Crazy (8 page)

She was called Manuela or something and was almost twenty. I was just fourteen. And head over heels in love with her. She was about five feet eight inches, with brown shoulder-length hair. Her eyes were like the sea, blue and remote. I don’t think I’ll forget her anytime soon. Once she even kissed me. In my sister’s room, when she wasn’t there. We were watching TV.
Die Hard,
or something. And all of a sudden she bent over me. I almost died. Man, she could kiss. But it never turned into anything serious. She said I was too strange. Usual thing. Janosch says he can understand that. He thinks I’m strange too. But in a positive way.
Crazy,
even. He says I’m the craziest person he ever met. Florian thinks I shouldn’t let this go to my head—Janosch would say it to anyone. But we get on really well together anyway. After all, we’ve already spent four months in the same room.

Chapter 9

I see the bus stop off in the distance. Just a sign with a bench in front of it, right on the main road. The sign says BUS STOP NEUSEELEN. The bench is made of dark beechwood. Yesterday’s rain is seeping into the cracks. An occasional drip lands on the asphalt. There’s an old man sitting at one end of the bench. He’s very thin, with a messy thatch of white hair. He’s wearing a green raincoat that reaches to his feet. Shiny black galoshes poke out from underneath. The raincoat is held closed by a single button. The old man looks up as we come closer. Janosch is out ahead, with Florian, the two Felixes, and Troy behind. I’m following, in the rear. The others stop at the sign, their faces squashed up against the bus schedule.

“Are you from the Castle?” the old man asks. His voice is deep and resonant. The guys turn around. Glob is the first to find his voice.

“Yes, we have a pass.”

The old man’s eyes narrow, and there’s a pale glint in them. He purses his mouth.

“Don’t try to con an old man,” he says. “An old man may be deaf. May be blind. May even be a cripple. But an old man has sung the song of life too often to be conned. You don’t have a pass. Am I right? You’re running away.”

“Running away?” asks Glob.

“The song of life?” asks Janosch. “What the hell is that?”

“The unmistakable facts of human existence,” replies the old man. “The ones no one can hide. Grief, joy, wind.”

“What’s the wind got to do with it?” I ask.

“The wind that mixes grief and joy and, when necessary, tears everything apart or joins it back together. You can call it what you like.”

“Are you a wise man or a seer or something?” asks Skinny Felix.

The old man laughs, and his laugh sounds like an oncoming steamroller forcibly clearing a path. The guys look around surreptitiously.

“I’m not a seer,” says the old man, “and as far as I know, I’m not a wise man either. I’m just an old man, and I’ve seen life. That’s enough to give me something to say about it.”

“Will we get that way too?” asks Glob.

“What way?” says the old man.

“You know—old.”

“You will certainly get old, my boy. That’s life. All parts of you will get old: your soul, your heart, your opinions. Even if you don’t change that quickly, your opinions will. And your dreams. At some point they’re just old. Like you!”

“But when they’re old, are they still good?” Glob wants to know. “Why do dreams have to get old?”

“To leave life behind,” says the man.

“To leave life behind?” Glob repeats. “I don’t get it. Does that mean you always have to leave something old behind to get something new?”

“In my view, yes. That way everything remains in motion,” says the old man.

“But does that mean it can’t ever stand still?” asks Glob. “Why do we have to keep running? We could just as easily stand still. Catch our breath. Look at wherever we’ve reached in peace.”

“No we couldn’t,” says the old man.

“So why not?” asks Fat Felix.

“Because then everything would have to stand still. For us to look at wherever we’ve reached in peace, both we and the wherever would have to stand still. And if we stand still, there are no wherevers to be reached. It would just be one big unending standing still. Come on, my boy, tell me honestly: Which would you prefer? To be perpetually standing still or perpetually running?”

“That was the song of life you just sang, wasn’t it?” asks Glob. “Does everyone sing it when they get old?”

“That depends,” says the old man. “Whether you grow old or not is a matter of chance. And whether you sing the song of life or not is up to God. It’s that simple.”

“Call that simple?” asks Fat Felix. “It’s far too complicated. I don’t think I want to get old, and I don’t want to sing the song of life either. It’s much easier just living in a world you don’t understand. I don’t want to get old. Getting old is too
crazy.
I’d rather stay myself, Felix Braun, sixteen years old, five foot four, that’s it.”

“All that’s pure chance,” says the old man.

“It’s not chance,” retorts Janosch. “There’s no such thing as chance. There’s just fate.”

“So our meeting here is fate?” asks the old man.

“Maybe,” says Janosch. “And maybe it’s just bad luck. I’m sixteen years old. Life goes on. And on. And I don’t want people who are farther along telling me how the whole thing goes. I had to get through the last sixteen years without you and I’ll probably have to get through the next sixty-five years, God willing, without you as well. So just leave me alone. It’s great that you can sing the song of life, so go take it to an old-age home and teach it to the residents! They’d be thrilled! But leave me to get on with it. Leave yourself to get on with it too. Everything’s bad enough as it is. We’ve just run away from boarding school. And I think we’re going to need what’s left of our youth. Go peddle your crappy song someplace else!” Janosch’s eyes are slits. He’s really mad.

“Is your friend always so rude?” asks the old man.

“He invented the word,” says Glob.

“When I was up there in school at Neuseelen, we had one like him. He was the leader of our gang. Xavier Mils. I don’t know what happened to him. I think he was a sculptor or something. Long time ago. In Munich. I haven’t heard a word from him in fifty years. Maybe he’s dead. The way I see it, the only one allowed to be more superfluous is me. But that’s the way it is. Life. You said you were running away? Where do you want to spend the night? If you’re headed for Munich, I don’t see you having much luck. You won’t find it easy to get something. But I don’t advise you to spend the night on a park bench. Munich is dangerous, particularly at night; you get some strange types roaming around, I can tell you. Maybe it would be best if you stay with me. I own a little apartment in Schwabing. It’s not very large, but you could all fit in. At least nothing will happen to you there. You’ll be safe. I’ve been living there for twenty-five years. Alone. And nothing’s ever happened to me. The graveyard at Neuseelen, where my wife is, is more dangerous. If I remember right, I even have some spare bedding.”

Glob, Florian, and Skinny Felix turn around— they’re thinking. Janosch pulls an angry face and sits down beside me on the bench.

“I don’t like the old guy,” he whispers. “He’s really weird. Something about him is off. I wouldn’t want to go to his apartment with him. He’s crazy.”

“You don’t know that,” I say. “Maybe he’s just an old man who’s very open and who wants the best for us. You heard—he was in school at Neuseelen himself. He seems well intentioned. Maybe he knows our problems, and he’s some kind of a seer or something.”

“He’s raving,” says Janosch, “and my mother taught me you should never listen to people who’re raving. You should get out of their way.”

“Then a lot of us would have to get out of your way too,” I say. “We’re all raving. All he is, is old.”

“But that’s the point,” says Janosch. “He’s old and we’re young. The two don’t go together. They never have. Old people have a completely different attitude to life. They don’t like us. And we don’t like them. No kid on earth would set off to Munich with this old guy right now. And what’s he doing here anyway? He lives in Munich.”

“I expect he was visiting his wife’s grave. He’s got a perfectly good reason to be here.”

“I don’t trust the whole thing,” Janosch retorts. “Maybe he’s just one of the staff from the school, and he’ll rat on us or something.”

“He won’t rat on us,” I tell him. “Let’s go with him. Flo and the others agree—don’t you?”

“We’ll go with the old man,” says Fat Felix. “He’s okay. And no matter how you look at it, it’s better than a night on a park bench. I think we’ll be in good hands. You with us, Janosch?”

Janosch’s face darkens. There’s a harsh light in his eyes. “Can any of you tell me why
we
always land in this shit headfirst?” he wants to know.

“Because we’re alive,” says Florian, “and because we’re young.”

“That’s not an argument,” says Janosch.

“Of course it’s an argument,” says Florian. “We’re here, that’s all. And so long as we’re here, we can always land in the shit headfirst.”

“Is that how you see it, Lebert?” asks Janosch.

“That’s how I see it,” I say.

Fat Felix goes over to the old man. “We’re coming with you. The bus should be here in five minutes.”

Janosch stares up at the sky. It’s quite dark already. The main street stretches away ahead of us, bleak and empty. I feel a bit uneasy. There’s a sort of animal electricity. I’ve never done anything like this before. I think I can say the same about the end of any particular day in Neuseelen Boarding School. Everything is sort of stirred up. New. I’ve been here four months. Amazing how fast the time goes.

“I know that I know nothing,” Janosch suddenly lets drop. “Some philosopher once said that, didn’t he?”

“Haven’t a clue,” I reply. “Are we supposed to know that?”

“What are we supposed to know?” asks Janosch. “That we know nothing?”

“No,” I reply. “That we’re supposed to know who said it.”

“Oh, yes, I think we’re supposed to know.”

“So who said it?” I ask.

“Haven’t a clue,” says Janosch. “But it doesn’t matter anyway. Philosophers are just bums who think they have to explain everything. But there’s nothing to explain. All they have to do is take a look at the world, and they’d know that it’s fucking beautiful. Their propositions are idiotic.”

“You’re probably right, Janosch,” I say, “although
I know that I know nothing
is a pronouncement I can really use. In math, for example.”

“But it isn’t usually intended for that,” says Janosch.

“For what then?”

“For us, of course.”

“For us?”

“Yes, for us. To explain that you don’t have to know anything to be crazy.”

“This proposition doesn’t have a thing to do with
crazy,
” I reply.

“Yes it does,” says Janosch. “The proposition is crazy
.
”

“I don’t understand it as a proposition,” I say. “Maybe it’s just too crazy
.
Main thing is that everything just keeps going, and we all find our own way.”

“Our way to Munich?”

“Our way to wherever. Don’t you want to go wherever?”

“Every place we find ourselves is
wherever.
If you just make sure they can’t ever padlock your mind, then you’ll always live up to
wherever,
wherever it is.”

A pair of headlights shows up in the distance, coming along the main street at high speed. The square lights throw a strong wide beam onto the asphalt. The diesel engine howls as the bus pulls in at the stop. It’s at least forty feet long, with rectangular advertisement panels along the sides. Some sort of mineral water touting its enticing effects. The doors open automatically. Their glass slides across the advertising panels, so that the purplish symbol of the enticing mineral water in question is now shimmering through the dark brown of the Plexiglas. We get on the bus. Florian first, then the two Felixes, Troy, and Janosch. The old man and I bring up the rear. The old man stops on the three steps leading up into the bus. Eyes bright, he turns around to me and reaches out his hand. I take it. The long rough fingernails dig into the back of my hand. I can’t wait to let go of his hand again.

“I haven’t even introduced myself yet,” he says. “How rude of me. My name is Sambraus. Marek Sambraus. Complicated name, I know. But you don’t forget it.”

Sambraus turns back to the bus driver.

“Two to Rosenheim, please,” he says.

The bus driver gropes for two red tickets in a drawer set next to the steering wheel and holds them out to Sambraus, who gets them stamped in a blue stamping machine. As he pushes the tickets in, it makes a pinging sound. He puts one ticket in his trouser pocket and hands the other to me. It has NEUSEELEN STOP stamped on it in blue cursive letters and the time. Seven-fifteen p.m.

Chapter 10

The others are waiting between the rows of seats. We’re almost alone—there are only two other people on the bus, sitting way at the back. Lovers. They press their faces against the glass when they think no one’s looking. Florian and Fat Felix keep turning around to look at them from their place just three rows in front of the couple, chosen to give them a good view. Just so that they don’t miss anything. The windows are full of night. You have to struggle to make out the shapes of things. The road. Fields. The occasional hill. Typical Bavarian landscape. Troy and Skinny Felix sit together in the first row. Troy wants to be next to the window; he likes looking out into the night. Skinny Felix digs around in his backpack and pulls out a Walkman. We’ve got about a half hour’s journey, maybe more. Depends on the traffic and the weather, but I don’t think we have much to worry about tonight. Sambraus sits down by himself, right in the middle of the bus, on the aisle seat. The window obviously didn’t appeal to him. But he dozes off right away anyhow. His green eyes disappear in the creases of his eyelids. His head drops onto his chest. Sambraus is asleep, breathing deeply in and out.

Janosch and I sit at the back, in the last row, right next to the pair of lovers. I get to sit at the window, which pleases me because I’ll be able to think a little and calm down. Birds are flying across the dark sky. They must have a long way to go, certainly farther than we do. Though our journey is not so simple either. Janosch gets a piece of paper and pencil out of the pocket of his jeans.

I look out the window again. We’re just passing some fields. The white stripes of the country road race past beneath us. On the horizon you can just see the Alps. A little section of forest interrupts the view. Huge fir trees rise up in the darkness, with a sickle moon above them that casts a faint light down onto the fields. Somewhere in the distance a thin line of smoke is rising. I think about my grandparents. They’ve been there for me forever, my grandfather in particular. He’s one of those grand-fathers you’d like to have had as your father. An unassuming old man who struggles unceasingly with life. Brave and gallant. My mother says he won’t hold out much longer—at some point he’ll have to give up. Cancer is really tough.

My mother loves my grandfather. Sometimes I wonder if she loves him more than she does his son, her husband. My father. But I can understand it. My grandfather is really a wonderful man. I don’t want to lose him. Whenever I had problems, I’d go see him. We’d build a big fire in the fireplace—our fire. Then we would sit in front of it for three hours and talk about time. Just like that. The way everything slips by. My grandfather is a lot wiser than I am. I can’t really explain a lot of what he says very coherently, but I know I’ll be able to keep it in my heart until I understand it. My grandparents live in an old farmhouse outside the city. It’s so beautiful. I’ve been there thousands of times. And I’ve seen my grandfather thousands of times. I won’t be able to do that so often in the future. Recently there’s been less wood by the fireplace.

“You got a two in German, right?” asks Janosch, looking at me pleadingly.

“No, I got a five. You know that already. I can’t write essays.”

“Well, anyhow, do you know how a guy tells a girl he loves her?”

“A girl? What are you doing?”

“So, I’m trying to write a love letter or something.”

I laugh. “To Malen?” I ask.

“Yes, to Malen. But this stuff isn’t so easy, you know. I’m not the romantic type. Every time we do dictation I make at least twenty mistakes.”

“Have you ever wondered if that’s why you get a six in German?”

“I haven’t counted that out,” answers Janosch, “but that’s not interesting right now. I have to write a love letter to Malen. Everything’s got so complicated. Before, all you had to do was screw a girl, then she was yours. Now you’re supposed to get your fucking intellect down on paper to make an impression. But I can’t get my fucking intellect down on paper. I’m not Kafka.”

“Take it easy. You don’t have to be Kafka. Just write what you feel.”

“Should I say I feel like shit?”

“Not what you feel right now. What you feel for Malen.”

“And what do I feel? That I want to fuck her?”

“No. That you love her. Just write that you love her.”

“I can’t,” says Janosch. “She’d hit me.”

“But that means she’d do the same if you were Kafka and you said
I love you.
”

“No she wouldn’t. Kafka’s
crazy.
And besides, girls go for literary types.”

“Girls go for Leonardo DiCaprio.”

“You’re right about that. Should I say
I love you
as Leonardo DiCaprio?”

“You should say
I love you
as Janosch Schwarze.”

“I knew that all along! You see! Writing love letters is no problem. Girls make a whole big deal out of it. Guys are different. They’re crazy. No problem— their pens do automatic writing. So, what am I supposed to write?”

“Write
Malen, I love you,
” I propose.

“
Malen, I love you
? Okay.”

Janosch writes on the paper with his red felt pen. His handwriting is neat and upright. You can recognize every letter.

“Now what?” he asks.

“What do you like about her most? Try to figure out what’s best about her and praise it to the skies. Women like that.”

“How do you do that?” asks Janosch.

“From the heart.” I tell him.

“From the heart?” Janosch thinks. His eyebrows draw closer together, until they almost touch.

“I think I’d still rather fuck her,” he says finally. “It’s easier. Love letters are just for bums, anyhow. What my intellect can’t achieve, maybe my dick can. You know that! How’s your Marie, anyway?”

I lean back. “So far so good,” I say. “She keeps running away from me, but aside from that, I think she’s doing fine.”

“Weird woman,” says Janosch. “First she lets you fuck her and then she runs away from you. I don’t get it.”

“Yeah—I don’t either. But that’s how it is.”

“True. All girls are alike that way. They’re all strange.”

“Strange and hot.”

“Maybe they’re hot because they’re so strange?” says Janosch.

“Yes, or they’re so strange because they’re so hot.”

We burst out laughing, and Janosch pushes my head against the windowpane.

“Why did God make girls anyhow?” asks Janosch. “Why are they so sexy? He could just as easily have made them ugly cows and put them in the world that way.”

“But that’s just the point,” I say. “As long as they’re sexy, everyone wants to fuck them. And as long as everyone fucks them, the human race will continue. You have to admit—God’s cool.”

“God’s
crazy,
” says Janosch. “God’s a sex fiend. He knew what he wanted.”

“God always knows what he wants.”

“And what does he want right now?” asks Janosch.

“He wants us to get to Munich in good shape,” I say. “He wants us to live. And will we?”

“Of course we will,” says Janosch. “We’re living now. We’ll always live. We’ll live until there’s no more living to be done.”

“Are you sure?”

“Hello in there! You said so yourself. God wants us to live. And that’s what we’re doing. Whether we did it right or wrong is something he’ll decide for himself, when we stand there in front of him.”

“Will we?”

“Sometime, sure,” says Janosch, “and when we do, I think I’ll get his autograph.”

“You want God’s autograph?”

“Of course. You don’t often get the chance.”

“You’re nuts,” I say. “Do you really think God’ll give you an autograph?”

“God gives everyone an autograph,” says Janosch. “He’s got all the time in the world and no big-star mannerisms.”

“How the hell would
you
know? God is the ultimate big star. Don’t you think it would be a little rude to hit him up right away for an autograph?”

“No, God would be flattered. He doesn’t get that many autograph hunters.”

“You’re out of your mind.”