Why We Took the Car (14 page)

“And we have a flat,” I said and, like Friedemann, gestured vaguely in no particular direction. “But we really need to do some shopping because we haven't had breakfast. . . .”

Nothing in her facial expression or her manner changed, but she said, “We have lunch at noon and you are very welcome to join us, you young men from Berlin. You will be our guests.”

Then she showed her gums too — not quite as much as Friedemann, but a lot. Friedemann spun his balance bike around and shot toward the house, letting out a sound that was apparently a scream of excitement. There were now three or four smaller children standing at the door to the house all staring at us with big frog eyes.

I didn't know what to say, and Tschick didn't know either.

“What's for lunch?” he finally said. They were having something called Risi Bisi. Whatever that was. I scratched my head and Tschick went for a grand finale. He opened his eyes wide, bowed slightly, and said, “That sounds fantastic, ma'am.”

Oh, Christ, I couldn't believe it. That must have been lesson two from the German classes they give to immigrants.

“Why did you do that?” I whispered as we headed inside behind the woman. Tschick waved his arms as if to say, “What else was I supposed to do?”

Before we could follow her into the house she nodded to Friedemann, who took us by the hands and led us around the side of the house into the backyard. I didn't like the situation. It also made me uneasy that, when Friedemann looked away for a second, Tschick made a sign with his finger that Friedemann was crazy.

In the backyard was a big white wooden table with ten chairs around it. Four of them were already taken by Friedemann's siblings. The oldest one was a girl who was maybe nine, and the youngest was a boy of about six. And all of them looked alike. The mother brought out the food in a huge pot. Apparently this was Risi Bisi: rice in a yellowish goop, with little chunks and green herbs floating in it. The mother served everyone a bowl with a soup ladle, but nobody touched their food. Instead, they all lifted their arms as if on command and joined hands. And since the entire family was looking at us now, we also lifted our hands. I linked hands with Tschick and Friedemann, and the mother lowered her head and said, “Okay, maybe we don't necessarily have to do this today. We welcome our guests, who have traveled from far away, to the day's festivities and give thanks for everything that is bestowed upon us.
Guten Appetit
.”

Then everyone shook hands and we ate. Say what you will, but the goopy rice tasted fantastic.

When we were finished, Tschick pushed his empty bowl away with both hands and, in the woman's direction, said that it had been a scrumtrulescent meal. The woman reacted by furrowing her brow. I scratched my head and added that it had been ages since I had eaten so well. Then Tschick said it had been super scrumtrulescent. The woman showed a little of her gums and cleared her throat in her fist, and Friedemann looked at us with his big frog eyes. And then came dessert. Holy crap.

I'd rather not even tell the next part. But I will anyway. Florentine, the nine-year-old, brought the dessert out on a tray. It was something foamy and white topped with raspberries. There were eight individual bowls of it. Eight different-sized bowls. I figured there'd be a fight over the biggest bowl. But I was wrong.

The eight bowls sat huddled together in the middle of the table and nobody touched them. Everyone just shifted in their chairs and looked at the woman.

“Quickly, quickly!” said Friedemann.

“First I have to think,” she said and closed her eyes for a moment. “Okay, I have it.” She cast a friendly look at me and Tschick and then looked around the table again. “What did Merope Gaunt get for Slytherin's locket when she . . .”

“Twelve galleons!” shouted Friedemann, jumping in his seat and shaking the table.

“Ten galleons,” said all the others.

The mother pensively rocked from side to side and then smiled. “I believe Elisabeth was first.”

Elisabeth coolly grabbed the biggest bowl with the most raspberries. Florentine protested because she thought she'd shouted the answer at the same time, and Friedemann pounded on the table shouting, “Ten! I'm an idiot! Ten!”

Tschick kicked me under the table. I shrugged. Slytherin? Galleons?

“You've never read Harry Potter?” asked the mother. “Oh well, it doesn't matter. We're changing subjects now.”

She thought for another moment and while she did, Elisabeth took a little spoonful of her dessert, held it to her lips, and waited. She waited until Friedemann looked at her; then she slowly put the spoon into her mouth.

“Geography and science,” said the mother. “What was the name of the research vessel Alexander von Humboldt . . .”

“Pizarro!” cried Friedemann as his chair fell backward. He immediately took the second biggest bowl, put his nose to the rim, and whispered, “Ten, ten. How did I ever come up with twelve?”

“That's not fair,” said Florentine. “I knew the answer too. It's just because he yelled.”

Next the mother asked what was celebrated on Pentecost. I probably don't have to tell you how the game played out. When the two smallest bowls were left, the mother asked who had been the first president of the Federal Republic of Germany. I said Adenauer and Tschick said Helmut Kohl. The mother wanted to give us our desserts anyway, but Florentine was against that. And so were the rest of the children. I would happily have forfeited my dessert at that point. Jonas, the youngest of all the children, about six years old, rattled off the names of all the presidents of the Federal Republic of Germany, starting with the correct answer, Theodor Heuss, and then took charge of the game himself. He asked us what the capital of Germany was.

“Uh, I would say Berlin,” I said.

“That's what I would have said, as well,” said Tschick, nodding earnestly.

Say what you will, but the dish once again was fantastic. I swear I've never tasted such delicious foam with raspberries.

Afterward we thanked the family for the excellent meal and were about to leave when Tschick said, “I have a question for you. How do you figure out which way is north with a watch when it's . . .”

“You aim the hour hand at the sun! Then you wind the minute hand to twelve and it is pointing south!” yelled Friedemann.

“Correct,” said Tschick, pushing him his bowl with the last few raspberries in it.

“I knew that too,” said Florentine. “It's just because he always yells.”

“I might have gotten that,” said Jonas, sticking his finger in his ear. “But maybe I wouldn't really have known that. I'm not sure. Would I have known that?” He looked quizzically at his mother, and his mother patted his head lovingly and nodded as if to say he would surely have known the answer.

CHAPTER 26

They all walked us to the gate to say good-bye, and they gave us a huge pumpkin to take with us. It was just sitting there, a huge pumpkin, and they said we should take it in case we got hungry. We took it but didn't know what to say. They waved good-bye for a long time as we wandered off.

“Cool people,” said Tschick. I wasn't sure whether he was serious or not. I didn't think he could be serious since he'd made the twirling-finger this-kid-is-crazy sign when we'd walked in. But his facial expression made it clear he was serious. I guess he was serious about both things. He was serious that the kid was crazy and that he thought they were “cool people.” He was right too: They were cool, crazy people. They were nice and they were nuts, they made great food and knew a lot of stuff — just not the location of the supermarket. That they didn't know.

But we finally found it anyway. Later, as we turned into the street where the Lada was parked, carrying two huge bags of groceries and a giant pumpkin, I put the pumpkin down on the curb and went behind a bush to take a piss. Tschick trudged on without turning around — I'm only describing all of this in such detail because it proved important.

When I came out of the bushes, Tschick was about a hundred meters ahead of me and just a few steps from the Lada. I picked up the pumpkin and at the same moment a man carrying a bicycle came out of a driveway between me and Tschick. He lifted the bike up, flipped it over, and put it down on its seat and handlebars. The man was wearing a yellow shirt, greenish pants, and clip-in shoes. On the bike rack was a white hat that fell off when he turned it upside down. It was only when I looked at the hat on the ground that I recognized it as a policeman's cap. I also noticed something else we hadn't seen when we'd parked on the street: On the little brick house in front of the barn was a sign hanging with the green and white logo of the police. It was the town sheriff's place.

The town sheriff had yet to notice us. He cranked the pedals of his bike, pulled some tools out of his bag, and tried to wrestle his chain back on the sprocket wheel. He was having a hard time. He looked down at his dirty fingers and rubbed them together. Then he saw me. Fifty meters away: a boy with a giant pumpkin. What was I supposed to do? He could see that I was walking in his direction, so I just kept going. The pumpkin belonged to me, after all. My legs began to tremble, but it seemed to have been the right decision: The town sheriff's gaze returned to his bike. Then he looked up again and saw Tschick. Tschick had just gotten to the car, had thrown his bag of groceries in the backseat, and was about to climb into the driver's seat. The policeman stopped rubbing his hands together. He stared in Tschick's direction, took a step toward the car, then stopped again. There's nothing inherently suspicious about a boy getting into a car. Even when he opens the driver's door. But if Tschick were to start the engine, I knew what would happen next. I had to do something. I lifted the pumpkin up above my head and yelled, “Don't forget to bring the sleeping bag!”

I couldn't think of anything better. The policeman turned back to me. Tschick turned to me too. “Dad says to bring the sleeping bag! The sleeping bag!” I yelled again. When the cop turned again toward Tschick, I gestured at my head and my hip — meant to be a policeman's hat and gun — to try to telegraph the man's profession to Tschick. Without his hat on, and in those green cycling pants, it wasn't easy to tell. I must have looked like an idiot, but I couldn't think of any other way to signal that it was a cop. Tschick seemed to understand what was going on. He disappeared into the car and came out again with a sleeping bag in his hands. Then he closed the door and pretended to lock it (Dad gave me the keys, I just had to grab something), and came back toward me and the policeman with the sleeping bag. But he stopped after about ten steps. I wasn't a hundred percent sure why he stopped. But I think something in the cop's facial expression must have given away the fact that our clever move wasn't the greatest piece of acting he'd ever seen.

Tschick started backing up. Then he started to run. The policeman ran after him, but Tschick was already at the wheel. He backed onto the street at lighting speed and the policeman accelerated like a track star. Not because he could catch the car — there was no way he'd be able to do that — but so he could read the license plate number. Holy shit. A town sheriff who could run like a gold medalist. I stood there the whole time like an idiot, pumpkin in hand. As the Lada headed for the horizon, the sheriff finally turned back toward me. Don't ask what I did next. Normally, with any thought at all, I would never have done it. But nothing was normal anymore, and maybe it wasn't so stupid anyway. I ran to the cop's bicycle. I threw the pumpkin down and ran to the bike. I was significantly closer to it than he was at this point. I flipped it right side up and climbed onto the seat. The cop yelled, but fortunately he was yelling from a fair distance. I stepped on the pedal. Up to that second it had all been a blur, but now it became a vivid nightmare. I stepped with all my might on the pedal and didn't budge. It must have been in the highest gear, and I couldn't find the shifter. His shouts were getting closer. I had tears in my eyes and my thighs felt as if they were going to explode. But just as it seemed he would be able to reach out and grab me, I got the bike going and sped away from him.

CHAPTER 27

I flew through the village on its cobblestone roads. It didn't take me longer than a minute and a half to reach the town square, but I knew how risky it was since the cop had probably already gotten to a phone. If he wasn't stupid — and he didn't give any indication of being stupid — he would have called someone who could grab me as I sped through the center of town. Maybe there was more than one policeman in this village. I raced between gray houses and around corners and finally onto a path that led out into the fields.

As it started to get dark, I lay in the woods alone, wheezing and anxious. The policeman's bike was hidden under some dense brush. I wracked my brain as I waited. I was more and more unsure of what to do. I was a hundred or maybe two hundred kilometers south or southeast of Berlin in some forest, while Tschick was driving around somewhere in a light blue Lada with Munich plates on it, a car every cop in the area was on the lookout for, and I had no idea how we were going to find each other. Normally I guess you'd try to meet up where you'd lost each other. But that wouldn't work in this case — it was right in front of the town sheriff's place.