Darryl Pinckney - Black Deutschland

The Co-op made Dram nostalgic for his student days — the bicycles in the entrance hall, the bookstore still open, the half-assed murals on the stairs. He relished his trip back in time, talking to Afer about the ANC’s future. It was Mandela’s seventieth birthday. A bomb went off somewhere in South Africa every day; grenades and land mines killed white policemen or black guerrillas every week. Afer was in a state, the anger of not being home and not trusting the Communist Party there making him extreme in some of his predictions. I was pretty sure Afer’s girlfriend used to be Bags’s piece on the side who got pregnant — his slide, as the jazz musicians called their mistresses.

Co-op members raised their glasses to us from the bar inside and from another table out front. We watched a Frisbee game on the second floor of the old brewery. It was like one of those old-fashioned stage sets of La Bohème that showed house life floor by floor. They had a good time over there, those architects. In the chilled-out Potsdamerplatz milieu, I did not consider it racializing to wait tables or to wash dishes at the Café Rosa.

No one helped me clear the plates. It was my party. “Remember, I come from a long line of house slaves,” Cello swore their grandmother had said to her on her deathbed. “I pass this knowledge of me on to you.”

I seemed to remember that Cello’s grandmother couldn’t talk at the end. I’d wanted to ask Bags why his girlfriend didn’t just have an abortion, but I never did.

* * *

We were the younger generation, but we behaved as a faction within the house. We may have been the children’s table, keeping company with some terrified kids who’d come with their confused mothers or grandmothers for the night, but we appealed to Mom as a chairman. To lobby her in the morning worked best. You could get things out of Mom if you waited for her in the hall when she was shuffling papers, on her way to remind someone when was her appointment down at Medicaid and she’d better leave now and she had to take that nasty bag with her.

Dad was refuge. We could not go down to his den, but when he surfaced we could sit with him and his newspapers in the kitchen. The strict rule was silence. We were never with him for very long. We stopped looking for him when we got older. Mom didn’t like Solomon listening to rock on his earphones when Cello practiced, but Dad told her she had to let the point go; their son wasn’t a little boy anymore.

* * *

“I can’t believe I’m having strudel down the street from the Berlin Wall,” Rhonda laughed. “This is wild,” she continued, dipping her spoon into a muff of cream.

The woman who baked was one of the original squatters. Afer said that she could be a problem. I already got in house meetings that she was assertive at the wrong moments, obstructionist because of some principle of anarcho-purist living that meant continued discomfort for the house as a whole. But she baked so divinely that Cello was impatient for the water to boil and Dram picked up a random spoon and scooped from his sister-in-law’s plate.

Yao shot him a look. I could tell he was attracted to Rhonda. It excited him that she, so lovely, had a doctorate. He had spent some time studying in the U.K. He claimed to be at work in absentia on his dissertation, about how excessive acid-tripping among workers adversely affected the Japanese shipbuilding industry in the 1970s and British automobile manufacturing in the same period. He hadn’t been back to Ghana in years. I doubted he’d left West Berlin in ages either. He was a quiet man, stateless, older than he looked. He said probably more sharply than he meant to that the border guards still shot and killed people trying to escape from East Berlin.

My new part of town was not easy to get to, which was why they always drove to the Philharmonic, Dram said. Yao had been pleased to lend me a squeaky bicycle and I was embarrassed when Dram walked in wheeling a new silver Schwinn. He said I couldn’t be part of the Autonomen if I did not have a bicycle. Cello said she hated cyclists and that there was a great deal of Bicycle Fascism in West Berlin. They’d come by U-Bahn with it as far as they could and walked the rest of the way, leaving the car in Charlottenburg so that they could have a good time among the Far-Out Far Left, as Dram phrased it in English.

“You are a hard man,” Afer told him.

After meatballs, we had to go into the gallery, the hallway outside the bookstore, to look at the cheap shirts Yao splattered with paint in his spare time. They were for sale. He worked “black,” or off the books, in a nearby laundry. He was very good in the garden and was so put off by my fear of the soil that I got over it that first Saturday of weeding. Cello was more interested in the bulletin board.

Hayden and Father Paul didn’t come inside with us. Hayden was having a smoky talk with Uwe, the sweet-looking Afro-German boy from the fifth floor who hung out more with the young German couples than he did with us, the other black guys. “The thing about our time is that later has arrived, we’re in it now, later is here.” Father Paul’s English was not keeping up. “What do you think accounts for the interest in preppydom?” Hayden answered his own question. “The decline and fall of the West.” He and Father Paul were due to leave for the Tyrol for the summer in a few days’ time.

Rhonda treated the shirt she’d been given like a dishrag and at the same time scrunched her nose at the cigarettes, even outside. Dram accepted another beer and lit up anyway. He watched Uwe prepare a spliff while Hayden held forth. Lucky shrugged in answer to my look of dismay. Rhonda shook her head when Uwe offered it to her first. Except for Afer, we all declined. Yao excused himself.

I was safe in the divided city and Uwe insisted to Hayden that he was treated as a German in the United States, though I was pretty sure that even after he opened his mouth he was still a light-skinned black to most Americans. If he was an African in Germany, which he was nowhere else on earth, then he was at least a foreigner in both countries, maybe everywhere he went, except West Berlin, haven of mongrels.

He sucked on his joint and said that he was at home nowhere, for which he blamed his parents. He blamed his parents for being strangers to each other after making him, and for being strangers to him. He blamed his father for abandoning his mother when his tour of duty was up at the end of the 1960s, causing her many years of starting each morning with shots of whiskey. He blamed his mother for letting her family ignore them all his life, for letting him leave school in order to discover the land where his father lived, and for his father turning out to be a stupid fuck in the middle of the Los Angeles ghetto.

Everyone was quiet. Cello wouldn’t look at Rhonda, but she let Dram reach down the back of her chair for her hair. I put my hand sympathetically on Uwe’s back as I inched by with cups. He leaned far forward in response. Hayden gave me an Oops look, his arms soon to be around superbly formed Father Paul.

* * *

Dad whistled while he worked over schedules of deductibles. Mom did not like to make too much of a fuss about the holidays. Her crazies were usually depressed at that time of year and we ourselves didn’t much want to get together with family. Uncle Ralston’s dynastic fantasies of a clan celebrating in style were thwarted by Aunt Loretta’s inability to countenance guests, not to mention his own obnoxiousness.

“You don’t want to die for something,” I heard Ralston Jr. say to Dad one Christmas Eve. “I have a bus schedule to El Salvador. I want to die. In Eliot, it’s Greek. I want to die. What’s the difference between doing and being? The difference is infinite.”