Say Goodnight Before You Leave

47. Prodigal Son

Past, 1989. Berlin, Germany.

The weather in Berlin is cold but comfortable, it's 4 in the morning by what the pilot has announced. I leave the plane with my whole body shaking, thanking God for being on firm ground. To keep from bothering my family at such an unearthly hour, I sit on one of the airport's chair, rest my head on the wall beside me to try and give myself a couple of hours of rest before going to the chase, my poor choice of not sleeping before I left would soon catch up to me.

But with the airport's noise I can only close my eyes and remain in this half-awaken state, thoughts still in Denmark to when Mads will finally wake up and find out I left, wondering how he'll react, how will his eyes move over my letter, how he'll accept my farewells and fuck yous. But to wonder is to give fuel to the tiny flame of regret burning in my chest.

Yet, I can't drive my mind away.

Along with brooding about everything I left behind, there are also worries about what I'm about to face. Not having warned a soul of my arrival nor of the fact I would be here at all, there could be backlash from my parents.

It's about seven when I decide to open my eyes instead of pretending to rest. The movement around the airport has grown as well as the noise, so I go take the bus that would lead me downtown Berlin where I will take a second bus to the Northwest side, carrying my stupid heavy suitcase around.

My aunt isn't exactly rich, but her second marriage, after she widowed my first uncle, was more profitable than usual as her second husband, Norbert, owned an instrument store of prestige — and for those not looking for prestige, guitars at affordable prices and bongos to mess around, it's because of him that I know how to hit a few keys on the piano —, a man I consider more my uncle than the previous as I was but a baby when he died.

I know there isn't room for me there, I know we've done it for my father to have space and peace, but the plan isn't staying long enough to make myself a burden. I have money, not much, I'm aware, but enough to allow myself to figure something out. Lylia's in my plans — on the mid-term future we could be sharing a rented apartment, growing in our respective careers until we parted ways, at least if I was also in her plans —, hustling into a new academy is as well, not making a fucking fool of myself is the third objective.

The most attractive point of my aunt's neighborhood was the silence, and my very presence appears too loud, evidenced by the looks from the other pedestrians. Mostly residential with an aging population, there aren't large stores and hardly any buildings over three stories high. Hopefully, my father's enjoying his time here, and my mom the extra space and company of her sister.

There isn't the need for much of a ceremony for my arrival, I walk down the front pathway of stepping stones lined by moss and muddy half-melted snow, put my happy girl mask on, knock on the door and wait.

"I'll get that!" A tired male voice exclaims from inside the house.

My uncle looks much like the last time I saw him a few years ago, naturally tanned skin, black hair, somewhat short, of strong build, looking relatively young unless for the greying of his hair on the sides.

"Hi, Bert," I say in a voice that comes weaker than I planned.

"Kleine May?" He snatches me into a bear hug that makes me laugh.

"Not so little anymore, I'm afraid."

"Oh, I can't believe this! How— You know what? Come in first, we'll leave the questions for later. Hans!" He shouts.

"Who is it?" He shouts back from deep in the house with his hoarse but smooth commentator voice.

"A surprise for you." Uncle Norbert practically pulls me into the house and grabs the luggage from my hands in the process.