White Niggers
Chapter 71
Wednesday, November 6th, 2019, 12:30
Intersection of Rabensteig and Franz-Josefs-Kai, first district of Vienna
In the area around the Schwedenplatz subway station there are so many little bars, cafés and restaurants that you can disappear without trace for multiple days. This is why the Viennese call this place the Bermuda triangle. Today it feels unusually solemn, in part because of the cloudy weather.
Marik and Riml-Löhr stand in front of an improvised monument to the victims of the terrorist attack. Last Sunday the failed ISIS fighter succeeded to kill four people before police shot him.
There are flowers, wreaths, and candles on a table in front of the restaurant where the tragedy happened.
How is the garden of your soul doing? Riml-Löhr thinks. What kind of flowers are blooming there? Have you resurrected yet now that your soul has received five corpses worth of fertilizer? Why aren't you celebrating, Herr Dokhtor?
Riml-Löhr feels a slight breeze with little droplets of water. It rained recently.
Doesn't that water feel like tears of people in whose murder you are complicit? Riml-Löhr thinks. Oh, and don't bother to tell me to shut up because it won't work. The conscience can't be silenced forever, even if speaks with the mannerisms of the general.
Riml-Löhr takes off his glasses and cleans them.
"I am so sorry," Riml-Löhr says. "Five people dead!"
Marik turns away for a moment. A streetcar passes nearby and rings the bell.
"Sorry, didn't hear you," Marik says. "But I wholeheartedly agree. Five people aren't nearly enough to trigger a public unrest. This is pitiful, indeed."
You know what's more disturbing than getting chummy with people more soulless than you? Riml-Löhr thinks. I tell you what: Run a thought experiment, Dr. Smartypants. Imagine you searched the apartment of the terrorist, and found the machine gun and the ammo. What do you think would the newspapers write about you? Couldn't the television give you your fifteen minutes of fame? And wouldn't it have been extremely efficient because the general, yes, that Prolet and grunt, gave you the ticket to fame in that red folder?
"Maybe it has something to do with the demographics," Marik says. "Excluding the terrorist himself, only four people died. Of those four, one is a German and another a northern Macedonian. I guess in your world, they don't count as people. So, all in all, we have a measly two Austrians dead."
He pulls Riml-Löhr to the side by the sleeve of his jacket.
"There are lot of nuts in your lovely city," Marik says.
He points with his head at a man at a distance of about three meters. He has short hair and is about the same age as Riml-Löhr. His gaze flits from side to side. It never stays in one place for more than a fraction of a second.
This glance is a sign he is incapable of focusing for more than a few seconds, Riml-Löhr thinks. A survivor, yes. A thinker? That’s another matter.
He could be a caricature of Howard Beale from "The Network." He's mad as hell and won't take it any more. But, contrary to Howard Beale, he can't turn his anger into anything tangible. So it boils inside him like in a pressure cooker.
His lips are at times pressed together, at times moving. His hair is unkempt and protudes on all sides like the mane of an old and neglected lion.
Suboptimal self-care may be a sign of PTSD, Riml-Löhr thinks. I'm wondering what his diagnosis is – autism? Bipolar disorder? Schizophrenia? ADHD?
He wears a green jacket made out of rainproof fabric with corduroy lapels.
Usually little children wear jackets like this, Riml-Löhr thinks. It looks even cheaper because of the contrast of the rubbery fabric with the more noble cordurory.
He carries a notebook bag with him. His movements are clumsy.
This combination of craziness and weird clothing seems familiar, Riml-Löhr thinks. Where did I see him?
The man approaches Riml-Löhr and Marik like a bulldozer.
If it wasn't for Marik, he would have bumped into me, Riml-Löhr thinks. His movements… There is force in them, but also sadness, like a zombie wave attack. When did I see him?
Is he homeless? Riml-Löhr thinks. Could be, but then he is a softshoe. If he was a street vet you'd smelled it already.
"When the Chechens killed Russians you called them 'rebels,'" The specter of Howard Beale says. "But when they started to kill your people, the rebels became terrorists. For you, the Russians are white niggers. Their deaths don't count. Why, then, should I mourn the deaths of innocent Austrians if you gloat over those of innocent Russians? I wish he killed a thousand Austrians!"
He goes away.
"I think I've seen him somewhere," Riml-Löhr says. "But I can't remember when and where."
"It is right," Marik says.
"What about?" Riml-Löhr says. "Chechen rebels?"
"Not enough deaths, that's what," Marik says. "He wants more dead Austrians just like I do, albeit for different reasons."
It feels a tad strange to work with someone who wants to kill your compatriots, Riml-Löhr thinks. Not just strange, frightening.
"You mean, it's not over yet?" Riml-Löhr says. "This whole… business?"
Riml-Löhr's hands sweat.
"Of course not," Marik says. "The Twin Towers weren't blown up in one day. We'll find more effective and efficient ways to raise awareness for our cause."
"I don't know," Riml-Löhr says.
You can tell the general about Marik's plan, Riml-Löhr thinks. This is another way to get out of this mess and serve your society.
"Don't worry," Marik says. "I will think of something."
Why don't you do the right thing? Riml-Löhr thinks. Dear conscience, you don't understand anything.
Enlighten me, Herr Dokhtor, Riml-Löhr thinks. I may not be as smart as you, but I'll do my best.
Alright, you asked for it. Playing the system is what makes me feel alive. I'm like a shoplifter who steals not out of necessity, but for the thrill of it.
When you shirk on your job, that's playing the system, Riml-Löhr thinks. Helping kill more than five innocent civilians is something different, don't you think?
It's different in magnitude, not in quality, Riml-Löhr thinks. A piece of wood and a nuclear fuel rod are sources of energy. They differ in the quantity of energy you can extract from them. Shirking on the job is wood, making lots of people feel as miserable as I do is the nuclear fuel rod. Their death throes are my euphoria.
Doesn't the suffering of other people bother you? Riml-Löhr thinks. Does the suffering of a piece of wood being split bother you? Should it?