Ten Past Nine

A t.A.T.u. remix is hammering in my ears as I leap off the S-Bahn—they’re coming back, I’m certain of it, at least they’re coming back for me—and I have no idea where the Ernst-Litfass-Schule actually is. Thomas has already called twice. If I’m not there on time, just tell them I’m coming. I start running.

Left or right? Down the stairs? Over the bridge? I ask a gas station attendant and get a blank stare. An old woman at an Imbiss takes pity: Here, come through my shop. I run past the Currywurst and the Fanta bottles and there it is—a huge brown-orange building. I crash into the canteen at ten past nine. Nobody cares. The place has the energy of a zoo enclosure at feeding time. I fill out some forms and realize arriving at ten wouldn’t have changed a thing.

The class is all media designers, which is somehow both expected and strange. Sweet girls, guys who’ve clearly already decided they’re famous, the quiet ones, the perfectly normal ones—the full taxonomy. The smell of the place throws me back to a not-so-distant past. I recognize these people. I’ve met every single one of them before, in a different city, in an earlier version of this exact life. I like it.

Thomas is exhausted and in a mood. Tonight is the ZDF party, and I’m going to get him properly drunk whether he wants it or not. Next Wednesday we’re both at Scholz & Friends for a meeting. No idea what to expect. Going anyway.