Something just off the track catches his eye, a flash of colour. A flower, a single flower, waving in the breeze. Blood red petals around a jet black middle. He looks for others but there are none. Still, it is a flower, and he wonders again about the next time he could give flowers to someone he cares for. Images of Gita and his mother come to him, the two women he loves the most, floating just out of reach. Grief comes in waves, threatening to drown him. Will the two ever meet? Will the younger learn from the older? Will Mumma welcome and love Gita as I do?
He had learned and practised the art of flirting on his mother. Though he was fairly sure she didn’t realise what he was doing, he knew; he knew what he was doing; he learned what worked on her and what didn’t, and he quickly worked out what was appropriate and inappropriate behaviour between a man and a woman. He suspected all young men embarked on this learning process with their mothers, though he often wondered if they consciously realised it. He had brought it up with several of his friends, who had reacted with shock, claiming they did no such thing. When he questioned them further about whether they got away with more from their mother than their father, they all admitted to behaviours that could be construed as flirting – they thought they were just getting around Mum because she was easier than Dad. Lale knew exactly what he was doing.
Lale’s emotional connection to his mother had shaped the way he related to girls and women. He was attracted to all women, not just physically but emotionally. He loved talking to them; he loved making them feel good about themselves. To him, all women were beautiful and he believed there was no harm in telling them so. His mother and also his sister subliminally taught Lale what it was a woman wanted from a man, and so far he had spent his life trying to live up to these lessons. ‘Be attentive, Lale; remember the small things, and the big things will work themselves out.’ He heard his mother’s sweet voice.
He bends and gently picks the short stem. He will find a way to give it to Gita tomorrow. Back in his room, Lale carefully places the precious flower beside his bed before falling into a dreamless sleep, but next morning when he wakes, the petals from his flower have separated and lie curled up beside the black centre. Death alone persists in this place.
Chapter 12
Lale doesn’t want to look at the flower anymore, so he leaves his block to throw it away. Baretski is there but Lale ignores him, preferring to head back inside and into his room. Baretski follows him and leans in the doorway. He studies the distraught-looking Lale. Lale is aware that he sits on a lumpy fortune of gems, currency, sausage and chocolate. He grabs his bag and pushes past Baretski, forcing him to turn and follow him outside.
‘Wait up, Tätowierer. I need to talk to you.’
Lale stops.
‘I have a request for you.’
Lale remains silent, looking at a point beyond Baretski’s shoulder.
‘We – I mean my fellow officers and I – are in need of some entertainment, and as the weather is improving we were thinking of a game of football. What do you think?’
‘I’m sure it would be fun for you.’
‘Yes, indeed.’
Baretski plays the game and waits.
Lale eventually blinks. ‘How can I help you?’
‘Well, now that you’ve asked, Tätowierer, we need you to find eleven prisoners to take on a team of SS in a friendly match.’
Lale considers laughing but keeps his gaze at the point over Baretski’s shoulder. He thinks long and hard about his reply to this bizarre request.
‘What, no substitutes?’
‘No substitutes.’
‘Sure, why not.’ Where did that come from? There are a million other things I could say. Like, ‘Fuck off.’
‘Good, great. Get your team together and we’ll meet in the compound in two days’ time – Sunday. Oh, and we’ll bring the ball.’ Laughing loudly, Baretski walks off. ‘By the way, Tätowierer, you can have the day off. There are no transports today.’
•
Lale spends part of the day sorting his treasure into small bundles. Food for the Romani and the boys in Block 7 and of course Gita and her friends. Gems and currency sorted by type. The process is surreal. Diamonds with diamonds, rubies with rubies, dollars with dollars, and