Abbas Khider - The Village Indian

For a long time, I’d been meaning to commit my odyssey, my journey on the ghost ship, to paper. I’d never managed. Time and again — in the past five years, at least — I’d tried to start. And time and again I stopped because I wasn’t convinced, because I didn’t have the right structure, because I simply wasn’t satisfied. I always knew exactly what I wanted to write; only never how to. Almost a year ago, I’d finally had the crucial idea but didn’t have the time to act on it. So, really, I should be glad someone else did it for me! What counts, when it comes down to it, is: I’m now holding my story in written form. Or is that not what counts? All I want to do is sleep. .

The sun is shining in. Sophie kisses me, whispers in my ear, ‘Wake up, Habibi , the weather’s wonderful outside! Don’t forget, you wanted to send your book off today. Get up!’

I look out of the window at the trees, the foliage, I can hear the birds. Idyllic, almost.

‘Really, what a lovely day!’ I get up, shower, head to the university. First, I attend a lecture, then I go to the computer room, to read the news. At lunchtime, it’s the Café an der Uni. A recently acquired habit I enjoy — sitting in a cafe, reading, writing or watching people.

Empty. Totally empty. The feeling, for a moment, I’m all alone, in the city. That the people have vanished were never there at all. Empty. And all bright and clean. No students any more, no cars or buses, no fountain on the square, no main university building. Nothing — only me and a wide, empty Ludwigstrasse, the vast nothingness round me. Where, in fact, am I? What am I doing here? Where’s everyone else? Questions like these boom in my head — like drums at an African festival. Empty, like a never-ending desert, bare mountains or clear water. Eerie too, like a forest after a violent storm. And my questions, loud, yet quiet; echoing, though unvoiced.

After a while, I come back to my senses. Once again, I was, mentally, completely disoriented. But, thank God, as I look along Ludwigstrasse — this time, there are no African drums — everything has returned: the old university building, the cars, the students. .

I look round again, paying more attention now. Girls and boys, ladies and gentlemen — constantly on the move, now it’s summer. Appreciating the ambience, they stroll along Ludwigstrasse, then Leopoldstrasse, until they reach Münchner Freiheit. Hardly a seat to be had, outside the cafes. Pigeons and sparrows, wherever you look. Some have even made their nests in the roofs of the majestic buildings that line this splendid avenue. A male bird is seducing a female. The male spreads his feathers, drags them along behind him, then swaggers round the female, flirting. ‘Coo, coo. Coo, coo.’ The female, head held high, struts up and down before him like a queen. She moves, at times slowly, at times quickly, driving the male wild. Not far from the male, a student is chatting up a girl, or trying to. The girl smiles. Bravely, he swaggers round her. She makes straight for the entrance to the underground and he follows, blindly. ‘Jonas, wait for me!’—a second student, waving madly, shouts across the street.

I enter the cafe and take a seat at a free table. Put the rucksack between my feet. Place a notebook, a book, a packet of cigarettes and a lighter on the table. Light a cigarette. .

14.16. I open my rucksack and put an empty envelope on the table. A few people leave, others come in. A woman and her two children, adolescents, sit at the table next to mine. They’re not saying a word. Headphones on, the girl is listening to music on her MP3 player. The boy sits in the seat beside her and turns on his laptop. The woman has her mobile phone to her ear. Finally, the waitress appears. She’s young. Eighteen to twenty, say. Her hair is dyed red and she’s wearing jeans and a white T-shirt, ‘Sexy Girl’ printed on it. Small, firm breasts support the lettering. I order a large coffee and a glass of tap water.

14.45. I open my rucksack, remove the manuscript, put it in an empty envelope. And seal it.