No one seemed to care for Berlin. Harry was high and stood outside the techno-club with some Ukrainians smoking something. The Ukrainians came from Warsaw. They studied there. He, Harry, didn’t know too well from where he came. Not that he cared much. It was all very strange, but the techno was good. Deep down in his soul, it echoed and made him make those incoherent moves, as a savage would, a barbarian. One Ukrainian girl danced with him and her eyes, it seemed, glowed. They went for water a couple of times and they went outside some more times. This girl just stuck to him. He called her funny names and told her things he instantly forgot. This girl was a good young girl and he enjoyed her well. She had weed inside her, and he had a galaxy of some strange powders plus weed in him. They danced and were tired and then Harry yelled through the techno:

“Come to my place?”

“Yes,” she said.

She said something to her friends in Ukrainian. Then they had a taxi ride through the night and then they were at the flat he rented.

“Come to shower?” he asked with a smile on his face and full confidence in his breast.

“Y-yes,” she said hesitatingly.

She was very shy and soft and silky and tender and cute.

In his consciousness, he was high above and saw from the star-level that she really liked him.

Then they went to the bedroom.

“It’s, it’s,” she was trying to say something with her eyes both weedy and shy.

“What is it?” Harry asked, smiling with all the supreme knowledge of the powders.

“It’s my first time,” she said.

“It’s all right. Come to me.”

She came to him and it was all right in the depth of the night and then in the early morning.

The girl had to go back to Warsaw that day. Harry was lost in some powder labyrinths when he called a taxi for her.

“Will we meet again?” she asked.

“You have my Facebook,” Harry said.

“Yes, but will we meet?” she asked with her eyes cloudy.

“Maybe, I don’t know,” Harry said while counting clouds he knew not where.

Then she was gone. Harry lay on the bed trying to fall asleep. He couldn’t. If there are clouds, there must be rain, he thought. Rain where? Tropical shower in the jungles? Light drizzle in the lands of his ancestors? In the great lands of his great ancestors? Why were they great always? Also, mighty. Mightier than you, you damned fool, a voice said. Harry didn’t know he could hear voices. Damned fool; that’s what his mighty ancestors from the great Scottish Highlands would surely say to his star-level-understanding lordship. Damned fool, they said to him. Harry was suddenly brought down to Earth, dirty and disheveled Earth, not quite knowing whether he or the Earth was dirty and disheveled. He could be dirty Harry. But he was a damned fool and he wasn’t in command of everything anymore. Clouds had to rain and rain was tears. She was crying, you damned fool.

Harry was suddenly very tired. He suddenly wanted very much to become a, say, hobbit in the Shire and no more powders and no more techno and no more of the damned Berlin. He would become a hobbit, he would enjoy peaceful summer sunsets in the Shire when the end of evening smiles, miles and miles, would love his wife and only his wife, would bring up many little hobbit-sons and hobbit-daughters, would work in the garden, make cider, smoke a pipe, and never read the news. Maybe he would even go to hobbit-church on Sundays, as he had gone in his childhood. Damned fool.

He missed the Ukrainian girl. It was empty and null if it had no other day and then other and other and more. He knew that; he knew. It was too empty if it was for one night.

Harry went to the Hauptbahnhof very fast through the multicoloured flags, Turkish flags, very dirty German flags, dirty everything and cloudy and dull and he recalled the techno-club, the savage-barbarian bullshit, the hell of what he saw there in the eyes of people. Mordor was real and he wanted to go the Shire very much. Maybe some day with a band of armed hobbit-brothers and a wizard. Ah, Berlin was fucked.

“One ticket to Warsaw, Deutschland über alles please,” Harry said.

“I won’t sell you a ticket,” a pink-haired orc said.

Harry exploded with his and the country’s fuckedness.

“The country is fucked! The country is fucked!” he yelled and went out.

Harry calmed down looking at the dirty Berlin river and bought a ticket online. He recalled the glow of the treasure that no one had ever seen or touched, the glow that could truly be only his, the treasure he had never had and probably would never have if now he didn’t go for it, fighting all the dragons there were.

Good boy, his ancestors said in the train car. He was as fucked as Deutschland was, he knew, but there was hope.