Berlin 2039: The Reign Of Anarchy Karsten Krepinsky (essential reading .txt) 📖

the Quran proffered by Bansuri and walks out of the locker room. When the mayor is gone, the Imam motions me closer. “The messenger of Satan, the scum of the earth,” is his flattering way to greet me. “What does he have for me?” He addresses me in the third person, his voice a hypnotic monotone. When I approach, he issues a staccato of clicking noises. Like a bat getting its bearings with the help of ultrasonic waves, he seems to use echo as a means of orientation. This way, he can probably guesstimate my position. A bodyguard hands him the plastic bag containing the coke. Bansuri sticks his hand inside and fondles the little pouches with a satisfied nod. “Five minutes,” he says.

The shades stop me from seeing Bansuri’s eyes. My first instinct is to check, whether the man is really blind. But the older one of the two bodyguards is watching me like a hawk. I’d rather not find out what he’d do if he reads one of my movements as an insult. “I need to compliment you,” I lie through my teeth. “They say you’ve beheaded six Chechens with your own hand. What an act of courage.”

The Imam eagerly nods.

“However, I ask myself,” I continue, “how the blade has met its mark.”

Bansuri laughs. “The first cut doesn’t need to be the last one,” he hints at the way the execution took place. “It’s enough if the fourth of fifth strike kills. I wanted them to know how much I’ve enjoyed their screams. And I wanted to smell their sweat of fear, when my blow smashed their shoulders and the scimitar dug into their hips. Allah in his wisdom has honed my remaining senses. A blind man perceives the things that count. He can hear the melody of the world, unadulterated by treacherous eyes.” A beatific smile on his lips, the Imam starts softly chanting verses from the Quran.

“There were two more murders before the one of the great Yussuf Bansuri?” I ask.

“Tarek and Abdul, my dear brothers, have died in an ambush carried out by the crusader,” the Imam complains. “May Allah punish him,” he adds with a hiss.

“When did it start?” I want to know.

The Imam takes his time. My straight question seems to annoy him. It obviously makes him feel uncomfortable to discuss a family matter with an infidel like me. He looks in my direction as if to discern what to make of me. “A little over two weeks ago we found Tarek in his tea house with his skull shattered,” he lets me know. “The shisha was still in his hand. I swear, when I get my hands on this crusader I’ll have him tortured. For weeks. Months. Inshallah!”

“Yesterday Ramsan Alchanov was murdered,” I inform him. “An ace of clubs was found with his body.”

The Imam flinches as if struck by lightning. “The crusader kills like a coward,” he tries to mask his deep confusion with a platitude. “Crusaders or Jews, it’s all the same to me. They poison the minds of our young men, seduce our women, and rob us of our culture. If this Christian isn’t apprehended soon, I’ll take the fight out of the Ghetto, inshallah,” he grimly declares.

Bansuri didn’t know anything about the murder of the Chechen, this much is clear. He seems to be shocked, even. Now, I’m really confused. Why should he mind so much, that a Chechen’s been killed? Might he see a connection to the series of murders, which are news for Natasha and me?

With a flick of his hand Bansuri motions to one of his bodyguards to see me out. The audience is over.

8

The Copt’s getting more and more paranoid. Lucas and Quasim continue to encourage each in their hatred of the Lemons. Now, they even badger me to get them some fertilizer to build a bomb. It had to lead to problems eventually that they do nothing but hang out in an underground ticket booth on a subway platform brooding, without ever seeing the sun. Lucas is right of course when he says that the Lemons have been persecuting the Copts for centuries, suppressing them and destroying their culture. But you can’t dwell on the past forever. Life has to go on. Again and again I try to talk sense to him and to cheer him up. Quasim is no real help in this. Most of the time he just sits on the sofa, doesn’t say a word, and numbly stares into space. These bad vibrations are simply more than I can take. I’d love to just walk away and leave the two of them to their own devices. Maybe I’d better look for another place to stay in the Ghetto. There might not be any apartments available, but the tunnels under the city offer many hideaways up for grabs.

I’m not sure what to do. For some reason Lucas has grown to me. Maybe it’s because he’s an honest and decent guy, qualities I’d like to claim for myself. Therefore, it hurts twice as much that he’s blaming me and my drug-dealing for the moral decay all around. He accuses me of infesting the Ghetto with dope. The fact that it’s my only option if I want to make a living, doesn’t count. Even though he also benefits from my business, as I often grumble. The money for meat in the refrigerator had to come from somewhere, right? However, I’d never say so to his face. Not, as long as he’s down like this. I don’t want to find him with his wrists cut when I come home. When I casually mention that the Imam plans to build yet another madrassa, this time in Zehlendorf, Lucas sits up. I just let him vent his anger against the Lemons. Quasim will join the chorus, meaning that the two of them will leave me alone.

Anja’s getting more and more demanding when I take her out. Her blatant materialism exhausts me. All these endless shopping orgies