CHAPTER NINE
Marek is sitting at a window table in a white vest top, drinking a beer. At the next table is a noisy group of students from the new intake, who keep looking over at him. His shoulder-length black hair and the gold stud in his right ear mean he stands out wherever he goes.
“So boring,” he mouths, nodding in their direction. Then he stands to kiss you and says, “Goldener Krug?”
Something in his manner tells you he already knows your news. You nod. The Goldener Krug is a dingy bar run by a suicide blonde called Ute with a weakness for black velvet hair bows. It’s two streets away and never full.
Out on the street, Marek says, “I met Dieter on the tram. He told me you didn’t get a place.”
“That’s right. I didn’t.”
He sighs. “That’s terrible. I can’t believe it. But let’s no
