Daniel Kehlmann - F

Now would be a really good time to have a phone. I keep walking. The half of the distance still remaining will have its own half, and that half yet another one, and I grasp that time is not only endlessly long but also endlessly dense, between one moment and the next lie an infinite number of moments; how can they possibly pass?

They’re paying no attention to me, I could still turn around. The boy on the ground is holding his arms over his head, his legs are bent, and his torso is hunched. I realize that this may be the last moment I could actually steer clear of this thing. I stand still and croak, “Leave him alone!”

They pay no attention. I could still turn back. Instead of a reply, what I hear is the person inside me, the one who’s not listening to the other one who’s begging him to keep quiet, again saying loudly, “Leave him alone! Stop that!”

They pay no attention. What do I do? Interposing myself between them is out of the question, absolutely no one could expect that of me. Relieved, I’m on the point of turning around, but at that very moment they stop. All three, simultaneously, as if they’ve rehearsed it. They stare at me.

“What?” says the biggest of them. His face is shadowed with stubble, he has a thin ring in his nose, and his T-shirt says Bubbletea is not a drink I like . He’s panting as if he’d just finished a heavy workout.

The one next to him — this one’s T-shirt says Morning Tower —also says “What?” in a shaky drawl.

The third one just stares. His T-shirt displays a screaming red Y .

The one on the ground lies motionless, breathing hard.

It’s the critical moment. Now I have to say the right thing, find the right words, a sentence that will ease the tension, make things better, break them up, clear the air. Fear is supposed to make you think faster, but that’s not happening here. My heart is thumping, there’s a roaring in my ears, and the street seems to be turning slowly on its own axis. I didn’t know it was possible to be this afraid, it feels as if I’d never in my life been frightened before, and I’m just learning what fear is right now. Things were all fine just a moment ago, I was upstairs, behind a steel door, surrounded by safety. Can the switch happen at such speed, can the worst be so close at hand? And I think, Stop asking yourself things like this, you don’t have time, you have to say the right thing! And I think, Maybe there are moments when there are no right words anymore, moments when words have no meaning anymore, when they fall apart, when they lead nowhere, because whatever you say is simply irrelevant. And I think, Just stop thinking! And I think …

Now Bubbletea is not a drink I like is coming at me, repeating “What!” but not the way it sounded before, not as a question and not in surprise, but as a naked threat.

“He’s done,” I say. “He can’t even move anymore. He’s finished.” Not bad, I think, so I did actually manage to find something to say. “You guys are much stronger. He doesn’t have a chance, there’s no point anymore.”

“And who are you?”

That didn’t come from Bubbletea is not a drink I like , it came from Y . I hadn’t expected that of him. He’d struck me as harmless, a hanger-on, a bystander, almost a friend.

“I’m …” But my voice is inaudible. I clear my throat, now it’s better. “… no one.” The ancient response given by Odysseus, tried and well tested in situations like this one. “I’m no one!”

They stare.

“If he dies, you’ll get sentenced to life.”

I realize immediately that this was a mistake. First, he’s not going to die, and second, nobody under twenty gets sentenced to life. An entire army of juvenile lawyers, juvenile judges, and juvenile counselors makes that impossible, nobody’s life gets ruined that young anymore, as I know from my brother the priest. But if I’m in luck, they won’t know this.

“The police are certainly already on their …”

Things come together again: street, sky, voices, shadowy figures above me, and me on the ground, leaning against the wall of a house. My head hurts. I must have fainted.

Stay sitting down! You’ve done enough. In the name of all the saints and all the devils and all that is beautiful in the world, stay sitting down!

I get to my feet.

How strange: usually people in danger turn out to be smaller, more gutless, more pitiful than they thought they were. That’s normal, that’s usual, that’s what you expect of yourself. You’re convinced you’ll be revealed as a coward at the first opportunity. And now this. Ivan Friedland, aesthete, curator, wearer of expensive suits, is a hero. I could have done without it.

I’m up on my legs. With one hand I’m supporting myself against the wall, with the other I’m struggling to find my balance. This time I don’t have to say a word — the sheer effrontery of my getting up at all is enough: they don’t back off.

“So who are you?” Y asks again.

“If only I knew.” People have used jokes to get themselves out of bad spots like this.

“Are you nuts?” asks Y .

And Bubbletea is not a drink I like , as if surprised by this realization, says, “Knock it off, Ron. The guy’s nuts.”

Then I notice that something has opened in Morning Tower ’s hand, something small and silvery and wicked. Things have turned serious. Even if I’d thought they were serious already — I was wrong, they weren’t. They are now. “Do you want to kill him?” I ask. But it’s not about him anymore.

“Ron!” says Morning Tower to Bubbletea is not a drink I like . “Shut up!”

“No, Ron!” says Y . “ You shut up.”

It must be me who’s confused, they can’t all be called Ron. To cover up the pounding of my heart, I ask exaggeratedly loudly if it’s money they want.

But they just stare and say nothing, and I get the feeling I’ve made another mistake. The pain throbs in my forehead. Maybe I should show them some cash. My jacket, its thin fabric tailored by Kilgour in London, is so wet I might have just climbed out of the water. I move my hand toward the wallet in my inner pocket, realize that their looks have changed, try to complete the gesture so that there won’t be any misunderstanding, and know, even as my fingertips brush the leather, that this was yet another mistake: Y ducks away, Bubbletea is not a drink I like takes a step back, Morning Tower’ s hand shoots out and touches me, and as I am pulling out the wallet, pain shoots through my chest, my head, and my arms, flames outward, piercing through asphalt, parked cars, houses, sky, and sun, filling the world, becoming the world, then turns back on itself and is inside me again. My wallet lands on the ground, but I flap my arms, and keep my balance, and don’t fall.

I look at the three of them. They look at me: calmly, almost as if they’re curious, and their rage had suddenly dissipated. Not dumb, not angry, just confused. I think Bubbletea may even be trying to smile at me. I try to smile back, but I don’t manage it, I’m feeling very weak.

Y picks up my wallet, looks at it in a questioning way, and drops it again. Then they run. I look after them until they disappear around the corner.

The boy at my feet moves. He stretches, moves softly, holds out his arms, turns around, and tries to stand up. His face is swollen and bloody, but still he doesn’t seem to be that badly hurt. No, he’s not going to die. He probably won’t even have to go to the hospital. He rolls forward, gets his elbows on the ground, and pushes himself shakily onto his feet.

“Everything’s okay,” I say. “Don’t get upset. Everything’s good.”