East Berlin

An Excerpt from My Novel for My Subscribers

Dear Reader,

After a month of rather heavy subjects, I thought I would reward my subscribers with a little except from my novel.

This piece, called “East Berlin,” is both an excerpt and a stand-alone story. I hope you enjoy it.

East Berlin 

She called it a “Minimalist East German Flat;” I would have called it something else. The walls were bare, painted a shade of a faded color it wouldn’t have been fair to call white. There was a hole in the wall where the TV had been. “Robbers,” she explained. A wince crept over my face as I imagined the sorry hovel whoever robbed this place must have lived in. All of the appliances worked, she assured me, running cold water from the hot water spigot. “It just takes a little while to heat up.” She turned the water off and started telling me about this little section of East Berlin I’d found myself in. “The style of this apartment, minimalism, was the preferred style of East Germans.” I looked around the flat and thought about what options someone must have had to prefer this one. Then I looked down at myself and remembered that, for many of us, there never was another option. 

After she’d given me the keys and explained the rent, I laid down on the mattress. It was lying in the middle of the floor, bare, with only a solitary pillow and no sheets. There was a bureau beside it, which was a strange choice considering that it towered over the freestanding mattress. Extending my arms fully, I tried to put my wallet on the colossal bureau but couldn’t reach, so instead I tossed it in its general direction and let it lay on the floor where it fell. 

The room had big windows that cast sunlight almost divinely upon the mattress. The warmth of the sun-dried mattress was lolling me into a snooze. I tried to remember where she had told me the linens were so that I could make the bed, but I gave up almost immediately. I reached into my shirt pocket, retrieved the fast-fading pack of cigarettes I’d purchased before the train ride, and lit one. It was strange smoking on my back at first - it felt like I was drowning in my own lungs, but then I got the hang of it. I don’t remember how long I was smoking before I fell asleep, but I awoke with the better half of the cigarette still stuck, tucked sweetly between my lips. 

***

The night train from Krakow was long. Fourteen hours. I must have slept on it, but I can’t be sure. While I was on the train, I felt like time was moving almost imperceptibly slowly. I could see the earth turning as the Polish countryside melted into a starry night. Fourteen hours from Krakow to Berlin. I wonder how long it took them to go the other way - it couldn’t have taken much longer. 

Although I’m sure I slept on the train, I arrived at the terminal more exhausted than I had ever been in my life. It was 8:15 A.M. I was to meet my landlord at noon. I had enough money in my wallet for a cab ride or breakfast, and even though I knew I belonged on the bus, I hailed a cab. 

***

Lighting the rest of the morning’s cigarette, I dragged myself off the mattress and took stock of the apartment. Minimal it was, but I didn’t mind. I’d come to have but two suitcases, and though I missed the comfort of my things, I didn’t care much about somebody else’s. Besides the mattress and the bureau in the bedroom, there was a small dresser in the corner of the room to the right of the bed and a small folding chair facing the window on the left. Besides the folding chair was a small end table complete with coaster, lamp, and ashtray. At home in my former days of decadent capitalism, I would never have enjoyed the luxury of smoking inside. As I took my seat at the window and lit up another cigarette, I wondered if this simple luxury was enough for those East Germans. Looking back at my two suitcases, I wondered if it would be enough for me too. 

Something was wrong with my body. At first I thought it was the cigarettes, they were killing my insides. But then I took another drag and realized that I was hungry. I was lamenting skipping breakfast for the cab, remembering that I would not get paid until I met Yako the next day. I hunted through my coat pockets for whatever spare change I could find. When I only found 6 Euros, I started turning over every nook and cranny in the apartment, just in case one of my comrades before me had left me something. They had not, or, if they had, another comrade had taken it long before me. I looked back into my wallet where I found another 4 Euros. I guess I hadn’t tipped the cabbie. Ten Euros would buy me dinner or another pack of cigarettes. I was upset. I could have bought a carton in Poland for 10 Euros, but I hadn’t, believing that Berlin might be the time for quitting. It wasn’t, my empty stomach reminded me.

Cursing myself, I locked the door and headed down the stairs.

***

“Wear Black,” Yako told me. It was the Berlin style, he said. When he sent me to Pamplona, he told me to wear white. When he sent me to Sicily, he told me to wear sandals. That was Yako’s way, telling. He didn’t converse, he didn’t ask, he didn’t gesticulate; he told. I didn’t mind - Yako told me what to buy, what to wear, what to do. As long as I did what I was told, I got paid. And now not just in cigarettes.

The waitress returned with two espressos, two shots of cognac, two half loaves of bread, butter, jam, cheese, and two small pieces of dark chocolate, all of which Yako finished in a matter of minutes. Then he dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin, muttered something under his breath, and extracted another long black cigarette from his left breast pocket. From his right pants pocket he retrieved the most elegant lighter a man has ever seen. It had a body made of blue enamel with his initials inlaid in gold in the center. The striking mechanism was stainless steel, and Yako kept it so clean that it reflected the light of its own flame over its user’s face, casting Yako’s mouth and cheeks in a golden heavenly light. He offered me a cigarette, and when I reached for the lighter, he passed me a matchbook.

“This is Berlin, Javier. Berlin means black, not navy blue.” He told, looking down at my jeans. 

“Do you know what is black? Do you know what is dark?” 

***

The man was kind if not always cordial. I left the cafe with 1000 euro and a new switchblade. Half of the money was for personal expenses, the other half for business. “Half business, half personal,” Yako said, “just like the switchblade. HA!” Boy did he like to laugh at his own jokes. 

I turned left out of the cafe with bulging pockets and a strange feeling halfway between comfort and the other thing. For the first time since the last time, I was a rich man, and I had Yako to thank for that. Everything I had, I owed to him. Of course, everything he had, he owed to me, and people like me. So I guess that makes us even.

I walked into a corner store and asked the Pakistani shop owner for a carton of his most expensive cigarettes in broken German. He smiled and slid them across the counter as I slid him one of the 100 Euro notes. Thanks Yako, I’ll see you again when they run out. 

***

I don’t mind dining alone, in fact, I prefer it. I remember the first time I told my classmates that. They were surprised, some, even, a little confused. But there’s nothing confusing about it really, I just grew up with two working parents, so dinner was just sort of whenever you wanted it. I wasn’t used to making plans for dinner, so I never learned to think about eating before I was doing it.
I ordered a third beer. The food fare in this beer garden was nothing to write home about, but the beers were as good as they were cheap, and the service was bad, thank god, they left me alone. I lit a cigarette with anticipation. 

“Nice night, no?” 

There was only one other man sitting outside, so I assumed he must have been talking to me. I didn’t respond, hoping he would take the hint. 

“You know, I own this place.” 

He left his table and headed over towards mine.

“So I’m used to seeing young men such as yourself with this many empty pints before them.”

He was standing above me now, with his right hand on the chair opposite mine. It was not until now that I realized that it was far too cold to be sitting outside, that it was late September and the weather was turning, and that I was not supposed to be sitting outside at this time of year. It was also not until now that I realized I was drunk.

“But never a foreigner.” 

“What?” 

“You don’t remember? Drunk already, eh, mind if I sit?”

Whether I minded didn’t matter; he had already made up his. 

***

The name of the club was The Suicide Circus, and the name of the owner was X. It had two bouncers at the door, one to check I.D. and the other to check outfits. If you were not appropriately dressed, you could not enter. If you were not appropriately of age was less significant. 

The club opened every night at 10, but no one ever seriously arrived until 12, at which point the line coalesced. Timing my entry was very difficult. I wanted to be there early enough to arrive before the line, but not so early as to arouse suspicion. Standing in line behind 4 others, I checked my watch. 11:30. Then I checked my left pocket, which had cash if I needed to make a quick bribe. Then I checked my right pocket, which had the blade if that didn’t work. 

Luckily, the bouncers let me in without any issue. I slipped them 20 euros each in good faith.

The club itself had 3 areas. There was the foyer lobby, where the bar was. There was the smoking area, which was the only space in the club that was not covered, although there certainly was not much fresh air there. And there was the dance floor, which was enormous. There was a stage and a DJ set up in the front, and there was a ballroom that could fit hundreds, maybe thousands of black-clad Berliners. 

The smoking area was connected to the dance floor by a small hallway. The hallway was completely black and only wide enough for three people abreast. This hallway also had access to both bathrooms, making it the perfect location for me to establish myself. I cased the club, inspected the hallway, ran a sweep of the bathroom, and checked my watch. 11:52. Soon, they would come. 

I took a seat, lit a cigarette, and established my place in the Suicide Circus.

***

It was dark when Yako found me. I had somehow managed to find a part of the night that even the Spaniards did not occupy. When Yako found me, I was lying half dead and full drunk in a gutter in the Malasaña in Madrid.

I remember opening my eyes into complete darkness, a darkness so profound I was not sure if I had really opened my eyes, after all. It was a strange darkness for Madrid, for even in the darkest hour, I have found, there will be Spaniards out in the streets enjoying themselves. This is one thing that I have found in Spain. 

When Yako first spoke to me, I was not sure that his voice was real. The darkness that surrounded me was so deep that I was certain I was still asleep. So when his thick eastern european accent broke the darkness, I was surprised. 

“Now why is a young man such as yourself sleeping with the darkness?” 

I have made much conversation with many people in many places in many times. I have never made conversation with a bodiless voice that was speaking to me through the darkness, and I was not in a confident enough position to begin now. 

“I will ask you again. Why is a young man, such as yourself, sleeping with the darkness?”

With. 

Sleeping with the darkness. 

Sleeping with the darkness.

The misplaced preposition hung over me, but I was too hung over to hang over it. 

“If it is a companion you seek, I would be happy to furnish you a whore. If it is rest you need, it would be my pleasure to put you up in a bed made with the finest linens. And if it is something else you would like, you need only ask me. But please, do not ever let me find you here again, wasting your youth and sleeping with the dark.” 

Yako lit a match and shattered the darkness into a trillion little pieces.

***

An ant hill of ash began to form on the seat next to me. They would come soon, but, for now, the club was quiet. My cigarettes and I were sitting quietly in the hall between the bathroom and the dance floor, watching the silent army of club orderlies clean and prep the building for the night that was fast approaching. Soon there would be bodies, hundreds of bodies, crowded into the Suicide Cirucs like sardines. And Javier would be among them, slipping through them like a shadow, doing the business that Yako had sent him here to do. I ashed my cigarette onto the seat next to me, and then I lit another one. 

*** 

Yako used his match to light a cigarette, and with the burning end of the match he lit a small nub of a candle he produced from the ether.       

“Do you know this woman?” 

Yako placed the candle on what it illuminated to be a statue. Standing tall above the pedestal was a woman, divinely defiant, wearing the robes of a Greek Goddess, holding a bloody knife in her left hand.   

It was at this point that I decided to decide that this man was, in fact, real. With only the light emanating from the candle nub, the world around me was mostly shadow. With his cigarette burning, I could just begin to make out the shape of Yako’s face. His voice sounded much older than his face looked, and yet somehow younger still. His cheeks had been permanently sucked in beneath his cheekbones after a lifetime of smoking, and his eyes were a faded blue, like 300 year old denim. 

“You don’t know this woman. Bad. Very bad.” Yako took a long drag on his long black cigarette. 

“Well, very well. You’ll learn. Everybody learns, eventually.” Yako exhaled a torrent of smoke. 

“My name is Yako. This woman,” he said, gesturing to the statue, “is Manuela Malasaña. She is the right woman for a man to be sleeping with. This darkness, this darkness that you are sleeping with -- it is no good. Come, sit up, smoke with me, we’ll talk.” 

Yako reached out, grabbed me by the neck, and hoisted me up into an upright sitting position. With his other hand, he retrieved another cigarette, put it in my mouth, and lit it for me. 

“Yes, better now. Always better with a little light, mhm. Now tell me, young man, what on Earth were you doing here, sleeping with that disgusting darkness.” 

***

My business is Ecstasy, mostly. The little fun pills were easy to hide in the black overcoats I wore to the Berlin clubs, and the smallness of the ecstasy made it easy to do my business in dark places. I would stay in this club all night, that was my directive. I would stay in this club all night, and I would not leave until every pill I had been given had been sold. And if I could not sell them all tonight, I would simply remain in the club until the next night, when I would try to monger my Ecstasy once again. 

The first club goers began to enter. These were always foreigners, for no Berliner would ever arrive at a club before the club was ready for them. I looked at my watch. It was 12:15 A.M. 

***

I was woken up by the burning Spanish sun and a kick in the head. 

“Oh, perdón, disculpame… no pasa nada.” 

No pasa nada 

Nothing happened, don’t worry about it, it’s no big deal.

The Spanish were the only people I’d ever encountered who would wrong you and then tell you that it wasn’t a big deal, that everything was fine, that there were ‘no worries.’ Had I been more mobile, I might have said something to the man. But, being awoken by a stranger’s boot in the middle of mid-morning pedestrian traffic, there were other things on my mind. 

I opened my eyes slowly, and I began to send the neurological signals to my muscles that it was time for them to begin moving. Like the Sphinx, I lumbered out of my stony sedentary position and shook off the calcified shell of slumber that clung to my bones like barnacles. 

I reached an arm out and, grabbing on to the foot of a statue, I lifted myself out of the earth. Looking up, I saw a rather poorly maintained statue of a woman. She was dressed classically and holding a small kitchen knife. The statue was stone, but it had long been covered in bird shit. There was a long black vein of ashy smoke damage running up her leg like a varicose vein. 

After I gathered myself, I took stock of the plaza. There were cafes and shops and people and birds and laughter and children and all sorts of lively things that one finds in a plaza. It was so bright, I could barely keep my eyes open, so I picked a cafe, plotted my course, closed my eyes, and made a beeline for a table. 

At the cafe, I took a seat and asked the waiter for water coffee and wine. I had plenty of time to wait, assuming that, as was the custom in Spain, each of those items would arrive separately, in 15 minute intervals. 

I felt around my coat pockets for my cigarettes. I was surprised that they were not in any of the pockets which I usually kept them in, but I felt a bulge protruding from an inside pocket I had not felt before. I reached in and pulled out a long box of cigarettes that I had never seen before. When I finally pulled one out, I was shocked: they were completely black. Black filter, black paper, even the tobacco looked black. Tucked inside of the box was a small matchbook, also completely black. 

I put a cigarette in my mouth. I flipped open the black matchbook, and there, on the inside cover, in white letters, it said:

When you’re done with the darkness,

Ask for a light.

~ Y