The Colour of the Black Mountains
© by Emil Zopfi, CH-8758 Obstalden
1.
It was almost midnight. It was a starless night. The man stood
in the darkness of a narrow lane near the centre of a small town
in a small country. He stood in the darkness and listened to the
noise of two drunken men leaving the pub nearby, swearing, shouting
obscenities, lighting cigarettes and urinating against the high
wall on the other side of the lane. The man stood silent in the
dark shadow of a garage door until the drunks were gone. Their
voices disappeared and he felt the mountains on both sides of
the narrow valley like a burden weighing on the town, pressing
the people and the buildings to the ground. The man felt the heavy
mass of the mountains through the dark and cold night. The black,
colourless mountains weighed upon his soul.
It was spring, it was a cold spring but it was a night without
the smell of spring and without the warm light of the stars. The
man stood in the cold road, he waited until it was completely
silent, and then he shouted a name towards the windows on the
top of the wall. He shouted very softly, he waited, shouted a
little louder. «Marco!» he repeated again and again. It was the
name of his son. He looked through the darkness to the top of
the wall. He could hardly recognise the small windows covered
with grids, heavy, black, iron grids. He knew that behind one
of the windows was his son, sleeping or lying awake on a small
plank in a small cell. The man finally shouted very loudly, but
he didn’t get any answer. Far away he heard a car passing the
main street, he heard the wind brushing the forests on the slopes
of the mountains and he heard his own heart beating.
2.
It had been about seven o’clock, when the telephone rang. It was
one of those calls that changes your life suddenly. When you take
the receiver in your hand, you know already that something is
wrong. You know it even before you hear the voice on the other
end of the line.
«Police.» It was like a thriller. They had arrested Marco in the
factory where he was doing his apprenticeship. Two policemen had
travelled all the way from the town in the valley to the town
on the lake where Marco lived. It had taken them about an hour
by car. They had arrested him at noon in the workshop, later they
had searched his studio. Then they had taken him back in the police
car. Like a criminal, they had interrogated him for several hours
and finally thrown him into a cell. They had treated him like
a criminal, despite his age. Marco was sixteen years old.
«What is his offence?»
«He is the leader of a gang of sprayers. They have damaged property
for about 70 000.»
The father was shocked, as if in a dream.
Then he asked: «Did he admit anything?»
«Yes, Sir, he did.»
«So let him go. You know what he has done. He is a child.»
The policeman said that the investigating judge had decided to
keep Marco in prison until the investigation was closed.
«When will it be over?»
«I don’t know, Sir.»
The father called a solicitor, but the man was just leaving for
a trip to Italy. «When I am back, I will help you. Keep cool,
man.»
He said that the only thing he could do was to go to the prison,
to call his son, to shout to him through the window that he shouldn’t
be afraid.
«I will be back Monday evening. Call my office on Tuesday.» He
hung up. It was Thursday evening, half past seven. Nothing was
the same as it had been.
3.
They had a project. They wanted to open a disco in the valley,
in the old printing factory near the town that served as a warehouse
for all kinds of rubbish, carpets and car wheels and old clothes
and rusty army equipment. It was a run-down building with leaking
roofs and cracked walls, grey like most buildings in the town
and the villages along the river, grey like the constantly covered
sky, grey like the dusty road and the dirty pubs, grey like life.
But they were going to change it. The disco was called Backstage,
and it was Roland’s idea.
Oh, yes, there were discos in town. One was run by the Catholic
church, one by the Protestants, with young vicars or priests in
jeans, nice ladies behind the bar with deep feelings of social
responsibility and good hearts and also the unavoidable melancholic
social worker with long hair. Coca Cola, popcorn, chips, soft
music, no joints. Smoking only in the toilettes.
Roland had been there just once to know that the young people
of the valley needed something different. They needed colour,
music, long nights, lights, discussions, noise, love, hope. Roland
was older than the others, he was 21. He had a job at the filling
station on the hill, filling fuel tanks, cleaning car-windows,
pumping tires, selling motorway-stickers. He did it properly,
early till late, six days a week, without speaking a lot. But
while he was working, he was dreaming. He was dreaming of a new
life. He would be the manager of a good place for young people.
While he filled fuel tanks he heard the sounds, he saw the light
effects, he saw the bodies of the girls and boys moving in the
red and green and yellow light and dancing to the rhythms of the
music. His dream had a name: Backstage. The disco would be his
new life.
«Anything else, Sir?»
«No, thanks.»
«Oil? Air?»
«It’s OK.»
«Oh, you haven’t got the new motorway-sticker, Sir. Do you need
one? It’s January.»
«You’re right. Give me one.»
He went to the station, came back with the sticker. «You are lucky,
Sir. It’s just the last one.»
«Really? You are a good salesman, young man.»
He smiled. His face was red, pimpled. «Should I remove the old
one, Sir? And attach the new one?»
«Thanks. It’s OK. I will do it at home. Aren’t you a friend of
Marco’s?»
«Yes Sir, I am.»
«What’s your name.»
«Roland.»
He stood beside the car, watched the traffic on the main road
until the way was clear. He waved, smiled again, a small, fat
young man in a blue overall. He had sold him a sticker, the last
one.
4.
Finally the father heard the noise of keys, opening and closing
heavy iron doors. A couple of years ago he had visited the big
prison near the city in another part of the country and he remembered
the same noise of keys and squeaking hinges, he remembered it
also from the thrillers on television. It was exactly the same
sound. But nothing is the same if your own son is involved, not
a person you don’t know or an actor in a movie. The steps came
closer to the wall, then a small iron door opened and an officer
in a blue uniform came out. At his belt hung a revolver and in
one hand he carried a bunch of keys. He was a rather small man
with a dark beard and dark eyes. He looked like the farmers in
the valley. His face had the melancholic expression which is typical
for them, poor people, for centuries oppressed by rich landlords
and forever depressed by the mountains. He was certainly the descendant
of farmers who, having found a job as policeman, did nothing but
his duty, day and night. He introduced himself with a name which
was very common in the valley.
«I heard you calling, Sir,» said he through the darkness to the
father who stood still in the shadow of the garage door.
«May I see my son?» asked the father with low voice.
«I’m sorry, Sir. I am not allowed to let anybody in.»
«Why not? I’m the father. He is a child.»
«The investigating judge has given the order. And it’s also prohibited
by law.»
The cop stood now very close, a small but strong man, son of farmers,
friendly and tough. The father saw the revolver hanging at his
side, he could have reached it with a fast movement of his hand,
he could have turned it towards the cop, reversing the situation
in seconds.
«Marco is sleeping,» said the policeman with his friendly voice.
«It’s better we let him sleep and dream. He had a rather hard
day. And tomorrow the investigation will continue.»
«Have you been interrogating him?» asked the father without taking
his eyes from the revolver. Once he had been a sergeant in the
army, an excellent shot with training in close combat. But he
didn’t move, he didn’t free his son with the weapon of the cop.
He was too reasonable and he was too much a coward. And this was
no exercise and no movie.
They walked along the lane, passed the pub which was empty and
dark. The officer guided him to a small building at a corner of
the lane and showed him a wall which was covered with words in
bold letters. It was a foul smelling public toilet and the wall
was dirty. The cop showed him the word CREO and said: «This is
your son. We have identified the word. The sprayers call it a
tag. Its their fingerprint. There are dozens of tags of your son
all over the town and also in other towns.»
«And how the hell did you find out?»
The officer hesitated. Then he said: «We found clues in your son’s
studio. Drawings and photographs. And they have confessed.»
«They? Who else?»
«There are four of them. Marco, Jan, Peter. All sons of well known
families of the valley.» He said it in a way to make clear, that
he wasn’t from a well known family. He was just a peasant and
a policeman.
«Are they? And who is the fourth?»
«His name is Roland, poor boy.»
«Poor boy? Why?»
«He is the only one over eighteen. That means, he will go before
a regular criminal court. The others will be judged by the juvenile
court.»
When the father drove back through the valley, he saw the first
light on the mountains. It was a grey light and the stars were
blinking like candles swimming on the surface of a deep and dark
ocean. When he passed the filling station on the hill, he remembered
the fat young man in the blue overall who had sold him the sticker.
The last one.
5.
It was Friday the 13th, a bright day with a black date. The sky
was clear and pale blue, the cool colour of spring. Warm red light
was painting the mountains and on the highest peaks gleamed the
last snow. It was a warm day in a cold time. The father was sitting
at his desk, looking through the window to the most beautiful
landscape in the world, but he didn’t see it. He sat there for
minutes or even hours without moving, thinking only of two phrases.
I lift my eyes to the hills from whence my help comes? It was the beginning of a psalm. He hadn’t read the holy bible
for decades and he never went to church. But on that morning he
could hardly think anything other than the desperate words of
the psalmist. And he didn’t find an answer.
He had phoned dozens of people, friends, well-known lawyers, journalists
and even a cousin who was a member of the high court. He had moved
heaven and earth to get his son out of prison, but without success.
Everybody told him that the only way was to speak to the investigating
judge, but Mr. Weyrauch was not in the office. His secretary said
that he had already left for the weekend without leaving an address.
«What kind of human being is a man who throws four children in
jail and then leaves for vacation. And he is even paid with our
tax money.»
«I am sorry, Sir,» said the secretary. «Dr Weyrauch is employed
only part time. Call him Monday. I suppose he will be in his office.»
«Nothing you can do,» a friend told him, a highly qualified lawyer.
«But they have to release Marco tomorrow because according to
the law the investigation imprisonment can last only 48 hours.»
«Is that true?»
«Yes, it is illegal, unless there are severe reasons to keep him
longer.»
«And who decides.»
«The investigating judge only.»
«And if he is not in his office?»
«You have to wait. No other choice.»
It was about two in the afternoon when the phone rang.
«Who is speaking?»
«This is Jan, a friend of Marcos.»
«Really? Where on earth are you? I thought you were in jail.»
«I was there until noon. They released me after lunch.»
«And Marco? Where is he?»
«He has to answer further questions, I think. But he is fine,
I should tell you. I suppose they will release him soon. Perhaps
this evening.»
«Why did they let you out?»
«I have confessed and signed the protocol. They told me that Marco,
Peter and Roland had already confessed everything. But they are
keeping them in the clink for a bit longer.»
«So they haven’t yet confessed, I suppose. The cops have used
the most stupid tricks to make you confess.»
Jan was silent for a moment, perhaps he was shocked. But then
he said in a low voice: «I’m afraid so, Sir.»
Late in the afternoon the father drove to the police headquarters
where he could speak to Marco for a few minutes. The other boys
had already left. Mr Lutz, a young and very eager policeman, stood
guard. He said that it was owing to him that they had finally
arrested the sprayers who had done so much damage. He said he
had already been working for several weeks on this case. «Day
and night, Sir, you can imagine. Over a hundred pages of protocol.
But now they have confessed. I am relieved.» His eyes shone proudly.
Mr Lutz was from another part of the country and the father had
the impression, that this success was very important to his career.
It was difficult for a young policeman from outside to be accepted
by the locals.
Marco was pale and silent. He said that they treated him very
well and that he had everything he needed. A bed, good food, magazines
and even a toothbrush. He said that he had confessed without any
pressure because he wanted to leave the prison as soon as possible
and go back to work.
«We will release you soon if you cooperate well,» said Mr. Lutz.
«What does cooperate mean?» asked the father.
«That he tells us everything.»
«Didn’t he do that already?»
«Yes he did. But he has still to read and sign the protocol. After
that, Mr Weyrauch will decide.»
«But he is away this weekend, I have been told.»
«Don’t be afraid, Sir. Everything will be handled in the best
possible way.»
«So you know where he is?»
«Investigation is our job, Sir, not yours.»
It was dark when he drove back. He stopped near the new carpet-factory,
in front of the ugly modern building of concrete and bricks. Once
there had been a historic industrial complex, very typical for
the industrial architecture of the valley. But they had pulled
it down. On the naked concrete wall was painted a big graffiti
in fat colours, showing a boy with an aerosol can in one hand
and a baseball cap. Below there were two tags: CREO and ZORRO.
It was obviously the work of Marco and Jan.
6.
One Saturday night they opened the disco Backstage in the old
hand-printing factory. Nothing was as yet perfect, the music not
loud enough because the amplifiers didn’t have sufficient power,
the light effects were only improvised, but Roland was happy.
It was a start, it would grow, he saw a future, he would run his
own business instead of cleaning car windows and filling tanks.
It was about three o’clock in the morning when most of the people
had gone. All the guys with their girls had left. It was a sudden
silence after the heavy music, the noise of feet on the old wooden
factory floor, the loud voices. Only Marco, Jan and Peter were
still sitting at a table, emptying the last cans of coke and talking
nonsense. They didn’t have girls and now, after the long night
passed dancing and enjoying themselves, a sudden sadness touched
them.
After a moment of silence, one of them said: «Here we are. What’s
happening now? I’m not tired.»
Another said: «Lets do something.»
Roland said: «We should put the disco in order.»
«Oh, that job can wait until tomorrow,» said the fourth of them.
Then, Marco and Jan proposed to go to the railway station and
paint graffiti. There was one already, a sentence very unattractively
painted on the sandstone-wall of the main building. «Buy meatpie
instead of tanks.» It was a slogan against the army which maintained
barracks for the tank troops on one of the alpine meadows in the
valley.
Roland was against the graffiti. He finally agreed just to accompany
them and watch.
They had two motorcycles and they drove them to the station, two
on each, hoping that no police car was about. The sandstone-wall
with the old graffiti was too visible to paint, so they went to
the other side of the building and found two railway-cars, parked
in the shade as if somebody had purposely left them exposed. Painting
a car was the most thrilling work a graffiti artist could do.
They took up the challenge, picked up their cans and shook them.
Marco, Jan and Peter started spraying immediately, each of them
at a different corner. The click-clack of the cans as they shook
and the whisper of the spraying colour was the exiting sound of
graffiti artists doing their silent and secret work. It was music
to their ears. Marco watched them and finally he took a can himself
and wrote a few words in clumsy letters. «Fuck the army,» he wrote
without thinking of anything. Perhaps it was the only sentence
in English language that he knew. Later, during the interviews,
he said that he hadn’t had any political message in mind.
«Have you also written that stupid sentence on the sandstone-wall?»
he was asked.
«No,» he said and it was true. He wasn’t against the army, and
he would have liked to do his military service, but hadn’t been
accepted for medical reasons.
When the four graffiti artists saw the first light of dawn caressing
the top of the mountains they stopped and drove back. They were
in high spirits and started putting the disco in order.
During the afternoon Jan and Marco went back to the station and
secretly took some Polaroid pictures of the neatly painted rusty
railway-cars. They didn’t notice that a railway worker watched
them before walking away and called the police.
7.
Saturday there was a short message in the local newspaper: «Gang
of sprayers arrested.» It was reported that one of them was still
in custody and that the other three had been released. According
to the newspaper the damage was estimated at about 70’000.
When the father walked through the town he had the impression
that everybody was pointing their finger at him. Nobody knew that
he was the father of one of the sprayers but he felt as guilty
as if he had done the graffiti himself. He had found out Mr Weyrauch’s
private address. He lived on the main street just opposite his
office in a government building. There was no name near the bell
but the father rang and waited. He waited for a long time, he
pushed the button again and again. There was no movement and no
light. There was no light in the office the other side of the
street. There was only the shadow of the evening slowly filling
the valley and street and his heart.
He felt terrible. He had found out quite a lot about Mr Weyrauch,
who was not only an investigating judge for the juvenile court
but also a had a private solicitor’s office. In this function
he was member of the board of several companies with strange names
and unknown activities, such as Aromex Ltd., Fininvest Ltd., Serena
Ltd. One of these letter-box-companies was called Creative Partners
Ltd. According to his research it was a company «to support creative
enterprises». Perhaps this company would rather support exotic
dancers in a red light bar than a team of graffiti artists, thought
the father in his anger.
Finally he went to police headquarters. He had an appointment
with Mr Lutz at five o’clock because the 48 hours of investigation
internment were over. He asked the officer at the desk to call
Mr Lutz. While the father waited the man told him that for more
than one year he himself had suspected that Marco was one of the
sprayers they searched for. He had seen the graffiti which Marco
had sprayed in the disco Backstage, legally of course, and he
had compared it’s style with the illegal ones. He had become convinced
that Marco was responsible for all this damage but he couldn’t
prove it. It was only by chance that Mr Lutz hat found the final
clue. He had served at the desk the Sunday when the railway worker
called.
You fucking asshole, thought the father, but he didn’t say anything.
After some time Mr Lutz and Marco arrived.
«Have you got your bag?» asked the father. «We are going home
now.»
«Just a moment,» said Mr Lutz. «He cannot leave just now. We haven’t
yet got the okay from Mr Weyrauch.»
«Mr Weyrauch is neither at home nor in his office,» said the father.
«And if you need his okay you know his weekend-address.You can
give it to me immediately.»
«Keep cool, Sir,» said the policeman. «Mr Weyrauch will call Captain
Koller within one hour. After his agreement Marco will be free.»
«Who is Mr Koller? Call him.»
«Captain Koller is our boss. He will be here when we release Marco.
I suggest that you have a cup of coffee somewhere in town and
come back after an hour.»
Marco didn’t say one word. He was pale. He smelled of sweat and
smoke and cabbage, he hadn’t changed his clothes since they had
taken him in. He smelled of prison.
The father left. He went to Ruedi’s cafe where the beautiful people
of the town usually met. It was full of neatly dressed young women
with their guys and lonely ladies enjoying Ruedi’s excellent cappuccino,
hot chocolate and homemade almond-cake. Ruedi’s cappuccino was
said to be the best in the valley, perhaps the best in the country
or even the best in the world. It was certainly the best in the
world, because for the patrons of Ruedi’s cafe the world was as
big as the valley. The city, 50 miles away on the other side of
the lake, already belonged to another world. It was the outside
world, good for work and holiday, but not for living. The small
valley was a big enough a world for them to feel important.
He found a small round table in a dark corner where he sat and
drank the best coffee in the world. But it was the worst of his
life. He listened to two couples talking about their holiday plans.
One of them intended to spend their holiday in the Caribbean.
The problem was what to do during the day. He preferred sailing
and she preferred bathing. «If you like sailing you can do it
on our own lake,» she said. «The wind is better and it’s cheaper.»
«And you can wet your backside in our own lake too,» he said.
«It’s also cheaper and the water is not as salty as in the Caribbean’s.»
«But it’s too cold here,» she said. «And I like it hot.» They
laughed stupidly.
He listened to their smalltalk and finally he left without emptying
his cup.
«What’s the matter with you?» asked Ruedi following him to the
exit.
«I’m not in the mood today,» he said.
«Is something wrong with your son?» Ruedi asked.
«Why should something be wrong with my son? Did anybody tell anything?»
«Not precisely. But you know that here the walls are talking,»
said Ruedi with low voice.
«You mean some painted walls?»
«Exactly,» said Ruedi. «Take it easy, man. We all did our thing
when we were young, didn’t we.» He knocked him on the shoulder.
«Of course,» said the father. An suddenly he remembered a night
long ago, a very dark night when he had sprayed on a wall the
sentence: «Stop the war in Vietnam.» He had been a student at
the university in the city and he had long forgotten the incicident.
They shook hands. Then he went back to police headquarters. Marco
was waiting behind the desk. With him was a police officer with
white hair, obviously the boss.
«Hallo,» said the father smiling. «Are you ready, Marco?»
«Hallo,» said the officer.
«Are you Mr Koller?» asked the father.
«I am Captain Koller,» said the officer in sharp voice. «I am
the chief of headquarters.»
The father introduced himself and asked if he could leave now
with his son.
«No,» said Captain Koller. «He has to remain with us until Monday.»
«But Mr Lutz said releasing Marco was only a formality.»
«I am sorry, Sir. The investigating judge has decided that he
has to remain in custody until Monday.»
«Until Mr Weyrauch is back from his nice weekend?»
«This is not your problem, Sir. We have laws.»
«I wonder which law allows you to keep a child in prison?»
«Who has broken law, Sir?»
«There are also laws of humanity and reason.»
«I don’t want to waste my time in useless discussion, Sir. This
is not my business. Speak to Mr Weyrauch.» He took handcuffs out
of his pocket. They clicked.
«Come,» said the Captain to Marco and pulled him to the exit.
«One hour ago Mr Lutz promised to release my son. You have cheated
him and me. You have lied. What kind of people are you? What impression
does this make on a young man? Marco is not a criminal, but you
are going to make one out of him.»
«I want to go home,» Marco suddenly cried out and the tears ran
down his cheeks.
«I cannot help you,» said the father helplessly. «Keep calm my
son. Do what they say and I will do what I can.»
When they had left, the policeman behind the desk stood up and
mumbled: «I am sorry, Sir, but…» The father turned and left.
8.
On Sunday afternoon the mother returned home from a seminar which
she had organised and for which she was responsible. During the
last three days she had had hardly a minute’s spare time to think
of her son. She knew what had happened but she repressed every
feeling. She couldn’t interrupt the seminar and send the people
home, they had paid for it and it was her job. And what sense
would it have made? What could I do what my husband can’t, she
thought during the sleepless nights. Would I stand in front of
the prison and cry until a crowd of people came together and helped
me break into the prison and free my son? Or hunger-strike until
all the tabloids of the country put the story on the front page?
When she was back home, she packed a bag with clothes, some chocolate
and some toilet-articles and drove with the father to the police
headquarters in town.
They were shown to a room where two officers and two men sat around
a big table. It looked as if they had just finished a meeting.
They stood up and introduced themselves as police officers Lutz
and Captain Koller, responsible for the investigations. Lutz seemed
to be slightly embarrassed. Koller shook her hand without looking
her in the face. She had the impression that something was wrong.
«We had a short meeting with the fathers of Jan and Peter,» explained
Lutz.
«Why didn’t you invite my husband?» she asked.
«We will arrange a meeting with all parents when the investigation
is closed,» Captain Koller told her flatly. «I am sorry madam.»
He turned to her husband. «I have to leave immediately. We have
a lot do as you can imagine. Mr Lutz will be at your disposal.»
He left with the two men, they shook hands and she noticed that
they called each other by their first names. They all belong to
the brotherhood, she thought. To the so called brotherhood belonged
the members of certain families of the valley, the councillors,
the members of parliament, the solicitors, the judges, the owners
of the factories, the estate agents, the top-managers, the politicians,
the army-officers, members of the two leading parties, members
of the rotary or lions club and of the numerous associations,
commissions and councils. They all formed a informal network which
the rest of the country called the «brotherhood of the valley».
Most of them were men, almost all of them belonged to the establishment
families, they knew each other and called each other by their
first names. They comprised the political and economic power of
the valley.
«What the hell is going on here?» she asked. «Are they making
Marco an example?»
«Please, be quiet,» said the father and pointed. «The walls have
ears. I suppose they have microphones behind the paper.»
«The walls can hear every damned word I am saying and the cops
can hear it too,» she said angrily. «Where are they? What are
they doing? What’s going on?»
«Mr Lutz is getting Marco from the cell.»
For a long time they sat in silence in the room and now she noticed
that the decoration was very noble. Antique furniture, the silk
wallpaper, the satin curtains. The table was enormous and heavy,
with a top of slate. It was the type of table the valley had exported
two centuries ago all over the world, but for half a century the
slate-caves had been closed. Hundreds of slate-workers had died
of silicosis or in accidents, but the owners of the caves got
rich and their descendants still lived on those fortunes.
«It seems that they spend a nice bit of our tax-money for our
friends and helpers,» the father murmured.
Then Lutz opened the door and Marco came in. The mother embraced
him and kissed him and cried.
«What’s up?» he asked. «I am fine. I feel great. I have slept
the whole day. If they would let me out this evening, I would
do some nice graffiti in town.»
«Don’t be a fool,» the father said.
She handed Marco the bag. «Please change your clothes. You smell
bad, my son.»
«Next time they won’t catch me, I swear,» he said. «I am learning
a hell of a lot.»
«Shut up!» the father cried.
«Can you have a shower where you are?» the mother asked, avoiding
the words «prison» or «cell». «I have brought you everything you
need. Soap, a fresh towel and a comb and brush.»
«Of course,» Marco said. «I can have almost everything. They get
the food from a restaurant. Dessert and coffee and everything.»
Then the father started swearing. «What fucking assholes are these
cops?» He had discovered that Lutz had locked the door. He banged
with his fist.
«Now we are all in prison,» the mother said with a sudden smile.
Finally the family is united in jail.»
A key was turned.
As they were leaving, they saw Lutz accompanying Marco back to
the prison building. They had to cross the road. Marco had to
walk two steps in front of the policeman as if he was a violent
criminal.
9.
Monday was a wonderful, warm day. It was spring and in the meadows
the first flowers were blooming. The sun was shining and the world
was painted with the light colours of awakening nature. It was
a fine day. They had left the valley and driven along the lake,
crossed the city and now they were driving on the motorway through
a green plain. Police officer Lutz drove, Captain Koller watched
the traffic through the front window. Sometimes he lit a cigarette
and smoked half of it, then threw the stub out of the window.
They were driving to Guellen, a town in the great plain near the
capital of the country, about 150 miles from the valley. In autumn
the big hip-hop concert had taken place at Guellen. Marco remembered
the happening. They had travelled there by train, hundreds of
boys with baseball hats and jackets and heavy tennis-boots without
laces. Each of them had carried a skateboard and a rucksack filled
with spray-cans. When they moved, you could hear the characteristic
click-clack of balls in the cans. It was music to the ears of
the graffiti artists. After the concert, heavy techno-sound and
dances and the ultimate lights-shows, the boys spread out. They
painted the whole town of Guellen, the venerable sandstone-walls
of the Middle Age buildings, the concrete of bridge-pillars and
factories, the doors of garages and warehouses. Dozens of boys
had participated in the spontaneous action but the police had
caught only a few. Unfortunately on the police-photographs the
experts had also recognised the sprayed tags of Marco and Jan.
That was the reason for their trip to Guellen. They had to identify
their tags. Captain Koller said, that it was useless to deny their
participation. And he said also that even if hundreds of sprayers
had helped to do the graffiti, those who were caught had to pay
for the entire damage, not only their own small contribution.
It was a shock for Marco and Jan, they couldn’t believe it, but
Captain Koller said that that was the law and it was no joke.
The identification of the tags took not more than a few minutes.
Afterwards Marco and Jan were brought to the prison in Guellen
which was in a castle on a hill in the centre of the town. They
had to have dinner together with the prisoners, men of every age
and background. Burglars, murderers, drug dealers, rapists. One
of them asked if the management was going to open a kindergarten
in the prison. They laughed. Another offered the two lads a can
of beer. «Really nice guys there,» would Marco remark later. They
told them about their crimes.
«Did you ever hear about Harald Naegely, the famous sprayer?»
«No,» said Marco.
«He was in jail for a year and a half. We washed dishes together
in prison. And now he exhibits his works in the finest galleries
and museums all over the world and makes good cash.»
«Don’t worry,» said a man whose arms were covered with tattoos.
«the soup is never eaten as hot as it is cooked. It’s just fun
for the fucking cops to make you worry. They can’t do you a lot
of harm, you are just children, aren’t you.»
While Marco and Jan had their lunch with criminals, Captain Koller
and Lutz enjoyed a decent meal in one of the typical restaurants
of Guellen at the expense of the citizens of the valley. After
desert, coffee and cognac they fetched the two boys at the castle
and drove home. At four o’clock in the afternoon Marco was finally
released. The policemen drove him home. The sun was going down,
the shadows were growing and a harsh wind was blowing through
the valley.
10.
They became experts in cleaning walls. The police had found more
than 70 graffitis or tags in town and in other villages of the
valley. They had contacted the owners of the buildings and suggested
bringing charges against the four sprayers. Only a few of them
had done it before because most of the damage has not been severe.
The parents of Jan, Marco and Peter held a meeting and decided
to contact all private persons or companies involved and offer
to clean or repaint the buildings if they would withdraw charges.
Most of them agreed. Only Roland’s parents didn’t show up. Roland
had only been charged by the railway company, he had participated
just once. Peter’s father said: «I will talk to the management
of the railway. The railway is a good customer of my factory,
we have contracts for several million a year. I know the responsible
manager personally. Perhaps he will turn a blind eye to this.»
Jan’s father knew also quite a few of the people involved . After
the meeting they had a glass of wine together and all left, quite
relieved.
The cleaning went on rather well. Marco’s mother turned out to
be the most skillful cleaner. She developed techniques adapted
to the material of the walls, she bought the brushes, the cleaning
liquids, the chemical substances needed. They had to clean sandstone,
bricks, concrete, iron and wood. At the end she joked that she
could make a fortune running a wall-cleaning company, because
demand was growing in the city . It was true. Most of the walls
were cleaner after their treatment than before. And almost all
of the owners withdrew their charges after a telephone call or
a letter of apology. Only a very few didn’t.
A elderly lady who lived alone in one of the poorer parts of the
town said that she would never withdraw the charge because the
lads had to be punished. It would educate them properly in a way
she had educated her own children long ago. They had tagged only
a window-shutter of her house. It looked like new after the cleaning,
but she remained stubborn.
The management of a plastic-company behaved in the same way. The
father got angry. He knew that it was exactly the same factory
which some years ago had been charged for illegal night-shift-work.
The law prohibited night-shifts for women without special permission
and the company hadn’t complied. There had been a big scandal
because the women involved were all of foreign origin, didn’t
speak the language, didn’t know the laws and so, couldn’t defend
themselves. Finally a secretary of the union had disclosed the
facts to the press. But one of the local members of parliament
had successfully lobbied the responsible departments of the national
administration for industrial development and had reached an agreement.
The company had gotten retroactive permission and was not prosecuted.
The father had written an article about this scandal; a typical
arrangement among the corrupt «brotherhood of the valley». He
had written about it and now he was convinced that they had taken
the occasion to hit back.
The last problem was Mr Shuler, one of the richest people in town
and a lawyer himself. He lived with his family in a villa in the
residential district. The property was surrounded by an old and
crumbling wall. Marco had decorated it with a huge graffiti. Mr
Shuler received Marco and his parents very cordially. He said
that he hadn’t seen the graffiti yet. They walked along the wall,
it was a long walk because the property was an enormous park and
Mr Shuler had taken the longer way as if he wished to demonstrate
to them how big it was. They walked in silence for a while. Suddenly
he asked Marco: «I was thinking about the reasons for this illegal
painting. Can you explain it to me? What drives you to do it?
Is it art or just the thrill of doing something illegally?»
Marco said, that the art of graffiti had its origins in New York
City. It was the non-verbal communication of poor black boys who
often were illiterate. Graffiti was their language, their passion,
their way to express their needs and feelings. «It’s their culture,
it’s street culture.»
«Have you ever been in New York?»
«No,» Marco said, slightly embarrassed. «But I will go there as
soon as I have finished my apprenticeship.»
«And how do you know about the so-called street culture?»
«I have read about it,» Marco said. «I have a book with pictures.»
«I have been in New York,» said Mr Shuler in cool voice. He didn’t
say anything else, but they all understood that he meant: I have
been in New York quite often, I know the world, not like you,
who know it only from books and television.
They walked silently along the crumbling wall, the limestone was
wet and covered with moss and on the top grass grew. Sometimes
they could see the park, green and nice, the ground covered with
spring-flowers and the trees in bloom. Finally they reached the
graffiti which was big but not a masterpiece. It had obviously
been painted in a hurry. Mr Shuler looked at it for a minute,
than turned to Marco and said. «I don’t like it. You have to remove
it.» Then he left.
Some weeks later, after cleaning this wall and many others, the
father and the mother passed by occasionally. The old crumbling
wall was freshly plastered. It was clean and grey and boring like
all of the walls in town and the heads of some of it’s inhabitants.
11.
After a rainy and rather cool spring the weather suddenly became
hot. The grey and dusty colour of the valley turned to the deep
green of fast growing meadows. The forests on the slopes of the
mountains shone in the afternoon sun like the blue velvet curtains
of Snow-White’s castle. Even the rocks and the glaciers on the
top appeared less steep and threatening. Life went it’s ordinary
way.
One Saturday afternoon Jan, Marco and Peter met in a cafe in town.
They sat on the line of metal chairs lined up along the street
behind small round tables and talked about a trip to Paris during
the holidays.
«What for?» asked Peter.
«Just to climb the Eiffel tower and to have a look at the graffiti.
They’re cool in Paris, I’ve been told,» said Marco.
«And perhaps we can leave a tiny tag of ours somewhere,» added
Jan.
«I’m quitting», said Peter. «I’m fed up with all this trouble.
And, by the way, there is still one big wall left to clean.»
«Really?» noted Jan in a bored voice, though he knew it very well.
They had to repaint the wall of the public swimming pool, a very
long and high concrete face built for a prison rather than for
a place of enjoyment. The administration knew that it was ugly
and had given permission to repaint the graffiti. But painting
by daylight was no fun at all for the graffiti artists. So they
had delayed the job from week to week. They were waiting for the
decision of the juvenile court. The punishment wouldn’t be to
hard, Jan said, because they had done their best to repair the
damage.
«Perhaps they will send us for a week or two to help out a farmer
on the alpine meadows during the harvest.»
«I have been up there,» said Marco. «It’s not too bad. They have
cheese, fresh milk, cream and always a bottle of brandy.»
«I prefer climbing to the top of the Eiffel tower», said Jan.
«Perhaps they will even teach us yodelling and alpenhorn blowing
up there,» fancied Peter.
The sat outside the cafe, smoking and talking and drinking coke
until the sun went down and the heavy shade of the mountains fell
on the town and Snow-White’s castle turned black and inaccessible.
12.
There were two obituary notices in the local newspaper. One was
from the family.
Our beloved son, brother and uncle Roland has left silently. We
have lost a very kind person.
The other was singed «Staff of Backstage Disco» and the only text
was Roland, we love you.
The father couldn’t help but crying, when he saw it in the newspaper
and again he remembered the psalmist and his words. I lift my eyes to the hills from whence my help comes? It was a warm summer evening, warm
twilight flowed down the slopes of the mountains but he shivered
and the stream of warm air became icy and the light turned black
and all colours died. It remained just one colour, the black colour
of the mountains and made him sad and helpless and hopeless. Too
late, he thought, and the only thing he could do was to recall
for a few minutes the young and fat and red faced and pimpled
man, filling the tank of his car and selling him the motorway
sticker. The last one, he remembered. Roland had sold the last
sticker while he was dreaming his last dream. The father cried
silently and without any tears. The hills were sinking slowly
into the night like ships of shadow, and he knew that there was
no help.
A few days later Marco phoned. «What happened to Roland?» asked
the mother.
«He killed himself,» said Marco.
«Why?»
Marco remained silent. The mother heard voices whispering on the
line, perhaps they told the story of a young man who had lost
his last bit of hope and had left the valley and the world forever.
She listened to the voices, but she didn’t understand the words.
After a while Marco mumbled: «I don’t know. Nowbody knows. He
didn’t say anything to anyone. It was over the weekend and he
was alone.»
«Did you go to the funeral?» asked the mother.
«Of course,» said Marco, «my boss was very nice. I could take
the day whole day off. But …»
«What but?»
Marco hesitated. «We have decided to go to Paris, mum, Jan and
me.»
«What for?»
«You know, Roland had always dreamed of a trip to Paris. We will
remember him. Perhaps we will put his tag somewhere.»
For a moment the mother couldn’t speak.
Then she asked: «And how was the funeral?»
«Oh, I am sorry. We said we’d meet at the cafe in town, Jan and
I, but we missed each other and then it was too late. We thought
it wouldn’t be very polite to just drop in afterwards.»
During the holidays they travelled to Paris. After the trip they
painted the wall of the swimming pool, On a red background was
written POOL with letters that were formed of faintly blue bubbles.
On one side was painted a boy in a green baseball jacket, baseball
shoes and a reddish face with a sad expression. But one of his
hands was raised and two fingers formed the victory sign. On the
biggest bubble was written: Dedicated to Roland.
I am very grateful to Jackie Baumberger for correcting the manuscript
and encouraging my writing ventures in English.
Mai 1996
Emil Zopfi
