Magic Hoffmann

by Arjouni, Jakob

  ‘Don’t matter…’ He stood in front of Fred, formed both hands into a rectangle and looked at Fred through the hole with one eye. ‘We’ll manage. It’s not so important with film.’

  ‘I mean I don’t want to be one either,’ said Fred and wondered what shades was playing at.

  The man’s hands sank to his sides, ‘What?’ and although Fred could see no eyes behind the dark glasses, he could sense their disbelieving stare.

  ‘So you don’t know how it works with film and you’re a little nervous?’

  ‘Yes,’ growled Fred, anxious to get this guy out of the room, ‘of catching aids!’

  ‘Say again.’ Astonished, the man turned his head to one side, and Fred wondered if he would remove the glasses before a fist fight.

  Instead the man said cheerfully: ‘Even better, you don’t need to play Roger, you are Roger. Tell me about it: you can’t stand queers, foreigners out - don’t be embarrassed. You come from a small town. I can tell. You’re an averagely gifted young man, you think mainly of yourself and your little life, you don’t ask for a lot…Stop me if I’m getting it wrong.’ He paused briefly, inviting an answer. Fred didn’t move. Everyone seemed to want to talk to him about foreigners today.

  ‘Anyway, I’d be the last person not to understand. On the contrary: in most cases I find right wing attitudes absolutely natural, not to say inevitable. Left wing views are for rich arseholes who can afford them, who yell ‘let the foreigners in’ because they don’t know any foreigners apart from their Polish cleaning lady - am I right? I know what you’re thinking: you think I want to lead you on to thin ice, that I’m some kind of lefty myself. Don’t worry. I am nothing. I only observe and attempt to understand. All things human interest me. And what is more human than detesting a few new arrivals who are giving you grief?’

  ‘There’s something in that’ said Fred, ‘now how about you just clear off?’

  The man pursed his lips, then, disappointed, he shook his head. ‘In your place I would think it over: maybe it’s your big chance.’

  Now Fred shook his head. ‘It’s your chance - to clear off , I mean.’

  Amused, the man half closed one eye. ‘You think you’re pretty tough, eh?’

  ‘Tough enough for you.’

  ‘Now, now! We’re not in the playground any more.’

  ‘Seems to me like we are. Are you a teacher?’

  The young man lost his cool for the first time. ‘Why a teacher?’

  ‘Only teachers rabbit on like that.’

  ‘A teacher - rubbish.’

  The man turned away from Fred just as quickly as he had collared him. ‘Teacher indeed.’ He seemed genuinely wounded by the remark. He turned round again just before the door: ‘The part could have been yours. Tragic how little people want out of life!’ and he stomped out.

  So he is a teacher, thought Fred.

  The door remained open and people with technical equipment or files came in at regular intervals. Scraps of conversation wafted into the room.

  ‘I’d love to make a film where nothing happens, but beautifully edited…’, ‘…twenty at most, that’s all the friends I have…’, ‘…art and suffering go together…’, ‘…I’m thinking of a fabulous story of a man - about my age - who works in films and falls in love with the assistant…’, ‘…we’d be falling between two stools again…’, ‘…like one big family…’, ‘…nobody has grasped the tragedy of a six room apartment like Botho Strauss…’, ‘…art and heroism belong together…’, ‘…wasn’t Auschwitz just rock and roll? Against the fathers, the rich, the powerful. And at the same time a search for warmth and shelter…’, ‘I hate white socks, and all I asked was that he wear dark socks for the next take…’

  Eventually Annette swept round the corner. Her hair hung over her face, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up.

  ‘Everything under control?’ she asked as she rushed to the shelf and took down a book. ‘I’ll be ready in a minute, then we’ll go and have a drink with Carlo and the others, okay?’

  Fred slid off the stool. He stretched his legs and walked hesitantly around the counter. He cleared his throat.

  ‘Listen Annette, I think we need to get a few things clear.’

  She snapped the book shut and smiled. ‘I understand, it’s not much fun for you, but then…’

  ‘No, I mean…’ Fred stood still and placed his hands on the counter. His heart was thumping. ‘Tell me, do you still remember Canada?’

  ‘Canada?’

  ‘Yes, we had it planned…’ Fred ran his tongue over his lips, ‘you know, before the robbery?’

  ‘Oh that…’

  Suddenly Annette’s eyes widened, and she was speechless for a moment. Then, without taking her eyes off Fred, she placed the book slowly back on the shelf.

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Well…at least that was what we had agreed.’

  ‘But Fred.’ Annette shook her head as if trying to dispel a nightmare. ‘That was years ago.’ She went to the window seat and plucked a cigarette from the pack.

  ‘Hmhm.’ Fred looked at his hands. His face had gone pale. He tried desperately to grasp a passing thought. His brain was like marmalade. However much he had understood or thought he had understood in the past hour, the possibility of such a clear and unequivocal outcome had not crossed his mind.

  ‘How did you imagine that? I mean…what gave you the idea I would want to go to Canada? Can’t you see how I’m living, how I’m working?’ She clicked her lighter.

  ‘Yes, but,’ Fred pressed his hands against the edge of the counter.

  ‘And I enjoy my work, it’s what I have always wanted to do.’

  Fred nodded without looking at her. Yes but, yes but rang through the marmalade. What could he say? That she still had to come? That he had believed in her and counted on her for four years? That he went to prison for her, and she should therefore give up her work for him? And how would that sound? Like Magic Hoffmann…?

  ‘Now, Hoffmann: you must understand that everyone in Dieburg knows who your mates were, and whether you keep your mouth shut or not makes no difference to the two of them - we’ll get them anyway. But it makes a difference to you. Somewhere between two and three years.’

  The police superintendent stood at the open window and pointed out into the street. The sun shone upon small businesses and pastry shops, on people in bright clothes and on a café terrace full of cheerful faces, lingering over beer and iced coffee.

  ‘Take a good look, Hoffmann . In prison you won’t get to see that for a long time.’

  Fred shrugged. ‘If it’s only a question of not seeing the Dieburg pedestrian precinct, I’ll gladly take another year.’

  The superintendent shook his head, sighing. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. How old are you? Twenty.’

  He approached Fred and leaned down to him. ‘These are your best years that you’re so determined to just chuck away. And for what? Because you’ve heard of the foolish notion of honour among thieves in some old movie. You’ll shove that honour where the sun don’t shine once you’ve spent a few months behind bars, and for twenty four hours a day, while your so-called mates sit in the sun somewhere, dishing out your share and laughing themselves silly about your foolish loyalty!’

  ‘I think it’s you that’s seen the old film, superintendent.’

  ‘You’re ruining your life!’

  ‘You understand that then? How long have you been hanging around in Dieburg?’

  The superintendent closed his eyes, then he turned away and began pacing up and down the room again.

  ‘I don’t know why but I like you, Hoffmann . And I would find it a pity to see you spending four years making clothes pegs or some such trash… Just think what you could become.’

  ‘You mean a grass?’

  The superintendent was raging. ‘I mean a young man who enjoys life. You’d be out in a year, a year and a half at most.’

  ‘Besides, you m
ust have noticed yourself that we…have changed.’

  ‘Yes…’ Fred looked up and smiled distractedly.

  He had to pull himself together. Cursing and screaming didn’t help, it only made things worse. He needed to show Annette who he was. And if everything fell apart, he would go to Canada!

  He got a grip of himself and said, far too loud: ‘Okay. There’s still my money.’

  Annette looked for a minute as though she didn’t know what he was talking about. At a stroke the distraction in Fred’s eyes disappeared. Before Annette could answer he repeated: ‘My money!’ in a tone which made her wince.

  ‘But you know that Nickel has it.’

  ‘How am I supposed to know that?’

  ‘I thought Nickel would have written and told you.’

  Fred thought briefly of Nickel’s how-are-you-I-am-very-well postcards.

  ‘He wanted to earn interest on it - you know Nickel. He will certainly have got the best deal for you, and he said he would do it in such a way that you could draw it at any time…’ and with a forced smile and a gesture towards the ceiling, ‘Who knows, maybe you’re already a millionaire!’

  Fred opened his mouth as if he wanted to get something off his chest, but he remained silent. He stared grimly at Annette, and for a while they stood opposite each other in silence at different ends of the counter.

  ‘All right,’ he said finally, ‘that’s that then. Where does Nickel live?’

  Annette watched him, still incredulous. Slowly she detached herself from the counter, went to the desk, stubbed out her cigarette with a sigh and picked up a pencil. While she was writing down Nickel’s address and phone number, Fred went to the bed and rolled up his vomit-stained overalls.

  ‘Don’t you even want to stay for our party this evening?’

  ‘No time.’

  ‘But Fred. We haven’t really seen each other properly and…’ she paused.

  ‘You can come and visit me in Canada. Now I must rush.’ Fred took the piece of paper with Nickel’s address from her hand, pocketed it and pulled at his shirt. ‘I’ll bring the clothes back before I leave.’

  As he turned for the door, Annette held onto his arm. Fred resisted his first impulse to shake off her hand. Her look was now almost tender, and at the same time, sad. Clearly she didn’t want just to let Fred go - or at least she didn’t want it to seem as if she would simply let him go. Fred let her hold his arm like a piece of wood.

  ‘Why did you never write anything about Canada,’ she asked.

  ‘That was agreed as well: not a word about our plans.’

  ‘But for four whole years!’

  ‘I didn’t ask for that number.’

  Annette didn’t let go of his arm. Fred knew all about that from social workers and small-time dealers. When they knew they couldn’t get any further, they would grab hold of you. Annette’s expression was becoming ever more sensitive. She’s probably wondering what she should wear this evening, thought Fred.

  ‘And do you really mean that, about Canada?

  ‘For sure.’

  And what are you going to do there?’

  ‘We’ll see. To begin with I have money, and later… Maybe I’ll buy an orchard and make apple wine. I don’t think it’s particularly well known in Canada.’

  ‘Apple wine?’ Annette stared at him open-mouthed, ‘You want to go to Canada to make apple wine?’

  ‘Is there any law against it?’

  ‘But Fred…apple wine! And especially now! I mean when there’s so much going on here?’

  ‘Where is something going on?’ Fred pulled his arm away.

  ‘But everything is new: the country, the people, the politics - everything is in flux. Don’t you want to experience any of that? Germany is the centre of the world!’

  She was off again.

  ‘Who for?’ Asked Fred.

  ‘Well, for…for many people - for us any way.’

  Fred did not reply. Annette gave a motherly smile. Then she shook her head. ‘Really: apple wine in Canada. That’s a mad idea! Half of Hessen makes apple wine. It’s a regional speciality. You might as well stay in Dieburg.’

  ‘That’s precisely why I can’t. But you wouldn’t understand,’ Fred turned away, ‘well then…’

  On the way to the front door two Asians bearing huge pots and ladles pushed past them. From the rear of the apartment the rattle of dishes mingled with country music: Texas is my baby, and if you don’t like her I’ll shoot you - maybe… Annette remained in the doorway, while more Asians with cooking and cleaning equipment went by.

  ‘Call me later when you’re at Nickel’s.’

  ‘I will,’ said Fred.

  They bid each other goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, then Fred turned round abruptly and walked past the colourful nameplates and down the stairs. Two men dressed in golfing gear came towards him, their sunglasses pushed back on their foreheads. Their perfume stayed with him till the ground floor.

  Rain splattered the pavement in front of the main entrance. The juddering of the fridge motor still came from the bar with the dirty portholes, but the sound of an air raid siren now blended in. DANCE MACHINE hung in neon letters above a metal door.

  Fred looked up once more at the light in Annette’s window. He could feel tears coming. He stepped quickly out into the rain and hurried to the underground.

  10

  Café Budapest was opposite Zoo station. It was a large room, divided into smaller sitting areas with sturdy wooden tables and green upholstered benches. Yellow lampshades hung above the tables. Techno hits boomed out of a juke box and mingled with clinking glasses, the murmur of conversation and the rattle of slot machines. People came and went. Street smells and the whiff of junk food followed them into the café. Through the rain-drenched windows, travellers could be seen rushing to the station by the light of neon advertisements and car headlights. At the tables there were many people with suitcases and rucksacks.

  It was shortly after nine, and Fred was sitting in front of his third beer. He was bent over his glass, ruminating and staring into the white foam.

  ‘…the robbery can only be described as fiendishly sadistic. Several innocent bystanders sustained severe hand injuries. Fragments of the bank counter had to be surgically removed in hospital. There is a reward of ten thousand D-Mark for information leading to the arrest of the perpetrators.’

  ‘Laughable!’ Fred rolled from the television to the case of champagne. ‘Ten thousand. We could take out an advert offering twenty thousand for no information!’

  Nickel was waving his empty glass about. ‘Do you know how much land we could buy for that money in Canada?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘Certainly a few hundred acres. And all that goes with it: lakes, animals, forest. We’ll build a house and buy a small seaplane. That’s all we’ll need.’

  ‘Well then…’ Fred popped the cork, ‘…to Canada!’

  Fred took a slug and wiped the foam from his mouth. Nickel would come along. He hadn’t forgotten Canada, you could depend on him. That’s why he had also looked after Fred’s share. Annette would have invested it in some film, given half a chance. ‘Fred, you’ll be thrilled. Carlo has made a fabulous movie about nothing at all.’ No wonder Nickel moved out. He wasn’t impressed by such garbage. No, he didn’t need to worry, Nickel had principles. He was a man of his word.

  For the fourth or fifth time he went to the telephone kiosk and dialled Nickel’s number. Again no one answered.

  Back at the table he ordered another beer and stared out of the window. The rain continued to fall heavily. He watched the car tyres sending up spray. Pedestrians leapt aside. The city had one advantage: in Dieburg he could barely have risked going out on the street, let alone into a shop. ‘Hey, have you seen Fred? What a sad bastard!’ And next day the whole place would have known.

  ‘Here’s to Bolle. Cheers.’

  Glasses clinked. Fred turned around. At the next table sat a cheerful party, their ages rangi
ng from twenty to fifty. A whole lot of bull necks, lipstick, polo shirts, gold chains, colourful glasses and patent leather handbags. They were all wearing red and white check baseball caps with the motto: ‘My Beautiful Supermarket’.

  A bronzed young man, the only one wearing a suit and tie, put his glass down and said: ‘Dear colleagues, I would like to congratulate you all on the twelve per cent increase in turnover during the last quarter. I believe our concept, ‘I’m proud to be a Bolle worker,’ has been a big success.

  A handful clapped, others knocked on the table.

  ‘Of course this evening is on expenses. Beer and sausages, as much as you want.’

  Further clapping and knocking, several yelled: ‘Bravo!’

  ‘But don’t forget,’ the young man raised his index finger and smiled roguishly, ‘you’re almost treating yourselves, because our motto is…’ and they all yelled: ‘Sausages, milk, products for hair, I must work hard to protect my share!’

  The door opened and Fred turned his head. He raised his eyebrows in surprise: Cool Rudi with a sodden young couple carrying sea bags in tow. Rudi had hit on a right pair. The young man with medium length bright blond hair and a naïve plump face looked like a puffed up angel; the girl wore a curtain of decorated plaits, from behind which peeped a nose festooned with rings and a round innocent chin. Both of them wore heavy walking boots and plaid jackets with embroidered hearts. Clumsily they followed Rudi to a table in the corner and ordered beer.

  The girl placed her legs on a chair, and while Rudi chatted to her, the young man removed her boots and began massaging her feet. Her chin began to seem less innocent.

  ‘Here you go. To Bolle!’

  A glass of Schnapps slammed down on the table in front of Fred, and one of the after work drinkers clapped him on the shoulder. Fred turned round and they winked at him.

  ‘You shouldn’t be sitting all alone.’

  Fred said thank you and clinked glasses with them. A woman called out: