It isn’t a heroic moment for you. Look at your girlfriends, they still don’t understand exactly what has hit them, but they smell the corruption in the air, they feel it with every fiber of their bodies, as if the corruption had wings and was about to plunge down on them from thirty thousand feet up.
Did you really think it wouldn’t come out? By the time you were standing outside the derelict beach hotel, you must have understood how brittle your reality was.
Of course you were surprised.
You thought the hotel would still look as it did in the photographs. But why should time be good to a place that’s been empty for twelve years? Time isn’t good to anybody. Even if you turn time into God, it just laughs at you. Like now. You hear? Her laughter sounds like a storm, like the storm that came down on Berlin exactly a year ago, with a cooling summer rain. The thunder kept you awake for a while, as if the weather knew exactly what you intended to do. It spurred you on.
You summoned your courage and went downstairs to drink a glass of water. You thought you could have a look at what your father was doing. There were nights when he stayed in the attic till the early hours, working on his new jingles. And there were nights when he had visitors.
You knew he was alone that night.
You went upstairs and looked in his bedroom. He was lying on his side, his back was rising and falling as he breathed calmly. Sometimes he twitched when a crack of thunder made the sky outside tremble. You heard the rain on the plank flooring and closed the door. Now you were in his room, you’d taken the first step. You hesitated for a few minutes and watched him, you listened to his breath before you lay down next to him. As you had always done when you were little. At the age of ten you knew it had to stop. I’m not a child anymore, you had said. Tonight you aren’t a child anymore either, but you want to be with your father. For a while. In safety. And perhaps it had something to do with the fact that your boyfriend had split up with you, perhaps you were lonely and wanted to hear that everything was okay. Perhaps even that is just a lie.
You lay down behind your father and it felt proper and warm. He was aware of your presence, he turned round and looked at you in surprise. Before he could say anything, you threw your arms around him and pressed him to you as if you were lost and he was your salvation. Your heart was thumping wild and confused, and your leg pushed its way between his legs. Only then did he slowly start to understand that you weren’t his little girl anymore. He tried to pull away from you, he actually recoiled, and that was too much for you, that wasn’t right, he couldn’t push you away, so you held him tight, your hands on his back, your breath on his neck. You felt his erection, and it was shockingly beautiful and right, because an erection meant something, it meant he was aroused, it meant you were arousing him.
He hurled you out of bed and gathered the blanket between his legs as you sat bewildered on the floor in your T-shirt and black knickers that you’d chosen specially for this evening. Planning is everything. Only those who are brave reach their goal.
“You … It’s you?”
Your father tried to laugh.
“Who did you think it was?” you asked him and rubbed your bottom and thought of his erection and wondered if it was still there. Until then you’d only slept with Kai and you always had to hurry, because his erections came and went, as if he had to think every few minutes about whether he actually wanted to have sex.
“Were you afraid of the storm?” your father asked in a falsely chatty tone, and you could tell by his eyes that he wanted to say something else. Something like Are you crazy? How the hell could you even think of this? I’m your father!
But he didn’t say it, and that encouraged you.
“Nightmare,” you replied and got up. You turned round and showed him your sweet ass and asked him if there was a bruise on it, and as you did so you looked at him over your shoulder. He didn’t risk a glance, he stared at the bedcovers and said there wasn’t a bruise and did you want some hot milk with honey.
That was how the night ended—the two of you in the kitchen, each holding a cup of hot milk, candles burned, a summer storm raged outside and you talked about music.
For two days there was peace.
For two days he studied you out of the corner of his eye.
On the third day you stood by his bed again in the middle of the night.
“Dad?”
“Yes.”
He wasn’t asleep. He must have heard you coming in. Perhaps he’d been waiting. You liked that idea. His back was turned to you.
“Can I get into bed with you?”
“Taja, no, it’s not right.”
“I’m so alone.”
“Sweetheart, that …”
You started crying. It was real, you weren’t acting. You couldn’t deal with rejection. You stood by the side of the bed and cried and held your hand out to him. Help me. He turned around. Your hand was trembling. He pulled you into bed and held you in his arms as he had held his little girl in his arms six years before. Your back was turned toward him, he held you tight. It was lovely, but it wasn’t what you wanted. More. You slowly started pressing your ass against his crotch. He shrank back, he tried to hide his erection, you held his arms tight, he couldn’t get away. Stay. You heard him groaning, his breath burned the back of your neck and smelled of pot and slightly of vodka. Mine, you thought, as your bottom rubbed against him and then you took his sweaty hand and stuck his thumb in your mouth. It was as simple as that.
It wasn’t love, it wasn’t passion, it was pure power. And of course we want to hear that it was despair that drove you to it. Loneliness, abuse, violence. Give us something so that we can understand and forgive you. But there’s nothing. There’s just a fifteen-year-old girl who wanted to test her power and whose only excuse was that her boyfriend dumped her.
You wanted it; it made you grow. Each time it happened your value increased, while your father’s attempts to resist got weaker and weaker. When you got into the shower with him, when you stuck your hand down his trousers in the kitchen in the morning. Discreet, always discreet. Never when you had visitors, never when he was composing. You could still be the daughter who loved her life and didn’t get in her father’s way; but you could also be the little slut who seduced him and felt triumphant.
When women stayed overnight, you asked him in the morning if it had been any good. He blushed, tried to defend himself, and you walked away mid-sentence. You enjoyed it. You were taking your mother’s place without even thinking about it. And perhaps at some point you’d have had enough, normality would have returned, and you could have dumped your father like a boy who didn’t interest you anymore. It didn’t come to that, because your father started losing himself.
He couldn’t do it anymore, he didn’t want to do it anymore.
Six months had passed. No one noticed anything, even your girls hadn’t a clue. There was just you and your father in the house, you lived in a cocoon of lust. Your father knew it was wrong. He said he didn’t want to be a square, but it couldn’t go on like this. You knew your weapons and you used them. You look so like your mother and you pulled out all the stops. Clothes and hairdos. At Christmas you had your hair cut because your mother had a pageboy cut at her wedding. You became a second Majgull, and your father would have been a liar if he’d claimed he didn’t like it.
It didn’t last long. He avoided you until the summer, then he broke down completely, he took more drugs, drank vodka for breakfast, and wanted you both to see a psychologist. Your father became paranoid with guilt. He didn’t want to be alone with you in a room anymore, he was ashamed and said he’d go voluntarily to jail if it had to be.
And then came that Wednesday.
He hadn’t slept that night, he’d been fiddling about with various songs and taken tons of amphetamines because he was worried you might surprise him in his sleep. In the morning he stood in your room and just looked at you. You woke up with a start as he lay down next to you. You had swapped roles, he couldn’t live without you anymore, however much he resisted, he couldn’t. He said it. He said: I’m giving up. Now he was you, and he wanted you to hold him. You held him until he had fallen asleep, then you got up and showered. Something was wrong, your triumph had a stale aftertaste, something was definitely wrong.
When you came back out of the bathroom, he wasn’t in your bed anymore. You were relieved. It was like waking from a dream. Then you heard him downstairs on the telephone. His voice sounded as if he might burst out laughing at any moment. You crouched on the stairs and listened.
“Maybe a week, maybe longer. A holiday will do me good. Diana’s always wanted to go to the Côte d’Azur. No, without Taja. What did you think? She’ll manage, you know what kids are like.”
He hung up, and you went downstairs. He was standing in the kitchen drinking orange juice. You were so furious, so incredibly furious, and you wanted to know what he was up to. He laughed.
“Didn’t I tell you about it?”
He was messing with you and he didn’t even hide it. It was as if his helplessness had been wiped away, he was in control of you again. A cool, detached indifference was looking at you. Your father said, “We need a break.”
“I don’t need a break.”
“Too bad.”
And then he gave that laugh again.
He walked past you into the living room and slumped on the sofa. He put his feet up, picked up the remote control, and zapped through the channels. Whatever had given him back his sense of balance, it sent you back to the start. You couldn’t get past Go, no one gave you a get-out-of-jail card, it was wrong, even your voice sounded pitiful.
“You can’t leave me alone here.”
You were his daughter again, and you needed him. He sat up and rolled a joint, didn’t look at you, lit it and took a drag, sighed, still not looking at you, and then said, “You’re a big girl. Invite your girlfriends. Have a party.”
“Oskar, you can’t just run away from me.”
“Don’t call me Oskar.”
“That’s your name.”
At last he looked at you.
“You’re a slut. Just like your mother. Do you know that?”
You thought you’d misheard. He could disrespect you as much as he liked, but he couldn’t talk like that about your mother.
“Mom wasn’t a slut.”
“She was unfaithful, so she was a slut.”
“She was what?”
“Do you think I’m such a shitty driver that I’d just lose control like that and drive into the ditch? Your mother broke her fucking neck because she wanted to leave me. You get that? She wanted to leave me and you. God punished her for it. If there is a God, he did a good job.”
“What are you talking about?”
“She was a slut, Taja. Get that into your head. It’s all you need to know. It’s in your blood too.”
“You’re lying, you’re a fucking liar!”
“Believe what you will. I should have seen it coming from the start. Your mother always did what she wanted.”
“At least she didn’t let her father fuck her.”
He fell silent and stared at the television, his eyes wide. He’d stopped breathing and you were satisfied because you’d hit the bull’s-eye, he wanted to hide it from you, his voice sounded dull:
“You’re no better than your mother, just get out of here, I can’t look at you anymore.”
So you got out, you disappeared deep into yourself and walked round the table and stood in front of him so that he couldn’t see the television. He didn’t dare look up, his eyes were focused on your crotch, because your crotch was level with his eyes. No thoughts of sex now, nothing at all. You spread your legs and sat down on his thigh.
He didn’t really resist, his hands found your hips, but he was weak, he was stoned and exhausted and couldn’t get you off him.
“Taja, what the hell’s going on? Piss off!”
You took one of the cushions and pressed it down on his face. You wanted to scare him, you wanted him to be really terrified and understand how bad it all was for you. He immediately lost it and started flailing his arms at you. It was ridiculous. You’d fought stronger girls. He tried to press his hands against your belly, he tried to push you away. Then you got really furious. What was he doing? You were just trying to scare him, why was he freaking out? His right fist struck your face, the remote control scratched your forehead open. It hurt, blood flowed into your eye, it hurt like hell. You yelled at him to calm down.
“CALM DOWN, DAMN IT!”
Not a chance, he was pure panic, rearing up against you. So you lay down on the cushion with all your weight. You knew you didn’t deserve this, not the panic, not the blows, not all this damned unfairness. You’d done so much for him, you’d even had your hair cut, and you were always there for him, you gave him your love and he dumped you, just like one of his many women.
And he wanted to go to fucking France.
Without you.
In the end his leg twitched once more, then he sat still, head thrown back, no panic now, just calm. But you couldn’t ease the pressure, the switch had broken, you couldn’t just let go, and you kept the cushion pressed on his face, minute after minute. Eventually your body gave up and you collapsed exhausted over your father, and leaned your forehead against his. There was only the cushion between you.
For a whole day. For a whole day you didn’t take the cushion away. You looked at your father, you stalked through the house like a cat and took the batteries out of his phones. Silence was important. You drank everything you could find in the bar, and looked at him sitting there with the cushion on his face.
On the second day you took the cushion away. He was so peaceful. You sat your father up, his eyes were open, you didn’t want him to stare at the ceiling. You looked into his eyes and it felt as if he could see you, as if he could understand you. You didn’t want to close his eyes. It meant bringing it all to an end, really parting. You didn’t want it to come to an end. Your father sat on the sofa as he always did, with the remote in his hand. Only his eyes stared absently past you.
On the third day you took the drugs from the metal case. They made the situation bearable, but soon they led to the fact that you couldn’t bear the sight of your father any longer.
After you’d dragged him to the cellar, a century went by in slow motion. You lived on sleep and heroin, the sofa was your ship, the days’ light playing on the walls. And that was how your girls found you.
They were shocked and sympathetic, and even though you’d sworn to tell them everything, in the end you just couldn’t. They would have hated you, they would never have been the way they’d always been with you. No admiration, no love, nothing.
They’d have called you fatherfucker, and you couldn’t risk that.
The lies spilled from your lips like new truths. And so you won your girls over. You were the victim, they wanted to save you, you allowed yourself to be saved and made a new reality for yourself.
Stink went along perfectly. You knew the buttons you had to press, you predicted her reactions. That was why you showed her the drugs in your father’s hiding place. You wanted to disappear with your girls, but on no account could it look like your plan. It would have been too striking, it would have been wrong. You goal was your dream, your goal was Ulvtannen. You were sure that if you could start all over again far, far away from Berlin, everyone would forget you, and then your soul would have a chance of a new beginning and everything would be forgiven. You wouldn’t lose each other after school, and you’d be able to stay together. Every cloud has a silver lining. You and your girls. There wasn’t really anything to keep you in Berlin. Somewhere in Oslo or Bergen you’d be bound to find a dealer who would pay good money for your uncle’s drugs. If Darian could do it as a matter of course in the clubs, you were bound to pick it up without much trouble. And then there was the beach hotel that you could live in. It belonged to the family, and you were family. You firmly believed that Norway would welcome you with open arms. And if the money ran out, you’d get a job at the power station. Like your father, like your mother. You wanted to grow vegetables and become a real Norwegian. And you were sure your girls would love it. You’d always have a full house, you’d be inseparable and that would be your new life.
You wanted so much.
Your first mistake was not telling your girls who the drugs belonged to. Your second mistake was that you thought you knew what made Stink tick. How could you have been so stupid? Stink is unpredictable. She took the drugs and offered them to your cousin. You’d never have seen that one coming. Never. The worse the situation got, the tighter you clung to your lie. And you lost Ruth.
It really isn’t a heroic moment for you. You lied to us. To protect your own dark soul, you sullied our souls. And we believed you, naïve as we are—we fell for the lie about the phone call from Norway, we swallowed the argument with your father, the idea that your grandmother had died and left the hotel to you, and also that your father was a vile liar who hid your mother from you fourteen years before—we swallowed all that, because you’re sixteen and sweet and you were in need of help, who wouldn’t have fallen for that? You could have done that to us, we are standing here on the sidelines, it would have been okay, but lying to your girls, making them believe that your mother was still alive, who knows if they’ll ever forgive you that.
But you did give us one truth. It really was your sense of guilt that drove you to drugs. You couldn’t sleep, you were eaten away inside by guilt and looked for an emergency exit. Your guilt was and is genuine. Your father was never supposed to die. You’re sorry. You know you can’t take it back. It’s the only truth you gave us.
You tell your girls every single detail because you hope they’ll understand. During those minutes your uncle stops existing. There’s just you and your girls. After the last sentence silence falls, a genuine silence. Your uncle lowers the gun and lets you go. Then Stink steps forward. Of course it would have to be Stink. The warrior is there. You fear her judgment most of all. Her judgment. Her fury. She steps forward and hits you. With the flat of her hand, right across the face. Once. Then once again. And you don’t turn your face away. Your sweet Stink, with tears in her eyes, your beloved Stink, whom you have betrayed. When she raises her hand for the third time, your girls hold her back. Stink scolds and curses.
“And what about Ruth, you piece of shit? Just because you couldn’t keep your panties on, Ruth had to die!”
She struggles to break free.
“Damn it, let go of me, she lied to us, I’m going to kill the bitch, let go of me, damn it.”
“Let her go,” says your uncle and puts his gun away. “She has a right to be furious.”
Schnappi and Nessi reluctantly let go of Stink. Your eyes meet. You’re not going to defend yourself, whatever happens, Stink can do what she wants with you. For Ruth, for all the shit you’ve come out with.
Stink walks past you to the rubbish heap and picks up a pipe the length of her arm. She holds it like a sword, utters a growl, and runs toward you. You weren’t expecting this. You have no time to react. You stand there helplessly and keep your eyes shut tight.
That’s it.