You. Zoran Drvenkar

champion twice in a row, then the fire went out, and everyone apart from Leo noticed it. He kept going. When a man turns forty, he can stand wherever he wants, just not in the ring. Leo was one of those stubborn guys whose brain can come trickling out of their ears and they just pull back their shoulders and go on boxing. His second passion almost cost him his life. His gambling debts were in six figures, and if it hadn’t been for Tanner, Leo would have had to go on tour—Thailand and Indonesia loved European flesh. Fights without rules, but the money was good. Tanner bought the aging boxer’s freedom and saved him. Since then Leo’s been working for you and he is at the same time Tanner’s shadow. You don’t know what kind of aftereffects boxing left him with. His face is scarred, most of his nerves don’t work, the hands are deformed paws. He is married to a former model. She treats him like a god. You know you can always rely on Leo. He’s loyal and he can take a beating like no one else. And he hardly misses a thing.

      “There’s no TV.”

      “So?”

      Leo points at Oskar.

      “If there’s no TV, then how come Oskar’s holding a TV remote?”

      You’re surprised; you hadn’t noticed the remote control. It sticks out from his fingers like a black popsicle. Focus—how could you have overlooked something like that? You bend forward and take Oskar’s hand in yours. For his last birthday you gave him three watches and a watch winder. Oskar was allowed to choose the watches, the watch winder was your department. Its frame is covered with black piano lacquer, and as soon as you touch it, four little lights come on inside. You remember Oskar calling you up after his birthday party and telling you he’d spent an hour sitting in front of the box looking at the watches being rocked to sleep.

      There were days when Oskar was like a ten-year-old. What he hadn’t been able to experience as a child, he’d more than made up for as a grown-up. And you were always by his side, like a proud uncle with an overflowing billfold.

      The watch on Oskar’s wrist cost you ten grand, but it’s still not cold-resistant. The date tells you that Oskar was deep frozen on Saturday. The watch stopped at twenty to twelve.

      Leo asks you if you have any idea what might have happened down here.

      “Not a clue,” you answer, and let go of Oskar’s hand. “But if we wait till Oskar’s thawed, I’m sure he’ll tell us.”

      Leo doesn’t laugh; even though he knows you were making a joke, laughing would be a mistake. You ignore him, just as you ignore the vaulted basement and the swimming pool and stare with a full focus at your brother’s frozen body, as if it could suddenly give you answers to all your questions.

       STINK

      Stink you got from your brother. It’s miles better than Isabell. As if you were like from Spain or something. Not normal. Like that girl in 9C, the one with the braids. Like a hippie, except a techno one. Wall. Why Wall? As if there was something wrong with her. No, you’re Stink and you want to stay that way. The name stuck, even though your brother left school four years ago. You thought they’d give it a rest after that, but that was wrong, everyone went on calling you Stink, so you started getting used to it. Stink’s okay. Nobody ever says anything about toilets or whatever. And why should they. You smell nice. Perfume is a protection against the outside world.

      Protection against guys like Eric, who turns around two seats in front of you and looks at you as if you’re naked from top to toe. You shut your eyes, you really don’t want to see him. Hairless ass. Of course you don’t mean his ass, just his dumb shaved head. As if he’s a soldier on the way to the front, acting cool and shaving his head twice a week, though he’s only got fluff on his chin anyway, he’ll never have enough for a goatee. He’d need to drink more coffee. At least that’s what your aunt says. Aunt Sissi. Drink a lot of coffee and you’ll grow a beard. Hormones and crap. Thanks a lot, Auntie. That’s exactly what you don’t need. Hair all over the place. The only thing that works is Epolotion or whatever it’s called. You’re sure Schnappi can spell it, Schnappi’s always up-to-date like a radio station without ads that collects all the important information and feeds it back to you.

      “That hair thing doesn’t take a second,” she explained to you all, “a hot needle goes in”—she showed you and poked it around in her wrist. “It goes into your pores, you know? Or you do it with wax, but the hot needle lasts longer, right? So it goes in where the hair is and then burns your roots and it hisses and it hurts like fuck.”

      “Ouch!” yelled Ruth, blond, almost transparent and with no visible hairs on her legs.

      “Stop wriggling,” you told her and asked Schnappi how long it would keep working.

      “A few months.”

      “A few months?”

      “What did you think?”

      About a year was what you thought, but it probably isn’t.

      “And quanta costa?”

      Schnappi rolled her eyes.

      “No idea what it costs. You think I own the shop or something? Ask for yourself.”

      Epolotion’s out, you’ve checked. Incredibly expensive and incredibly painful. Two incrediblys too many. And anyway you like shaving. It takes a long time, but your legs like the feeling and your skin prickles afterward. You could get Indi to do it. It’ll be like in a movie. Pretty Woman II. Indi sitting on the edge of the tub, your foot in one hand, the razor in the other, desperate to suck your toes. No, Indi, you’ll say, shaving first, then sucking. And Indi will say, Okay. And then he will shave your legs, making you completely nervous with his touches as you doze in the tub and sip your champagne, all queasy and woozy and—

      “Hey, are you awake or what?” Ruth wants to know.

      “’Course I am.”

      “Then take your stupid head off my shoulder.”

      “Okay, okay.”

      “Slobbermouth.”

      You wipe your chin. No dribble, what a bitch! You narrow your eyes to get a better view of the screen. Stupid cinema. Stupid seat. Stupid movie. Come on, who wants to sit at the back? You can hardly see a thing. Stupid eyes and stupid half-price Tuesdays. Next time you’ll pay two euros and watch a DVD. More fun anyway. If you have to pee you don’t miss the whole story.

      “Stupid movie,” you mumble.

      Schnappi jabs you with her elbow.

      “Bitch!”

      Nessi sits next to Ruth and bends over and hands you her Coke. At least there is one person thinking about you. You drink and clink the ice cubes. Again Eric turns around and gives you the Look. Zombie.

      “You a Nazi or what?” you ask.

      “Dyke,” he hisses back and turns away.

      “Could you shut the fuck up,” Schnappi whispers, drumming her feet on the floor so people can feel it four rows down. Every time things get exciting Schnappi turns into Speedy Gonzales. An Asian girl on speed, you think, and it makes you laugh and you say, “Speedfreak.”

      “Are you having fun?”

      “Shut up, Ruth.”

      “Come on, if all you want to do is get on our nerves, just go to the can and talk to the toilet,” Ruth tells you without looking at you.

      “Or the soap dispenser,” says Schnappi, and they giggle together like two little girls on the way to the candy store.

      You look at them. They don’t look like sixteen.

      “I’m leaving,” you tell them, mature and grown-up as you are, and then you leave.

      The door shuts behind you, and you inhale with relief. The air in there was horrible. As