Clemens Meyer - All the Lights

He had got three letters now and he’d been waiting for the fourth one for months. In his last letter, Wolfgang had written about leaving Mexico, about leaving Maria Pilar, the beautiful Red Indian woman. ‘Do you know what I called her? Mi clara estrella , that means “my bright star”. And the stars up above us at night were really so bright, not like anything I’ve ever seen in Germany. They seemed to be incredibly close too, right above the trees. She’s all alone in Chichén Itzá now but I promised to go back to her, maybe then I’ll take her with me to Brazil. You know I’ve always been a dreamer, but I swear on our friendship that I’ll marry that wonderful woman one day, but first I have to travel. South America, you know.’ The letter was from Honduras, from the capital city Tegucigalpa, there was an airport there, and Wolfgang wanted to fly to Brazil from there.

He was in the bar that had once belonged to Wolfgang’s Uncle Rudi. Everything had been stripped down and converted; he hadn’t even recognised the building. Back then it had been a real German corner bar with wooden tables and wood-panelled walls. Now it was one of those modern places, neon lights and brightly coloured cocktails served by young girls.

He’d been to see his mother; he’d saved a bit of money and put it secretly in her little savings box. He’d taken a twenty-euro note out again, and now he was sitting at the black bar, which was made of cool metal, and drinking. He was drinking tequila like Wolfgang had suggested. He’d been here a couple of times now and drunk tequila. He moistened the little dip between his thumb and forefinger with his tongue, then sprinkled a little salt on the wet spot, took the glass in one hand and the slice of lemon in the other, licked the salt from his hand, knocked back the alcohol and then bit into the slice of lemon until tears pricked his eyes. ‘To you,’ he said, ‘to you and Maria Pilar and Brazil.’

The year was almost over, the nights were getting frosty but there was no snow. It was summer in Brazil right now, and soon Wolfgang would be celebrating New Year in summer, if he was in Brazil by now. ‘Another tequila please,’ he said, ‘and a beer.’ The young woman behind the bar nodded. It was nearly ten and he wanted to go home soon. He had to get up early; he had a place on a job creation scheme now, working at a tourist information stall in town. An old man sat down on one of the bar stools next to him, knocked on the bar and nodded at him. Frank knocked back at him and smiled. The old greeting in a bar. The barmaid put the beer and the tequila down in front of him. ‘I’ll have a large one as well,’ said the old man. The young woman took a glass and went to the pump. The old man turned around to him. ‘They drink cocktails here now,’ he said, ‘but back in the old days …’ He leant on the counter and looked Frank right in the face.

‘You live round here, don’t you?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Always have done.’

‘I’m from round this way myself.’ The old man pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and put them down in front of him, searching through his pockets again and putting a lighter on top of his cigarettes. Frank looked at his thin, wrinkled fingers.

‘Thanks,’ said the old man, and took the beer from the barmaid’s hand and drank. He tipped his head back, then he put the glass on the bar and wiped the foam from his chin. ‘Oh, sorry,’ he said. He raised his glass again, and Frank picked up his beer as well, and they clinked glasses. ‘To the old beer-drinkers.’ Frank took a drink and laughed and said, ‘To us old beer-drinkers,’ then he knocked back his tequila, without the salt and lemon.

‘You know this place from the old days, do you?’

‘You can say that again,’ said the old man. ‘It was pretty much my second home.’ He took a cigarette out of the pack and lit it up. ‘One for yourself?’

‘No thanks. I never started smoking. Just a good cigar every now and then.’

‘Oh aye,’ said the old man, ‘a good cigar’s a good cigar. Can’t hardly beat that.’ He tipped his head back and blew the smoke up to the brightly coloured lamps on the ceiling.

‘You used to come here quite often in the old days, am I right?’

‘Yes,’ said Frank, ‘quite often. But that’s about thirty years ago now.’

‘Thirty years.’ The old man breathed out loudly. He leant against the bar again, and again he looked him right in the face. ‘You were a friend of Rudi’s nephew, weren’t you?’

Frank drank a swig of beer and nodded. He tried to remember — who could this old man be? He must have been about the same age then as Frank was now. Round about. But there’d been so many regulars at Rudi’s, spending their evenings and their days at the bar or one of the round wooden tables.

‘I knew it right away.’ The old man pressed out his cigarette. ‘I used to know them well, Rudi and his nephew. Often saw you two here. Rudi was risking his licence serving you two alcohol.’

‘Yes,’ said Frank. ‘But we never went over the top.’

The old man gave him a wink. ‘I remember differently.’ He drank his glass dry and pushed it across the bar. The barmaid had turned the music up — something electronic with a lot of bass, and Frank heard voices behind him but didn’t turn around. Then there were a couple of young lads next to him, ordering something, and he saw the barmaid juggling bottles and chopping up a couple of limes. ‘I always got him the best stamps back then.’

‘Stamps?’ Frank emptied his glass and pushed it next to the old man’s. ‘Two more,’ he said, ‘and two tequilas,’ and the barmaid said, ‘Be with you in a minute.’

‘I worked for the post office,’ said the old man, ‘in the old days.’ And suddenly Frank knew who he was. They’d sat at Rudi’s bar and turned the pages of the big stamp album. ‘Two new Pelé stamps,’ said Wolfgang. ‘Really rare, no postmark.’ They looked at the stamp and the tiny Pelé, who seemed to be holding an even smaller ball on the tip of his foot, and the longer they gazed at Pelé, their heads resting on their hands, the quieter it got around them, the noise of the pub fell silent, and then the ball danced on the tip of Pelé’s foot, and then Pelé too moved on the little stamp.

Frank took a deep breath. ‘He made some money, Rudi did. Came into a lot of money, over in Hamburg.’

‘Money?’ The old man sniffed at the tequila. ‘Is this Korn ?’ He was used to German spirits.

‘No,’ said Frank. ‘Just do what I do.’ He moistened the small dip between his thumb and forefinger with his tongue, sprinkled a little salt on the wet spot, handed the saltshaker to the old man and waited for him to do the same. ‘And now the lemon.’ The old man smiled, and they took the slice of lemon in one hand, the glass in the other, then they licked the salt from their hands, tipped back the alcohol and bit into the slice of lemon, ‘Ahhh, Jesus, what’s that?!’ and then the old man laughed and asked, ‘Rudi made money?’

He was running through the night. It was really cold, and his breath came steaming out of his mouth. He could still hear the old man laughing — ‘Rudi made money, you’re telling me Schnapps-Rudi made money out of a bar in Hamburg!’ He couldn’t understand why the old man was laughing so wildly. He slowed down now, putting his hands in his jacket pockets and passing the playground, which was dark and empty. Where did the young lads go when it was so cold? Maybe to some bar or other, if they had any money.

‘And the stars up above us at night were really so bright, not like anything I’ve ever seen in Germany. They seemed to be incredibly close too …’

They were bright, the stars up above him, not a cloud in the sky, but they must have shone much brighter over there, and close … no, they seemed tiny and far away to him. He kept walking. He took out his key, even though he was still a good way away from home. He jangled the keys, the street was empty and silent, and he could hear his footsteps. ‘You know I’ve always been a dreamer, but I swear … but first I have to travel.’ He unlocked the door to his building. He stood in the dark stairwell and looked for the keyhole, then he locked the door again, once, twice. He turned on the light and stopped in front of the letterboxes on the wall. ‘Everything’s muddled in my head; I’m on my way to South America.’