Giorgio was once an insurance salesman and he’d retained his verbosity from that time. Conversations between him and Schoch were very one-sided. But as Schoch liked listening to him – Giorgio was neither pushy, nor nosy, nor stupid – and Giorgio liked talking, this wasn’t a problem for either of them. That’s why Schoch enjoyed spending the hours before lunch with the dog lovers, even though he didn’t really like dogs. There was always beer to be had, even when he’d spent the 986 francs basic subsistence that each homeless person received from the state per month. And they had a cosy regular plot near the station and the wholesaler CONSU. By the river when the weather was good and in the tram shelter if it was raining.
The few seats were occupied so Schoch sat on the ground, leaning against the back of the shelter, listening to Giorgio and watching the passers-by. He knew a few of them by sight because he’d sat here so often as they walked past without paying attention to him or anyone else in his group. Very occasionally he would recognise someone from his former life too. Men in suits, mostly, but also a few women in suits. All older and all passing by without so much as a glance in his direction. Even if they had taken notice of Schoch they wouldn’t have recognised him, twelve kilos lighter, nine years older and with a beard.
‘Got a fag?’ Lilly’s high-pitched whine tore him from his thoughts. Schoch took a packet from his pocket, tapped out a cigarette, but rather than offer it to Lilly, slid it out himself and passed it to her. He didn’t want her jittery, filthy fingers touching the filters of the other cigarettes.
Lilly had appeared out of the blue five years ago as the girlfriend of Marco, a young junkie. She couldn’t have been older than twenty at the time, pretty but prone to abrupt mood swings, and determined to get Marco off the needle. Soon she was addicted herself and when he died of an overdose she was four months pregnant.
The underweight boy she gave birth to was given up for adoption as soon as he’d completed his withdrawal treatment. Lilly stayed with the dog lovers, started selling her body to buy drugs, increased her doses and fell into increasing self-neglect. Now she looked about forty and with her thin, punctured arms and poor teeth couldn’t find punters any more.
Schoch offered Lilly a light.
‘I’ll give her one thing.’ Giorgio grinned. ‘She’s loyal to her brand. Only ever smokes Other People’s.’
‘Very funny,’ Lilly grumbled, going over to the dogs.
Just after twelve Schoch headed for the soup kitchen. His stomach could cope with something to eat now.
12
The same day
Perhaps the macaroni cheese was too stiff a challenge for his stomach; the noodles were swimming in the fat of sweated onions, cream and melted cheese. Nor did the odours of the people sitting next to him help, or the smells drifting over from the kitchen. Schoch let some liquid drip from the baked pasta on his fork, then forced himself to eat a couple of mouthfuls.
The soup kitchen wasn’t renowned for its cuisine, but the food was free. In Meeting Point the food cost four francs – for that you could get four litre-cans of 5.4 per cent beer at CONSU.
But seeing as he was dry at the moment, he could have shelled out the four francs, it occurred to him.
He speared three macaroni on his fork and watched the fat drip off, the process slightly accelerated by his trembling hand. ‘Do you know why I drink?’ Bolle used to yell. ‘To stop my hands shaking!’ Around this time of day Schoch’s trembling had usually stopped. But apart from this, going without alcohol was – as expected – all right. It was just boring.
The rain looked as if it had set in for the day. Schoch walked close to the houses to avoid being splashed by the cars zooming past. Apart from him there was just an old woman and her dog on Blechwalzenstrasse. She was having a tussle with her umbrella, her large handbag and her overweight pet, who was mobilising all four of his skinny legs to resist this sodden outing.
Schoch went into the Salvation Army hostel, took off his wet coat and hung it on the rack. Behind the glass of the reception booth an elderly man looked up from his free newspaper. ‘Is Furrer here?’ Schoch asked.
The man nodded. ‘In the office.’
Schoch went up to the door marked ‘Management’, knocked and went in.
Furrer was a shaven-headed man with a five-day beard. He was probably about fifty, wore jeans, a checked shirt and a corduroy jacket. ‘Take a seat,’ he said, pointing to one of the visitors’ chairs from the junk shop.
Schoch sat down.
‘I’ll get us a coffee.’ Furrer went out and returned with two large cups.
Schoch took a sip. Black with lots of sugar, just how he liked it.
He didn’t know why Furrer was so friendly to him. He had been ever since his first day as manager of the hostel. For a short while Schoch thought it was because Furrer was gay. But a single glance in one of the few mirrors he came across was sufficient to eliminate this possibility. So he’d asked him, ‘How come I get such preferential treatment?’
‘You remind me of someone.’
‘Who?’
‘Don’t know, but it’ll come to me.’
After that he’d avoided Furrer, just to be on the safe side. But one evening Furrer intercepted Schoch outside Sixty-Eight and surprised him with the question, ‘I’ve got a room free, do you want it?’
Schoch shook his head.
‘Why ever not? Winter’s on its way. Opportunities like this don’t crop up every day.’
Schoch spent a moment searching for an answer, then shook his head obdurately. ‘Homeless people don’t have bedrooms.’
Sumi was still alive at the time and Schoch didn’t have a fixed sleeping place. So he was happy to accept Furrer’s offer to store his belongings at the hostel. And later, when he inherited the River Bed, he kept them there. They wouldn’t have been safe in his cave.
Schoch wasn’t the only one for whom Furrer put in safekeeping a few ‘personal effects’, as he called them. Schoch suspected that this allowed him to stay in contact with those homeless people who, like himself, wouldn’t be domesticated. The lockers were in Furrer’s office and it was difficult to access them without bumping into him.
Furrer asked the inevitable question, ‘How are you?’
And Schoch gave the routine answer, ‘Good.’
‘You don’t look it.’
‘I haven’t looked good since I was nineteen.’
‘What about the shakes?’
‘Didn’t have them then either.’
Furrer laughed and shook his head. Then he turned serious. ‘Dr Senn is coming at eight tomorrow morning. Shall I put your name down?’
Dr Senn was the GP who held a surgery once a week in the hostel for those who couldn’t bring themselves to seek out a doctor in their practice.
Schoch shook his head. ‘He’s not going to make me any prettier.’
‘Why don’t you join the group?’
‘The alky group?’ Schoch said with a grimace.
‘Hasn’t hurt anyone yet.’
‘If I want to stop, I’ll stop.’
Furrer nodded thoughtfully. ‘Well, that’s good.’
Schoch stood up and went over to his locker. ‘But if I do stop,’ he said, more to himself than to Furrer, ‘what will I do instead of drinking?’
The