He struggled to keep a nervous tap out of his foot. A few sharp-suited businessmen, revealing only their eyebrows over the top of the day’s newspaper, were seated at small tables, while at two larger tables, women with babies chortled, their mingled perfumes wafting over him with every swish of a hand. When they threw back their heads and laughed, a fug of floral fumes, hairspray and unwanted humour seemed to stick to his skin.
The barista was taking her time, perfecting a frothy swirl. She placed it in front of him and met his eyes, her face plain and unsure. ‘Latte,’ she said.
He shook his head.
‘Oh?’
‘Black coffee to go,’ he said. It came out brisk and blunt and harsh.
She looked at the cup with its perfect milk swirl and back at him. ‘No latte?’
‘Black coffee to go, how hard is that?’ He pressed his fingers into his forehead. He had no other destination so he waited, uncomfortable and under-caffeinated, finding the weight of smells – coffee, cinnamon, pastry, perfume, newspapers – intoxicating. The sounds of grinding, punctuated laughter, the sticky shoes of the barista as she turned, leaving the latte in front of him with a clunk of the saucer.
‘Black coffee, yes?’ she asked, placing a china mug under the machine.
‘To GO!’ he yelled. ‘Holy fuck,’ he added under his breath.
‘Did you say latte?’ One of the laughing women brushed against his shoulder. The barista looked relieved and nodded, handing over the latte. ‘Thanks,’ the woman said and, teetering on high heels, wobbled back to her table.
Rune lit a cigarette with tingling fingers. Everything jangled, like a box of loose nuts and bolts. What if it was all over? His application had taken over a year to prepare and submit and now he had one chance to change the professor’s mind. He felt ill-equipped to form a complete sentence, let alone create a compelling argument that would persuade them to reconsider his application.
His hoody felt tight around the collar. Sweat pricked his neck and the heat of the café, the smoke, the drugs, and the too-real feeling of being strapped into the back of a moving car careening towards a brick wall made him want to vomit.
Finally a takeaway cardboard cup was handed to him. Black coffee, sleek and strong.
‘Milk and sugar behind you,’ the barista said, before simpering away to serve a guy dressed in tight gold trousers and a pink boob tube, his heavy beard sequinned with rain.
‘Happy Destiny Day!’ the guy boomed in a loud, deep voice, gaining glittering looks from the women. ‘The Day of Fate,’ he added theatrically.
It was the date, he thought. He’d had the same problem last year. It was getting worse year on year. But this year. Ten years, and that must mean something.
A decade.
At least, everyone else seemed to think so. Last year, Rune had spent two days in a drug-infused haze. Unable to bear the wails and calls and memories as they clawed through his skin, he had drowned them out. But this year . . .
He ripped three sugars into his coffee. What was he going to do this year? Until his application was rejected, he had thought he’d be planning for a future. The concept was wobbly, new.
It’ll be over in a few days, he tried to reassure himself, stirring the sugar and fitting the plastic lid onto his cup. A few days.
He put a large tip in the cup for the barista – his last marks, a silent sorry for being such a dick – and left the café; sitting on a metal chair outside, he watched the streets hum around him.
He would explain the situation and then, maybe, life could start. He walked back to Studio 4 with purpose and intent, his strides long, his hands warmed by the coffee.
He could do this.
THEN
FRIDAY 6TH JANUARY 1989
EPIPHANIE – EPIPHANY
In the taxi, Mama pulled out sheets of paper. Lots of paper. She had a plan after all.
‘Is that Papa’s workbook?’ he asked, seeing a slim black leather-bound notebook among the papers.
She hid it under the other sheets and looked at him. A meaningful look.
What was happening? What hadn’t she told him? He looked out the window, trying to work out what was going to happen next.
The driver talked and talked, with a thick accent. Mama replied with single words until they eventually arrived at a checkpoint.
‘Where are we going?’ Rune asked.
‘We are going to visit my grandmother.’ She turned to look at Rune. ‘Your great-grandmother. Annika,’ she said.
‘Who?’
Mama repeated it.
As slow as the car moved, the clock on the dashboard inched forward, drawing out each second, each minute; the tyres rolled on, taking them away from Papa, away from home, but . . . to where?
‘Annika. Annika. Aaanni-kaaaa,’ Lotte said in a sing-song voice next to him.
‘The traffic is heaviest this time of day,’ the driver explained. ‘Everyone getting back before their overnight visas run out. It’s a difficult time right now, with all the reforms.’ He looked to Mama to confirm that she understood what he was saying. She nodded absently.
The taxi driver continued, ‘No one really knows if it’s true, the reforms on travel restrictions, you see, so everyone’s behaving like scuttling beetles.’ He rubbed at his ear and Rune looked away, disgusted at the watery squelching sound it produced. ‘Current reports are saying,’ the man went on, looking at his finger before returning it to the ear and rubbing once more, ‘that there’s no “shoot-to-kill order” for the East German guards if East Germans themselves are trying to flee over the Wall . . .’ He droned on, but Rune listened closely. Shoot? Wall?
The driver looked at Mama carefully. ‘But the ministers have promised the West that if East Germans are trying to flee across the border, they will only receive warning shots. I think it’s making people believe that change is happening. That the reforms are true. People are taking more risks. But it’s irrelevant to us because no one from the West ever goes East. You have your visas?’ he asked, abruptly changing the subject, and Mama answered by holding up the papers. ‘Ah, so you are staying then?’ the driver asked, looking at the papers curiously. From his place in the back, Rune couldn’t see what they were.
‘We’re going across the Wall?’ he asked, his voice rising high in panic. ‘With the communists, the reds’ – and he lowered his voice – ‘the Russians?’
Mama turned. Her eyes wide, her face pale. Her expression said, Trust me; or maybe it said, Please don’t make a scene. He wasn’t sure. He said nothing more, but slumped back in his seat.
As the car crawled slowly towards the checkpoint the driver turned off the radio, plunging them in a thick silence that Rune tried to swallow away. They weren’t going home, but was this worse?
‘Are you sure about this?’ the driver asked, nudging the car forward. ‘You know, East Berlin, they aren’t to be trusted with their promises for change . . . It’s not . . . their track record . . . the kids . . . your daughter?’ He whispered the last word and nodded to the back seat, where Lotte was looking out of the window, her tongue lolling from between her lips. Rune touched Lotte gently on the arm, motioning to her that her tongue was out. She smiled.