Ingo Schulze - New Lives

Maybe the best thing the spy could do would be to start bawling or fight back, really fight back, screaming and spitting — whatever he could still manage. The pack suddenly closed ranks, everything got quiet, then whistles, applause.

Edgar let the waxer swing back and forth between the polit officer’s door and the john. He’d have to turn around soon. Mehnert wanted to “milk the spy.” But maybe the spy was so intimidated that his cock wouldn’t give any milk, no matter how Mehnert went about it, with gloves or without.

Edgar tried to think of something else. But not of home.

Actually Teichmann and Bär were to blame. If they had just punched the spy out, they wouldn’t have had to tie up a guy lying writhing on the floor, or blacken his ass or milk his cock.

Edgar reversed direction and saw the pack up ahead. That’s our Christmas party, he thought — and the moment he saw them and thought of the Christmas party, Edgar knew that from now on there would never be a Christmas when he didn’t think of this Christmas party. He realized it was like the sentence of a condemned man: he would never be able to celebrate Christmas without this pack, without Mehnert, without Pitt, without Bär and Teichmann, without the spy and the plan. Step by step, word for word, the plan was imprinted in his mind — he’d thought of it too often. The plan would stick with him just like this polar bear song and Pitt’s joke about stomach muscles. Just as he would never forget the moment when all this had become clear to him — even though he hadn’t joined in, wasn’t even watching. All he could hear was the steady barrage of roaring laughter. Should he clamp his ears shut? There was no way he could keep the whole thing from being imprinted on his mind.

He wanted to do something else, fix his mind on other things. But he couldn’t stop now, what else could he do? It was absolutely impossible to stop now.

At first he didn’t realize that boots had ended up in the path of his waxer. But then it was like a herd in flight — slippers, gym shoes, socks, boots, leaping and hopping in front of the waxer, and those that didn’t leap or hop got bumped. It was like a children’s game, like tag. The faster he worked the more he hit. Eeny, meeny, miney, mo! I wanna be a polar bear. He gave the waxer its head. The “mo” hasn’t landed on you yet, up there in the cold, cold north.

He heard shouts, but those were part of the game. And somebody punching the spy and pulling him from the bed frame — it was all in the plan. Just like kids. If they lose, they tear everything up. But he had to keep working. Here, where the pack had stood, there was still lots to do, countless heel marks in an unusual and complicated pattern.

And suddenly he saw him — the spy. The spy came out of the room. The spy didn’t look upset or angry, not even sad. The spy hadn’t screamed, he hadn’t cried. The spy had his kit under his arm and a towel over his shoulder. He was holding tight to his pants with one hand. A couple of steps, and the spy had vanished into the washroom.

And Edgar went on working. He now realized that he had been standing still, still and erect, the waxer at his feet, the handle clamped perpendicular under his arm.

But first he had to memorize the patterns of the heel marks — at the very same moment that his waxer passed over them. It wasn’t easy, but he worked hard, he could feel his stomach muscles. And at last he got his reward too. The faster he swiped back and forth with the waxer, the more clearly he could see the heel marks under the shine, locked in permanent ice.

Voting

— So twenty?

— Ten, four buttons, ten marks.

— Hey! You just said, twenty. Four buttons, twenty.

— Ten! — Michael held out his hand.

— No way, you doofus. — Rolf blinked through the smoke of his cigarette. As the ash fell it bounced off his sweater.

— Twenty.

— Ten. I’ve only got ten. Here. — Michael smiled and pulled a crumpled bill out of his pocket.

— Then you’d better start worryin’ about how to come up with the rest. Twenty for four buttons. — Rolf flicked the butt into a flower bed and sat down on the rim of a trash can.

— And what if she’s already here? — Michael checked his watch.

— You think they’re waiting for you ? — Rolf nodded in the direction of the polling place, where two photographers were standing at the entrance. A group of women emerged laughing. Two of them were holding little red flags. A man in a light-colored suit walking behind them sang: “So comrades, let us rally and the last fight let us…” and then fell silent when a few people turned around to look at him. The women snorted and nudged one another and walked faster.

Rolf rummaged in his sack. He pulled the red cap off a plastic bottle, filled it to the brim, and drank. He poured another and handed it to Michael.

— Smoking leaves a man thirsty.

— What’s in it? — Michael gave it a cautious sip.

— Tea, what else? — Rolf grinned.

Michael sipped a second time and made a face.

— Take a gander! — Rolf whispered. A well-dressed, middle-aged couple had come to a halt not far from them. The man buckled forward as if he had a stitch in his side. The woman was trying to comfort him and caressed his shoulder briefly. The man stood up straight again. They linked arms and, taking small steps, slowly made their way to the polling place.

— Full ballot — Michael said.

— He hasn’t gone for three days. I remember how it was with my old man.

— Three days?

— That’s what I said! — Rolf drank straight from the bottle. — That’s nothing for them. They used to hold out for a whole week.

— They didn’t use to have anything to eat. That was no great feat back then.

— Bullshit! There’s always been plenty right before elections, even chocolate. They really chowed down.

— My mother couldn’t hold out any longer yesterday and started bawling, I mean really bawled. And my old man just kept going: You’ll make it, you’ll make it, you will. And when she wouldn’t stop bawling, he said, okay, fine, do whatever you think is right.

Rolf whinnied. — Do whatever you think is right?…whatever you think ?

— Do whatever you think is right — Michael repeated in all seriousness.

— And, did she? — Rolf coughed. He pulled out a pack of old Juwels and tapped it on the bottom until a filter popped out a little.

Michael shrugged. — Things calmed down. She crept back into bed or whatever. Do I get one?

— Moocher! — Rolf held out the pack. — I thought you didn’t like the taste so early in the morning? — Rolf gave him a light.

— Look at ’em waddle. — Michael glanced over to the bus stop.

— They’re used to it. They’ve been waddling their whole life long.

The oldsters had trouble stepping from the bus onto the sidewalk. Once they managed it, they hurried as fast as they could to the end of the waiting line.

— Why don’t they order the mobile ballot box? I’d cast my vote with the mobile.

Rolf made a face. — Too revolting for me.

— Revolting, yes, but still better than a hullabaloo like this.

— Absolutely revolting. — Rolf downed the bottle in one gulp, screwed the top on, tapped the last few drops out of the red cap, and fit it back over the bottle.

— A mobile ballot box turns my stomach! — Rolf turned away to one side and let his spit drip down the trash can.

— Frau Rollman said the Free German Youth unhinged three doors, at least three.

— Three doors? They’re not allowed to do that, not by law at least.

— Don’t give me any bullshit, you’ll see. It was an FGY initiative, from way high up.