Crazy (2 page)

Dear Benni,

I know this is a tough time for you. And I
also know that you’ll have to rely on yourself
for lots of things. But please know that it’s
all for the best, and be brave.

Papa

Be brave. It’s all for the best.
Nicely said. Really nice. Can’t complain. I’ll keep the note. Maybe show it to my children, so they can see what a big guy their father was, a really big guy. I stuff the piece of paper back in my pocket, then set off for breakfast. The dining hall is at the other end of the Castle. I head along Tarts’ Alley, down the never-ending stairs to the main corridor, and eventually reach the headmaster’s office. Then it’s on through the official reception corridor, past Mrs. Lerch’s room, down the stairs to the west wing, which lead directly to the dining hall. The west-wing stairs are old; with every step you take the wood groans and creaks as if it’s begging for immediate relief. The dining hall is vast, with at least seventeen tables that seat a minimum of eight each. The walls have this beautiful paneling, and there are real paintings on them, showing wars, peace, love, and—no surprise here—eagles clutching schoolbags. I sit down at a table that’s sort of squashed into a corner, and the only other kid sharing it with me is a sixth grader. The roll tastes dry. Every attempt to spread butter on it founders on my inability to hold it steady in my left hand. I keep trying but no luck. The roll shoots right across the table. A couple of girls sitting at a nearby table who’ve been following the action snigger. I’m ashamed. I retrieve the roll as quick as I can and ask the sixth grader to butter it for me. “So how old are you?” he asks. “Sixteen,” I say. “By the time you’re sixteen, you should have learned how to butter a roll,” he says, and hands it back to me unbuttered. The girls snicker. I drink my tea.

“By the time you’re sixteen, you should have learned to grasp a set square,” asserts Rolf Falkenstein, the math teacher. He hands it back to me without having given me any help in drawing the proof of the theorem. Tough luck. So here I am on my first day of school. I shake my head. But everything started really well. The first classes, French and English, went fine, and I got through my famous fucking introductory aria. Usual thing. Come in and face the class, no idea where to stick your hands, and say:

Hi folks, my name is Benjamin Lebert, I’m sixteen,
and I’m a cripple, just so you know. I thought it would
interest you the way it does me.

Class 9B, which is the one I’m in, reacted the usual way: a couple of sideways glances, a little tittering, the first quick looks to size me up. For the boys I was now another of the nerds to be ignored, and for the girls I was just plain dead. Quite an achievement.

The French teacher, Heide Bachmann, says that here at Castle Neuseelen it doesn’t matter whether anyone has a disability or not. What matters here at Neuseelen is loving, and hence binding values and social skills. Good to know. Class 9B isn’t large: twelve kids, me included. Not like the state schools, where the minimum is around thirty-five. But they’re not supposed to count. Here, we
count.
We count so much you can hear the place buckling under our psychic weight. We sit, like one big family, in a horseshoe facing the teacher. We love one another so much, we’re practically holding hands. Boarding school as isolation chamber. One group, one circle of friends, one family. And Rolf Falkenstein, our math teacher, is our daddy. He’s big. About six foot two. Pale face with prominent cheekbones. One of those guys who wear their age on their foreheads. Fifty—not six months’ difference one way or the other. Falkenstein’s hair is greasy, color nondescript, presumably gray, as far as I can figure out. His fingernails are long and a mess. He scares me a bit. He smacks his big set square against the blackboard and draws a line, straight through a geometrical structure. I think it’s some sort of a baseline. I try to copy it. Can’t do it. The set square keeps slipping off to the side. Finally I do it freehand. The result is a sort of mathematical cartoon, more like a kite than a straight line. After class Falkenstein calls me aside. “You need some remedial coaching,” he says. “About an hour a day, I’d say.” I can feel the joy. “Okay. If that’s what it takes.” I leave.

Chapter 2

In the afternoon I go into the village with the other kids. It’s not far. Homework today comes later. Even Troy comes with us. He plods along behind without saying a word. Now and again I turn around to him.

“Troy, what’re you doing?”

“Nothing.”

“You have to be doing
something.
”

“No I don’t.”

I leave him in peace. His big bulky presence remains behind me. I see the black spikes of his hair out of the corner of my eye. We stop to have a smoke.
We
means everyone: Janosch, Fat Felix, Skinny Felix, Troy, and little Florian from eighth grade, a.k.a. Girl. “So, how was your first day?” he asks, drawing on his cigarette. His eyes water and he coughs.

“It went.”

“
It went
means it was shitty?”

“
It went
means it was shitty.”

“Same with me. The Reimanntal woman says I have to write out the house rules three times.”

“You going to do it?”

“Do I look like I’m going to do it?”

No, he doesn’t. His green eyes are ablaze, and he looks pissed off. His hair is a dark brown mop. He stares off into the distance and begins to frown.

I find myself thinking about home. The best place in Munich. A good hour’s drive from here— not so far but out of reach all the same. Nothing special, really. A blue brick building on a little flat street, surrounded by two playing fields. But it’s still the best place in Munich. What would I be doing now if I were there, not here? Reading, writing, napping. Maybe helping my mother with the dishes. Or maybe helping Paula, my sister, who’s gay, with her newest conquest: Sylvia, the daughter of the folks next door. We would have to be careful, because it wouldn’t be so smart if my parents found out. They’re very sensitive about stuff like this. But I’m not there—I’m here, which is to say in boarding school, or rather sitting on some steps in a village.

I’m sitting talking to Florian a.k.a. Girl. He takes another drag on his cigarette and coughs. Louder this time. Janosch comes over.

“Girl can’t hold her smoke, but it’s no big deal. Not there yet, but tomorrow’s another day.” He laughs, then sits down next to me on the steps and pops a can of beer. We’ve put Troy on guard. He’s standing up front by an elder bush. If a teacher or dorm supervisor shows up, he’ll give the alarm. Otherwise the penalties are heavy—grounded for as much as a week and who knows what else. Smoking and drinking are punished the worst.

Janosch taps me on the shoulder. “What’s up? Are you obsessing about this stupid disability thing? Chill out, we’re all disabled. Look at Troy! Besides, you could have had it worse. Just because your left side’s a mess is no reason to shit in your pants.”

“I wasn’t thinking about being disabled, I was thinking about being home. But thanks anyway.”

“About being home? I can’t help you there either. We all want to go home, but no luck. We’re stuck here, like chunks of meat in a can of dog food. All swimming around in the same shit. And Fat Felix over there is the fattest chunk of all.”

I get up slowly, and go over to Fat Felix. He’s pissed off. “Forget it,” I say, “he doesn’t mean it.”

“Of course he doesn’t mean it, but he could still keep his mouth shut. It’s not my fault I’m so fat, just like I’m sure it’s not Troy’s fault over there that he can’t ever get a word out. That’s us.”

“True.”

“Know what I think?” Skinny Felix interrupts.

“What?” asks Janosch.

“I think we’re heroes.”

“Heroes?” says Florian a.k.a. Girl. “Why heroes?”

“Because women can’t leave us alone,” says Felix. “Fat, crippled, silent, dumb. We’re exactly the types women can’t leave alone, you know?”

“Haven’t noticed so far,” says Fat Felix. “Women hang around big blond guys who do stuff and could be in the movies. Like Mattis. Do you think women would hang around fat guys like me?”

“Mattis is a snake,” growls Janosch. “They’d do better to hang around a fat guy like you. Or Benni. Look at Benni! Just the type women go for! Short brown hair, blue eyes, no fat on him. Born female idol!”

For a second I enjoy the general attention. “That’s all you know,” I say. I look down at myself. Still wearing my PINK FLOYD—THE WALL T-shirt and black jeans. Feet in Pumas with Velcro straps. They were white once; now they’re somewhere between gray and black. They’re the only shoes I can wear, because I can’t tie shoelaces. Janosch says that’s no reason to shit in my pants, but I still don’t feel comfortable with the sneakers. Probably just have to get used to them. I take a slug of beer.

We head down to the village square. I’m sorry for them all in different ways, all five of them. Take Fat Felix. Only child of a brutal family, according to Janosch. Never had many friends. Just lots of candy. He’s a slave to candy. Everyone calls him Glob or Obelix. He hates it but can’t defend himself. The names have stuck to him since he started school and they’ll still be sticking to him the day he manages to go home, having graduated. Which he will someday. Fat Felix is good in school—3.7 grade average every year, no problem. He’s even good at math, according to Janosch. But don’t ask him to be your study partner after hours—supposedly he demands payment in candy. There’s no actual proof, though. Aside from that, Felix is meant to be a good sport and a good friend. Hates wars, hates fights, probably not least because he always draws the short straw.

Next to Felix is baby Florian a.k.a. Girl. Per Janosch, he’s frail and hypersensitive. Lost his parents in a car crash when he was six; since then he doesn’t say much and usually only when you talk to him directly. He’s been here since sixth grade and spends vacations in Hohenschäftlarn with his grand-mother, who smothers him with affection till he almost can’t take it anymore. He’s one of the few kids here whose parents or relatives aren’t rich. He’s only in this school courtesy of the Department of Child Welfare, but he’s still managed to settle in quite well.

About Skinny Felix there’s not much to report. He’s apparently as new here as I am. He came in three weeks ago; since then he’s more or less inserted himself into the group, says Janosch. He’s apparently a really nice guy and hasn’t done anything to hurt anyone so far.

Troy’s last, and Janosch calls him the rock that holds up Neuseelen. He’s now in twelfth grade, having been here eight years. His life is one big silence. Nobody knows what goes on there. There’s a rumor he has a dying brother. Nothing about the parents, nothing about the family.

Which leaves Janosch. My roommate. In the tenth grade, sense of humor. Always laughing and making noise. I haven’t a clue about his family. Fat Felix says his father is some stock-market millionaire. But nobody knows for sure. Maybe I’ll find out in due course.

We cross the market square. It’s practically empty—very few of the stalls turn a profit these days. Florian buys himself a beer, keeping an eye out for any tutor who might be coming our way, and hastily sticks the can in a plastic bag, then comes running back to us. “I’ve heard a sex therapist is doing the rounds, and they say she’s here now in Dr. Beerweiler’s office. Apparently you can just walk in and talk to her. I bet my beer mug you don’t dare to go in there right now, Janosch.”

“Why would I bother? My sex life’s been shit and still is shit. No therapy queen’s going to fix that.”

“You don’t have to talk a lot,” says Florian. “Just say you’re gay and your tutor isn’t exactly thrilled.”

“Well, why would he be?” says Fat Felix.

“Besides,” says Florian, “think of the prize. You always wanted a beer mug like that. Worth making yourself an idiot for, huh?”

“Girl, you’re a jerk-off.” Janosch is roaring with laughter.

“I know,” says Florian, “but at least I’m not a
gay
jerk-off.”

So we all march off to the office of the local GP, Dr. Beerweiler. He’s at the far end of the village and we have to cut through streets and alleys that are so narrow almost no cars can use them. There’s practically zero traffic. The boys are excited, and they’re all talking among themselves, throwing around suggestions and advice. Janosch stays cool. Draws on his cigarette. Seems nothing can unsettle him. We reach the house where the offices are. Ridiculous pile—art nouveau. The windows are filthy. It smells of doctors’ offices before you even reach the front door. To the right is a brass plaque:

DR. JOSEF BEERWEILER, M.D.
CONSULTING HOURS—
MON–FRI 8 A.M.–2: 30 P.M.

Under this is a flyer:

SEX ETC.
Advice for young people and adults who enjoy sex.
We are sharing Dr. Beerweiler’s offices from Jan 3–Jan 12.
Free consultations without previous appointment eight hours daily.

Next to the text is a drawing of a boy holding his dick and laughing. In a balloon above his head it says

Homosexuals welcome here too.

Florian a.k.a. Girl points to the balloon—“You see, just right for Janosch”—and pushes him through the door. We follow them. The offices are on the first floor. No stairs to climb. That’s a plus. Climbing stairs always hurts, and that’s not on my wish list right now. Janosch rings the bell. There’s a loud creaking noise and the door opens on its own. We go in. Plain smooth painted blue wooden floor, blinding white walls.

Reeks of doctors’ offices. We have to go down a long corridor to get to the reception area. A young woman, blond, well-tended skin, silver glasses, is sitting at a desk.

“Can I help you?” Cold eyes. Looks stressed out. Janosch steps up.

“We’re—I’m looking for the ‘sex etc.’ consulting room.”

“Second on the left.” As she says this, her voice rises.

She’s sexy. I’m glad I met her, and decide to come back here on my own. Maybe a bit better dressed. Maybe bring a flower or something. Later. Not now. We reach a brown door that says SEX ETC. Fat Felix laughs and his ears turn red. Nervous.

“Anyone got anything to eat? Whatever. I could use something right now.”

“Shut up, Glob,” is the universal response. Janosch knocks. A refined voice answers, “Come in.” The voice sounds to me to be around thirty-four. Maybe a little younger. We go into a small room. Everything’s crammed together. Almost no room for us. Reddish-brown desk, nice shape, would fit right in my room at school, and behind it another blonde. A few wrinkles. She must really be thirty-four. Amazing green eyes, which you notice right away. Apart from that, pale. Three black leather chairs in front of her desk. Porno shots on the walls. Most of them missionary position or women giving blow jobs to big-muscled men. Skinny Felix and I are both interested. The blonde gets up.

“I’m Katherina Westphalia. We’ll certainly get to know each other better. Are you from Castle Neuseelen?”

“Yes,” says Fat Felix, mooning over a jar of Gummi Bears on the side table. “Do you think I could have one?” he asks politely.

“Of course,” says Westphalia.

Janosch and I shake our heads.

“And what is your desire?” asks Westphalia.

Janosch turns to Florian.

“Mug’s mine?” he whispers.

“Mug’s yours,” says Florian.

Janosch turns back to Westphalia and says, “I have only one desire.” Now he’s turning red too.

“What’s your name?”

“Janosch.”

“And what exactly is your desire?”

Fat Felix grins and stuffs a Gummi Bear into his face. The tension mounts. Everyone’s staring at Janosch.

“Well,” he says finally, and looks around. “I’m gay, and I’d like to have sex with Troy”—pointing at him. “But I’m afraid our tutor will catch us. How would he react? Or rather: How’s a tutor supposed to react? Suspension? Three weeks waiting tables? Why the hell can’t gays just be gay, huh, Troy?”

Janosch is in flying form, no shit. He’s won the mug. He couldn’t care less what Ms. Westphalia there thinks of him. Nor could he care less if she calls our tutor. He’s the greatest, he’s won a mug, and his friends will love him for life. Nothing bad can ever happen to him.

“How do you feel about that, Troy?” asks Westphalia.

Troy doesn’t say a thing.

“Is he embarrassed?” she asks, turning to Janosch again.

“Of course he’s embarrassed. I mean, just look at him. Who wouldn’t be embarrassed?”

Troy takes a step to the right. He’s clearly absolutely furious. His eyes squeeze shut. You can feel he wants to scream; you can see it. But he can’t do it. The scream tails off inside him. Fat Felix goes over to him.

“Pay no attention,” he says. Exactly what I said to him myself just now. Maybe it’ll help. Troy still doesn’t say a word, but his face looks a little less black. It’s a start. Janosch doesn’t even notice. He’s happily listening to Westphalia’s advice and suggestions. He’s grinning.

Half an hour later when it’s over and we’re standing in the market square again, Fat Felix opens his mouth.

“Can I ask something?”

“Ask,” says Janosch.

“Why did we do that?”

“Because Janosch wanted my mug,” says Florian. “You know that already.”

“Your mug? That whole thing for your stupid mug? We could have just hung around and done nothing.”

“Doing nothing would be boring,” says Janosch. “Just think about it! Hanging around forever? I’d rather go and listen to Westphalia make suggestions. Even if the whole thing’s for a stupid mug. I think that’s what God intended.”

“No, God didn’t,” says Fat Felix. “Do you really think God intended us to visit a sex therapist?”

“Of course he did. We’re adolescents. And adolescents have to learn how to fuck.”

“God doesn’t have any extra time for fuckers,” says Felix.

“But he does for jerk-offs?” the other Felix wants to know.

“If he doesn’t, I’ve blown the whole thing.” He starts to laugh. Everyone laughs. Even I laugh. But I don’t think it’s that funny. You can see Felix is serious.

“You don’t really believe in the big bearded guy in the sky, do you?” asks Janosch.

“Yes,” says Fat Felix. “I believe in him. And he’s certainly a nicer guy than you are. He doesn’t take the piss out of people. Everyone’s equal to him. You take the piss out of everybody. Just look at Troy and me.”

“I take the piss out of everybody,” says Janosch. For the first time it gets to him. He sighs. “People never notice when I’m being serious and when I’m kidding around.”