Page 37 of Views
Jenny nods. “No idea if Tesfaye’s parents will ever learn about the tragic end their son has met here.”
Yasira sighs.
“Had I lived there,” says Jenny, “I would have fled too.”
Yasira doesn’t have to say much at the press conference. It’s not just the interior minister who’s present, but also a spokesperson from the BKA and the attorney general. And the important people all love to hear themselves talk. There is quite a stir when the attorney general announces that Red Fox’s victim is not one of Lena’s rapists. News reports start to flood into the editorial offices. Everyone wants to be the first to report this new twist in the drama. The public is asked to remain calm and allow law enforcement to do its job.
You might as well have asked a pot of milk on a stovetop set to maximum not to boil over, Yasira thinks. At the end of the press conference, she herself gets her big moment to report that the investigations are ongoing, promising leads are emerging, but that for operational reasons she can’t say any more at the moment. It’s a cipher for “we don’t know anything concrete yet.” And of course the assembled press are also aware of this.
After the press conference, the interior minister quickly shakes her hand and asks her to clear up the case as quickly as possible.Oh, I see,Yasira almost says.If that’s what you want, then we’ll stop dawdling. I had no way of knowing.But of course she just nods dutifully.
Even at home, Yasira can’t let go of the case. The news is full of it. She keeps seeing herself, too. Yasira doesn’t like that at all. She has officially become the face of the investigation and is even more in the line of fire. Just because “politics thinks in images.”
A number of left-wing groups have spontaneously called for a vigil for the murdered Tesfaye that very evening. Right-wing channels are agitating against it. The Active Homeland-Protection mobilizes its members.
Zara is not at home, but at the movies with friends. Although Yasira knows where her daughter is, she is worried. The atmosphere in the city is so tense and aggressive. Nevertheless, she forces herself not to keep calling Zara. She doesn’t want to go helicoptering.
While she fixes herself something to eat, she leaves the TV on. The local news is reporting on street clashes between right-wing extremists and antifa. Yasira is glad to only have to witness this on the screen. Before the police can get everything under control again, another person is killed. A twenty-one-year-old antifascist, a student at the Free University, was hit in the head by a stone. It is impossible to reconstruct who threw the stone. Over a hundred people are arrested in connection with the street brawl. She mutes the television. The silence is unbearable. Unable to stand it any longer, she calls her daughter.
“I’ll be home in a minute,” Zara says immediately. “Don’t worry about it.”
“It’s just...” Yasira begins. “In the news...”
“I’ve seen it. I’ll be right there.”
Yasira hangs up and turns the volume back up.
Everything has turned out much worse than Yasira feared. And it’s not over yet. For the day after tomorrow, large demonstrations have been announced. From the right and against the right. The police union is calling on Berlin’s Interior Minister to request more reinforcements from other federal states. They fear violent riots.
THE INCOMPREHENSIBLE SIMULTANEITY OF EVERYTHING
It’s Wednesday again. A week ago, she had her date with Steven. A week ago, she saw the video for the first time. Yasira is lying in bed and doesn’t want to get up. It’s this incomprehensible simultaneity of everything that’s bothering her. The missing Lena, worries about her daughter and her career, wars, terrorism, the desire to have sex again, Tinder Stevens, the murdered Tesfaye, the climate crisis, her stupid ex-husband, her sister’s happy family, overly pretty influencers, the dead man at the demonstration, advertisements for Müller Milk, fentanyl, the return of fascism, Minka on Lena’s bed, Active Homeland-Protection, her possibly secretly gay partner, Frank Palmer’s salagne, the lovers with scarves over their heads, potties playing “Lambada,” the video. All of this haunts her mind simultaneously. How could you not go crazy? She pulls the blanket over her head. In the Middle Ages, she thinks, I would already be dead.
It is the music coming from her daughter’s room that finally gets her out of bed. Yasira knocks on Zara’s door and enters without waiting for a response. She doesn’t mean any harm, it’s just a habit. Nevertheless, Yasira braces herself for the scolding she’s about to get, but Zara doesn’t say a word. She just looks at her, and Yasira must look particularly awful, because her daughter even feels compelled to ask if she’s okay.
“You look like crap,” she says. “You all clear?”
“No,” Yasira replies. “Far from it. Nothing’s really clear.”
Zara is sitting at her desk in front of the makeup mirror. Her cell phone is charging in the docking station, and Yasira can see the hated influencer on the display, whose style her daughter is imitating.
“Your case is really messed up,” Zara says. “How’s it going?”
Yasira plops down on Zara’s bed and stares at the ceiling.
“It’s going... badly,” she says. “We haven’t even found the crime scene yet.”
“Is that so important?”
“Well, yes. Our forensic experts are truly world-class. Honestly. There was a case where they convicted a murderer by proving that a leaf found in the trunk of his car wasn’t just any copper beech leaf, they were able to prove that it belonged to a specific copper beech. The one under which the body of the suspect’s wife had been found. What I’m trying to say is that as soon as we have traces of the victim or the perpetrator, we’re pretty damn good. But without a crime scene, no traces. No trace of Lena, no trace of the rapists.” Yasira sighs.
“I saw you on the news,” Zara says.
“Oh?”
“You already looked pretty messed up then, too.”
Yasira takes a deep breath and exhales. “Thanks.”
