White Niggers
Chapter 1
Thursday, August 1st, 2019, 10:00
Pizzeria "Il Mercato", Vorgartenstraße 126, 2nd district of Vienna
The Vorgartenstraße close to the Rudolf-Bednar Park has the subtle beauty of a concrete block. Long, multi-storied apartment complexes on both sides of the street. Any color you want, provided it's gray.
The facades look as if they were produced on a conveyor belt by a machine which occasionally adds an irregular balcony here, a concrete column there. It's diversity by design, approved by a committee of well-meaning Socialists.
Nothing stands out here. Even those irregularities are either round or rectangular. Inside these standardized houses, standardized people live their standardized lives. A central planner's wet dream come true.
Against this backdrop, the pizzeria "Il Mercato" stands out like an emerald embedded in a slab of concrete. The terrace in front of it is surrounded by green cedar shrubs. The chairs under the sunshades are green, as well as the walls inside. There are glass panels from floor to ceiling.
Behind those glass panels two men are standing next to the counter. One of them, Timur, is 25 years old and about 6 feet tall. He has long dark hair and dreamy eyes. They seem to look somewhere far away from this pizzeria.
"We should do more advertisement," Timur says.
The entire place smells like coffee beans.
"What for?" Ali says.
He is the owner of the pizzeria and Timur's boss. He is a short fifty-year old Turk with thick silvery hair. He holds a small cup of black coffee.
"More customers," Timur says. "More money. Look."
Timur takes out a piece of paper out of the pocket of his black jeans.
"What's that?" Ali says.
"Our competitors are sticking these under the windshield wipers of every car on the street," Timur says. "We are doing nothing."
Ali puts the coffee mug on the counter. He begins to look at the flyer. He holds it close to his eyes. Apart from the occasional car driving outside there are no sounds. At this time of day the street is almost empty.
"Personally I would be annoyed if someone gave me this garbage. I'm getting enough junk mail," Ali says after a while. "Our product is the best advertisement."
Timur's phone rings.
"Mom?" Timur says.
"Hello, sweetie," Timur's mother says. "I am going to the airport soon. Can you go there with me and help me carry the suitcases?"
"Airport? Why?" Timur says.
"I am leaving for Moscow," she says. "Have you forgotten?"
"Nah. I just thought you may, you know, reconsider," Timur says. "It's a big decision."
"Well, I made up my mind," she says. "I told you about this a month ago!"
"Alright, alright," Timur says. "I'll ask for some time off."
He hangs up.
"Listen, I've got a family emergency," Timur says to Ali. "I need to leave for a couple of hours."
"What is it?" Ali says.
"My mother is going back to Russia," Timur says. "I need to go to the airport with her."
"She told you about it only now?" Ali says.
"No, earlier," Timur says. "Look, I know I screwed up… I will make it up to you, alright?"
Ali nods.
Timur goes to his mother's flat. It's located in a seven-storey house in Vorgartenstraße 177. When the building machine constructed this house, it must have malfunctioned, resulting in a light blue facade that stands out from the standardized gray of the other buildings.
Inside Timur hears his mother humming 'Dancing Queen.' She embraces him, and he smells her Chanel No. 5. Then, she flits to the other room with the grace of a butterfly. She wears a short jacket with brooch depicting St. Basil's Cathedral in Moscow.
Timur puts her suitcases into the trunk of a cab, and they leave for the airport.
They don't talk during the trip. It's hot in the car, and Timur feels a little sick. He looks out of the window with an empty stare. The Danube Canal, the boats there, and the building of the customs office pass by. The city feels orderly and safe.
Yet, Timur wants to cry, but forces himself not to. Men don't. Billy Joel is singing on the radio.
When will you realize… Vienna waits for you?
Vienna is a place you shouldn't stay for too long, Timur thinks. Despite the Danube Canal and all. The song is a warning. Something terrible is about to happen. Don't know what exactly, though.
After the song finishes, the host on the radio says the Föhn wind is blowing in Vienna. It's a dry, warm wind that is believed to cause migraine and psychosis.
Maybe it's the wind, Timur thinks. Maybe all this will be over once it changes direction.
They arrive at the airport in time. Timur's mother checks in her luggage and gets her boarding pass.
"Timur, darling, you are not yourself," Timur's mother says. "What is it?"
"I don't know," Timur says. "I just don't feel well."
"I guess I know what's bothering you," Timur's mother says.
"Huh?" Timur says.
"This whole place," Timur's mother says.
"Pardon?" Timur says.
"Vienna is not for us," Timur's mother says. "The city lacks soul and makes us feel lonely even with its two million inhabitants. Do you understand?"
"Of course," Timur says. "You're right."
"So?" Timur's mother says.
"So what?" Timur says.
"Actions speak louder than words," Timur's mother says.
"Don't get it," Timur says.
"Why don't you just go to that Aeroflot counter, buy a ticket and fly to Moscow?" Timur's mother says. "Maybe we can even fly on the same plane!"
"I don't know…" Timur says.
"Why not?" Timur's mother says. "I have enough cash for a one-way ticket to Moscow."
"It's not that," Timur says.
"What's holding you back, Timur?" Timur's mother says.
"Everybody says that it will be worse over there, in Russia," Timur says.
"Who is 'everybody'?" Timur's mother says.
"Dad," Timur says. "I'll get the ticket."
He starts walking towards the Aeroflot counter. Behind the counter is a female ticket agent. He remembers a conversation with his father.
"Different cities attract different people. Moscow is a place where very strong people live," His father says. "It's like a big shark tank. Very strong, very competitive people."
"What about Vienna?" Timur says.
His father laughs.
"You play video games, right?" Timur's father says.
"Yes," Timur says.
"And you have levels there, right?" Timur's father says. "Like an easy level and a hard level."
"Right," Timur says.
"Well, Moscow is an extra-hard, cutthroat level. And Vienna is like a resort," Timur's father says. "You don't have any fights there and everything is served to you on a silver platter."
"I don't like Vienna," Timur says.
"Get some real achievements in Vienna, then move on to a harder level in Moscow," Timur's father says.
"Does my job in the pizzeria count as an achievement?" Timur says.
"What do you think?" Timur's father says.
He imagines what his father would say now.
"Timur, son, this girl behind the ticket counter has more marketable skills than you," Timur's father would have said. "Do you really believe that a pizza delivery boy can make enough money in Moscow?"
Timur stops a couple of feet before reaching the Aeroflot counter. He turns around and goes back to his mother.
"I am staying," Timur says in a low voice.
"Alright," she says.
She hugs and kisses him.
"Just remember you can always come back," she says.
She walks through Passport Control.
As he arrives back at his empty flat one and a half hours later, Timur begins to understand the sense of emptiness and loss that Billy Joel's song had warned about.