes me and leans his head over and says: “Here they come again.”

  Plainclothes cops. Walking by for the second or third time. Axel and the old boys pointedly turned their backs to the cops walking by.

  Kai stepped out from our group, started to curtsy, and grinned, saying: “G’day, dear sirs.”

  The cops move on, looking offended. No clue who they thought they were fooling with the show. Hastily pulling jerseys over their ironed shirts, still sticking out a little. Throwing scarves around their necks, like lipstick on pigs. And then clutching the alibi beer, which they can’t even touch because they’re on duty. Touch with their mouths, I mean. The piss they serve in the stadium couldn’t get much flatter.

  I told him, “You’d better be glad Axel didn’t see that. You know what he thinks about making a scene.”

  Kai raised his hands in defense, pursed his lips, and said, “Oh, dangerous, super dangerous.”

  “Oh, cut the crap.” I took a go at him but couldn’t hold back a grin.

  Then a group of ultras came up from the stands, probably just wanted to piss, and looked like they’d just come from the black bloc of disrepute. They walked past us and scanned us from head to toe.

  I heard one of them say something like, “What kind of jokers are these?” Then the little fucker giggled.

  Kai’s mood flipped immediately. “Did you hear what that little shit just said?”

  “Well?” I asked casually and tried to get a glimpse of the game, but people were constantly getting in the way.

  “Didn’t even know who we were. They don’t have hair on their nads yet, those dickheads.”

  Jojo, who was still grumbling to himself in irritation and had ignored the ultras, said, “For real, Heiko, I laid out twenty bucks for the ticket and can’t see a thing. It’s fucking pointless. We could just as well have watched the game in the comfort of Timpen. Besides, the draft back here is murder. Could you ask your uncle if we can join them up front?”

  I exhaled my annoyance and said, “You know how it works. This is our spot.”

  I pointed to the floor between us and looked at the group, which wasn’t just the four of us but also a couple other young guns from back when. They’ve all left us by now.

  “We just have to earn the spot over there. What do you wanna do?”

  He looked at me. His tongue moved inside his cheek impatiently, back and forth.

  “My god, then all right, I’ll ask. Just knock it off.”

  “Excellent, Heiko, thanks,” Jojo said.

  I looked over at the group that had gathered around my uncle. It reminded me of the days when I was still a little twerp and my father brought me along every now and then. Back then it was exactly the same, except I was standing around with Hans somewhere instead of with the boys now, while people were gathered around Axel as if he was some kind of tiny solar system that only existed in the Curve. I looked at Jojo again and said, “Won’t accomplish a thing.”

  And I was right, of course. I had barely stepped up to the group surrounding Axel and Tomek when my uncle snarled at me, wanting to know what I wanted. I tried to somehow acquaint him with the concept that we couldn’t see anything and all that shit.

  “Go back to your spot,” Axel barked.

  When I got back to the boys, Jojo asked, “Well?”

  “Shove it, Jojo,” I said and drained my beer in silence.

  ———

  “Manuela, please don’t bust my balls. I’ll find him already! Yeah. Sure, bye.”

  I chuck my phone on the passenger seat. It bounces off like a rubber ball and lands on the floor.

  My father’s caregiver wasn’t able to give me any useful clues about where he might be when I’d spoke with her. Just said he must have disappeared sometime around lunch and moans something like, It’s so awful, we’ve never had anything like this happen before. Thanks, a lotta help you are, you old hag, I thought and turned the key. Then my sister had to bitch me out. As if it was my fault he wanted to step out of the rehab clinic. I mean, here I am, and all this craps lands on me, typical. She couldn’t leave. Because of classes, and all that.

  The car’s running, and I’m steering from the clinic parking lot onto the street. Trying to make my way to the middle of town.

  It’s windy. I pull the zipper up on my windbreaker. Then I shove my fists into my jacket pockets and walk randomly down an unfamiliar street. Hans doesn’t have a phone. Even though Manuela bought him one once, as far as I know he never used it. My dad’s just old-school. Real old-school.

  I arrive at a square paved with cobblestones, a kind of a market square. Maybe it’s the middle of town. Clueless, making the rounds. Mostly there are pensioners sitting outside in front of the cafés, holding down their napkins against the wind. Deep, snow-white tumors of clouds stream over the rooftops. The aroma of fresh cake and pastries seems to emanate from everywhere. It’s making me slightly nauseous. That and how perfectly arranged everything is here. Like a typical spa town. The old farts watch me walk by, mouths agape. Probably asking themselves what kind of shady customer I am, decked out in a black jogging suit. And in a place like this, I truly do feel as out of place as a right-wing extremist at a gypsy wedding. I go down a narrow, one-lane shopping street leading away from the square. A couple of teenagers are sitting in front of the supermarket and sucking energy drinks. They’re laughing, kidding around. Calling each other “son of a bitch” and that sort of thing. Acting like they’re Turkish or something. Even though they’re just stupid nobodies. I walk past the driveway to the parking lot belonging to the supermarket, which is located behind the row of residential buildings. A ruined, elderly guy with a gray flowing beard is sitting against the wall. His facial hair has taken on the typical color of tobacco-yellow above the lip. He’s wearing a dirty sweater that basically screams the 90s. A gray threadbare denim vest on top of that. His blue cap, which he wears loosely over a wide mop of hair, has attained a kind of batik pattern from years of sweat. The cap is labeled MODERN DRUNKARD – EST. 1986. I approach him and he looks up at me with a tired gaze. The bags under his eyes look like washrags.

  “Hey pal. Maybe you have a little spare change?”

  I pull out my wallet, say, “Sure,” and give him a two-euro coin.

  He holds it up for a second, depositing it in his breast pocket of his vest and says, “The company expresses its gratitude.”

  I crouch down next to him, silently offering him a cigarette, which he also raises in thanks. Then I pass him my lighter, but just for him to give back to me. He offers his hand. His fingers are rough and rutted like the bark of an oak tree. The fingertips have long gone beyond tobacco yellow to take on the color of morning urine.

  “Heiko,” I introduce myself.

  “Pit, but my friends call me Osaka Pit.”

  We smoke a while in silence. Then the next cigarettes. At some point I say, “Let’s assume I’m treating you to a beer, straight from the tap. Where would we go?”

  He strokes his invisible chin with his
fingers, making a rustling sound. He’s pondering as if I’d asked him the meaning of life.

  “There’s not a lot around here. We’d probably go to Schüssler’s. It’s right around the corner.”

  I stand up, pat down my butt, and say, “Let’s go then.”

  Schüssler’s reminds me a lot of Timpen back home. A typically rustic, old-time tavern that, from the outside, during the day and when none of the lights are on, gives the impression it’s closed. Hans isn’t there. Doesn’t show up either while I pay for a couple rounds of draft with Pit, who everyone seems to know, and we chat. Better than running around without a plan.

  “Hannover 96, right?” Pit says, and the suds he’s licked off fizz in his beard. “I don’t know much about football. Was more interested in cricket. Seemed more complex. But you don’t get very far with that in German-speaking countries. My dream was to watch a top Indian match. But that probably doesn’t interest you.” He tapped against the bill of his cap and turned toward the barkeeper. “Gisbert, which one of those Hannover 96 players came from here, from Bad Zwischenahn?”

  Without having to think very long, Gisbert, whose left eyelid twitches incessantly, answers, “Carsten Linke.”

  “What do you know,” I say, astonished, “our defensive rock. What a coincidence! Well, then, at least now I can claim that I was once in Carsten Linke’s hometown.”

  Pit nods, satisfied he was able to gratify me with that bit of information, and looks into his glass. Preparing for the next sip. He has yet to ask what brought me to Bad Zwischenahn in the first place, and I don’t really feel like talking about it.

  We move from straight beer to a couple rounds of boilermakers, which reminds me of the liters of black beer and vodka mix at the Marksmen’s Fair. We clink the shot glasses. Down them and say, “Ahhh,” as if we were drinking an isotonic beverage after running a marathon. Gisbert flips the light switch on. I glance at the clock. It’s getting close to evening. One more, I say, and order another round.

  “Hey, why do they call you Osaka Pit, anyway?”

  “Well,” Pit waves me off, chuckling, “old story. I smuggled opium for a couple years. I was around your age. Far East, to make a long story short. Then they nabbed me in Osaka. Was trying to sail to Taipei. I was sentenced to four years in Japan. Then it took me two more to get back to Europe.” He chuckles again, as if he was telling a joke. “Got lucky. If they’d grabbed me somewhere else—like Singapore or Taiwan, for example—I wouldn’t be sitting here today. Even if you’re just courier, they send you into the sunset before you know it. They don’t fool around.”

  We empty our glasses. I gradually remember why I’m here in the first place.

  “I have to keep moving,” I say and ask where there’s another bar around here.

  Pit directs me to the Twüschenkahn, a bar that’s closer to Zwischenahn Lake, the local pond. I pay and get up. There’s still one last generous splash of backwash.

  “Pit, if you’re still thirsty, I’ll buy you another.” He waves me off, saying, “Nah, my body’s had enough for today. Your finances have already suffered enough for good old Pit. I thank you much for that.”

  “Sure?”

  “Absolutely. Otherwise my lady will bitch at me.” He laughs with his mouth open, throwing his head back. I didn’t see a ring on his finger. If that’s supposed be a joke, I don’t get it.

  “All right,” I say, and we shake hands good-bye.

  “Keep your chin up, boy. You’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  I thank him and leave.

  As the door falls shut behind me and seals out the clinking of glasses and rush of table talk, the thought crosses my mind that after all maybe I did tell Pit what I was doing here. That I drove here just to look for my father. Pit would nod approvingly, and raise his glass toward the bar in a gesture. Then I’d assemble everything I could say about Hans. Like the first time he took me to the stadium. How everyone looked up to him and shook his hand respectfully and gathered around him. How I was always allowed to help feed the pigeons, and how we kicked the ball around afterward. For Pit, all of that would be true of my father. He didn’t know my father, after all. And it wouldn’t make any difference to Pit. Then we’d raise our glasses one last time. And then there would be, at least in Bad Zwischenahn and only if it lasts for just a couple of drunken nights, someone who’s heard the name Hans Kolbe and raised his glass. But instead of all that, I just turn my back to the wind to light another cig and then try to find my way to the next bar.

  I don’t like Twüschenkahn as much as Schüsslers. Large, open windows allow a view of the water. Overall, the bar seems significantly cleaner and more orderly. There appear to be people here who still have to drink their way into advanced age and an advanced stage in life in order to feel comfortable in Schüsslers. Besides, there’s something to eat here. I order the local specialty, a sausage with kale. It tastes good, but the kale leaves an aftertaste of iron in my mouth, making me nauseous. I try to eliminate the taste with another beer and a cup of coffee, combined with a saucer of sprats. I grab the sprats by the heads, hiding their eye sockets with my fingers, and slide them into my mouth, tail and all, and bite down. They taste pleasantly salty.

  And then, when it’s almost already ten in the evening, something happens I no longer expected. My father comes through the door. I instantly put down my phone and delete the fourth draft of a message I’d started writing Manuela. He sits down two chairs over without noticing me. Maybe I should be furious. Or relieved. I am neither. The various rounds of beer and boilermakers have packed my head in comfy cushions. I look over. Hans orders his beer. Even from the side, I can see his hollow gaze. He appears to not have shaved in the clinic. The good old stache is coming on. I get up, push my beer one seat over, and sit down.

  Without looking to the side, I say: “Hey, Dad. Finally come on in?”

  He looks at me. Needs a second. Then he recognizes me after all. His face opens.

  “Man, Heiko. What’re you doin’ here?”

  He slaps his bare hands on the counter. I explain everything. Why I’m here and not Manuela. Tell him what the people at the clinic had said, that he’d simply run off, and he acts completely surprised. As if he had been unaware you couldn’t just go on a bender when you’ve been sent to rehab precisely because of your drinking. I don’t bother to give him a lecture, just say I’m going to take him back and I’m not going to come back here to catch him again. To my own surprise, this comes out slightly less judgmental than intended. I blamed it on the alcohol.

  We pass most of the time just drinking next to one another. Once in a while we exchange a couple sentences. Out of the blue he asks if I’m still in touch with Mom, which I deny. I say I don’t want to talk about it.

  “Hmm,” he says and somehow sounds disappointed. Then he looks away again.

  “Why do you wanna know?” I ask anyway, and it comes across just as randomly.

  “It’s okay,” is all he says, and drinks.

  It’s late. Actually, it’s not that late. Just before midnight. But considering I’ve been driving around half the day and spent the other half in bars, it’s already late.

  “Come on, finish up. I’ll take you back to the clinic.”

  He does what I tell him, without any back talk.

  When we find a spot in the clinic parking lot, I wait for him to get out, walk to the illuminated entrance, apologize for going missing, and go to bed so I can drive back to Wunstorf. But he makes no move to do so.

  “All right then,” I say, and knead my thighs to help the circulation.

  He turns toward me slightly in his seat, saying, “Here’s a suggestion, Heiko.”

  I’m tired, say, “I’m not even thinking of taking you home with me.”

  “I don’t want you to either.” He sounds as if he was keeping a hiccup down. “Your sister would wring my neck.”

  “And mine with it.”

  “No, what I wanted to say—” He draws up his leg
s. “I’ve been watching matches again since I’ve been in here. Goin’ pretty well for the Reds, right?”

  He looks up at me.

  “Decent,” I say and lay my head against my extended finger. I have the elbow supported against the bottom of the window.

  “Away game tomorrow against Werder Bremen.”

  “I know.”

  “What do you think? The two of us? Like we used to. That’d be something. Against Bremen, Heiko.”

  I feel the pressure rising behind my eyeballs. Don’t know where that’s coming from.

  “I don’t think that—”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t be a wuss. Go to the game again with your old man. You can buy yourself a Coke. Just for you.”

  He winks at me, but a little too slowly, making it seem like one side of his face was nodding off.

  “Man, Dad,” I groan.

  “Do you have something planned? A fight? Gonna hit the field tomorrow, right?” he asks.

  “No, that’s not it. Come on, let it drop.”

  “Heiko. Please. One match.”

  Instead of looking for a hotel room somewhere, I spend the night in the clinic parking lot. Surrounded by thickening fog that makes the interior of the hatchback very damp. Luckily, I find a couple of blankets in the trunk, so I’m able to wrap myself in them. Around three in the morning, I finally send a message to Manuela, telling her I’ve found Hans and everything’s fine, but that I’m going to stay another day because it’s so late. Then I sack out.

  I spend most of the next day at Mickey D’s and bakeries, charging my battery and waiting to be able to pick Hans up from the clinic. Then we drive to Bremen together.

  I’m not interested in knowing and don’t ask whether he got official leave or just vanished again. We spend the drive talking about football, even though I notice his knowledge basically stopped around the end of the last century. He can’t believe it when I tell him about the appalling millions of euros thrown around for players, some very young, by teams like Barcelona, Real, or English Premiere League clubs run by Arabic sheiks.