Impulsively, I pivot. Turning around, I slip off my coat and tie the sleeves at my waist. As I near Spass Nacht, I take my sweater off and shove it into my backpack. I apply a coat of dark lipstick and muss my braid. I rummage through the zippered pouch of passports and pull out the first one I touch.
Concentrating on the bouncer’s eyes, I bypass a group of girls wearing sparkly earrings and approach the entrance. The scraping footsteps behind me falter—he won’t confront me here, not with all these people. Wearing only a tight white tank top and leggings, I place my hand casually on my hip and stare down the bouncer. After a few seconds, he looks in my direction. Offering an approving smile, he holds out his hand. “Ausweis?”
I show him my passport: Elsa Lündt, 19, Sweden.
He scans the passport and pulls the rope aside. As I step behind the curtain, I look over my shoulder—no sign of Munich Jacket.
I bump into a girl with long dark hair as she leaves the club, shouting into her phone.
“Achtung!” she snaps, brushing me aside.
Inside, techno music blares through the speakers. Cobalt and fuchsia beams of light flash overhead. It is hot. Dark. The whole building vibrates.
From behind a pillar, I watch the entrance. The bouncer pulls aside the curtain, tucks something discreetly into his pocket, and motions two bulky guys forward. I step back—
“Hey!” a voice says. I’ve bumped into an older boy who slinks his arm around my waist. “What’s your name?” he asks amiably, staring down at me.
“Elsa,” I murmur, watching the two men over his shoulder. I allow the boy to draw nearer. He’s unintentionally offered me a position of temporary camouflage.
I assess my options—where are my exits? Small European clubs in small European towns don’t follow strict modern building codes—there are no “safety” exits. And if these men are with Munich Jacket, then where is he? Guarding the back doors? I spot the Toilet sign, but it will be in the basement, likely without a window—it’s not worth trapping myself to find out.
As I watch the men, I find myself answering the boy’s questions: “… nineteen … from Göteborg … studying piano performance at the University of Vienna …”
The two men divide—the more heavyset one steps aside, hovering near the entrance; the bald one moves into the crowd.
Wiggling out from the boy’s arm, I smile and say, “I have to go.”
Feeling his hand drop from my waist, I slip between two people dancing together and move for the back doors.
It’s easy to navigate through a crowd—focus on the overall movement of the people, evaluating when someone will be moving right or left, forming “tunnels and bridges,” as my father calls them.
I’ve almost reached the exit when I duck beneath a dancer’s arm and emerge face-to-face with the bald man.
I hop aside before he grabs me. I spin on my heel and dive back into the crowd.
Keeping my head low, I make for the front entrance, hoping the heavyset man has moved elsewhere. I glance over my shoulder—the bald man is having difficulty maneuvering; he’s using his elbows to plow through the mass of dancing bodies.
I scan the room. The heavyset man is now angling toward the curtains, effectively cutting me off. I whirl around.
There has to be another way out.
Ahead of me, I spot my exit—it’s easier going up than down.
I pivot left and shimmy among the swirling, dancing bodies until I reach the stairs.
I twirl around the balustrade and run up the steps. Two floors of dancing. Three. On the fourth floor, I’m met by a steel door. I pull on the blue handle and push it open; it swings into the wall behind it—thud!
Closing the door behind me, I run to the edge of the roof and peer over. Below, people wait to be permitted into the club.
Down the street is a row of parked cars, including an idling Mercedes.
A bitter wind sweeps across the rooftop. I hastily put my sweater and coat back on as I run to the other side and look down. A man is pacing the alley, guarding the back exit.
Thud! The door to the fire escape opens.
Instinctively, I swing my legs in front of me and slide over the edge—two inches of window ledge is all that keeps me from falling four stories.
Holding my breath, I tighten my fingers in the grooves of the brick. The mortar is aged and cracked, creating crags