Friday,’ he said. ‘I’m going dancing.’
‘With whom?’ She actually sounded a little jealous.
He showed her the photo of Kardakov.
The night was advancing towards dawn and the silhouette of the Memorial Church towered over the brightly lit mass of houses, the only building in the neighbourhood that wasn’t drowning in neon light. It seemed to serve as a warning to revellers, with its dark, silent mountains of stone in the midst of the night-time racket. Rath walked past the church and went up the Kurfürstendamm, squeezing through a group of noisily laughing, drunk tourists he guessed were from somewhere near Stuttgart. He heard a strong southern German accent, at least, when one of the men made an indecent offer to a young woman walking by.
‘Learn some German first if you want to pop your cherry,’ the woman replied, suddenly no longer so coy.
The Swabian loudmouth blushed and fell into hurt silence while his companions grinned inanely. Rath was annoyed. For some reason, everyone from the provinces seemed to think they could let it all hang out in Berlin. In a way he was happy that, aside from his parents, nobody from Cologne knew he now lived here. It meant that no-one would be visiting. He could imagine some of his friends – his friends from before, mind – behaving in exactly the same way as the merry Swabian.
Rath glanced at the time. It was past midnight, and he hadn’t made any headway. He felt the long day in his bones, having scoured the Russian bars in the neighbourhood as systematically as he had unsuccessfully.
He had thought his night-time operation would be easier when he questioned drinkers in the little Russian pub in Nürnberger Strasse, an establishment for those hankering after a taste of home. In the smoky bar with the low ceilings and Cyrillic menu he would have bet on finding someone who recognised Kardakov. A bet he would have lost, even though the place was barely five minutes from his flat, from the flat where Alexej Kardakov had lived until a few weeks ago. Either the Russians kept mum when someone ventured into their world or Kardakov really never had set foot in the bar. Rath suspected it was the former for, even in the cosmopolitan meeting points favoured by Russian intellectuals, he had only heard the word njet when he showed the Russian’s picture.
Yet he felt sure that a man like Kardakov would come to this sort of place when he gave in to his longing for melancholy, alcohol and his fellow countrymen. Charlottenburg was the centre for Russians in Berlin. They had built their own world here with Russian bookshops, hairdressers and bars, a world in which you needn’t speak a word of German to get by. Charlottengrad the locals called it.
He crossed Augsburger Strasse and counted his money. The Kakadu-Bar ’s neon sign was reflected on the wet pavement. Taxis kept arriving and spewing people out. He had come to know most of the bars in Berlin through work, but Kakadu was one of the few he also visited privately, stumbling in after prowling around town unable to sleep. It was situated where Joachimstahler Strasse and Augsburger Strasse intersected with Kurfürstendamm, not far from his flat. Before he returned home he wanted another drink – and not tea mixed with rum. Besides, he liked the jazz band.
The red-gold room was jam-packed when he entered. The band drowned out the babble of voices and a number of couples were dancing. The stools by the long bar at the back were all occupied. Cockatoos and other exotic creatures romped around on glass panels that were illuminated from behind. In front of them quicksilver barmen positioned themselves against the glare to receive customers’ orders with eager smiles.
Most of the drinkers in Kakadu had fat purses, the place wasn’t exactly cheap. Rath placed himself between two men who looked as if they might keel over from their stools at any moment and waved a barman over. The man leaned closer to take his order, gazing
‘With whom?’ She actually sounded a little jealous.
He showed her the photo of Kardakov.
The night was advancing towards dawn and the silhouette of the Memorial Church towered over the brightly lit mass of houses, the only building in the neighbourhood that wasn’t drowning in neon light. It seemed to serve as a warning to revellers, with its dark, silent mountains of stone in the midst of the night-time racket. Rath walked past the church and went up the Kurfürstendamm, squeezing through a group of noisily laughing, drunk tourists he guessed were from somewhere near Stuttgart. He heard a strong southern German accent, at least, when one of the men made an indecent offer to a young woman walking by.
‘Learn some German first if you want to pop your cherry,’ the woman replied, suddenly no longer so coy.
The Swabian loudmouth blushed and fell into hurt silence while his companions grinned inanely. Rath was annoyed. For some reason, everyone from the provinces seemed to think they could let it all hang out in Berlin. In a way he was happy that, aside from his parents, nobody from Cologne knew he now lived here. It meant that no-one would be visiting. He could imagine some of his friends – his friends from before, mind – behaving in exactly the same way as the merry Swabian.
Rath glanced at the time. It was past midnight, and he hadn’t made any headway. He felt the long day in his bones, having scoured the Russian bars in the neighbourhood as systematically as he had unsuccessfully.
He had thought his night-time operation would be easier when he questioned drinkers in the little Russian pub in Nürnberger Strasse, an establishment for those hankering after a taste of home. In the smoky bar with the low ceilings and Cyrillic menu he would have bet on finding someone who recognised Kardakov. A bet he would have lost, even though the place was barely five minutes from his flat, from the flat where Alexej Kardakov had lived until a few weeks ago. Either the Russians kept mum when someone ventured into their world or Kardakov really never had set foot in the bar. Rath suspected it was the former for, even in the cosmopolitan meeting points favoured by Russian intellectuals, he had only heard the word njet when he showed the Russian’s picture.
Yet he felt sure that a man like Kardakov would come to this sort of place when he gave in to his longing for melancholy, alcohol and his fellow countrymen. Charlottenburg was the centre for Russians in Berlin. They had built their own world here with Russian bookshops, hairdressers and bars, a world in which you needn’t speak a word of German to get by. Charlottengrad the locals called it.
He crossed Augsburger Strasse and counted his money. The Kakadu-Bar ’s neon sign was reflected on the wet pavement. Taxis kept arriving and spewing people out. He had come to know most of the bars in Berlin through work, but Kakadu was one of the few he also visited privately, stumbling in after prowling around town unable to sleep. It was situated where Joachimstahler Strasse and Augsburger Strasse intersected with Kurfürstendamm, not far from his flat. Before he returned home he wanted another drink – and not tea mixed with rum. Besides, he liked the jazz band.
The red-gold room was jam-packed when he entered. The band drowned out the babble of voices and a number of couples were dancing. The stools by the long bar at the back were all occupied. Cockatoos and other exotic creatures romped around on glass panels that were illuminated from behind. In front of them quicksilver barmen positioned themselves against the glare to receive customers’ orders with eager smiles.
Most of the drinkers in Kakadu had fat purses, the place wasn’t exactly cheap. Rath placed himself between two men who looked as if they might keel over from their stools at any moment and waved a barman over. The man leaned closer to take his order, gazing
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