Mustapha's Taxi

The taxi-driver’s heavily accented German was difficult to understand. I tried English.
- ‘Mustapha’s, off Giesebeckstrasse, please, mate.’
- ‘Ah. English. Mustapha’s is good name for restaurant, yes.’
At least that meant he’d heard of it. Doc was blootered in the back seat saying ‘Geez A Break Strasse’ and giggling. Probably still relieved at our narrow escape after our visit to Thimbles. We needed some food right enough.
- ‘My friend, sorry. Is it open the Mustapha’s?’
- ‘What time is it? I asked.
- ‘3.55.’
- ‘That’s ok, just need to be at a table before 5.30 a.m.’
I shoved Doc over to the other side of the back seat. The snores were deafening in my right ear. The driver wasn’t Turkish, I knew that much. It was unusual that it wasn’t a German though. I couldn’t remember the last time a ‘foreigner’ had been behind the wheel of one of the big cream Mercedes taxis.
- ‘You’re a long way from home, eh?’ I ventured. He could answer, or not. His choice.
- ‘Yes, my friend. Further than you think.’ An intriguing answer, had he meant it to be? No chance of repartee with Doc at the moment, so I said:
- ‘But you don’t know what I think, do you?’
- ‘OK, my friend, you guess where I come from, you don’t pay. You don’t guess, pay double meter, yes?’ It was a 10-minute ride, how could I lose?

The driver was olive skinned, the five-o-clock shadow looked like nearing the second time around, although I’d have bet he’d shaved before coming on shift. He was about 30. He wore a collarless white shirt and a cheap if well-cared for suit. Every so often he would smile and a gold tooth would glint in the street lighting or the car headlamps. I could not for the life of me place his accent; he could have been born anywhere from Khartoum to Kazakhstan.
He smiled.
- ‘My name is Mustapha too. I will help you. You can ask me questions, except for the obvious ones, OK?’
It seemed fair enough.
- ‘Are you a Muslim?’ No use beating about the bush, I thought.
- ‘Well, yes, I am.’
- ‘Did you learn to drive in your home country?’ I admit it, I was quite drunk too.
He laughed.
- ‘Yes, we have roads and everything.’
- ‘And how long have you been in Berlin?’
I was hoping to catch him out somehow.
- ‘I have been here 2 years I left… well I left home in 1982.’
Almost, I thought.
- ‘And do you have a visa. A permit.’ I sounded like the police.
- ‘I am here legally.’ He wasn’t fazed.
- ‘Why?’ Well, I might as well find out something about him, I thought.
He sighed.
- ‘It’s complicated…’
We were at a set of lights, waiting to filter right off the Kantstrasse: Mustapha’s was just around the corner.
- ‘Come on, I haven’t long left…’ I hadn’t a clue.
- ‘I am a political refugee, Germany’s policy is very helpful, if you can get here.’
I was none the wiser. The taxi was pulling to a halt in front of the restaurant. I thought I’d try an outlandish guess: some far flung Soviet Republic on the Islamic fringe.
- ‘Krzygystan.’ I stumbled over the name. ‘ It’s Krzygystan, isn’t it?’
He shook his head, smiled ruefully;
- ‘No, no it’s not.’
- ‘How much?’ I asked, I couldn’t see the meter.
- ‘12 marks, OK?’
- ‘It’s ok with me, he’s paying.’
I nudged Doc awake and gave him the good news. He handed over the cash. Doc was half-way through the restaurant door. I tapped on the driver’s window.
- ‘OK, where are you from?’
- ‘Kosovo.’ A catch in his voice.
- ‘What’s that? Is it even a country? I’ve never heard of it.’
- ‘You will,’ he said. ‘You will.