The windows were open at the Café Kotti. I lit a cigarette and aimed the smoke towards the city. Above me lights were strung up along the coving and outside there were lights across the shop fronts and market stalls blanketing everything in a red glow. The market heaved and bulged with the unpitying clamour of western commerce, whilst traffic thundered under the rail bridge. It was an enticing sound to hear from the safety of the Cafe Kotti; the roar of vehicles like an improvised jazz set, a suggestion that Berlin was being fed by a musical-loving god. I sat in a melancholic mood waiting for Liana to arrive. I passed the time smoking and observing and wondering whether it was possible to calm down my brain.
It had been a year since Liana and I last met and both of us, I think, were excited to see one another. We had never been very good at meeting on time and today was no exception. She was always late, I was always late; it was a wonder we ever met at all. When she arrived I was sat by the open window drinking Turkish coffee with a rucksack at my feet, and as she came in with the spring evening behind her I stood and we embraced.
‘How was the flight?’ she asked.
‘The flight was fine.’
‘And the trains?’
‘The trains were fine, too.’
She looked at me, almost motherly; I was struck by how expressive it was.
Then, as if she couldn’t ignore it any longer, she reached out with her hand and touched my cheek. Her palm was soft and hot, like the heat of an oven, and I felt energy pass through her and into me.
‘I’m so sorry,’ she said, referring to the car accident.
‘It was nothing.’ I shrugged away her touch and did my best to smile. ‘Really,’ I said, waving her away. ‘It’s just one of those things.’
‘Oh, poor you,’ she said and continued to stroke my cheek. ‘My poor, poor Mr Motion.’
‘Stop it,’ I laughed. She’d taken to calling me Mr. Motion some years ago and the reason for it was now lost on both of us. I stepped back and gestured to the couch. ‘Let’s sit, shall we?’
Liana took the seat opposite me. She still had five fingers on each hand and I assumed five toes on each foot. Counting digits had become a habit of mine. Despite having all fingers and toes accounted for, Liana had changed.
‘You look different,’ I told her.
She tilted her head. ‘Oh yes, my hair,’ she said, and then proceeded to rough it with her fingers. The dark waist-length hair she once had was now cut almost to the scalp. ‘It was even shorter when I had it done.’
‘It’s more than your hair,’ I told her. It seemed to me that in the eight months of living here Liana had slipped into the Berlin skin with ease. ‘What are you now?’ I asked, looking at her clothes. She had a throwaway appearance; a ragged jumper, black boots, striped leggings – she was attacking form like a person shunned by it. ‘Are you an urban hippy now?’
She threw out her tongue. ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’
‘It’s good to see you again, Liana. Really. It’s been too long.’
Liana grinned. ‘You too, dude.’
The word “dude” was something new to her repertoire. It sounded odd. She was too middle-class, too articulated that when she said it it came off as slightly forced.
‘So did you miss me?’ I asked.
‘What can I say,’ she shrugged. ‘It’s beyond me.’
We were sitting on soft, broken couches, tattered and worn from a thousand arses. I didn’t have much on me, preferring to travel light; a few coins in my pocket, a bag with pens and paper inside. Clothes in a rucksack. I was wearing a black turtleneck jumper, blue jeans and a pair of filthy white trainers.
‘You look like a professor,’ Liana told me, and then added, ‘But man, you’ve lost weight.’
‘Knowledge kills the soul.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Are you dying?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I’m dying.’
From my bag I pulled free a copy of Daniil Kharms’s Today I Wrote Nothing, and passed it over. I had two other books in my bag to give her but I was saving those for later. Right now, Kharms seemed appropriate.
Liana examined the book and I took it from her hand and read aloud the first short piece in there – about a paragraph long. We both laughed and I was pleased.
‘Books make such wonderful presents,’ she said.
We settled. The café buzzed. Outside Arabic vendors called out to the crowds, their voices shrill and loud as if channeling unseen forces. Liana shifted, and was all of a sudden bitten by discomfort.
‘I’m so pleased you’re okay,’ she said. She was pressing me about the accident. ‘How did it happen?’
I sighed. ‘I don’t know. Something happened.’ I reached for my cigarettes. My lighter was a Red Army Zippo which made a satisfying snap when I clicked the lid back. I lit the cigarette and blew drifting smoke between us.
I didn’t want to return to that night, but the memory of it was located everywhere. I had a vague memory of leaving my car with blood in my mouth and walking towards the wreck of the other vehicle.
‘I’m not sure.’ I paused, drew deeply on the cigarette. ‘I’m still processing it.’
This was true. After the accident I had drifted aimlessly, unable to find satisfaction in things, unable to communicate with others. My life cantered into silence. I became acutely aware of my voice and how disembodied it was and during conversation if I didn’t slap myself hard on the back of the neck I’d end up hypnotised by it. I had, I realised after many months of anguish, gone mad.
Liana was watching me smoke. I drew myself to attention. ‘Really,’ I said, trying to sound convincing, ‘everything is fine.’
Liana was suspicious. ‘Well, if you’d like to talk about it, then… you know. Or not, whatever.’
I shrugged and threw her a wink. ‘It’s all good. But thanks.’
She raised an eyebrow but said nothing more on the subject. We ordered more coffee.
‘So how long are you staying for?’ she asked, placing Kharms on the table. She took hold of the sugar jar and made two small piles of sugar and then started cutting them into lines with the café menu.
‘I’m not sure,’ I said, watching her. I took a drag of my cigarette and then, having only smoked half of it, killed it in the ashtray. ‘I’ll be here until my birthday. Perhaps longer.’
‘God, you look ugly when you smoke,’ she said. ‘Your face contorts. When’s your birthday?’
‘Two weeks from now. I’m going grey, look.’
‘Oh yes. So you are.’
Laughing, I got up to use the toilet. As I washed my hands I examined my grey hairs in the bathroom mirror, and then noticed on one of the cubicle doors behind me someone had written in English, you don’t know, you ain’t got a clue.
When I returned Liana said, ‘I know this bloke. Frits. He has all these fish in a tank that eat one another.’
‘Some people are very unwell,’ I said.
‘Anyway,’ she continued. ‘Frits has some MDMA, if that’s what you want?’
I shrugged. ‘It’s been awhile since I did anything.’
‘Well, if you want, we can.’ She grabbed my cigarettes from the table and lit one. She never used to smoke. ‘You’re in Berlin now,’ she added, as if that underlined it. She peered at me from over the tip of the cigarette. ‘It’s going to be a trip with you here.’
We gathered our things and went out into the street and into the cacophony of Kottbusser Tor. The city was electric. All around me was a chorus of what seemed like a thousand nationalities conversing as one. I was now inside it, shoulder to shoulder, entering the fold of a living, breathing entity. Through the bustle I heard Arabic music, a darbuka and a nay, wailing through crowds, followed by the chest-beating of a passing car. The market buzzed with energy; voices in German, Turkish, and Arabic, calling out to the crowds like angry lovers. Dark buildings stretched above us and the air had rain in it.
Liana navigated her way through the city, sidestepping posts and jumping curbs, ducking through people who barely knew she was there. I struggled to keep up and several times lost her in the crowd. This city, I realised, with all its vitality had placed her on the line towards something like freedom. The effect was nothing short of miraculous. The city had injected her with life. She belonged here.
I caught up with her staring into a crystal shop. The light inside was blinding, like glass being incinerated. A laser from inside was throwing patterns onto the pavement and over Liana’s face.
‘Look,’ she said. ‘I’m at a disco.’
She stepped away and I followed her up the street, through the crowds and past the buskers and drunks and the homeless gathered in small clusters like human foliage, and I wondered suddenly why I wasn’t living their life; why am I me and not them?
As though synced with me, Liana said, ‘Could you imagine being homeless?’
‘No,’ I said.
She was waving her arms and spinning in the street. If she were a word – if I could give her one word – it would be “fearless”.
There was a time when I was infatuated with her. We had slept together one night at her parents’ house in Gloucestershire. We flirted for months, a friendly pressing of wills, both admiring the others’ intellect until the admiration turned to lust. At the time I called it “making love”. She called it “fucking”. As I walked a few paces behind I wondered if those past emotions might flower again.
Liana glanced back and caught me looking at her with what I could only imagine was a dopey, saccharine expression. She frowned but said nothing. Instead as we passed a motel with drunks leaning in the doorway, Liana pointed and said, ‘I went in there once and had sex for money.’
I stopped in the street.
She turned, ridiculous and carefree. ‘It was nothing,’ she shrugged. ‘He was a friend of a friend, that’s all. An Argentinean. He was passing through Berlin. I took him there. He was really nice. Really sweet, actually.’
‘You did what?’
‘What?’ she said, throwing back my shock. She was agitated. ‘It’s not a big deal.’ Hiding her annoyance she said, ‘Come on.’
We walked a little further and Liana took me into narrow Berlin streets until we came to a clearing with rows of trees. It was the first greenery I’d seen in the city, and the stars were in the leaves and the sky looked like a black ocean with millions of fish.