| |
Yusuf’s sleep cocooned him. No nightmares slipped into his dreamscape, or jumbled memories of Doris, or Selim, or Simeon, or a snarling Karl draped in the German flag. He’d become accustomed to disturbed sleep since leaving Syria, and he marvelled at what had happened to soothe his subconscious. Perhaps in thwarting Rex, he’d finally conquered his monsters, scratching together enough power to rise out of his victimhood. Or maybe it was the night he’d shared with Ellie. The touch of another person, the warmth of bodies lying together, healed in a way that medicine never could.
He knew in his bones that when he stepped into the circus ring tomorrow, he would fly.
Even if it was the last time.
A wet towel interrupted his thoughts, hitting him in the face. Ellie stood before him, grinning, dressed once again in yesterday’s clothes, her hair damp from her shower. He preferred her in his t-shirt; he basked in the intimacy of her borrowing his clothes.
After washing, he stole some bread and jam from Leyla’s kitchen for them to eat together, and they walked in the park, piecing together their plan for rescuing the circus. Ellie spoke fervently, as if she could stop the closure by the sheer force of her belief. He spilled crumbs on his shirt, and she wiped away a dollop of jam from the corner of his mouth, at ease in his company, with no sign of regret about having slept with him. He relaxed into their togetherness and the sense that, for now at least, they belonged together.
A beep on Ellie’s phone alerted her to the fact her Die Welt article had been included in that morning’s edition. Simone, satisfied that Ellie’s evidence had at last met her standards, had published it on what was otherwise a quiet morning for news. They rushed to a newsstand.
BERLIN’S CIRCUS DISCARDED BY CORRUPT GOVERNMENT MINISTER
By Ellie Richter
On 15 April, a meeting took place in Mutter Hoppe restaurant in Berlin Mitte between two well known residents of this city: Rex Silberling, Interior Minister, and Marina Schmidt, Editor of Berliner Allgemeine Zeitung. What transpired in that meeting, and the actions that followed, go to the very heart of who we want to be as a nation.
Silberling, darling of the establishment and career politician, has enjoyed a meteoric rise in the Bundestag, and has a reputation for having his finger on the pulse of public sentiment. Two years ago, when he secured backing for a flagship project to help refugees, the public and politicians from major parties were behind him.
Once the project had been greenlit, a circus and adjoining residences were hastily erected in Berlin Treptow, in a forgotten corner of the park that needed regeneration. The refugees–many of whom suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder–set up a working circus. They trained hard to perfect their skills, learned to speak our language, began rebuilding their lives and grew together as a family.
After years of intense conflict in the Middle East, the number of refugees has swelled and caused much concern amongst the political establishment and voters. Minister Silberling, too, recognised the adverse impact on his electability given his close ties to the circus project.
Die Welt has gathered proof of how Minister Silberling has orchestrated a campaign against the very community he purported to support. We have handed over the findings–including two time-stamped recordings–to the police. In the first one, Minister Silberling promises BAZ funding, that he ultimately channelled directly from his departmental budget, in exchange for fear-mongering articles written about the circus community. In the second, the Minister is caught on film colluding with a far-right extremist.
In the past few weeks, Minister Silberling has used his office to offer inappropriate favours, deported a minor with no warning or due process, and issued notice of the closure of the circus without formal consultation.
Germany is not a kangaroo court; we do not believe in trial by executioner. We are a bastion of democracy, and ministers of state cannot feel emboldened to act with such impunity and bring their office into disrepute. History has taught us to beware those whose arrogance leads them down dark paths. Let’s remind ourselves about who is fit to lead and who deserves our trust.
Ellie couldn’t contain her excitement. Television stations had already picked up the story. Ellie thought it a real possibility that the circus could be saved, and although Yusuf himself knew too much about the nature of corrupt government to believe her, he refused to rain on her hopes.
“It’s happening. It’s really happening, Yusuf. There is no way the circus can be closed overnight now. Imagine if people respond to my call on social media to come to the vigil. Imagine if they show the Government they won’t stand for this,” she said, grasping the dense newspaper in her hands.
Yusuf enjoyed the sparkle in her eyes and the innocence and idealism that distracted him from his grief and the sense of foreboding that his world was about to change. He knew better than to give her words credence. Luck had never favoured him, so why would it now?
Two days until their family would be torn apart.
A serenity washed over him, at odds with Ellie’s excitement. He’d feared losing the circus for so long. It had been a loss by degrees: a slow chipping away of security. He swallowed the sense of an approaching precipice and reconciled himself to the closure despite the turn in fortune. Reaching over to kiss Ellie, he determined to make the best of these precious moments with people he loved, the last few hours on the trapeze and the community he had found, in case it all ended.
The incessant peeping of her mobile phone irritated him. He itched to throw the device in the bin, and wanted her attention for himself, to enjoy the here and now.
Yes, he would fight for the circus in Doris’s memory, as he’d promised Emir, but he’d also brace himself for its loss. Realism protected him from crushing disappointment.
Ellie’s readers might coo with support from the comfort of their own homes, glued to their mobile phones, feeding off the drama of tragedy and corruption, but Yusuf would stake his life on the fact that no real action would ensue, no feet on the streets, no demands for resignations or a Government response. People liked to protect their own kind, not the likes of him.
Ellie was a rare gift, and he appreciated her, but she couldn’t turn the tide by herself. He pulled her into his arms under an elm tree. The scent of his soap on her skin hit his nostrils.
She glanced at him, surprised. “What was that for?”
“For trying to help.”
“You’ll see. It’s all going to be fine.”
He gulped. “Emir has asked me to tell the others with him. About Doris.” He saw her face in his mind’s eye. His brain struggled to compute she was really gone.
“I can’t imagine how hard that’ll be.”
He took a deep breath. “I need to get in the ring to practice today, too. Emir said I can perform tomorrow.”
“How about you practice now, and I see you later? I really should get a clean set of clothes and answer some of these messages.”
“Done.”
He kissed her a lingering goodbye, her lips like a whisper against his own. On his way back to the residences, he stumbled across a jamming session in the big top, and the great folds of the midnight blue and bronze pulsed in and out, like the mouth of a speaker. The sound of the drums and brass followed him home through the tall grasses.
At the residences, he showered, taking care to soap himself well and wash his feet in particular, for he intended to pray. He dressed in modest white clothes and found his skull cap at the back of a drawer, smoothing it out before placing it on his head. Then he picked up his prayer mat and made his way down the corridor to join in morning prayers.
Some of the refugees had remained devout through the years, clinging to their faith like a lifeboat. Two prayer rooms existed alongside each other: one for the men, the other for the women and children. Yusuf walked barefoot onto the beige carpet, and took his place alongside the two dozen men and boys gathered there. He’d heard the congregation numbers had doubled after news of the closure, as if Allah might find a way to protect believers. The numbers would swell further once news of Doris’s passing had been relayed to the residents.
He unrolled his prayer mat and quickly fell back into the natural rhythms of reciting the Qur’an: the bending of his body, the prostration in unison with his brethren, the humility that bloomed in him when he heard the holy words. He’d shirked his sacred duty to pray for too long. Palms cupped together, he gave thanks for the blessings in his life, and prayed for Doris, for Ellie, for the circus, and for himself. He vowed to hold fast to his faith, even when he felt weak.
After prayers had ended, the men embraced one another. Yusuf tidied away his prayer mat and removed his skull cap, and walked with the men to the common room for a breakfast of sweet tea and dense, seeded bread smeared with thick plum jam.
He waited in line for his cup of tea, knowing the news of Doris would soon be common knowledge, and that the atmosphere at the residences would grow more sombre still. He overheard a conversation between Osman, Aischa, and Aya at an adjacent table. They chatted, lingering over empty cups and plates dusted with crumbs. Yusuf’s ears pricked when the conversation took a turn away from the circus closure and their uncertain futures.
“Did you hear?” said Aya, her smooth skin still crumpled from sleep. “Last night, Amena and I were walking past a gay bar in Warschauerstrasse and we saw Old Sayid through the window. I mean, I know he sometimes goes to Die Busche on Alexanderplatz, but this place was crazy. He looked wanton. It’s unfitting in a man of his age.”
Next to him, Osman and Aischa leaned into the story, their chairs creaking under their weight.
“He was wearing slim-fitting black jeans with a rainbow t-shirt, the one he wears when he attends the refugee group at the local gay bar,” said Aya. He looked ridiculously happy, and plain ridiculous with his scrawny legs and huge stomach. And after a few minutes, he leapt on stage to sing karaoke with another man, and when his hand tapped the mic, we saw he even had on glittery nail varnish. He slurred his words. He’d definitely been drinking.”
“It’s like we leave our homes and we lose our morals. We have a responsibility to keep up our way of life, to not lose sight of who we are inside,” said Aischa.
Yusuf joined their table. “I’m happy for him. He’s more free now to express his sexuality than he ever was in his sixty years at home.”
Osman clapped Yusuf on the back, and scooped up the plates cluttering the table, making room for him. “You are right, brother, who are we to criticise other people’s happiness? It is a prayer of its own, isn’t it, to leave people to their own choices?”
Aya’s temper spiked, despite the early hour and her usually sweet nature. She swung around to Yusuf. “Don’t think we don’t know who stayed in your room last night. It’s hard to keep anything secret with walls as thin as ours. Esme will be heartbroken.”
“It doesn’t become you to gossip.” Yusuf held her gaze. “I’m a grown man. Last time I checked, I didn’t need your permission for anything.”
Aya looked down. “I’m sorry.”
“No matter.” He rested his palm on her hand. “I am glad you’re all here. I have bad news.”
