I Make Envy on Your Disco, page 21
* * *
It’s three in the morning when he walks me downstairs. The moon is yellow and muted. Two girls stand on the corner smoking cigarettes. One of them wraps a scarf around her neck and twirls down the street. They laugh. But Kaspar and I are shy and awkward. “So,” he says.
“So,” I repeat.
Kaspar places his hands on my shoulders and looks down at me. “The photo strip,” he says. “May I have from it one photo?”
I remove it from my bag and rip it carefully in half. I hand one section to him. “You can have two.”
* * *
It’s hard to describe the eerie, beautiful hush of Prenzlauer Berg at night. The city breathes. Some of the familiar sounds of Berlin are still there—a tram slicing down the street, a lone drunk laughing in the distance, a bike whizzing by. But the night is the only time that the sounds of construction evaporate. I’ve grown so accustomed to the echoes of drilling and cranes twisting and construction workers calling out to each other that the silence of nighttime becomes a noise unto itself. In the distance, I hear the clomping of boots as people walk down cobblestone streets. But mostly, the streets are deserted. Everyone must be tucked away, asleep inside their apartments, or out in a club or a bar ingesting beer and smoke.
I walk along another park, shadowy and dark. The streetlamps give off a faint glow, as if they’re on the muted strain of back-up generators. The city doesn’t blaze anything like New York. Instead it’s an urban forest—streetlamps rise like trees; plumes of mist levitate above pavement—and as I turn to cross the park, something appears in the haze. At first I think it must be a dog, but this animal moves differently—slowly, stalking, almost like a fox. I must be imagining things. I’d never walk through Central Park in the no-man’s land of 3:00 a.m., a strange creature slinking past me. But I feel safe as I walk back to the hotel.
If you were mine, I would never let you go.
When Kaspar said this it felt like a threat, my life reduced to a What if? But what does it matter? All of this will soon disappear. I’ll wake up from this dream. I’ll go home to Daniel. I’ll look back and remember this night—the way Kaspar held me when he said those words, the rain pounding at his window. Or perhaps I won’t think of it at all.
A bike flies past me. During the day, they’re everywhere, as common as people walking on sidewalks. But in the dark of Berlin, they seem like creatures of their own, speeding by and creating a momentary vibration in the air. They look like UFOs as they soar past me, a single white beam flying out of their hulls, which seems appropriate, as there is something about Berlin that feels like another planet, some other universe.
I cross Torstrasse and look up. The TV Tower hangs in the black sky, blinking slow and lonely as a valley of stars gleams over the city; a silver satellite, my talisman, leading me home.
When I finally turn onto Grosse Präsidentenstrasse, two of the space-age ladies stand in the street in vinyl raincoats. A layer of mist clings to the pavement. One of the women talks to a tiny old man with a moustache, trying, I think, to close a sale. She tilts her head to the side and bends down, rests her head on his chest. They start slow-dancing in front of the sleeping trams as if they’ve danced like this for their entire lives, an old married couple, an Ella Fitzgerald record playing on an invisible turntable.
I watch as the man reaches up to the woman, caresses her neck, and pulls her down to him. Every dance ends with a kiss.
A Ghost of Me, While I Was Gone
The lobby is empty when I arrive at the hotel. There’s no one at the desk. All I hear is Elvis Presley’s “Blue Moon” pouring desolate from the stereo. Even the fish in the tank appear to be sleeping, drifting in the water.
I pass the courtyard on my way to the elevator, and that’s where I see him: Frankie slouched in a chair beside the koi pond, a burnt-out cigarette dangling from one hand, his mobile in the other. His legs are twisted in some awkward position of sleep, a blanket wrapped carelessly across his chest. I stand by the door and consider waking him, but it’s four in the morning. The front door is locked, the streets empty. It’s best to just leave him alone.
As I head toward the elevator, I see something move. Another lump of person, this one curled up in the leather club chair in the lobby, snoring. I walk toward the person, who, though obscured by a coat, is so instantly familiar that I kick its foot. The coat falls. Jeremy opens his eyes and looks up at me. “Sam,” he says, groggily.
I shake my head, confused. “What on earth are you doing here?”
“I was in the ’hood. I came by to say hello. You weren’t here so Frankie and I hung out for a while.”
“How do you know Frankie?”
“I didn’t. Now I do. Then I guess we both fell asleep.” He examines the row of clocks above reception until he finds Deutschland. “Holy crap.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“Where’ve you been?” He rubs his eyes. “We know you love your early nights, so frankly, I was worried.”
“Well, don’t be.”
“It’s just that last night . . .”
Last night. Which night does he even mean?
He continues. “In the club?”
“Right.” SO36 feels like weeks ago. “Look, it was a long night, and I had all that wine.”
“And beer.”
“Yes, wine and beer.”
“And pot—”
“Yes, the Trainwreck.” I sit on the couch beside him, but I don’t take off my coat. “Thanks for bringing me home, by the way.”
“You were a fucking mess.”
“Really?”
“Well, nothing I haven’t seen before. But I wanted to check in on you.”
“You could have called.”
“Yeah. I called twice, and you weren’t here.”
“Oh. I’ve been out for a while.”
“I gather that. And you totally don’t owe me anything from last night—I’m not that kind of guy—but maybe you could have rung in the a.m. and said ‘Thanks, bro, I’m all right now.’”
“You’re right. I apologize.”
“You were gone last night, Sam. Like, on another planet. Talking to yourself . . .”
“Oh, God.” I shake my head, embarrassed.
“I was fucking worried.”
“Look, I’m touched. But I’m fine.”
“You’re the only friend I have in Berlin.”
“Jeremy, you’ve been here for nine months.”
“Thanks for rubbing it in. It doesn’t change the fact of it. No one else has taken me to dinner or talked to me about anything. I’ve had a good time with you. It’s a compliment. You should take it.” I nod my head to say okay, fine. Jeremy looks toward the reception desk. “Aw, shit. Where’s Herr Pissy Pants?”
“Frankie? He’s asleep in the courtyard.”
“Oh. He asked me to watch over things while he shut his eyes for a few minutes.”
“Well, good job.”
“He’s working a double shift. He was beat.”
I think about Magda and her non-appearance at the hotel yesterday. Frankie said she was on holiday, but I know she’d planned on working. Tomorrow, I’ll figure out what’s going on and make sure she’s okay. “Jeremy.” I sigh. “I appreciate your concern, seriously. But it’s been a long night, and I need to go to sleep. Like, now.”
“Fine. But before I go, explain to me this: Where in the hell have you been?”
“It’s a long story.” Jeremy surveys me up and down. “Stop looking at me,” I tell him.
“I’m sensing something. Your smell, your eyes . . . everything.”
I sniff my hands, the sleeve of my coat. “What do you mean, my smell?”
“Uh-oh. Has someone been a naughty boy? What, did you get some man-on-man action?” He stares at me. I look away. “No!” Jeremy exclaims. “This is so exciting! Tell me everything.”
“There’s nothing to tell, Jeremy.”
He looks at the clock. “At four-sixteen a.m., there is always something to tell.” He yawns. “Oh, man.”
I can’t decide what to do. Part of me wants to make him disappear. But it’s late. He’s here. And he cared enough to bring me to the hotel after the Trainwreck and returned to see if I was still alive. So I offer an invitation. “Do you want to come upstairs?”
“I’m not into you that way, dude.”
“Oh, please. And didn’t people stop saying ‘dude’ in 1989?”
“Dude is classic.”
“Jesus. So here’s the deal: go home, or come to my room. But staying in the lobby is not an option. I’m tired. I have work to do in the morning, and this time, I mean it. Stay with me if you want—sleep in, have breakfast, whatever. But . . . I don’t want to talk.”
“Do we share a bed?”
“Absolutely not. You’re on the couch.”
“Is it a nice couch?”
“It’s a couch, Jeremy.”
“Do you have a bathtub?”
“Sleep in the tub if you like.”
“This place is sweet,” he says, looking around. “Swank.”
“Less so than you think. I can barely get my laundry done.”
“If you saw my slum closet in Friedrichshain, you’d understand.”
Jeremy’s coat, which he’s used as a makeshift blanket, falls to the floor. I pick it up, toss it over my shoulder, and offer my hand. I pull him up from the chair. He’s even heavier than he looks—it’s like lifting a bear. Jeremy stumbles across the lobby in his combat boots and looks into the courtyard. “We better wake up, snooty-toots,” he says, stretching his arms.
I examine Frankie through the window, his mouth hung open, his cheek twitching. “The front door is locked,” I say. “Let’s let him be.”
“Nah. The kid asked for a wake-up call.” Jeremy marches into the courtyard. He taps Frankie on the shoulder like a cop waking a bum on the street. “Wake up, man.” Frankie’s eyes flutter; he takes the back of his palm to his forehead. He looks at us, confused, mutters something in German, then begins to stretch. “Sam, let’s go,” Jeremy says, and we head to the elevator. “So, where’s Magda?”
“She doesn’t work at night,” I say. “She’ll probably be here in the morning.”
“Well, I hope so.”
I hope so, too. Then I realize. “Jeremy, is that why you came?”
“No way, man. I came to see you.” A pause. “Okay, maybe I was multitasking.”
“Oh, come on.” I press the elevator button, again.
“She casts a spell, Sam. You can’t deny it.”
“Actually, I’m going to deny the spell.”
“I usually go for girls around my own age, but something about her . . .” He thinks for a moment. “She’s a woman.”
“Somehow, Jeremy, I don’t think you and Magda are meant to be.”
“You think she’s out of my league.”
“It’s not that. First of all, she’s sort of involved with someone.”
“Sort of? I can totally deal with sort of. Sort of is key!”
“How can you deal with sort of?”
“This coming from the gentleman who wanders home at four in the morning.”
I shoot him a look. “Jeremy, this is not my home, and you are not my babysitter. Come on, let’s not loiter in the lobby.”
“Who uses words like ‘loiter’?”
“I do. Don’t make me reconsider your spending the night.”
“You’re so frickin’ uptight. Even Frankie says so.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was telling me that you changed rooms a hundred times.”
“Twice!”
“And that you’re obsessed with doing your laundry.”
“Hello? It’s a hotel! My clothes are dirty! I smell like a German ashtray and disco balls. And why are you guys sitting around talking about me doing laundry? That’s a really good use of your time.” I cross my arms. “I have no privacy.”
“Dude, relax. You’re too easy.”
“How am I supposed to relax when apparently everyone thinks I’m uptight? You, your aunt—who, by the way, has a giant stick up her butt when she’s not saying ‘yes’ to everything—and the snotty receptionist in his stupid rubber shirt who judges my clothes.”
“Oh my God, calm down, Sam. Is this what D. has to deal with?”
“But what does it take for me to prove I’m not uptight? I take ecstasy at Polar TV, I smoke God-knows-what at some skanky after-hours club, I’m drowning in liquor, I never sleep, and where do you think I’ve been all night?”
“That’s what I keep asking you!”
“Well, I am not uptight, okay? So everyone needs to stop saying it.”
“Actually, Frankie got it wrong. He said ‘Herr Singer is ‘asstight.’ Which still works, in its way . . .”
“Asstight? What a bitch.”
“Yeah. And he thinks you’re old, which is funny.”
“Hilarious.” This is not funny. This is mortifying. “Why were you talking about my age?”
“He was asking about you,” Jeremy says. “All these questions. So I told him you’re a pretentious art dealer, you’re thirty-seven, whatever, no big deal. And he was like, ‘Herr Singer ist seven-und-thirty? Er ist alt!’”
“What does that mean?”
“He’s old! Which of course you totally aren’t.” I stand there while Jeremy tries to dig himself out of this. “But me and Frank, we’re in our twenties. You know how it is.”
“How is it, Jeremy?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “Younger.”
I’m regretting the invitation to let Jeremy spend the night, but now it’s too late. He’s the puppy you bring home and then put in the closet because it won’t shut up and needs too much. And if there’s one thing my night doesn’t need, it’s another chapter tacked on at four in the morning. “Just relax,” Jeremy says. “Let it roll.”
“You let it roll. I’m sick of everyone insulting me here.”
“Fine, let’s go to your pad.” He puts his ear to the elevator door. “By the way, where is this thing?”
“The elevator? It’s probably taking a cigarette break on the third floor. Nothing works in this place.” And with that, the elevator lands and the doors creep open. We step inside.
He looks at me in the mirror. “Do you have beer?”
“It’s four in the morning, Jeremy.”
“Beer was invented for four in the morning. And will you stop saying my name like you’re my mother?”
“I have a meeting in five hours.”
“Okay, whatev. We’ll be lame and crash. But just so you know, Michelangelo and Thomas Edison slept only four hours a night. Martha Stewart and Napoleon, too.”
* * *
We arrive on my floor and walk to my room. When I push the door open, Jeremy runs inside like it’s Christmas morning. He kicks off his boots, runs his hands across the freshly made bed, then lies down on the couch.
I usually love to return to my hotel room at the end of the day, everything clean and in its place. But there’s something eerie about returning after a night spent somewhere else. The curtains are open, exposing my room to the eyes across the courtyard. My desk lamp has glowed through the night, illuminating my unused bed, with its two pointy pillows sitting strangely at the top and two white blankets folded into rectangles beneath them, like a couple with their arms crossed. A tray of chocolates sits on my nightstand, and next to it, the flashing light of the telephone alerting me to a message. It’s just an empty room, I think to myself. Then I see that the maid has folded my pants neatly on the back of a chair and placed my shoes beneath it—a ghost of me, while I was gone.
Jeremy starts snooping. “Okay, I see why you moved. This room is incredible!” I follow him into the bathroom. Everything stares at me, unused and accusing: the triangle tips of the toilet paper, the perfectly straight towels, the unopened soaps and bottles of bath gel on the countertop. “I’m taking a bath. Is that okay?”
I hang my jacket and lie down on the bed. I’m still in my jeans and Daniel’s sweater, which smells of beer and smoke and coffee. Of Kaspar and Berlin.
Jeremy runs the bathtub. “Just a short bath, Sam. It’s been months.”
“Fine,” I say, “I’m going to sleep.” But who am I kidding? I can’t sleep when I’m so out of my routine. Just a few days ago, I didn’t know anyone in Berlin. And now, in one night, I’ve left one man’s apartment while another man is in my room running a bath for himself. Restless, I take off my sweater and throw it in the closet. I pick up my book; the first sentence is about a river flooding in Istanbul. But all I can think about is Kaspar. And Daniel.
Jeremy wanders back into the room. He clocks me in my T-shirt and does a double take, as if it’s weird to see me so exposed, casual. He removes his socks and places them neatly in the corner, by his boots, to demonstrate his good behavior. “I poured some lavender stuff into the tub—hope you don’t mind. I love me some bubbles.” He spots the chocolates on the bedside table. “May I?” he asks, and I wave my hand as if to say, whatever, go ahead. I pretend to read. As Jeremy eats his chocolate, he eyes the phone. “Sam, I think you have a message.”
“It’s probably from you.”
“Nope, didn’t leave one.”
I look at the flashing light. “I’ll listen tomorrow.” It’s almost definitely Daniel and I can’t deal right now. To prepare for his bath, Jeremy begins to take off his shirt. I see the edge of his white skin, and the mass of red hairs swirling across his belly. “You can hang your clothes behind the door.”
“Oh, okay,” he says, clearly embarrassed. He lifts his shirt, disappears into the bathroom.
He leaves the door open a crack. I lie back and rub my temples. I feel a headache coming on. A river is flooding in my book, a town will soon be under water, people will probably die. I hear the faucet stop and the whoosh of Jeremy lowering himself into the tub. “Oh. My. God. This feels fucking a-mazing. Hey, can you bring me a beer?”
“No,” I say. “The minibar is a rip-off.”
