Page 24

24

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Noé

I stood on the small stage at Hyde and played the bass while grappling with the disappointment that Alex hadn’t shown up again today. It had been three weeks since we had talked after the release concert by the river. Ever since I went home with Michelle, there had been radio silence between us. Not that I had ever replied to any of his messages, but before that, he had at least tried to contact me a few times.

I was fully aware that I had screwed it up. And yet, I was at a loss. I didn’t know what I could have done differently. Everything about him attracted me, but at the same time, so much about him was wrong. Since he wasn’t here, I assumed he was at some chemsex party. He didn’t reach out anymore, so maybe his declaration of love was just empty words. And meanwhile, I was completely beside myself.

Actually, I shouldn’t care what happened to him. I had done the right thing by going home with Michelle. The risk would have been too great to stay with him. I was trying to build a life here, and with Nightrain, there was finally a silver lining on the horizon. But first, I had to survive the winter.

Why does everything always have to be such a damn struggle?

Even my fingers didn’t seem to cooperate, but I managed to correct the mistakes each time and didn’t lose the beat. While my bandmates still noticed, at least they took it with humor. And I was glad it was the third and final set. The following week, we had our last concert at Hyde, then it was time for the Christmas break.

As soon as the song ended, I fled to the dressing room. I felt like I was buzzing with electricity. Thoughts about Alex were spinning nonstop, and I couldn’t believe how much they haunted me.

“What was up with you?” Patrick asked, putting his guitar in its case.

I just shook my head and went to the sink, where I splashed my face with water.

“It wasn’t that bad,” the guitarist said and went back into the club.

I leaned on the sink and stared at myself in the mirror. Despite having shaved and showered, I still looked like a wreck. I had bags under my eyes, and everything seemed to hurt. The past three weeks had been tough, and I had tried with all my might to return to normalcy. I had visited Steffan three times, Sabrina twice, and even reached out to a few new acquaintances.

On Wednesday, Tom felt compelled to intervene, so he told Mia and dragged me to his place after rehearsal, where I had been spending the last three days on his couch. The thought of going home today had been weighing on me for two days already. Tom had offered to let me wash my clothes at his place, but I had politely declined. After two weeks, it was overdue to check on things at home. But the mere thought of it made me sick.

Before descending into a downward spiral, I took a moment to wipe my face, tie my hair back neatly, put on a smile, and headed out to join the others at the bar. Chris and Marco were sitting at the counter, engaged in conversation with Tom and Patrick, while Pablo sat nearby, drinking a beer.

“Hey!” Chris called, laughing, and slapped me on the shoulder. “What was up with you? We finally make it to one of your gigs, and you mess up.”

“But I ironed everything out super elegantly.”

“Oh yes,” Marco said, chuckling. “We have to give you that! Probably nobody else noticed.”

I waved to Claude, who promptly put a glass of soda in front of me and sunk a lime in it. “Thanks, Claude.”

“What was going on?” Tom asked in confidence while the others discussed a few songs.

“I don’t know. I was just ... distracted.”

“I told you, you didn’t need to go home. You could wash your stuff at our place.”

“No, it’s fine.”

“Where’s the photographer anyway?” Patrick asked out of the blue, catching my attention.

“Why do you ask?” Marco wanted to know.

“Well, I got an email two weeks ago that all assignments were canceled until further notice. And the guys back there”—he gestured to the lounge where the architects were—“two of them also got cancellations. Where is he?”

Marco shrugged and peered at Chris. “You know him for a long time.”

“I have no idea,” Chris said nonchalantly, taking a sip of his beer.

Patrick frowned. “Oh, come on. Something’s up.”

“I just heard he was in the hospital two weeks ago. That’s all I know.”

His words sent a cold shiver down my spine.

Alex? In the hospital? What happened?

“He was in the hospital? Why?” Patrick inquired.

Chris turned his head and glanced into the lounge at the architects, then looked back at Patrick. “I can’t say more about it. It’s a private matter.”

“What? What’s that supposed to mean?” Patrick seemed to take this rejection personally.

“You would just run over there and tell them everything,” Chris explained dryly. “If I understood correctly, those are Alex’s clients.”

“So am I!” Patrick exclaimed indignantly.

“And wouldn’t you want business and personal matters to remain separate?”

Patrick thoughtfully chewed his jaw. “You’re probably right.”

I stood there paralyzed, staring at Chris. A torrent of questions was on the tip of my tongue, but I couldn’t get a word out. Chris wouldn’t say anything as long as Patrick was nearby. But now that Patrick accepted his beer, said goodbye, and went to his colleagues in the lounge, I hoped Chris would tell me.

“Spit it out already,” Marco said, nudging Chris from the side. “Noé’s about to lose it here.”

I was about to fall apart. My heart was racing, and a storm was raging in my head. What a jerk I was. I had spent the last two weeks trying to forget about Alex. And if something hadn’t gone as planned, I blamed him for it. Alex. Damn!

“For two weeks?” I choked out, my voice strained.

“Yeah,” Chris replied, making sure Patrick was gone. “I only know he was admitted with respiratory depression early in the evening. Like I said, two weeks ago. Since then, he’s been in outpatient treatment at a day clinic.”

I didn’t know what a day clinic was, but at the mention of respiratory depression, my heart skipped a beat, and I leaned on the counter.

“And what’s he doing in a day clinic?” Tom asked beside me. “Isn’t that ...?”

“A psychiatric clinic,” Chris nodded.

“Shit,” Marco muttered. “What’s wrong with him?”

“I already said he didn’t have it easy,” Chris put his glass on the counter and straightened up.

“And how do you know that?”

“His mother and mine are friends. As I heard, she mentioned a relapse. Whatever that means.”

“A relapse?” Marco laughed. “I’m starting to like this guy more and more. Perfect son-in-law on the outside, but a real bad guy in reality.”

“That’s not funny,” Chris declared in a serious tone.

I rested my elbows on the counter and rubbed my face. I was freezing, and my hands were trembling. “This is my fault.”

“Nonsense,” Tom said immediately. “It’s definitely not your fault.”

“I turned him down at the concert. Even then, he seemed like he wasn’t doing well. I ignored it.”

“He’ll bounce back. He’s doing okay so far,” Chris said, sounding confident. “He agreed to therapy on his own. So, he’s on the right path.”

On the right path.

Damn it, man!

I couldn’t help but still wonder about him. I had completely misjudged him during our first meeting. As Marco had aptly put it, Alex was putting in all the effort to present a flawless exterior.

Fuck! He’s like me!

At that moment, everything became too much for me. “I need to go,” I said and downed my soda in one gulp. I needed to get my mind off him as soon as possible. If that meant spending a night at home, then so be it. But I had to get Alex out of my head because everything inside me was screaming for him. After grabbing my things from the cloakroom, I said goodbye to the guys.

“Everything okay?” Tom asked, visibly concerned.

I responded with a brief nod.

“Call if anything comes up,” he added.

“Yeah,” I replied, slightly confused, as I shook hands with him.

“Is it because of Alex?” Chris asked.

“Dude,” Marco said to the drummer. “You’re really clueless when it comes to these things.”

I couldn’t even be mad at Marco anymore. On the contrary. It surprised me how much sensitivity he was showing at that moment, while Chris seemed to have been truly oblivious. It had been Marco who stated the obvious when Alex had picked me up in his car from band practice. Unable to sit there and talk any longer, I left Hyde and stepped out into the freezing cold.

The fresh air cleared my head, and I inhaled a deep breath, but the shock about Alex remained for a while. The walk home took less than fifteen minutes. Like a mantra, I recalled Chris’s words.

He’s doing okay so far.

He’s on the right path.

So, there’s no reason to keep getting worked up about it.

Yet, I clung to my phone like a madman, torn whether to text him.

Damn it! Get it together! After all, you’re not in love with him or anything.

But this thought made me pause, and I stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

No. I’m not falling in love.

I have no idea how that’s supposed to happen.

But why do I keep thinking about him?

As I turned the corner, an ambulance was parked on the street. The sight of it catapulted me back to my childhood. I had long stopped counting how many times the ambulance had been parked in front of our house when I came home from school. This time, too, the blue lights sent my pulse racing, and I swallowed hard.

It’s all good . The ambulance is here, but the whole house is full of crazies. All good.

But old habits die hard. I stood in front of the house for a moment, looking at the front door. With trembling hands, I pulled out the key and opened it. I was shaking all over and was relieved to finally be in the warmth. With heavy limbs, I climbed the stairs to the fourth floor. But when I saw the open apartment door, I froze in place, clinging to the railing and struggling not to collapse on my knees. There were voices encouraging me to take the final steps and enter the apartment.

Once in the hallway, I stopped as a pungent odor hit me. I gagged and coughed, covering my mouth and nose with my arm and closing my eyes as my vision blurred with impending tears. When I opened them again, a policewoman stepped forward. She glanced at the notepad in her hand.

“Are you Mr. Andre ... Andrews?” she inquired, correcting herself from German to English.

“Yes, what ... What’s going on here?” I could barely get the words out.

“Noé Andrews?”

“Yes! Damn it! I ... live here! My mother...”

“Mr. Andrews, there has been a death here,” the woman said in a monotone voice. “Your neighbor complained about the smell.”

I already knew it, but my heart skipped a beat and my breath followed suit. Breathe! “What... What do you mean?” Damn it! What a stupid question to an answer I had known all my life. That one moment. I knew it would one day tear down the walls and pull the rug out from under my feet. No matter how much time I mentally prepared for a moment like this, I was completely immobilized.

“Mr. Andrews, we need to ask you to identify the body. Do you feel up to it?”

I only heard my own stuttering breath. Could I have said no? Could I have lived with the uncertainty, never knowing for sure? When the woman gently touched my arm, I flinched.

“Please, Mr. Andrews, this way.”

With shaky legs and on uncertain ground, I followed the woman through the dark hallway. This was an apartment I was all too familiar with and knew every crack. A putrid smell lingered in the air, infused with cold cigarette smoke, stale beer, and the metallic hint of blood. As we made our way, two paramedics approached us and exited the apartment. The policewoman led me to a mortician standing by a stretcher, scribbling some notes on a form.

“Are you ready?” the man asked, placing the clipboard on the white sheet.

I stared at him. Could anyone ever be ready for something like this?

The man nodded understandingly and seemed so calm. I trembled all over and wanted to say no, but then he lifted the sheet, and I stared into the face of my dead mother. The face of a junkie with blue-tinged lips.

“Is this your mother?”

My mind somehow blanked out, stuck in a whirlwind of hot and cold. A strange sensation cramped in my stomach, pressing against my nerves. I felt sick, and I stumbled backward.

“Mr. Andrews ...” the policewoman said.

I hated the name. It was my father’s name. But would I have preferred to bear my mother’s name instead? No.

“Yes,” I said shortly and rushed down the hall to the bathroom. I stumbled over the bowl and retched bile. My stomach was empty, which made it even more painful.

“I’m ready,” I heard the mortician say.

No! I wanted to shout. You can’t just...

I tore a paper towel from the roll, wiped my mouth, and turned around. As they pushed my mother’s corpse past the open door, my knees gave way, and I sank to the floor.

“Come. I’ll help you,” the policewoman said.

I don’t know how, but I found myself on the couch with a cup of tea in my hand. Someone must have gone out and gotten something at the corner. My hands were shaking. The policewoman sat beside me and scribbled something on a form.

“You’re not listed as the tenant. Do you want to keep the apartment?”

I knew what this dump cost, and, fuck , I couldn’t even afford that. I shook my head apathetically while clutching onto the cup, knowing that it was my mother’s social security benefits that had paid for it.

“You don’t need to rush anything. The month has just begun, and with Christmas, you have a few more weeks. But I advise you to look for something else because the city wants to rent out the apartment as soon as possible, and it will need a thorough cleaning. Don’t forget to report your new address to the authorities. And as for the funeral, the city offers support. Do you want to make use of it?”

It needs to stop. I didn’t want to hear anything anymore. Maybe that would be possible if I screamed, but I was paralyzed. And the woman was just showing me with bureaucratic bullshit what a poor bastard I was.

“Do you have an income?”

“Yes,” I said hoarsely. “But it’s not enough for a funeral.”

The woman made a note.

I sat there, shivering by the open windows. At least the smell wasn’t as aggressive anymore—or maybe I was already too deep in my own fog to sense anything.