I wake up in the dim glow of an Edison bulb late in the afternoon. It is winter and the light is fading. Nadine grabs a towel from the floor, hips swaying as she walks silently to the shower. I reach over the edge of the mattress for cigarettes, light one. Stefan answers the door in his long-sleeved t-shirt and boxers, all pristine white, bizarrely angelic-looking. Which couldn’t be further from reality. Alexander, my best friend, saunters in and parks himself on the bed next to me, reaches for the cigarettes. Stefan makes tea while I rummage on the floor for my jeans, pull my sweater on. Later on, Alexander asks how it’s going with my ‘enigmatic German lovers’. Well… I first meet Stefan when he comes to visit Alexander. The two of us are living in student accommodation together. Said student accommodation resembles a Soviet hotel, new but relentlessly drab with its beige curtains and single beds. Alexander has just given me the bowl haircut that signals my definitive move into the realms of the techno aesthetic. It suits me and he is very proud of himself. I detect a hint of smiling intent as he introduces me to Stefan, who I like instantly. He is tall, the inverted wedge shape I like in a man. Long limbs, the pared back wardrobe of the design professional, his demeanour thoughtful yet with a playful darkness. Dark eyes and hair, smooth olive-tinged skin, he’s a moody and secretive soul (I am to find out), but with a sense of humour that plays behind his eyes as he talks. He leaves early to go back to Berlin, for undisclosed personal reasons, some urgent situation to attend to. My first encounter with the enigmatic German lovers takes place some months later a cold Berlin winter night in early January. I’ve spent my first ever New Year’s Eve in Berlin with Alexander (the first of many, it later turns out). He shaves my head, down to a number 1. It’s severe, but I’m lucky enough that it works on me. I love it, I feel like a whole new person, one who belongs here in this city of exploration and expression. We spend the early part of the evening at his friend’s, Sina, flat, a place of magic where there is no heating save for the traditional tiled stoves in the corner of the room. The occupants have made the place beautiful, a maze of rooms (they all connect in a circle) with artfully repaired old furniture, windows they have double glazed in makeshift fashion themselves. Plants abound, trailed up walls that have yielded wallpaper to reveal blotched plaster. The effect is of a secret grotto of the wilds in a crumbling Kreuzberg building, stern grey on the outside and full of wonders within. They light candles and people play instruments and sing; we drink cheap wine in the large living room with overstuffed furniture salvaged from the street. As fireworks start to pop,…