Free Hand Me Down World by Lloyd Jones Page A

themselves by their demands, their cravings. They wanted notoriety. Presence. Headlines. Fame. They wanted to be talked about. The model was the FFF (Fuck the Fucking Fuckers). The FFF, in our view, were not truly anarchistic. They took part in May Day parades. They sold T-shirts and mugs. They marched under banners. In other words, they lived in their narrow strip of floorboard and in their small rooms huddled up to tiny windows dreaming of becoming what they were not. We decided to split. After that we stayed in the east and they went to the train routes in Mitte and pussy areas like Prenzlauer Berg.
    When I first saw her I was on a train. Naturally. It was at night, in May. May? If not, early June. No, I think this is incorrect. The evenings were still crisp. I will say May. On the platform people stood by themselves, collars turned up. Occupying their holes in the night air. Is that an expression? I think Rilke would accept it. So. The train sweeps in and gathers up the crowd, and then it is like a sleeping sickness: the train sways, the people sway and nod off like babies in their cribs. Crib. Bassinet. Same thing. It is all the same word. The head of a sleeping man fell against her and she got up and moved to the standing area by the doors. But for that sleeping man’s head I might not have noticed her, but for that acorn, that apple…I would not have looked up from my own sleeping sickness and moved my knees for her to get past.
    We are drawing into the next station when a ticket inspector enters our carriage. There is, as always, a rise of tension. I get up to make my move, and that’s when I see the black woman making her way to the next carriage…and I know. Many get on the train without a ticket, especially late at night. This morning, for example, there was a stampede. I looked up from my stolen newspaper. It was a Chinese woman. She ran down the carriage. She looked like she was fleeing fire or the Japanese. The ticket collector calmly followed. He looked prepared to let her get away. I have seen young girls sitting with their knees pressed together, their heads lowered in shame, some in tears. I’ve seen so many escorted off the train. Tourists, as well, looking baffled and enraged. I can usually see at a glance who has a ticket. Who does not. But this woman…
    She is dressed in a smart blue coat. Very stylish. Italian design. Her face has an earned dignity. I would not have picked her. In the next carriage I find her near the doors, a nervousness twitching in her now. Standing right behind a tall, thin guy with his eyes closed. So, she is not alone. At Alexanderplatz we all dash out. In the crowd and in the rush she drops something. I’m the one following up behind so I pick it up, a plastic bag which I hand to her. She snatched it back. Snatched is a word? Then, realising I am not a thief, she managed a ‘thank you’. And with it an ease crosses her face as if to make an adjustment from the moment of accusation just a second ago. I am used to these corrections. My customers always see a thief, an opportunist, before they see the helpful tradesman that I consider myself to be, a fixer of souls, a mood regulator, all of which I achieve with the proper exchange of goods and services.
    Now. Why? I don’t know. Even now I cannot say why. It just erupts from me. I tell her, My name is Bernard. For eighteen months I have been Millennium Three. I have not used the name Bernard once. Why? Why just then, at that moment? Inexplicable? Yes. I think so. It is a confusing moment. And there we stand, facing one another, as if there should be more, that something else should quite naturally flow from this encounter. The other passengers have pushed past us, the train has left, and now quite naturally we walk together to the top of the escalators. Nothing is said. Yet we are in step. We come out of the station to the plaza. There is a number of wurst stands. I am not hungry. I am rarely