Read Online Tiger Milk by Stefanie de Velasco - Free Book Online
Authors: Stefanie de Velasco
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up with all the stupid questions, I say, and why are we even talking about Guatemala or Iraq, I mean how far away are those places?
What would you like to talk about, asks Kopps-Krüger.
There’s plenty of injustice right here, I say.
Give me an example, says Kopps-Krüger.
I don’t know, like when people are deported. That’s not right.
Shut your mouth, says Jameelah looking angrily at me.
Kopps-Krüger raises his eyebrows.
Why, he says, who is going to be deported?
All of a sudden it gets very quiet in the tea shop, Lukas pulls his hat further down over his face and I can see he’s no soldier, that’s for sure, which is fine, but he shouldn’t pretend he is.
Nobody, I say quickly, it was just an example. There are also certainly good things, too, obviously, I mean, Jameelah is about to be naturalized.
I’m pleased to hear it, says Kopps-Krüger.
Yeah then she’ll really be German and we’re going to throw a potato party, I say looking at Jameelah, right?
Yeah, she says smiling shyly at Lukas. He smiles back.
At nine-thirty on Saturday morning the doorbell rings up a storm, I’m still in bed and when I finally open the door Jameelah is standing there.
We have to go to Wilmersdorfer, it’s Saturday.
At first I have no idea what she’s talking about.
Hello, street kids of Guatemala, fundraiser, says Jameelah holding up an empty apple sauce jar with a note stuck to it. For poor street kids it says.
What, are you crazy? You really want to collect money for Krap-Krüger and his fucking street kids, you can’t be serious, I say.
I don’t give a shit about the street kids, I want to see Lukas!
Shit, that old Krap-Krüger only wants us to help him so he can congratulate himself for making the world a better place. And the worst part is he gets off on it, I’ll bet you anything.
He can jerk himself off until his cock’s rubbed raw for all I care, says Jameelah, I want to kiss Lukas and for that I have to help him collect money for the street kids.
I growl something back at her and a few minutes later we’re sitting in the U-bahn.
When we get out at Wilmersdorfer station my first thought is that there must be an open-air market going on but then I see it’s actually all sorts of stands set up by clubs and activists, and behind one of the tables is Krap-Krüger. Lukas and the rest are already there, unpacking stacks of flyers and booklets from a box and spreading them on the table. I can’t believe they bother with all of this, and on a Saturday morning no less, it’s all a bit like being a street kid in Guatemala, I think to myself.
Jameelah puts her hands over Lukas’s eyes from behind, the same way Anna-Lena did at the planet recently.
Salam, she says to Lukas.
I’m pleased to see you both here, says Krap-Krüger when he spots us.
Jameelah digs around in her rucksack, pulls out her apple sauce jar, and proudly places it on the table.
As far as I’m concerned we can start right now, she says, but Krap-Krüger shakes his head.
Unfortunately that won’t work, he says, lifting his pointer finger, the collection boxes have to be sealed.
He pulls a bunch of metal containers out of the box on the ground, but in the end he is one short. Krap-Krüger is having a good day and says, okay you can use the jar. The scent wafting from his mouth smells once again like god’s rotten earth.
Lukas stands behind the table.
Aren’t you going to collect money, asks Jameelah.
No, I’m staying here to pass out info, he says, but maybe later we can go to the pool?
Sure, says Jameelah nodding like an idiot.
Come on, I say and pull Jameelah with me, her apple sauce jar in her hand, we walk up and down Wilmersdorfer Strasse, up and down, up and down.
We’re raising funds for the street kids of Guatemala, perhaps you can make a small donation, that’s how it goes the whole time. I’m bored, but I have to admit that Jameelah is good at getting people to part with their money. She makes up stories
What would you like to talk about, asks Kopps-Krüger.
There’s plenty of injustice right here, I say.
Give me an example, says Kopps-Krüger.
I don’t know, like when people are deported. That’s not right.
Shut your mouth, says Jameelah looking angrily at me.
Kopps-Krüger raises his eyebrows.
Why, he says, who is going to be deported?
All of a sudden it gets very quiet in the tea shop, Lukas pulls his hat further down over his face and I can see he’s no soldier, that’s for sure, which is fine, but he shouldn’t pretend he is.
Nobody, I say quickly, it was just an example. There are also certainly good things, too, obviously, I mean, Jameelah is about to be naturalized.
I’m pleased to hear it, says Kopps-Krüger.
Yeah then she’ll really be German and we’re going to throw a potato party, I say looking at Jameelah, right?
Yeah, she says smiling shyly at Lukas. He smiles back.
At nine-thirty on Saturday morning the doorbell rings up a storm, I’m still in bed and when I finally open the door Jameelah is standing there.
We have to go to Wilmersdorfer, it’s Saturday.
At first I have no idea what she’s talking about.
Hello, street kids of Guatemala, fundraiser, says Jameelah holding up an empty apple sauce jar with a note stuck to it. For poor street kids it says.
What, are you crazy? You really want to collect money for Krap-Krüger and his fucking street kids, you can’t be serious, I say.
I don’t give a shit about the street kids, I want to see Lukas!
Shit, that old Krap-Krüger only wants us to help him so he can congratulate himself for making the world a better place. And the worst part is he gets off on it, I’ll bet you anything.
He can jerk himself off until his cock’s rubbed raw for all I care, says Jameelah, I want to kiss Lukas and for that I have to help him collect money for the street kids.
I growl something back at her and a few minutes later we’re sitting in the U-bahn.
When we get out at Wilmersdorfer station my first thought is that there must be an open-air market going on but then I see it’s actually all sorts of stands set up by clubs and activists, and behind one of the tables is Krap-Krüger. Lukas and the rest are already there, unpacking stacks of flyers and booklets from a box and spreading them on the table. I can’t believe they bother with all of this, and on a Saturday morning no less, it’s all a bit like being a street kid in Guatemala, I think to myself.
Jameelah puts her hands over Lukas’s eyes from behind, the same way Anna-Lena did at the planet recently.
Salam, she says to Lukas.
I’m pleased to see you both here, says Krap-Krüger when he spots us.
Jameelah digs around in her rucksack, pulls out her apple sauce jar, and proudly places it on the table.
As far as I’m concerned we can start right now, she says, but Krap-Krüger shakes his head.
Unfortunately that won’t work, he says, lifting his pointer finger, the collection boxes have to be sealed.
He pulls a bunch of metal containers out of the box on the ground, but in the end he is one short. Krap-Krüger is having a good day and says, okay you can use the jar. The scent wafting from his mouth smells once again like god’s rotten earth.
Lukas stands behind the table.
Aren’t you going to collect money, asks Jameelah.
No, I’m staying here to pass out info, he says, but maybe later we can go to the pool?
Sure, says Jameelah nodding like an idiot.
Come on, I say and pull Jameelah with me, her apple sauce jar in her hand, we walk up and down Wilmersdorfer Strasse, up and down, up and down.
We’re raising funds for the street kids of Guatemala, perhaps you can make a small donation, that’s how it goes the whole time. I’m bored, but I have to admit that Jameelah is good at getting people to part with their money. She makes up stories
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