The hum of the needles produces a special kind of tranquility, like crickets chirruping or birds twittering on a summer evening. Concentrated silence otherwise prevails in the room, something between surgery and handicraft, with exhaustion to boot. For the first time in weeks, Britta is able to relax.
After they left the house in Wiebüttel, Britta and Julietta drove in amazement through a completely normal day, a Sunday, actually, as became evident when they encountered weekend excursionists on the B 214, all driving perfectly normal vehicles among which the Hilux no longer stood out, nor did the people in it, two young women in a big SUV on their way back to the city.
When they passed the sign for Braunschweig, Britta, against all reason, decided to make a little detour. She turned off the highway and entered the quiet residential district where she lived. She steered the Hilux through the narrow streets, parked it, conspicuous and oversize as it was, with the bicycles and family cars, asked Julietta to wait, and hurried over the paved walkway to her house. When Richard opened the door, she leaped into his arms with whatever strength remained in her emaciated body. Next she swung Vera through the air, savored her happy shrieks and cries of “Mama, Mama!” and embraced Richard a second time. His wide-open eyes were like labels on a big bag filled with questions. Britta reassured him that it would all be over soon, that she would come back, that their lives would change but go on together, that he shouldn’t worry, that everything was going to be all right. Then she ran off, accompanied by Vera’s tears and Richard’s horror, jumped into the driver’s seat, and drove away again.
Anxiety overcame Britta on the way to the Deutsches Haus; she’d had no contact with the candidates for days, and she couldn’t be certain they were still staying there. But her worry proved unfounded; both were in their respective rooms, had not budged from the place, and had patiently awaited further instructions. Marquardt greeted Britta with a hearty handshake, his face was almost fully healed, he looked good, and he was ecstatic at the news that now, finally, things were set to move forward. Jawad too was happy to see her: “Wallah, Frau Britta, why you leave us alone so long?” The two men climbed into the rear of the Hilux and leaned forward between the front seats to high-five Julietta.
At a gas station, Britta bought three cell phones for her commandos. They each presented valid identification cards and made sure the station attendant recorded their data correctly so they could be certain they would be under uninterrupted surveillance from then on. Back in the SUV, Britta instructed the three to carry their new devices with them always and to leave them switched on at all times. In succinct words, she informed her troop that external circumstances had necessitated a change in plans, alterations in the assigned deployments, new clients, and—for Jawad and Julietta—an immediate transition to Step 12. Marquardt looked delighted; Jawad declared, “Whatever you say, Frau Britta”; then they fell silent, and Britta loved them for that.
Now they’re sitting on folding chairs lined up against the wall, leafing through the available magazines or examining folders full of laminated pages with different designs, from tribal patterns to colorful mermaids. The studio seems to be located in a universal dead zone; here time has stood still, Kurt Cobain is groaning “Come As You Are” through the loudspeakers perched under the ceiling, advertising posters for erotic fairs and trade shows from the 1990s hang on the walls, and the place smells of cannabis and patchouli, an aroma that takes Britta back to her own childhood. She sees her mother’s too-large pants and too-small T-shirts, her father’s ripped jeans and worn-out gym shoes, she sees the square Volkswagen bus they drove to Kraków and Prague after the Wall came down, and she’s surprised to think that they were happy back then, that there was actually a decade in which people felt something like happiness.
Julietta keeps her eyes shut as she holds out her arm to the tattoo artist. She has taken off her long-sleeved black shirt and is sitting on the revolving stool in her undershirt. Her thin body shows all the ribs in her rib cage; they stand out like handles you could use to lift her up and carry her away. A man with a gray ponytail has laid her forearm across his knee. His belly rests on his thighs when he bends forward to see better. Britta has told him they’re in a hurry, it mustn’t take more than sixty minutes per person, and he replied that such speed would be possible, provided that he had an extensive, monochrome surface area to deal with. In everything that’s to come, Britta thinks, large surface areas and single colors will probably matter. The writing on Julietta’s arm is already complete in outline; to fill in the empty spaces, the gray-haired man changes needles. “A big tool for the innards,” says he, and you can tell by looking at him that this is a point where his clients usually laugh.
Britta sits upright in her chair and yields to the urge to close her eyes. Three hours to go before their meeting with “Heart.” She’s checked the coordinates of the meeting place online; they designate the premises of The Bridge, which Britta finds both cheeky and brilliant. For the moment, she’s in complete equilibrium. Her stomachache has disappeared, and Britta is reasonably sure it won’t be coming back. She’d forgotten that there’s a condition beyond pain. It’s called Paradise.
She sees Vera’s face and hears her voice: “Bam!—problem solved.” Mega-Melanie and Mega-Martin circle each other in a whirlpool. A gray cat floats toward Britta, it seems dead, but then it lifts its head and waves a paw at her. You carry it inside you. Just listen.
“Okay. Next, please.”
The tattoo artist’s voice makes Britta jump. When Julietta stands up and fishes a cigarette out of her pocket, Britta follows her outside. For a while, they gaze mutely at the cars going by, and it’s the loveliest sight there is. Then Britta starts to talk. She explains her plan in a few words, and it takes no longer than the duration of a cigarette to make clear what she has in mind. Julietta occasionally nods, draws on her cigarette, and says “Okay” several times. She looks neither surprised nor disappointed. She’s an amazing girl, Britta thinks, feels warm affection for her, and at the same time sudden pain at the thought of what’s in store. She must restrain herself from embracing Julietta.
Instead of doing that, she says, “I had to think about my parents while we were in there. About the nineties. Back then, we often took car trips to Eastern Europe. My parents were all hot to see what was behind the Iron Curtain. I was still a child, but I clearly remember the long drives. And the music, and the upbeat mood. And the magic of the word ‘Europe.’ ”
“How beautiful.” Julietta flicks her cigarette away and lights herself a fresh one. “I’d give a lot for such memories.”
“In those days, there was a beacon that lit up every horizon. Europe, world peace, democracy. My parents believed that everything would work out for the best. That the era of world wars and arms races was at an end, and that they themselves were setting out into a better future. But soon after the turn of the century, they stopped talking about that. They became downright silent.”
Julietta watches the traffic, squints, and listens. A group of “Sport Is Public” joggers trots past, giving the smoking girl dirty looks. They make Britta want to light a cigarette too.
“All of a sudden, there was no better future anymore, no place we could set out for together. All that was left was the possibility of building a wall around yourself and hoping that things wouldn’t get too terribly bad.”
Julietta nods while showing the joggers her middle finger. Britta has to smile.
“For me, it’s like a stone in the pit of my stomach.”
“What is?”
Britta considers. “Democracy. I’ve never voted for the CCC, never grumbled about Europe and the powers that be, never participated in an online firestorm. I simply decided to do my own thing. For years, I thought I was too good to follow the newsfeeds.” She shakes her head and pushes her hair back with both hands. “People like me are to blame for the current state of affairs, not the CCC extremists. Regula Freyer won her election through the ballot box, whereas my best friend decided, at least hypothetically, that she would exchange her right to vote for a washing machine. And I looked down on her decision too, because I thought I had better arguments for standing by and doing nothing.”
“And now?”
“Now I know that right and wrong exist only after you make your decision. Before that, all your efforts to avoid mistakes are just a charade, they make no more sense than a soccer match without a ball.”
Julietta nods and mimes striking something with a closed fist, maybe with a stone, but it’s possible that Britta’s mistaken about that too.
“The voters who put Freyer and her crowd into office have to vote them out again,” says Britta. “We’re still a democracy.”
“I get it,” says Julietta. “I’m with you.”
“But it contradicts everything you wanted.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Julietta turns her head and looks her in the eye. An extremely serious, thoroughly adult look. “A good cause is the part that’s important to me. This is one.”
“How do you know that?”
“I don’t know it, I feel it. Hatz is wrong.”
“Don’t the CCC assholes have to go away?”
“Of course they do. But not like this.” Julietta smiles. “It’s good that you’ve made your decision, Britta. Now you’re a human being again.”
They gaze at each other. And Britta takes her in her arms after all. They hold each other tight for several minutes, they know it’s the last time.
Shortly before eighteen hundred hours—six p.m.—Britta parks the Hilux on the rear side of the Kurt Schumacher Apartment Blocks and walks, followed by Julietta, Marquardt, and Jawad, the rest of the familiar way to her practice. On Sundays the Passage looks even more deserted than usual, even the eternal dental laboratory opposite her office is closed, the blond robot’s place vacant. You can tell by looking at the concrete slabs of the pavement that no shoe sole has touched them for many hours. Something has come to an end here. As if not only The Bridge, but also the whole Passage, this whole part of the city, has entered a new state, an afterward, an end time, in which human will has no more dominion, and command is only in the long, slow breath of things.
The door is slightly ajar. A first glance into the half-light shows that nobody has entered the premises in their absence. That’s why Britta likes this city; in Berlin or Hamburg, an unlocked office would have been plundered long ago by young hooligans, and after that junkies would have spent nights here, and then high school kids would have thrown a bonfire party.
The practice feels like a museum. Lassie’s missing, Babak’s dot picture is gone. What’s left is a dusty still life of worn-out furniture and useless junk. It’s as if The Bridge’s heart has been removed. The rooms are already beginning to smell unoccupied.
Julietta, Jawad, and Marquardt drop onto the living room suite. Jawad’s tattoo crosses his shoulders and the nape of his neck; he bends slightly forward in his seat, because he can’t lean back against anything. On Julietta’s and Marquardt’s forearms, the letters of the words “Empty Hearts” stand out as though in relief, swollen, surrounded by inflamed skin, and shiny with Vaseline.
Britta goes downstairs to make coffee. The dregs in the dirty cups in the sink have dried and formed a layer, as hard as lacquer, that no effort can remove; the sugar has gone lumpy; the milk in the refrigerator is sour. Britta doesn’t know how many days have passed since she last flipped a switch or opened a cabinet in here. It’s incredible how fast objects turn their backs on you if you stop busying yourself with them.
She looks in the cabinets but finds no clean cups, and the bottom of the coffeepot is coated with dried grounds too. Not long ago, such a sight would have made her gag, but now she takes a sponge and resolutely scrubs the pot, finally enlisting her fingernails in the effort, until it becomes clear to her that it’s no use, and that she’s keeping it up only because she doesn’t know what she ought to say to her fighters upstairs, because she’s afraid of having to endure silence. She gives herself a shake, turns off the boiling water, and goes up the spiral staircase.
“I’m sorry, but no coffee.”
No one reacts. The three look tense, like a band before they hit the stage. Britta sits in a chair and tries to be quiet in a similarly self-possessed way.
At six o’clock sharp, the door opens and Enrico Stamm comes in, as casually as if he were entering a greengrocer’s shop. Two faithful followers enter behind him; Britta knows at once that she’s never met them. These guys must be new, two of the names from Babak’s dot picture, Britta thinks, and she’s impressed that Stamm has taken care not to appear with any former candidates, so as not to confront his men with their former commander. No doubt, Britta still has power over some of them, if only because they hate her. The two young men are not older than twenty and considerably less self-assured than Stamm. The tattoo is prominently displayed on the back of one’s shaved head. In spite of the summery temperatures, both are wearing jackets, from which Britta concludes that they’re armed, a fact that in this case she finds rather more heartening than distressing. The more weapons, the more specific the plan; and the faster everything will unfold.
Outwardly, Stamm hasn’t changed since she last saw him; all that’s new is the tattoo visible under his open shirt. As in the past, his bulked-up body moves somewhat laboriously, as though its own strength stands in its way, while his small, sharp-eyed head is in constant, jerky motion. He has assessed the situation with lightning speed, and he seems to like what he sees. When he notices the fresh tattoos, he instinctively starts nodding.
“Britta, how’s it going?”
“Excellently well,” Britta says, glad that her answer corresponds so closely to the truth.
“I guess Guido was right. He wanted to talk to you all from the start.”
Stamm spits on the carpeted floor, aiming between the coffee table and the sofa. That this does not disturb her in the least makes Britta aware of how much has changed.
“I’ve brought you my three best candidates,” she says. “Marquardt has gone through the entire evaluation process. Julietta and Jawad have yet to complete it, but they’re close, and they’re definitely ready.”
“Fuck your evaluation.” Stamm spits once again. “We’re an army, we want to fight.”
“My people want that too.”
“Then they’re welcome.”
Only now does Stamm subject the three to a closer inspection. He gives the wiry Marquardt an appreciative once-over, gazes rather disparagingly at the somewhat flabby Jawad, and then turns to Julietta. “This one’s the star,” he says.
Julietta gazes up at him. Her hair falls in her face, and under it her eyes smolder like the eyes of a predatory animal.
“She belongs on the very front line.”
“That decision is up to me.”
Stamm bends forward, brushes Julietta’s hair to one side, and observes her face, as if she were a bauble that he might buy. Julietta’s expression remains impassive. Britta couldn’t say for sure what Julietta thinks about Stamm and his behavior, but in all likelihood she’s totally indifferent to him and it. She doesn’t even bother to push his hand away while he’s running his fingers over her hair.
“She’ll draw maximum media attention.”
“Oh, Britta. You still think you’re the only one who knows which way the wind blows.”
Stamm turns away and says a few words, sotto voce, to his men, who nod and move their jaws as though they suddenly have chewing gum in their mouths.
“You can go now,” says Stamm to Britta.
This is still my office, she wants to shout. I pay the rent. The carpet you’re spitting on is mine. Take your filthy fingers off Julietta, she’s mine too.
She sits there for a little while, rigid, as if in shock. Only now does she grasp that this is the end. A little chain of last moments. Her last sight of Marquardt and Jawad. A last smile from Julietta, who nods encouragingly. The last seconds on this chair, the last steps through the practice to the door. She will never see anyone or anything in this room again.
It costs Britta an enormous effort. She has trouble moving, as though her body suddenly weighs a ton. She forces herself to look no one in the face. Not to say good-bye. To ignore Stamm’s complacence.
Everything feels wrong, the time, the day of the week, the weather. It should be a cloudy winter morning with depressing light. With cold, damp air that creeps under your clothes. But instead, it’s a radiant summer evening, as if made for a long walk, for a mild night in a beer garden or a cookout with friends.
Britta goes. She gives her body orders, her hands open the door, her feet step out into the Passage. She doesn’t even turn around. As she passes the dental lab, her cheeks are wet with tears.