A Friend in Need

A Friend in Need

I keep thinking about Neil. He got me into that mess. He started it all, or maybe it was Stefan. Yeah, Stefan.

It was an early evening, way too early for the crowds to show up. I had opened the pub and was passing the time, leafing through an old magazine. The German beer poured slowly; it needs time to flow, and only that old fart at number seven had ordered one. Stefan and his pals were still drinking latte; that's how early it was. I think the Tolkien was empty otherwise, and Stefan started picking on him.

“The pussies like it when you tickle them?” Stefan called across the room in German. I couldn't help grinning. The geezer wore a moustache, the only hair on his head. He ignored the comment and went on reading his newspaper. Stefan walked to his table.

“Hey, man. The pussies like it?” He shouted into the guy's face.

“Entschuldigung?” There was no mistaking his English accent. I hadn't realized it when he'd ordered the beer. Anyway, I couldn't let it pass. Stefan's a mate and all, but it's my workplace, and I can't have him fuck with the punters.

“Leave 'im alone,” I said in English, and the geezer looked up. I could show off my accent, too. South London, old lineage.

“He's your friend?” Stefan asked. His English is actually quite good, but he flaunts this fake American accent he thinks is cool.

“Get back 'ere,” I said.

Stefan returned to the bar. “What's up with you, Frankie? Can't I make a joke any more?”

“Just don't clear the place.”

“What the fuck. I must leave anyway. Doctor's appointment.” His dealer. “You at the Sage Club later?”

“Maybe.” Sure. I went clubbing almost every day in a week. Stefan always knew the coolest places, the best music, the best fun.

But he didn't leave. I guess his pals weren't ready. I didn't know them well. One was Fabian. He studied architecture and hung around sometimes.

They were there when the geezer came up to the bar and ordered a beer, coins ready in his hand. “And one for yourself?”

I smiled. It was nostalgia, pure and simple. I'd been in Berlin for two years, and you get used to things, like waiting the tables, running a tab and getting tipped. There's the odd quibble about the bill when the punter's had a few more beers than he remembers, but all in all it's straightforward, and the tips speak for themselves. But here we stood, two ex-pats playing it right.

I poured the beers and handed him the large one. “Cheers.”

“Cheers.” He took a sip and wiped his funny moustache. “Nice day, isn't it?”

If you like it chilly and damp. “Sure,” I said, “as long as you're inside.”

“At least, it's not raining.”

“Something to be glad about.”

He chuckled. “What did your pal ask?”

“About your moustache.” Close enough.

The geezer raised an eyebrow. "It sounded more provocative.” He winked. “I'm not that sensitive.”

“The pussies like it?” Stefan drew a finger across his upper lip.

The geezer laughed. He laughed a lot more than the line deserved.

“Sorry for my mate,” I said.

“Never mind.” He straightened himself and caught his breath. Then he turned to Stefan, taking him in, like from head to toe. “I wouldn't know. I haven't tried.”

“What do you mean?”

“You've got to watch your back,” Fabian said.

“Oh, right.” There you go, even Stefan could blush. “Got to go.” There was no lingering this time. He tossed some money on the counter, and the three left.

“Your mate's funny,” said the geezer.

I agreed, then changed the topic. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it because it wasn't. He'd made clear what he was, and that was that.

He ordered another beer and stayed at the counter. I had fun chatting to him, and the time passed quickly. After a while the place got packed, and I had to concentrate on the work. He didn't need a hint.

“I'm off,” he said.

“Cheers.”

“I didn't catch your name?”

“Frank.”

“Neil. Bye.”

He became a regular. Always dropped in right after the Tolkien opened and left when it got crowded. He showed up no more than two or three times a week, but always when I was working. I made it clear early on that I had a bird, I even brought Lisa in once, but it didn't impress him. He got along well with her and kept inquiring about her.

Stefan teased me. “Exploring your female side?” he'd ask after Neil had gone. I'd blow him a kiss and that'd shut him up.

I got used to Neil; I dug having him around. He knew a lot, but he didn't take himself seriously. He was an artist and had been around. He talked a lot about his exhibitions he'd had all over the world. He wasn't bragging, when he told funny little stories, like how he'd gotten lost in Florence and couldn't speak Italian. He was trying to decipher the directions by following the hand movements, but it would have meant going in circles. Doesn't sound that funny now, but it was, the way he told it.

He didn't work much. He did sculptures, but he had arthritis, and he had trouble lifting the heavy stuff. He said he was in Berlin for the young and inspiring art scene, but it sounded more like early retirement. True enough, there were a gazillion galleries, but if any of them sold anything, I hadn't seen it.

I knew some funny places, like the Photo Shop on Brunnenstraße. It was a few blocks away from the Tolkien, and I asked Neil if he'd seen it. He hadn't, so I met him one Friday on my day off to show him. We ended up walking into every opening on the way. We arrived after two hours.

The Photo Shop is actually a flat on the first floor, used for exhibitions the whole week and performances on weekends. You get a beer and a home cooked meal for a reasonable price. We entered in the middle of a concert, a Japanese woman singer screamed high notes at random while the cello played a bass line without any rhythm I could see.

“Am I catching some erotic undertones here?” Neil whispered.

“As in a cat fight you mean?” I pointed at a guy with a video camera. “But it must be good. It's filmed.”

He grinned. I got us some beer, and we wandered to the adjacent room, the only one with chairs and tables in it. We found two seats and settled down. Neil looked around curiously. Photographs on one wall showed a man in a forest, chased by a giant rabbit.

“You were right,” he said, “you can't find a place like this in London.”

“They're paying only a hundred fifty Euro for it.”

“Are you kidding? In the centre of Berlin?”

“Imagine it on Pall Mall.”

“Well, that was worth coming for,” he said. “What do you think of the pictures?”

“Too brainy for me,” I said.

He laughed.

“Technique's rotten. They should've used autofocus.”

“You do photographs?”

“Just for fun,” I said.

“You do have an eye. I saw that,” Neil said. “Ever thought of art school?”

“Sure, I got a portfolio ready. Lisa in her bathing suit from all sides.”

“Well, she looks better than that bunny there.” He took a swig from his bottle. “But I mean what are you planning to do? You don't want to be stuck in that pub forever, do you?”

“It's a living.”

“Said the whore. Come on, you've got too much talent for that. You're wasting it on guys like Stefan.”

“What's he done?”

“Nothing. As far as I can see for his entire life.”

“Sounds like a good idea to me.”

“You spend more time with him than with Lisa.”

It was true, and Lisa didn't like it either. But I wasn't going to tell him. “Stefan's cool. Are you jealous?”

He gave that low chuckle of his. “You bet. We could spend quality time together, going to galleries, talking about art, but you all you do is getting trashed or stoned or both.” He raised his arms theatrically. Not that it mattered. Most of the people in the Photo Shop are pretty eccentric. “And with him.”

“Shall we have a look at the other rooms?” I asked.

“All right,” he said, “I didn't mean to intrude.”

“I don't mind.”

We took a short tour through the other rooms and got out on the street again. Stefan called, and I promised I'd be at the Sage within the next hour.

“See you, Frank. Let's do this again,” he said.

From then on, he showed up every time I worked, and sometimes we met away from the pub. He started bringing me stuff, too, food mostly, like Cornish pasty he found in a shop down in Steglitz.

“You wait,” Stefan said, “next time it's roses and chocolates.”

It became a bit awkward. He wasn't camp, he didn't even look queer, but people started talking. Neil made it worse when he told them they just didn't understand. I still liked speaking with him, but only when nobody was around. As soon as somebody came in, I backed off.

At first Neil seemed unaware. He'd gotten a bout of productivity, and every day he came with a new idea. He looked for a bigger studio, contacted suppliers for metals and machines. He met art dealers. He worked out, and his arthritis got better. He showed me sketches and asked for my comments.

“It's almost tipping over,” I said when he showed me one of his constructions, a combination of compact geometrical figures and fragile bows connecting them. All seemed to be in the wrong place. Cubes hung in the air at the oddest angles, supported by fly legs. “You sure about the balance?”

“Exactly,” he said and beamed, "an artist can see it.”

He was about to become a nuisance. He didn't criticise me or anything, but he kept dropping hints about what I was going to do with my future. He supplied me with printouts from the net about art schools, or brochures from photography schools. I didn't want to hear it. I had my hands full with the pub, Lisa, and the night life. My wallet was always empty. And there he was filling my head with bubbles about portfolios and training.

He didn't get along with Stefan, either. Neil'd linger about, hoping to be invited into the group. Stefan would turn around and call over to him. By then Neil was sulking and refused. It was funny to watch, but it got on my nerves, too, because they both wanted me on their side.

One day, they had a ruck. Business was slow, so I had time to chat. Stefan and Fabian sat at the table next to the bar, and Neil loitered at the other end. I wandered back and forth between them. Sculptures at one end, music and sports at the other. Neil watched me, but he never called. Stefan acted the other way around. He turned his back, but as soon as he needed something or wanted to share a joke, he yelled over whether I was in conversation or not. Neil stopped speaking immediately, and waited for me to return with a look on his face, like a dog's who's not been taken out for a walk, totally disappointed, and his moustache forming a neat arch.

So, when Fabian and Stefan discussed the art on a CD cover, I took the chance to call him over.

“Neil, Stefan says it's a Dali copy. He's wrong, ain't he?”

Neil took his time to join us, just to show he wasn't in a hurry. “Sure, he is. That's got nothing to do with Dali.”

“It's Dali. He did these liquid clocks.”

“It's never seen a brush.”

“I said it's a copy.”

“I say it isn't.”

So maybe it was a Dali copy, maybe it wasn't, though I rather trusted Neil on this one. Did it really matter? Nobody cared if Stefan changed his mind or not.

“You know all about it, don't you? Don't you see the watches here? That's Dali.”

“It may be a quote, but I think the artist was just on some kind of trip. The colours clash.”

“I like them.”

“You would.” Neil grinned smugly.

“Who asked you?”

Neil looked at me for support. “Frank did.”

“Sure,” I said. A punter called, and I had to leave the table. I keep thinking if I hadn't, everything would be different. Because things went downhill afterwards.

As it was, I dealt with the orders and was busy behind the bar. The place filled up, so I wasn't surprised when Neil came up to me, paid, and left. He was white as a wall, but he always got angry at Stefan, so I didn't think much about it. He'd tell me tomorrow.

But he didn't come the next day, or the day after. By the end of the week, I wondered about him and asked Stefan. “You didn't say something to Neil the other day, did you?”

“That pisser. Be glad you're shot of him.” He winked, and that took the sting out of it.

“Fuck, what did you say?”

“That he gets on everybody's nerves including yours.”

He wasn't exactly being truthful. Later I learned the whole story from Neil. “He said he quoted you verbatim, Frank.” His moustache arched as he drew the corners of his mouth downwards. “'I wish that old fart would get lost.'”

“Me?”

“I couldn't believe it at first. But it rung true.”

“You've got a chip on your shoulder, Neil. I'd never.”

“He said you thought it was pathetic I visited you, and you humoured me because I was a paying customer. And well, you never called me mate or something. Once I heard you talk about me, and you said 'regular'.”

“Sure, you're a mate.”

“Well, I thought, you'd call when I didn't come in, but you never did.”

“I meant to.” It was true, but at the same time I found out that Stefan wasn't that honest about other things as well. I had lent him some bread, and he never gave it back and said it paid for the pills he gave me and Lisa. She had started going to the clubs more often, which was good. She'd stopped complaining that I didn't spend enough time with her. But it meant the nights became more expensive, too. I knew I had to get a grip on it, but things spun out of control way faster than I'd imagined.

A few days later, when I was tallying the bills, I saw about 200 Euro were missing from the till. Without counting the tips. Somebody had pinched it, and it sure wasn't me. I had to put it back from my own dosh. I was broke. I mean stony. It could have been Stefan, but I didn't think so, not at that time. Neil did, and with what happened later, it was easy to believe.

To get the rent in, I started cheating on the job. It was easiest on beer. If somebody had three, I'd cash them in and officially count two. I had the two hundred back in a week. But with life getting so fucking expensive, I couldn't stop once I'd begun.

This one Thursday my boss took me aside and fired me. He had it down pat. He'd looked at the bills I'd given out and compared it with the amount of beer he'd sold. He'd even subtracted a margin. He said he couldn't prove it and he wouldn't go to the police, but he didn't want to see my face again.

It was five in the afternoon and already dark. I had rarely ever seen the city at this time of day. Later, after the shift the streets were empty, and the people in the streets strolled along, laughing or fighting, but always easy. Now, people were in a hurry, getting home from work, getting the last shopping done, getting ready for the night. I walked quicker to match their step, but I didn't know where to go. I couldn't face Lisa at home and tell her. She didn't know about the cheating, and I felt low, not depressed, but that I'd sunk low.

I went into a pub at the east end of Oranienburger Straße, where they served beer and cheap wine, not that Caipirinha crap with umbrellas. I sat at the bar alone, drinking until I ran out of beer tokens.

I guess I got home around eleven. I could hear music all the way up to the flat. Lisa entertained the whole building, I thought. It was a miracle nobody'd called the police, yet. I let myself in. Lisa wasn't in the lounge. She couldn't be sleeping, but the bedroom was dark, the door left ajar.

I was too thick to make sense of what I saw while I was standing in that door frame. An arse bobbing up and down in rhythm to the music. I got it only when the music faded out and I heard Lisa moaning.

“Get off my bed, bastard!” Funny what mattered most.

Both jerked up, Lisa's legs still around the fucker's back.

“Stefan!”

“You're fucking early!” He wasn't a bit in a hurry.

I looked at Lisa with her flushed face and dazed eyes, still zoomed out. What got to me was that she straightened her hair, not quickly pulling back a strand, she shook her head and combed it with her fingers.

I stormed into the room. “You slag!” I dragged her off the bed, she fell on the floor, and I raised my hand. I've never hit a woman in my life, I swear, but I would've then. If I hadn't caught a punch in my face.

I staggered back and hit the wardrobe. The knob stung into the lower back. I swung a fist. Stefan was ready. Buck naked, he headlocked me, and banged my head against the wardrobe. I heard the clothes hangers clatter inside, and someone screamed. I didn't know if it was Lisa or the music. I went limp, Stefan pulled me up again, held my throat, and knocked me out.

I woke up propped against a wall. My head thumped, and I couldn't open my left eye. Touching it, I got claret on my fingers. God, I was done. The building was silent. I stood up, and rung the bell. I wasn't bloody-minded, just desperate. I should have guessed what was up anyway, being out on the stairs, but I didn't have another place to go. I kept pressing my finger against the button until it opened.

Stefan answered, dressed in boxers. “You hit on that girl again, I'll come for you. She doesn't want anything to do with you. Right?” He shut the door in my face.

If I thought about banging against the door, it was for a short time only. I'd made a fool out of myself pretty thoroughly and tried to save what was left of my dignity. I limped down the stairs and went out of the house without even looking for our windows. On the street, I took out my mobile. I'd have to find somewhere to doss. The battery was flat. Of course, it was flat. I didn't have a penny left, either. I could've gone to Fabian and wait for him outside until he came back, but it was fucking cold, and with my mushy head, I didn't feel like waiting much anyway.

I didn't want to ask Neil. I tried to come up with other ideas long after his name popped up in my mind. I hadn't shown my face for weeks, but at least he'd probably be at home. And I'd run out of options.

Neil buzzed me in. “That's a surprise,” he said, then his face fell. He just dragged me in and led me into the lounge.

“I'm sorry,” I started, but he waved it off.

“Come into the light.” He shepherded me to a dark leather settee. “Sit down.”

“I should go to the bathroom. I'll make a mess.”

He shook his head and switched on a spot-light. I sat down, relieved to take the weight of my feet. He took my face into his hands and turned it. “Looks nastier than it is. Wait a minute.” I leaned back and closed my eyes.

He returned with a wet wash cloth, a bucket, and a first aid kit and began cleaning my face. “Hold this!” He handed me a towel with ice cubes. “You'll look funny for a few days, but I doubt there's much wrong.”

“Stefan...,” I said, but he interrupted me again.

“Keep still!” He motioned me to lower my head. The hairs stuck together, and it hurt when he moved them. I tried not to wince. He disinfected the wound and put some gauze on.

I stayed silent. He hadn't even asked me what had happened. Or he'd want an apology, for showing up in the middle of the night.

When he'd finished, he said, “You need a place to stay?”

I could only nod. In fact, I was closer to blabbing than I was ever willing to admit.

“I'll put up the sofa,” he said, “are you hungry?”

I shook my head. “Neil?”

“Let's talk tomorrow.”

“Thank you.”

He smiled. “Not at all.”

When I woke up, I was actually feeling pretty good. Sure, I had a headache, but I whistled on my way to the bathroom. The mirror gave me a shock. I looked as if I'd jumped out of a rogues' gallery. Neil was in the kitchen, putting on the kettle.

“I heard you,” he said, “would you like breakfast?”

“Thanks.”

Neil buzzed around. The kitchen was spotless. There wasn't a single plate in the sink, only a cup, half-filled with tea, stood on the table. He placed a different one before me, on a saucer with a tea-spoon. The cups didn't match, but they looked carefully chosen. Neil toasted bread, brought out marmalade, cheese, fish, liver sausage, butter. He rinsed tomatoes and put them in a bowl.

“Eggs?”

“No, thanks. That's more than enough.”

“It's no trouble,” he said.

I told him to go ahead then. He wanted to fry these eggs harder than I wanted to eat them.

“Coffee or tea?”

“Coffee, please.”

He took a glass coffee maker from the cupboard, measured the coffee, closed the jar, opened the cupboard and put the coffee back. I watched in wonder. Not a single coffee grain had gotten on the surface. He took the boiling water off the stove and poured it. He was so methodical, so pedantic, I wondered how he could do these daring constructions, he'd shown me sketches of. They were so radical, and I bet it was dirty work to build them, too.

We small talked. I complimented him on the kitchen, he asked if I had slept well, and I got itchier, the longer it took. I still had to explain what had happened the night before, and the longer we chatted, the closer came the moment when he'd ask.

In the end, it was easy. Neil didn't ask directly, he asked about the Tolkien, and I told the story. He didn't interrupt me. He only raised an eyebrow when I told him about Lisa and Stefan and shook his head.

“It's a clusterfuck,” I ended my story.

“So, where do we go from here?” he asked.

I had no idea, and Neil put me back on the track. He made me call Lisa to see how things stood. He felt sure she'd regret her fling with Stefan. Surely, she could see why I was “upset”. He'd always liked her and was shocked. To me, it made sense. We'd been quarrelling a lot, then she came along clubbing. I'd thought she was doing it for me, but it must have been Stefan. He pissed me off.

When I called, Stefan answered the phone. He told me Lisa didn't want to speak with me and hung up.

Neil offered me his spare room if I wanted to stay for a while. Only then I realized the deep shit I was in. I had no work, no flat, and no other mate but Neil. The others were Stefan's pals, and he'd just shagged my girl. I accepted of course, I had no choice. I'd start looking for a job immediately, and get out of his hair. He lent me some money, too.

“I wish you'd come to me, instead of stealing. That's no way out,” he said, handing me some folding.

I agreed and promised I would. Then he asked if I'd go to the studio with him.

“With that black eye you can't go looking for work anyway. Take a few days off.”

It sounded good. He gave me some fresh clothes, and when I came out from the shower, he'd changed into faded jeans and a flannel shirt. I'd never seen him dressed down.

“Didn't you plan to work today?” I asked.

“I haven't been doing much lately.” He moved his shoulders and winced. “But I might as well get a start.”

The studio was on the ground floor of a run-down, 19th century building in Kreuzberg. The room was at least twelve feet high, and the windows were gigantic. I could hold a dance floor, it was probably a reception room when it was built. There was a big table at one side, a folding chair, but the most part of the floor was littered with twisted metal rods and moulds.

“I've got to put it up,” he said, showing me a sketch I had already seen. “Would you help me?”

We worked all afternoon, and it was fun. I had the job to carry the parts, and fix them with vices, so he could weld them. Everything needed to be done in a certain order, so the sculpture wouldn't fall over. At one point we drove a strong metal hook into the wall, so we could keep the thing standing. He was as methodical as in his kitchen, but I didn't find it out of place. I could see it mattered. After a few hours, we were both drenched in sweat. My back hurt, and the breaks became longer. At six Neil decided to call it a day.

He insisted I did nothing while he prepared dinner, and I asked him a lot of questions about his work. Cooking turned seamlessly into eating, and we kept talking all the time through. About, material, composition, light, space. I fancied myself a good photographer, but I knew shit. I said so.

We were sitting in the lounge by then with a bottle of red wine. He fetched a large volume from his book shelf, and handed it to me as if it was a second-hand paperback, but I could see it was valuable. Of course, it looked as good as new.

“I don't need it. It might give you ideas.” It was a course book for photos, rich with examples of artistic photography and technical details. I took it into my room and leafed through it, lying on the bed. I couldn't sleep, so I started reading until late in the night. When I finally turned out the lights, I realized that I hadn't been to a club tonight, and I didn't miss it.

We worked the whole weekend, except for Sunday afternoon I went back to the flat to get my stuff. I took a suitcase with clothes and a few other things like my camera. I could come back for the rest when I had a new place. Two days later, we finished the sculpture. Neil said the sculpture would probably have to be fixed to the ground when it would be exhibited. It stood on it's own, but if you upset the balance there was a slight risk that it would topple and hurt someone.

I think I was prouder than Neil. I asked him if I should take pictures to send to a gallery, and he was happy with it. So, I spent the whole Wednesday in his studio. I tried out some of the methods I'd learned from the book, but the pictures were rubbish. When I showed them to Neil, he pitched his great idea.

“You've never wanted to hear it. I won't speak of it again if you still don't. But now you're in a situation to think about changing your life.”

“Art school?” I groaned.

He grinned. “Always to the point, aren't you? What's against it? You've got time, you're young. It's a chance.”

I counted all the reasons I could think of. It was a long shot. I'd need a portfolio for application, and I didn't have a single picture worth showing. They wanted an exam in German, and I only had my street knowledge. There were fees for tuition, and on top of it I had to make a living. Come to think of it, I should be looking for a job. The black eye was fading quickly.

I still marvel at what happened then. Neil asked me questions. How long would it take to learn German, how much would it cost? How long would it take to make the money for tuition fees? How much would I have to work for it? How much time would I have for taking pictures? I exaggerated, but he just took the numbers.

Then he talked “purely hypothetically, Frank,” and worked out a plan. I say he did though it didn't feel that way. He let me answer his questions and find a solution. “Let's say you had the money for the language school, would you go?”

“Sure. I've always meant to.”

“Let's say you had the time to do a portfolio?” It went on and on. I started liking the idea. It was way more exiting than serving beer.

Finally, he came out of the box. “Why don't you stay in the spare room? I'll pay for the German class, and I'll help you with your portfolio. You carry the heavy stuff in the studio. It'd be tit for tat.”

I was stunned, but excited at the same time. For once, I saw a road I could walk. And we got along so well, I saw no reason why I shouldn't stay.

“You're going to regret that offer tomorrow.”

He chuckled. “I doubt it. I never could've fixed the sculpture that quickly.” He rolled his shoulders.

Didn't sound like charity. Looking back I'd needed only a very gentle nudge. I should have said no. I should have taken my bag and run away.

I found a school and enrolled in a German course. I had insisted that I jobbed, too, so I could pay for myself. I'm not a scrounger. I did three shifts a week in a tiny café, and I had enough time to photograph. I helped Neil when he needed me, but it was less often than I thought. He was in good spirits; his arthritis was on vacation.

Things started out well enough. Don't they always? In class there were people from places all over the world, every day I took a load of pictures, and at home Neil pampered me with Italian cuisine and red wine. We sat down after dinner and chatted about his work, about mine. It sounds too good to be true, and it was.

We started to quibble. Neil was ridiculously tidy, and if he wasn't working, he was cleaning something. All the things he owned were special in some way, so I never knew if I could use them. Once I dropped a heavy glass ashtray, it didn't break, just got a chip at the rim. He put it away at the back of his cupboard. He said it didn't matter, “just be a little careful, Frank,” but he had this puppy look again, like I'd done something unspeakably cruel.

He kept asking about school, and that made me defensive. I could understand and say what I needed to say, but I made mistakes all the way, and I'd never learnt the grammar. If I asked why something was wrong, I'd get a friendly answer in gobbledygook. Neil, who only knows a few phrases, said I should concentrate on the important stuff. So I gave up on the articles. They are a pain. There are three, and they're attached to a noun at random. I liked die best, it sounded right most of times. Das was cool, too; you used it alone a lot. I put it in for variety. I hated der, mostly you needed dem or den anyway, so I let it drop. Obviously, that was the wrong strategy. We wrote a test and it was awful, but it was hard enough to get the verbs right so I kept it that way. It was hopeless when there was a preposition. First you had to get that one right, which is an art in itself. Then you had to know whether to use it with dative or accusative, and some of these buggers can go with either, so you had to make that decision, and even if you were right to this point you'd still get it wrong if you'd chosen the wrong article. I got terrified of prepositions, and after a while I stopped doing the homework. It didn't seem worth the trouble to write down all these phrases that were wrong anyway.

It didn't help with Neil, of course. He inquired daily if I made any progress. Once, I snapped at him if he was afraid, I'd be wasting his money, I'd move out, and he was shocked. He stopped asking after that, and only inquired in a general roundabout way. He talked more about my pictures, but his attitude changed, too. He pushed me to try this and that, and when I did something on my own he told me it had been done before. I'd taken to arranging people into a landscape in a way you wouldn't expect, and Neil said it was no better than a giant rabbit chasing a man through the woods.

I could always tell his mood by his moustache, and whenever it was bowed, I'd say I had to study and went to my room. If it was straight, I stayed in the lounge. In the last weeks, the bow had become steeper.

I guess I was more than ready to drop out when I met Stefan on my way to school. It was spring, the weather was warm, and I was itching to be outside. I walked along the canal, past the terraces of the cafés that were filling up with people. I hadn't thought about him in a while, and I just looked at him because his face was familiar. He caught my eye, and I turned away.

My head was spinning. The scene was like a year ago. I'd have sat right across the table, sharing his earplugs, listening to the newest addition on his iPod. He'd tell me where we'd go that night, the newest, coolest place in town. I hadn't heard floor in a long time. I went back to the night I'd caught him screwing Lisa, her legs around his buttocks, and his fist in my face. I was done with him.

“What's up with you? You don't say hello?” A hand slapped on my shoulder and I turned around. Stefan smiled.

“You aren't asking much, are you?” I'd have loved to punch his face, but with two bags over my shoulder and about a hundred people looking, it didn't seem like a good idea.

“Uh, well, I always meant to apologize. Lisa was a mistake.”

“A mistake.”

“Yeah, it just happened. You know how it is.” He shifted his weight. "Come on, let bygones be bygones.”

Let sleeping dogs lie would've been more appropriate.

“Cool,” he said, pointing at my photo equipment, “looks professional.”

“It is,” I said.

“You a photographer now?”

“Preparing the portfolio for school,” I said.

Stefan whistled. “I was wondering why you didn't hang around any more.”

“That was something else.”

“Come on, Lisa was a long time ago. Let's have a coffee together and clear things up.” He put an arm around me.

“I haven't got time,” I said and started walking away.

He walked with me. “What's eating you, man? Spit it out.”

I didn't want to start on Lisa again, but I was curious about the money that went from the till and Neil's suspicions about him. He was taken aback.

“Wow, that Lisa stuff has fucked up your brain,” he said, “ you think I'm a thief?”

I reminded him of the dosh he'd never given me back.

“Fuck, that was a complete misunderstanding.”

We had arrived at the school and I stopped. “Gotta go.”

“Sure,” he said, “see you.”

I never told Neil, mostly because he make me account for my day the moment I came in. He'd have thrown an eppy. I'd come in late even for dinner and he'd needed me in the studio. His shoulder was paining him. I didn't see the point either. I wasn't planning on seeing Stefan.

But he waited for me at the school the next day with two fifty Euro notes.

“Here, let's get these old issues out of the way. Have you got time?”

“For a short coffee maybe.” It seemed impolite to turn him down.

The short coffee became a three hour chat, and in the end I'd missed school. But it was worth it. Stefan updated me on Lisa; she'd left Berlin because she'd gotten a job in Leipzig. He informed me on the newest trends in music and where the hottest action was. I told him about my plans and about school. When I went home I was in a better mood than in a long time.

It became a ritual. Stefan waited for me in front of the school, and we'd go for a coffee or a round of pool. Stefan went with me to places he thought I should take pictures of, and I took care he never appeared in one of them. I couldn't tell Neil. He'd become peevish of late; the tips of his moustache dropped with the corners of his mouth whenever I came. He kept talking to me, but I'd stopped listening to his nagging.

Today, we'd met in Görlitzer Park, had a few splifs and beers. I stayed until the sun went down. On the way home, I saw light in Neil's studio.

Neil was moving his sculptures around, and I remembered that he had an exhibition coming up. I was supposed to help him.

“Sorry,” I said, “something came up.” He looked at me, but didn't answer. I couldn't decide on his mood and took that to be a good sign. “You want help?”

“Where were you?” he asked. So he was in a foul mood. How could I've missed it?

“At school,” I'd said it so often it didn't sound like a lie.

He shook his head. “I was there today. You aren't even enrolled any more.”

Now I saw what was different. He'd shaved his moustache off. He looked like a sad old buddha.

“What did you want?”

“Does it matter now? I thought we had an agreement.” He lifted a heavy steel rod and threw it on top of a few others. The loud clattering carried more weight than his words. “I can't tell you how disappointed I am.”

“Look, things weren't that easy.”

“That explains it then, does it? It wasn't easy, so you chickened out.” He went to the sculpture, we'd put up together and loosened the knot that tied it to the wall. He didn't even look at me while he was speaking. “You take a lot for granted. You live with me, eat my food, drink my wine, and break my things.”

“That's unfair,” I said, “you invited me.”

“I don't want to sound calculating, but I did expect something in return.”

“Look, I'll help you,” I said, walking over to him.

“I'm not talking about help. I thought you were a friend.”

“I am your pal.” I'm not as soppy as Neil.

“I thought you'd be part of my life, but I was wrong, wasn't I?” He brushed past me around the sculpture. It wobbled, and I grabbed a rod to steady it. “You are a taker, Frank. You don't give.”

“Come on, I'll give you a hand.”

“And then you're done, aren't you?” He shook his head. “You don't understand love.”

“Hey, I'm not...into that,” I said. I meant queer.

He watched me with his puppy eyes.

“It's not all about sex, you know. I love you, Frank, and you are breaking my heart.” He came a step closer.

“Fuck,” I said. I had this idea he'd hug me, and it was disgusting. I stepped back and tripped over something. The sculpture fell toward me, and I pushed it back. It swung like a pendulum.

“Look out!” I yelled. Then it toppled and crashed down, taking Neil with it.

I don't remember much of what happened. I remember Neil's scream as he hit the floor and the silence afterwards. I remember I tried to move the steel cube from his breast. I remember that I saw his finger move, that I was relieved he was alive. I don't remember I called the ambulance.

Now, I'm in the nick. I told them it was an accident, but they are sending for an interpreter, and offered me to call a lawyer. Neil died on the way to the hospital. They were sympathetic until I said I lived with Neil. Now they act as if I've got a terrible disease. Talk to a lawyer, they say. I don't know one.

I keep thinking about Neil. I wouldn't be in this mess if it wasn't for him. He started it all, but I wish he was alive. He'd know a way out. He would.