Tomorrow Pamplona Read online

  MEIKE ZIERVOGEL

  PEIRENE PRESS

  I adore the deceptive simplicity of this story. On the surface, the fast moving plot, the short sentences, the ordinary words make the text as straightforward as punches in a boxing match. But just as physical conflict stirs deep emotions, so too does this book as it focuses on a single question: how do you choose between flight and fight?

  Contents

  Title Page

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  Other Peirene Press books

  About the Author and Translator

  Copyright

  1

  A boxer is running through the city. He heads down a street with tall buildings on either side, darts between parked cars, runs diagonally across a junction, down a bike path, crosses a bridge and follows the curve of the tram tracks. Anyone passing would think he was in training. But he’s running faster than usual. His breathing is out of control. His eyes are wide.

  His boxing boots fly silently over the pavement. Fragments of sentences echo around his head, accompanied by the ringing of a bell. Disconnected words thud against his eardrums, buzzing sounds, distorted, far away. Then suddenly they become clear.

  Stop.

  He lands a punch.

  Stop that!

  He lands another punch. Again he hears a bell, sharper and louder than before. Stop, someone screams. He feels a hand on his shoulder, fends it off with a jab of his elbow. He throws a left hook, hits the man square in the face and turns back to his opponent.

  Stop that! he hears again. He lands another punch, and another, and another.

  He crosses a busy main road and runs into a park. He comes to a patch of grass with a bronze statue in the centre, a woman holding a child in the air as though she wants to entrust it to the clouds.

  The boxer slows, panting, and looks at the statue. He sits down on a bench. The bushes and trees stand motionless between him and the street with the tramlines. Dark grey clouds slide past behind the trees. There are no birds, not even pigeons.

  He feels fine drops of rain on his face. The leaves on the trees move gently in the breeze. A man in a denim jacket is standing on the other side of the park, beneath the awning of the cigar shop on the corner. He’s looking in the boxer’s direction. Another man comes out of the shop, lights a cigarette, and says something to the man in the denim jacket, who replies without taking his eyes off the boxer. The smoke dissolves in the air. The boxer looks down at his legs and at the wood of the bench, as it slowly darkens in the rain.

  He hears footsteps. For a moment, he seems resigned to his fate. He waits for a deep voice to say something, to speak his name, to pin him to the bench. When it comes, the tone isn’t what he expected: Hey, you’re Danny Clare, aren’t you?

  The man walks over and stands in front of him, turns up the collar of his denim jacket. The other man stops behind his friend, off to one side. With no expression on his face, the boxer looks at the two men.

  You are him though, aren’t you? The boxer?

  Danny gets up.

  We saw you, says the man in the denim jacket. He tugs at his collar again, trying to shield his neck from the rain.

  Against that big blond guy, it was. The Hungarian.

  The other man corrects him: Bulgarian.

  Danny doesn’t react. He just clasps his hands.

  Good fight, that was.

  The cigarette falls to the wet gravel and the man crushes it with his foot. The two men smile at the boxer. The man in the denim jacket says something else, but his voice fades away and Danny looks down at the cigarette butt, which is still smouldering, and then at his feet. Now he can hear words from his conversation with Pavel, at the boxing school. And there’s that click in his head again, when it all fell into place, and the click that came afterwards when everything around him imploded and went black.

  I don’t know what you’re talking about, he says. He runs to the park exit, leaving the men and the statue behind. He goes through the gate, crosses the tramlines and races along the brick wall and around the corner. Finally, he reaches a busy dual carriageway, with an endless stream of cars flowing out of the city. That’s the road he wants. The rain sweeps against his face. He runs past a supermarket and sees a black kid pushing a line of shopping trolleys inside. He passes beneath a viaduct with drops of rainwater clinging to its solid metal girders. Reflections of the posters on the walls ripple dimly in the puddles. He stops in the shelter of a tree by a big roundabout. On his right, a railway line hangs high above the street. He sees the station just beyond the roundabout. A long train is pulling in, its wheels screeching. The boxer puts his hands in his pockets. His keys, his loose change, his mobile – it’s all still in the changing room at the boxing school.

  The traffic spins around the roundabout and fans out along the roads leading to and from the city. He takes the road to the motorway. He crosses over, walks through the long grass in the centre of the roundabout, waits for a gap in the traffic, crosses again, stands by the roadside and raises his thumb. A car soon stops for him. There’s an old man at the wheel. I can take you a few kilometres down the motorway, he says.

  The boxer nods and gets in.

  I’ll drop you off at the petrol station. You’ll be able to get another ride from there, no problem.

  The man accelerates gently, navigates a few bends and heads onto the motorway. Opera plays on the radio. The voice pierces through the noise of the engine. When Danny looks at the radio, the man turns the knob and the music becomes louder. The voice grates on his nerves. They sit in silence for a few minutes. Then the man takes the exit for the petrol station. When they reach the pumps, Danny thanks him and steps out of the car into the smell of petrol.

  You’re welcome, says the man.

  Danny slams the car door.

  *

  He walks over to the verge just beyond the canopy of the petrol station. The rain is coming down harder now. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his T-shirt is sticking to his chest. Cars race past, just patches of colour on the other side of the crash barrier, all heading in the direction he wants to go. Half-heartedly, without looking at the drivers, he holds up his thumb at every car that drives back onto the motorway with a full tank.

  He sees a big estate car. A family car. Automatically, he raises his thumb again. When the car stops, it’s a moment before he realizes he can now walk over to the open door and ask the question he needs to ask. He reaches the car and leans over, but not too far. The roof hides his eyes from the driver.

  Where do you want to go? A hurried voice.

  He straightens up, glances over his shoulder. The rain beats down on the roof and the windscreen wipers squeak. He shows his face to the driver and says: I’m heading that way.

  He points down the motorway, just as the wind picks up and the rain starts rattling on the bonnet. The man tells him to get in, says he shouldn’t be standing out there in the rain.

  Beyond the canopy of the petrol station, he sees silhouettes of buildings huddled together in the distance, where the cars are coming from, where he came from. A few office blocks rise up above a serrated horizon. For a moment, he thinks about saying goodbye to that image, even though it means nothing to him. He stares at the silhouette of the city. Then he climbs into the car and shuts the door. There are scraps of paper on the floor, sweet wrappers. A plastic bottle without a top. The car moves onto the slip road, lets another car overtake and moves into the right-hand lane. Danny asks the driver if he minds his upholstery getting wet.

  Not a problem. Just be glad you’re inside and dry, the driver says. Danny looks at him and tries to smile. The man is blinking, a tic.

  The driver
’s older than him. Maybe mid-forties. And he’s a lot smaller, with narrow shoulders and pale, thin arms. He’s wearing white trousers and a white polo shirt and Danny can see the beginnings of a paunch.

  You been there long?

  He doesn’t know. Could have been a couple of minutes, could have been quarter of an hour. He spots a digital clock between the speedometer and some other dial with a needle. Not too long, he says. The two dots between the digits blink and he realizes that, even though the man is asking him questions, the answers don’t really matter. The numbers on the clock change. He stares at them until they change again. Then his gaze falls on a frame stuck to the dashboard. There’s a photo in it. A woman with long, straight hair. Two children standing in front of her, a boy and a girl. The woman’s hand rests on the girl’s shoulder.

  He turns away, swears at the window and says her name, his breath steaming up the glass. Damn it, Ragna. It’s as though she’s sitting in the back seat and he’s whispering to her.

  The car passes beneath a flyover and for a moment the window darkens and he’s looking at his reflection. He turns his head again. As the car drives back into the grey light, he stares at the bonnet, at the white line stretching ahead of the car, shakily trying to maintain its course, scratching away at his thoughts.

  They overtake a lorry. Splashing circles of rainwater spray out around its huge wheels. The driver has a roll-up in his hand. He looks down at Danny. At his wet clothes, his hair. His face. They accelerate and Danny watches the lorry growing smaller in the wing mirror. When it’s disappeared, he leans against the window. He shivers.

  Need a towel?

  I’m almost dry.

  There’s one in that bag behind you.

  On the back seat are a few carrier bags, a sports holdall, a rucksack and a big red grocery bag lying on its side. He notices a wholemeal loaf, a packet of biscuits, a bottle of mineral water. In that green one, says the man. Danny pulls over the sports bag, unzips it and takes out a towel. He dries his hair, presses his face into the towel. It smells of fabric softener. He hangs the towel over the back of his seat and leans against it.

  The driver says: Better now?

  He’s not very comfortable, but he nods.

  Could you put your seatbelt on?

  What?

  Would you put your seatbelt on?

  Danny pulls the belt and clicks it shut. His cold T-shirt is sticking to his body. Something is pressing into his lower back. Something hard and pointed. He doesn’t move.

  The motorway is wide, three lanes and a hard shoulder. They cruise along in the middle lane for a while. The driver occasionally glances over at him.

  I often pick up hitchhikers.

  Danny remains silent.

  Not many people stop for hitchers nowadays, but I do. The driver coughs. I’m just interested. To hear what they have to say.

  Danny looks at the driver, who continues: It doesn’t matter whether they’re in the car for a few hours or just a few minutes, they all tell me something. About their work. About home, relationships, pets. All kinds of things. Their lives, the stuff they get up to. And sometimes it’s not the nicest stuff. I mean, it’s not that nice to listen to.

  Who says I’m going to tell you anything?

  The man blinks and smiles.

  *

  He switched off the fluorescent lights, walked down the corridor to the changing room, sat on the bench in his usual spot and pulled a towel around his shoulders. He was still panting. He bit through the tape on his right wrist, clasped the end of the bandage between his teeth, pulled it loose and freed his other hand. The bandages spooled onto the tiled floor between his feet. He stood up, walked over to the sink, turned on the tap and drank. Then he cupped his hands, filled them with water, washed his face and splashed water onto his hair and neck.

  Danny?

  Richard Rosenberger’s face appeared around the door. A bunch of keys dangled against his thigh. His hair was swept back.

  Hey, Rich.

  The others all gone home?

  Yeah.

  Well?

  Danny nodded. Looking good. He sat back down and undid his laces.

  I only saw the first fifteen minutes.

  Against that black guy?

  Yeah.

  He’s lighter.

  Not much.

  But then he’s taller.

  Yeah, a bit. My dad always said you shouldn’t pay attention to that sort of thing. Height. And it’s only the scales that should be paying any attention to your weight. That’s what he always said.

  When’s your brother get back?

  You missing him?

  He’s good to train with.

  He’ll be back in a week.

  Neither of the men spoke for a while.

  You ever seen that Bulgarian fight? Danny asked, breaking the silence.

  Once, in Germany. That’s where he trains. At Azzopardi’s.

  Danny nodded. Rich sat down on the bench opposite him, resting his elbows on his knees.

  The time I saw him he was fighting a Russian. I was with my dad. One of the last fights he saw. The Russian guy had won twenty-one fights in a row – and then he came up against Hristov.

  Okay, said Danny. He took off his boots and wiggled his toes.

  What about tonight? The other guy no good?

  He’s got more power than that black guy, but he’s slow. Spent too much time standing still.

  Hristov’s slow too.

  Not that slow.

  No, not that slow, Richard agreed. He stood up, ran his hands through his hair and said: Just stay cool.

  That’s what your dad always said.

  Yeah, why do you think I took over this place?

  *

  There’s a red van in front of them with PVC pipes on its roof. All he can see in the wing mirror is wet tarmac and a few cars. Then a flash of colour on the floor, orange and yellow, a couple of letters. An A and a G. The wet floor. A bare leg lying in a puddle in the corner. The lights above him reflected on either side of the leg like small yellow globes.

  Where do you want to go?

  He nods at the windscreen and says: That way.

  That way?

  Yes.

  The driver looks over at him.

  I need to know where to drop you off.

  I’ll get out whenever you want me to.

  The man leans forward a little, blinks a few times, and says: I won’t be stopping any time soon.

  He steers into the left-hand lane, grips the steering wheel and accelerates. I’m just going to keep on driving for a while yet.

  That tic again. Everything is still, except for his eyes.

  You mean you’re going to drive through the night?

  Yes, if I can. The driver blinks a few more times. Then he says: I get the feeling you’d rather not say where you’re going, but you’re in my car, so you might at least tell me what’s up.

  A sign beside the motorway indicates an exit just over a kilometre away.

  You can drop me off there.

  They drive past the sign. The exit looms in the distance.

  There?

  Yes.

  That’s where you want to get out?

  Danny rests his large hands on his thighs and hangs his head. His breath quickens. He closes his eyes and everything goes dark. For a moment, all he can feel is the hum of the car and the beating of his heart. The two rhythms slowly synchronize. The sound and direction of the car remain the same. When he opens his eyes, they’re passing the sign with the white arrow and he sees the rain pelting against it. The turning and the white line curve away from them.

  Hey, let me know when you really want to get out.

  Thanks, he whispers.

  The car’s speeding up now, the blinking becomes faster too, and the boxer looks at his forearms, at the bulging veins. He stares over the top of the wing mirror. Square buildings line the motorway, huge toy blocks in the watery landscape. He sees a showroom with a gleaming new c
ar in the window, like a trophy in a display cabinet. They stay in the right-hand lane for a long time. Now and then, the wheels brush the solid white line and the high-pitched sound that buzzes through the car reminds him that they really are moving. They’re heading somewhere else.

  *

  The windscreen wipers swish backwards and forwards. Road signs appear within the glass rectangle as it is wiped clean over and over again. They approach Utrecht, leave it behind. A fat black fly buzzes against the window behind him. It twitches nervously along the rubber strip. They overtake a line of cars. Each of the back seats is occupied by a gaggle of young boys, about ten years old. Some of them are wearing football shirts. Yellow shirts with black stripes. There’s a boy in a goalkeeper’s shirt in the front car. As they go past, he pushes two big goalie gloves up against the window, waggles his head between the gloves and pokes his tongue out.

  The driver rests his hands on the steering wheel. Is your T-shirt dry yet?

  Yes.

  There’s a dry one in that big bag behind you. You can wear that if you like.

  I’m almost dry.

  The man reaches out to feel the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  You’ll catch cold.

  Danny shifts in his seat. Something’s poking into him again. He shifts forward, reaches behind him and pulls a blue toy car from the crack of the seat.

  My son’s, says the driver. It’s got opening doors.

  It’s an Alfa Romeo 1300. Danny turns it over. Through the tiny window, he can make out a plastic steering wheel and seats. The car has a tow bar and a number plate. It even has suspension. Front and rear. The blue paint’s worn off in places, down to the grey of the metal beneath. He pulls open the driver’s door with his fingernail. Then closes it again.

  Pretty cool, eh?

  Danny opens the door on the driver’s side again. Then he flicks open the passenger door. I used to have an Alfa, he says.

  Like that one?

  No, but it was still an Alfa.

  Silence. Then the driver says: My name’s Robert.

  The boxer looks at the man out of the corner of his eye. Robert, he echoes, closing the toy car’s doors with a click.