She hugs me good-bye. Andreas is sitting behind the wheel, motor running. He honks. Then she starts to get in.
“Tell Damian hi from me,” I say and pat her on the back.
“He’s already asked about you. Kicks your ball around the garden every spare minute.”
“That’s fabulous,” I say and gently push her away.
A single topic has dominated all the conversations at Wotan Boxing Gym since the German Cup draw: the game against Braunschweig. Whether hooligan, martial artist, biker, bouncer, or right-wing extremist. Everyone is only talking about the match of the year. Suddenly, everyone’s an expert and offering analysis. Not just about the football match as such. Of course, much of the focus is on the trappings. The historic significance. That the last time they met, in 2003, it’d also been a Cup match and 96 had been sent home without a whimper with a 0–2 result is something everyone seems to have repressed.
The last couple of weeks haven’t been easy for the gym. After the raid, which everyone heard about, naturally, most of the customers stayed away to be on the safe side. Something resembling normal returned only slowly. Unfortunately, the right-wing guys were the first to come back on a regular basis. But since then, the Angels have come back, and Gaul has resumed his anabolic business in the locker-room. Axel now has a visit almost every day from the bikers, who come into his office without bidding and without knocking. He doesn’t make them go back out and knock, “as you’re supposed to do.” I can hear sharp words now and then when I go by. Axel snorts more than ever. Talks to himself the whole time while he’s stomping through the rooms. His normally reddish, seemingly enflamed skin color is duller than usual.
I’m standing at the back door when he pokes his blocky head out the office door and bellows my name without realizing I’m a couple meters down the hall.
“Come over here. Need to help me with something.”
I carefully step on the tip of a cigarette I’d just lit and put it back in the pack so I can go on smoking it later. When I enter his office, he’s standing on top of his massive desk, in his socks. His head disappears into the ceiling. He’s removed one of the drop-down ceiling tiles from its frame.
“Need you to hand a couple of things to me here.” His voice is muffled from up there, as if coming from another room.
He points a finger at the new stack of paper with lists that’s lying on the desktop next to his feet.
“Don’t mess them up!” he says threateningly as I’m passing him stack after stack.
He accepts them and pushes them around in the dead space. You can hear the dry sliding of the paper over the ceiling panels. A fine cloud of dust floats down. I’m supposed to hand him a bag from a desk drawer. The translucent baggie is three-quarters full of pills. Beneath it in the drawer is a bush knife at least eight inches long with a black rubber handle. The blade side sparkles sharply. The other is equipped with nasty teeth. After stowing the bag in the ceiling, he retrieves the missing tile from somewhere and maneuvers it into the appropriate spot.
I hold out my hand to help him climb down from the table, but he ignores it and climbs down on his own, groaning. We inspect the ceiling. Looks like before. I need to take a seat.
“December 18th,” he says, and crosses his hands like a boss, cracking his neck, left and right.
“Braunschweig,” I say, taking his pass. He nods and says, “Exactly. The preparations are already underway. As soon as the police measures are available. My friend at the station will let me know.”
“Preparations?” I ask, sitting up on the edge of the chair. I can hardly conceal my curiosity.
“This is the big show, Heiko. The chance for revenge. And the chance to finally put Hannover on the map. Even more important after our defeat in Frankfurt. And after your… unfortunate stunt.”
He doesn’t blink. Watches my reaction very carefully. I don’t let anything show.
“Who knows when a chance like this will present itself again. We have to take advantage.” He clenches a fist and again looks like a greasy neo-Nazi politician raging against the foreigners stealing our jobs and wanting to fuck our women. “We have to do something really big. Completely in keeping with tradition.”
He takes on a dreamy look, which on Axel seems more like mental illness.
“What are you thinking of?” I ask, making an effort to sound neutral, as if I didn’t care about all that and my interest was only slightly aroused.
“Match on the day of the game. Not far from the stadium, preferably. Like it used to be. Before cameras, directional microphones, and surveillance systems were installed. It can’t be in the stadium itself, we shouldn’t kid ourselves. But beyond the immediate police radar. Somewhere in the city center.”
“How about the Ihme complex?” I blurt out.
He points his sausage-sized index finger at me, smiles, and says, “That’s my nephew. That’s why I haven’t chucked him on his ear. When you have ideas, Heiko. You’re a visionary. Just like your uncle. I’ll suggest that right away.”
“What do you mean, suggest? To who?”
He leans back. His gaze has drifted off away from me and through the room. He rocks back and forth on his chair.
“I’m expecting visitors soon. They should show up here any minute. Sent Tomek to pick them up and lead them here.”
On command, someone knocks on the door. Axel grins. He straightens his T-shirt and clears his throat.
“Come in,” he says.
Tomek comes into the office. He’s followed by four thick-necked, wide-shouldered guys. They smile as if they’d just shared a joke in the hallway and it was still being digested. Two of them are wearing Stone Island canvas jackets. Another a washed-out Lonsdale jacket. The last one, with a severe blond part, has a hoodie with old German script on it. Axel rises and shakes hands with each of them, saying: “Gentlemen. Nice that you were able to arrange it.”
“It’s an important occasion,” says the guy with the part. From the roots, I can see the hair is just dyed. A fucking fake Aryan. The only thing missing is he’s not wearing blue contact lenses.
“Heiko, make some space,” Axel says.
I get up and give one of them my chair. He grins at me as if I’d had a big fat booger hanging from my nose that he doesn’t want to draw to my attention out of consideration. He slips past me, almost touching. He stinks from his mouth like a polecat’s ass.
“Is that him?” he asks one of the others and nods in my direction.
Confusion. I look at my uncle, who once again clears his throat.
“That’s him.”
All eyes are fixed on me and scan me from head to toe.
“And the other one?” the stinking mouth says and lights a cigarette without asking.
Axel looks at him, grinding his teeth. I can see it churning inside him and he’d like to bash his face in for it. And I hope he does. But Axel quickly opens a desk drawer and pulls out a glass ashtray he deposits in from of him. The others immediately start to puff, filling the small office with smoke in no time.
“The other one is in the hospital,” Axel says and I think I noticed him darting a glance at me.
They grunt. It’s what it would sound like if pigs could laugh.
“Then let’s not waste any time wrapping up this deal so we can finally return to Braunschweig,” says the guy who’s sitting in my spot and adjusting his Stone Island jacket like a business suit.
“Heiko. Please,” Axel says and makes a slow hand motion, as if we were here in the Sports Center broadcast studio and he’s moderating the transition to the next guest.
“What?” I ask.
“Apologize.”
My stomach contracts, as if anticipating a punch to the pit of my gut.
I ask what I should apologize for.