Page 24 of Views
“What?” asks Michael hypocritically. “I thought that’s the politically correct term?”
“It doesn’t work that way,” replies Yasira. “And you know it.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. I just have this little closeted racist in my head and I can’t get rid of him, but you’ll have to forgive me because I’m challenging him right now. And not just mine. You’ve got one in your head too.”
“Me?” asks Yasira in astonishment.
“Yes, because we all seem to take it for granted that the cameraman is also a Black man, possibly a refugee, presumably from Mali, but we don’t have any proof of that. Who is to say that the cameraman isn’t a white bread, eh? A white bread like Justus Schöffler.”
Yasira thinks about what Michael said. And he’s right. The cameraman could be anyone. But Justus Schöffler?
“There’s something fishy about that guy,” Michael grumbles.
“Maybe.”
Michael fiddles a liverwurst sandwich out of his Tupperware.
“By the way, did you know that around one billion chocolate kisses are eaten in Germany every year?” he asks.
“What, a billion?”
“Sounds like a lot. But that’s only twelve per capita.”
“Yeah, sure. But there are also people who don’t eat any,” says Yasira. “Like me, for example.”
“Right, and that’s really shameful of you. That’s why I have to eat yours too. To maintain the average. And not just yours. Apart from Katja Jürgens, no one from the entire team helps me.”
“You poor thing,” Yasira says laughing. Then she looks back at the house and can hardly believe her eyes.
A backpack flies out of the back window of Schöffler’s house. She nudges Michael, who is just about to take a bite of his sandwich. Immediately afterwards, Schöffler himself tumbles out of the window.
The secret police of former East Germany. —Trans.
THE ESCAPE
Michael starts the engine and steps on the gas. Schöffler looks around, puts on his backpack and climbs over the chain-link fence. Michael races to the house, brakes abruptly, and as soon as the car stops, Yasira jumps out. She runs around the house. Schöffler is on the other side of the fence, but his jacket has gotten caught in the wire mesh. When he sees Yasira, he simply runs off. The fabric tears.
“Stop right there!” shouts Yasira.
Schöffler just runs even faster.
Yasira climbs over the fence. Michael gasps around the house. Stopping in front of the fence, he looks lost. Yasira is already down on the other side and continues the pursuit. The tall grass hinders her, but Schöffler is also struggling with it. He has a slight lead, but Yasira manages to match his pace. Schöffler is surprisingly fast for a stoner. The power of desperation? Keeping a nearly constant distance, they run toward the forest.
Yasira could scream one more time, but that would probably be useless and would only cost her precious breath. She will have to stop Schöffler before he can lose her in the forest. In the forest... Maybe Michael is right after all. Could Schöffler be the cameraman? But why? Why would he do something like that to his girlfriend? While running, Yasira unlocks her holster and draws the weapon. Something she hasn’t had to do for quite a while. She fires into the air. Schöffler flinches.
“Stop or I’ll shoot!”
Schöffler slows down. Then he stops and raises his hands. Yasira catches up with him. Her gun still drawn and pointed at Lena’s boyfriend.
“Lower your backpack,” she says, “nice and slow.”
Schöffler does as he’s told.
“Open it,” Yasira commands.
She can smell the marijuana even before she sees it. Several plastic bags of weed. Yasira sighs. Moron.
“This is significantly more than the legally permitted fifty grams, wouldn’t you agree, young man?”
