Berlin

Halloween Night! Evil is obviously afoot tonight. Is this one of its countless minions? Maybe. They may come in different forms but draw from the same homogeneous power-centres. Naturally, the hood-framed face of the white man first grips my attention before I notice anything else. Hence I find myself wondering what caused that incision-like mark on his forehead. A knife or dagger slash? Or a scratch from one of his previous victims?

Whatever. Finding out certainly isn’t top on my priority list now. For no apparent reason, my deep inner feeling is warning me against the man. My inner alarm system is beeping with a note of urgency as he addresses me in grammatically flawless English. His well-ordered sentences sound as though he had previously rehearsed them.

Why I paid him any attention in the first place? Well, isn’t this Halloween? Not everyone goes for Jack-o-Lantern disguise. Let me guess: this hooded one, who stopped me along Rosenthaler Straße, might be trying to disguise as the Grim Reaper Wrong. Then he needs to work a little bit more on his costume. His face though menacing enough as it is doesn’t look anything like a skull. Nor does whatever-that-is he is holding look like a sickle. A weapon perhaps.

He asks if I have heard of Patrice Lumumba. Of course, I have. But he is certainly not the one I should be admitting that to. He was killed by the CIA, he tells me. So was Malcolm X.

Am I imagining it or is he really watching me carefully as he is speaking? So does he exactly want from me? I needn’t ask this question before he obliges me. A get-together, or something like that, is holding somewhere in Schillingstraße in honour the assassinated Congolese leader. Do I know the place?

Of course, I don’t. I hope I am doing a good job at suppressing the growing panic in me. No, I am not being paranoid! Something is warning me that the hooded stranger is planning to hurt me real bad. He goes on and on and on about Lumumba as though he rehearsed the sentences, repeating the same information he had given over and over again.

Eagar to get rid of him, I cross the street to speak to an elderly German couple I had noticed earlier on. But he is right behind me like a shadow. The couple is friendly enough but soon lose interest when my stalker begins to talk to them in German.

Next I notice a group of youths in what appears to be on a guided tour. I make my way towards them with this hooded one hot in pursuit. He is now complaining about the German couple. Their only crime? They don’t know Schillingstraße. That is why he hates strangers to Berlin, he adds unnecessarily. They don’t seem to know anywhere.

I have to shake him off somehow. So I raise my voice and ask: So why are you following me?

I am not following you, he lies. Adding something unintelligible to my ears, he continues to follow me as though we were Siamese twins.

I make a U-turn and join the crowd, who are headed towards the Torstraße end of Rosethaler Straße. Still, there he is right behind me. Won’t I ever see the end of this?

I whip out my handset from my jeans pocket and dial the number of an old Goethe-Institut classmate, a Spaniard called Marc.

Where are you? I ask in German when he answers.

At home, he replies.

As I continue to talk to Marc, I notice the obstinate stalker moving ahead of the crowd. Here is my chance. I make another U-turn and resume my journey towards the Hackescher Markt end of the street.

Tears brew in my eyes as I make my way to my hotel.