Clemens Meyer - All the Lights

He ran. He thought of all his running through Rotterdam’s harbour, running and running to keep his form, thought of the ships and cranes disappearing and only the sea still there. He heard them behind him. They’d jumped out of the car; now he saw tower blocks on either side, tall and white, the night strangely bright. He had to get to the dark, he had to disappear into the dark to shake them off. He tried to breathe evenly, took deep breaths in and out again, in and out again. He turned around for a moment; they’d already fallen back slightly. A few minutes ago one of them had been so close behind him that he could hear him breathing. He’d fought eight long, hard rounds, but he had enough breath for at least twelve. Oh no, they weren’t going to get him, he’d be taking his money back to Rotterdam, to his wife, to the boxing club, and he’d run along the harbour in the evenings to keep in shape, he’d run until only the sea was still there, and he’d laugh about them.

He turned into a narrow, dark street, the street lights almost all broken, and he ran close up to the buildings so they couldn’t see him.

He ran past old derelict houses, and when he turned around again he saw the tall white tower blocks behind the houses; he didn’t see the men chasing him any more but he kept on running, not slowing down.

There were people standing there, a tight group outside one of the houses in the light of a street lamp; it seemed like the only lamp in the narrow road still working. They called something out as he ran past them; he heard them laughing, bottles clinking, but he kept looking ahead; he saw the dark street and he ran until he suddenly choked and he had to stop, leaning against a house, then falling to his knees and vomiting. He puked until everything blurred before his eyes and he thought he heard the referee counting. One, two, three … By eight he was back on his feet, wiping the vomit from his mouth and his jacket. All silent behind him. No footsteps, no shouts. He walked on slowly, the street leading ahead of him into a wider, brighter one. There were the tower blocks again, and he was suddenly scared. He wanted to stay in the dark, narrow road until morning came. His things were in a hotel at the station but he didn’t know where the station was, didn’t know where he was. He walked on slowly, no cars coming along the road. He saw the white tower blocks ahead; they seemed uninhabited, large empty rectangles. He’d grown up in an estate of tower blocks in Rotterdam, had spent most of his youth there, often fighting on the street before he’d started boxing, he’d trained every day so he wouldn’t have to fight on the street any more. And he didn’t like the thought that he might have to fight on the street again, here in this German town.

Later, in a taxi to the station, he couldn’t remember what had happened and how and in what order. He kept saying all the way, ‘I’m still here, you bastards, I’m still here.’ He said it in Dutch, said it in German and laughed in the driver’s face watching him in the rear-view mirror. He was still holding the banknote in his hand he’d used to wave. He’d wrenched the door open, leapt onto the back seat, and then they drove off. A bottle shattered on the road behind them. They shouted something but he couldn’t understand it, didn’t want to understand it either, they were behind him, they stayed in their part of town and he drove off.

At first he’d thought it was his friends from the bar again, that they’d spotted him again and caught up with him, but they’d had more hair on their heads than these ones, walking beside him on either side, him in the middle of the road so he had more space, and maybe a car would come after all, he walked down the middle of the road between the tall, white tower blocks, and they were on the pavements, forming a kind of cordon.

‘Piss off out of here, nigger!’

‘You stink!’

‘Get back to the jungle!’

‘Looking for trouble, are you?’

He knew they’d get him if he started running. There was no referee here to take him out of the fight for exhaustion. He walked very slowly, keeping his head lowered, flexing his shoulders under his jacket. Five or six on one side, five or six on the other. He looked straight ahead, only seeing them out of the corners of his eyes. He knew one of them had to start, had to step out onto the road to him, and then the others would come too, then the dance would begin. He had a pen in his jacket pocket and he’d use it. Eyes, necks, all the soft spots.

The taxi pulled up right outside the door of his hotel. It was almost light now. The street was empty. He handed the driver the banknote. He said, ‘OK,’ and made a hand gesture when the driver wanted to give him change. The driver nodded, ‘ Danke .’ He got out and watched the taxi until it disappeared. He put his head back, blinking at the ever-lightening sky. He wouldn’t sleep; he’d pick up his bag and get on the first train to Berlin, from there to Cologne and then straight home. He smelt the vomit on his jacket. It hurt to breathe. His legs trembled, he could barely feel them and he swayed to and fro. But none of that bothered him. Nineteen — thirty-two — three.

It’s the last night I’ve got but I don’t tell her that, and we walk through the streets, and I look at all the lights and then at her. She’s just as beautiful as back then, as if we were still fifteen or sixteen, no, she was thirteen, and somehow she still has a part of back then inside her, and I look at all the lights and talk about this and that.

She says something and I say, ‘Yeah, that’s right,’ and then we’re silent for a while and keep walking until she stops outside one of those posh bars with fancy cocktails and fancy people, and she says, ‘Here.’

I go to open the door for her but she’s quicker, and I walk inside ahead of her. I look over to the bar and across the half-dark room, and I feel her standing behind me, and I walk over to one of the small tables. We sit down. At the bar and at the other tables, women and men are sitting in the twilight drinking brightly-coloured cocktails or coffee out of big round cups with no handles. I take a brief look at her; she’s reading the menu and I watch her hand moving slowly across the paper. I look at her face, and her lips are moving very slowly too, lots of pretty cocktails with brightly coloured straws and little umbrellas and coffee in big round cups with no handles. She moves her lips and stares at the paper, and then she crumples it up and says, ‘Why can’t you just leave me alone, why don’t you get it? I don’t want anything to do with you,’ and even though she’s said it so often before I just nod and look at her. She takes the crumpled letter with her when she gets up — why doesn’t she leave it behind? — and I watch her go until she’s at the door and turns around again and gives me an angry look, with a slight crease from the top of her nose up to her forehead, and then she’s gone.

There’s a small beer in front of me, I don’t know where it came from, and she says, ‘Well then … Cheers,’ and I nod and says, ‘Cheers,’ and we clink glasses.

We put our glasses down almost simultaneously. She’s drinking a dark red cocktail, blood orange or something like that, and there’s a stripe of the stuff above her top lip. I try not to look her in the eye for too long, running my finger across my mouth a couple of times. She smiles, takes a serviette and wipes the red stripe away. I take a sip of beer and look into my glass. I hear her drinking too, I hear her coughing, then only the music and the quiet buzz of conversation from the other tables.

I put my fingertips on my beer glass and stroke across the curve and the long, thin stalk it stands on. It’s one of those small glasses we used to call ‘tulips’ back then, but I haven’t heard that for a long time now.