Philipp Winkler - Hooligan

“Sorry, Arnim, but could we maybe have a little bit of peace and quiet for a sec?”

He looks at me as if I’d insulted his mother. But then his face relaxes again.

“Come on, pull over. I’ll take the wheel again. Way too wound up to sleep.”

Crossing the border in the dark at Kustrin went off without a hitch. We didn’t go through a check and didn’t even see a cop car! Three cheers for open borders! Even though I’d feel better if we’d get stopped on the way there. Better than on the way back, when we may not have a tiger in the tank but one in the back.

I ask myself what category of crime and severity of penalty there could be for smuggling exotic and dangerous animals.

Arnim doesn’t know either. “Knock it off, my boy! I’m sure not going to the slammer again. There”—he points ahead vigorously—“that there is the city limits.”

“Gorzów Wielkopolski,” I read aloud.

Then we’re past the sign.

“Hogwash, that’s Landsberg on the Warthe,” Arnim corrects me, giving the old German name. “Can’t be much farther. So shut up.”

The blurred silhouette of the city emerges from the blue morning light in front of us. Abandoned factories lie beneath a delicate shroud in front of crumbling, seemingly bombed-out facades. Like the fuzziness of a young animal. The icy blast of air whistles in through the open window like knife tips. I close it. Also to lock out the oppressive burned coal stench that seems to coat the entire region. The signs you see on the buildings and roadside give the impression they were put up decades ago and never replaced. They’re usually only attached on two or three corners and flapping sluggishly in the wind. A muffled hum hangs in the air. As though the city was powered by a huge, subterranean generator. But for who? When I look at the houses, I can hardly imagine anyone living here. This is almost how I always pictured cities after bombing raids. Well, maybe that’s a little worse. But I still get the feeling a nuclear power plant blew up here or something. Arnim steers us through the dead streets on a course I’m not following. The van pounds over the potholes, but the bumps are mostly absorbed by our well-cushioned seats. When I look around, I understand how the Polish hooligans can have blossomed into some of the most notorious in all of Europe. I mean Hannover isn’t to be scoffed at, and I like its gray drabness. But this here. If you grow up in a city like this, then the rage starts embedding itself inside in your skull from day one. I decide suggesting a match against a Polish team back home. Surely, Tomek will still have some connections in his homeland and be able to set something up. Would just love to measure myself against the Poles. Maybe from Warsaw or Lodz. Or Poznan. So. Assuming everything gets right again. And also only once Kai is fit again. No point even mentioning it if I don’t know the boys have my back. At least Kai and Jojo. Or maybe just Kai. Damn.

Arnim wakes me up. “There! There’s the street. With the rental garages.”

He went to the effort to lean over and poke me with an elbow.

“Yeah, sure, I see it. What kind of rental garages?”

“Belong to an old friend of mine. From the dog-fighting scene. He lives in Frankfurt on the River Oder, but he has some sticks in the fire here too. Even a stall full of top-notch bull terriers.

We idle along a street at walking speed, and it turns into sand. Halfway down, they must have run out of tar. Then we turn to the right, through a passage between two rows of garages. The grounds spread out behind that. It looks as expansive as five football fields. The lowest foundation walls of a factory complex protrude from the weeds that have overrun the place. The first tentative beams of light emerge from behind the surrounding buildings. There are two vehicles in the middle of this. A transporter, slightly smaller than ours. And a black Mercedes sedan. Both with tinted windows. I can only recognize the shape of heads inside. We stop a couple meters away from them. Arnim grabs my arm and pulls me a little closer.

“Listen up, Heiko. Those guys there are no jokers,” needlessly pointing at the two vehicles. Sure, it’s certainly supersmart to point a finger in their direction. Couldn’t possibly be taken the wrong way. “You be sure to keep your trap shut and leave the talking to me.”

“It’s your thing anyway,” I say.

He raises his finger in front of his face, just like my old-school principal.

“Hey! Shut up. Don’t open your big mouth and no sudden moves. You might spook them. Then we’ll load the tiger. And everyone can go their own way in peace. Got it?”

I nod. I can’t resist rolling my eyes, but Arnim doesn’t see it or just ignores it.

“And now pass me the gun from the glove compartment. But make sure to keep it down. They don’t have to see it.

We stand next to each other. More out of habit, or because I think it seems appropriate in this fucked-up situation. And it’s not because I’m freezing that I pull on my hoody and zip it to the top. So the collar goes over my mouth. The doors of the sedan open and three men climb out. Even from a mile away, you could sniff out that two of them are bodyguards. Both have roughly Axel’s build. Or that of the Klitschkos. Well-trimmed bull necks in XXL bulky sweatshirts that barely conceal the mounds of muscle beneath. Professionally inscrutable facial expressions. Two things are immediately noticeable. The first is the guns they’re holding very casually, as if they’re everyday objects, beneath folded hands. The second is their round-framed glasses, which make them look like genetically modified nerds. Those glasses seem so false and completely wrong on these faces. Like a pigsty in a mosque. Or typical neo-Nazi Thor Steinar jackets on left-wing politicians. I don’t know why, but the glasses make me even more nervous than the pistols. The other guy doesn’t look any less strange. Bushy eyebrows like fat caterpillars mark the hard contours of a Slavic face. His slurry-black beard and hair tied in a ponytail don’t fit him at all. As for his nationality, I wouldn’t even know where to begin. He wears an Adidas warm-up jacket and a pair of puffy, gray jogging pants. Matched with highly polished patent-leather shoes. The two mutant nerds position themselves on either side of him. Arnim yanks the envelope stuffed with cash out of his pocket and goes over to him. I can recognize the silhouette of his gun at his waistband beneath the muscle shirt. It’d almost be smarter if I had it. But, on the other hand… I know how to shoot. Done it a couple times. But just for fun and at stationary objects. So maybe it’s better after all that Arnim didn’t entrust me with the gun. I watch as his counterpart comes slightly toward him. They shake hands. They’re talking so quietly I don’t catch the least suggestion of what the conversation’s about. I can distinctly feel the glasses’ gazes on my skin and try not to seem all too interested or even nervous. But my legs are starting to itch, from the feet up, so I’d like to shake them. Arnim holds out the envelope. The guy looks at it for a moment. Why doesn’t he just take it? Arnim’s hand is frozen in the air. Any moment I expect the guy to pull out a pistol and suddenly shoot Arnim in his paunch. Then he finally reaches for the money. I want to cough from the intense coal stench, but I pull myself together. The ponytail guy opens the envelope. It takes a while. My feet are falling asleep. Then he nods and pats Arnim on his relatively toddler-sized arms. He yells something in a language I can’t identify, and suddenly the van’s motor revs. Apparently, someone else is sitting in there. The vehicle turns till it’s pointing its back end toward us. The animal dealer and Arnim shake hands one more time. Then he runs over. Even though it’s walking speed, Arnim throws up his bent arms and takes awkward strides. By his standards, it’s running.