‘Let’s say around forty. Marieke is sixteen, and you weren’t silly enough to get pregnant too young. In your late twenties, I’d assume, when your wild days were gradually coming to an end. Work it out like that, and about twenty-five years ago you were standing with a travelling bag or a rucksack at the end of Zeppelinallee on the Bockenheimer Warte. Maybe you then spent a few weeks with friends, or on holiday in the south of France or somewhere like that, but in the course of time your friends went back to school and you’d come to the end of your money. Of course you’d sooner have cut off an arm than ask your parents for financial support, or even go back home. Well, at the time I was out and about in the railway station district on both professional and private business — ’
She cut the connection. Maybe she thought my assumptions were simply insulting; or alternatively I’d hit the bull’s-eye. You had to have — like Deborah did — a certain kind of North German composure and toughness that comes of living in that bleak, flat countryside to be proud of having survived the sex clubs and striptease bars of the station area. For a banker’s daughter and wife of an artist, a part of her life spent in the best known and (at that time) the deepest gutter in Frankfurt was probably not a subject on which she wanted to dwell.
And suddenly an uncomfortable thought came to me. How old, in fact, was Abakay? Mid-thirties, I assumed, but then it didn’t compute. But at least symbolically he could have conjured up ghosts of Valerie de Chavannes’s past in the station area, if there had been any. And perhaps she hadn’t minded that at first. Now over forty, married with a child, living in a villa, weekends spent at health spas, sushi suppers, Woody Allen films — you liked remembering your own youth, however bizarre it was. But then suppose memory became the present, the pimp comes into your own house, gets to know your sixteen-year-old daughter …
I wanted to get back, quickly, to the wine bar and my unsentimental Jewish Frisian girlfriend. Deborah took life as a learning curve, or rather a learning staircase. Once she was up one step she climbed the next, and she never went back. Why learn something twice? She would have spotted a pimp at first sight, never mind his disguise as a photographer and a man out to improve the world, and would have chased him off with her broom. Valerie de Chavannes’s neediness made me nervous.
‘Oh, there you are. Could you please bring a couple of cartons up from the cellar, twelve bottles of Foulards Rouges in each?’
Deborah was kneeling behind the bar in her short blue denim skirt, checking on the provisions in the fridge. It was just before five, and the wine bar would soon be filling up.
I inspected her bare legs. ‘Are we going to empty one of those bottles ourselves?’
She looked up, shot me a quick glance to see if I was drunk, then smiled her clever, mischievous smile, which said clearly: Listen, you, I’m at work! And she added, for fun, ‘Your place or mine?’
‘Yours, dear heart. You know what my wife is like …’
‘Sure, she’d get on anyone’s nerves. Coming home in the middle of the night, wanting to tell you what her day in the bar was like, dropping off to sleep at once on the sofa or in an armchair, and then she has to be undressed and put to bed. I can tell you, my old man is quite a handful too. He’s been going to bed earlier and earlier since he stopped smoking. And when we want to cuddle or at least see the nightly news on TV, he’s snoring fit to burst our eardrums.’
I shook my head. ‘What rotten luck. Well, nothing to be done about it. All the same,’ I added, jerking my chin at her legs, ‘nice skirt.’
‘Thanks. Will you pick me up later?’
‘I’ll set the alarm.’
‘And I’ll have a double espresso last thing.’
She winked at me and turned back to the fridge. On my way through the backyard and down a damp flight of brick steps to the cellar, I thought about those ghosts of the past conjured up for me by Valerie de Chavannes. And how seductive such ghosts could be. I wasn’t Deborah, I knew I could go down those steps again at any time, all the way to the very bottom, and then, at the age of fifty-three, start all over again: spirits, cigarettes, sleepless nights, anger, the light on the horizon.
I decided not to keep my promise. I wasn’t going to deal with anything or anyone for Valerie de Chavannes next week, not even if Sheikh Hakim’s entire congregation were to come up Zeppelinallee on their knees. And the danger of being suspected of a contract killing in the true sense of the term? Well, I thought I now knew who had killed Rönnthaler. I didn’t have the evidence yet, but I’d soon find it. And then Valerie de Chavannes could tell the police anything she liked.
I wanted to think not about her but about Deborah and our Christmas holidays. Over Christmas the wine bar would be closed for a full week, and Slibulsky had told me about a good spa hotel in Alsace.
Here we go, I thought, picking up the two cases. Twenty-four bottles of Foulards Rouges, Frida — my favourite wine, and not just mine; it was excellent. I had learnt a lot from Deborah about wine, and other things too. But I also still knew: beer with a chaser of spirits and Whitney Houston on the jukebox could be a lot of fun.
Chapter 10
On Friday I met Malik Rashid and Katja Lipschitz in the midst of a dreary dance of colour. The lounge of the Harmonia Hotel had yellow and pink chessboard pattern carpeting, Rashid was sitting on a lime-green sofa, and Katja Lipschitz in a faded blue wing chair. In front of them stood a table with a black top and a metal frame, and on it were orange half-litre mugs with milky white foam rising from them.
Katja Lipschitz, legs crossed and arms folded, sat leaning back, with her head almost horizontally to one side, as if to disguise the difference in size between herself and Rashid like that. Or maybe she was just dozing off.
Rashid, upright, legs apart, was talking to her and gesticulating wildly. He was wearing bright white trainers, jeans and a beige T-shirt bearing the legend The old words are the best, and short words are the best of all. He had a thin face with fine features, lively eyes always moving around and an amused expression, as if to say: Yes, my dear, what a crazy, confused world, what luck there are fellows like me around to keep on top of it.
Rashid didn’t look up until I stopped a couple of metres in front of him, and his expression of amusement instantly turned to a certain reluctance. Perhaps he thought I was a member of the hotel staff.
‘Yes?’
‘Hello, my name is Kayankaya.’
‘Oh,’ said Katja Lipschitz, raising her head. Now she clearly towered above Rashid. ‘I didn’t see you coming.’
And Rashid cried, ‘Aha!’ and switched instantly to an expression of radiance. He rose from the sofa, spreading his arms wide in a theatrical manner. ‘My protector! Greetings!’
Katja Lipschitz didn’t seem to know whether to stand up too. On the one hand there was civility to me, on the other she was probably thinking of Rashid’s feelings. I noticed at once that she was wearing flat-heeled shoes, but if she stood right beside him Rashid was still going to look like a gnome. Or she was going to look like a giant — perhaps it was that more than anything that she wanted to avoid.
‘Don’t get up,’ I said to Katja Lipschitz, offering Rashid my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Herr Rashid.’
‘Oh!’ He lowered his arms and ironically mimed disappointment. ‘So formal, my friend! How are we to spend three days cheek by jowl like that?’
I glanced at Katja Lipschitz, who was smiling as if her boss had just put a farting cushion on her chair.
I left my hand in midair. ‘Cheek by jowl.’
‘Or bristle by bristle.’ He grinned, glad of his little coup. ‘Because, aren’t we all little pigs somewhere deep down inside? Or sometimes big pigs. Maybe that’s why we don’t eat them, it would be a kind of cannibalism.’ He grinned a little more cheerfully, before turning apologetically to Katja Lipschitz. ‘Excuse me, Katja, by we I meant us Orientals. I’ve no objection to eating pork, but I don’t eat it. And that’s nothing to do with religion. The Jews — and Jews are Orien
tals too, right? A fraternal people. And what are the bloodiest wars?’ He pointed his index finger questioningly at me. I withdrew my proffered hand and put it in my trouser pocket.
‘Wars between brothers! Anyway — the Jews don’t eat pork either. Nor do Christians in the Orient — and many of my best friends are Christians,’ he added, laughing. ‘At least, they’ve never served me ham hock!’
Katja Lipschitz joined in his laughter, whether out of professionalism or because she really thought it funny I couldn’t tell.
I said, ‘Herr Rashid, I am to be your bodyguard for three days. We shall probably be sitting in the same restaurant several times, maybe at the same table. Please let me know whether it will bother you if I order sausage.’
For a moment his eyes rested on me as if he were wondering whether it had really been a good idea to pick me as his bodyguard.
Then he shook himself, his mouth stretched in a smile, and all at once he was my new best friend again, beaming radiantly. ‘I’ve already heard that you have your own opinions and’ — he nodded approvingly — ‘defend them in your own original way.’
Once again I glanced at Katja Lipschitz. This time she was smiling as if her boss had put a board studded with nails on her chair.
‘Well, Herr Rashid, if eating sausage is an opinion — yes, I have opinions. Shall we discuss the rest of your day? I assume you’ll have to turn up at the Fair to meet your fans and carry out your engagements.’
He laughed ironically, clearing his throat. ‘Ah, my fans! I’m only a little scribbler. Now Hans Peter Stullberg has fans — so does Mercedes García …’ And in a tone of casual interest, glancing at Katja Lipschitz across the multicoloured seating and the chessboard pattern of the carpet, ‘I wonder, what hotel are they staying in?’
For a moment Katja Lipschitz seemed to be in danger of blushing. She caught herself just in time, assumed a kindly smile and explained, ‘Her Spanish publisher is looking after Mercedes García. I believe she’s staying in a guestroom at the Instituto Cervantes. And luckily we were able to get a room at the Frankfurter Hof at the last moment for Hans Peter Stullberg. Rohlauf Verlag kindly let us have one of their quota. On account of his age and his back trouble, Hans Peter Stullberg can’t walk long distances these days.’
‘Oh, the poor man.’ Rashid twisted his face into an expression of sympathy.
‘Yes, he really doesn’t have an easy time. In addition,’ Katja went on, with what I thought was a tiny, cunning flash in her eyes, ‘the Frankfurter Hof would have been out of the question for you, for reasons of security. Thousands of people are going in and out of the hotel every evening and every night during the Book Fair.’ And she explained, for my benefit, ‘The bar of the Frankfurter Hof could be described as the unofficial centre of the air after ten in the evening. Everyone meets there: authors, publishers, journalists, agents, editors.’
‘Apart from which,’ said Rashid, also turning to me, ‘the Frankfurter Hof is, of course, greatly overestimated as a hotel. Last time I stayed there during the Book Fair — ’ He suddenly stopped. Perhaps he sensed Katja Lipschitz suddenly looking at the floor, rather exhausted. ‘Well, never mind. Average food, unfriendly service — that’s what you usually get at the so-called best hotels in the city. They don’t need to go to any trouble. Why don’t we sit down, my friend?’
‘Let’s do that,’ I agreed.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ asked Katja Lipschitz.
‘Mineral water, please.’
As she signalled to the barman, Rashid returned to his subject. ‘Of course there are exceptions. At the Literature Festival in New York last year — ’
‘Herr Rashid,’ I interrupted him, ‘it’s twelve thirty, and at one thirty, according to your schedule, you have your first engagement at the Fair. I’d like to discuss a couple of details with you first.’
‘I understand.’ He laughed. ‘My good German Kemal — work is work, and schnapps is schnapps!’ He laughed again. In fact, he seemed glad that I’d stopped him talking about hotels.
I said, ‘First and foremost it’s about the technicalities when we’re together. For instance, when we’re moving through the halls of the Fair, I’d like to decide, depending on the situation and the number of people present, whether I go behind you or ahead of you. If there are cameras turned on you, of course I’ll keep in the background.’
Perhaps it was the idea of clicking cameras, perhaps the memory that I had not been hired by the publishing house for my social skills but to protect him from any deranged fanatics — anyway, his facial expression suddenly turned positively solicitous. He nodded, and said, ‘Of course, you must do everything that you think right.’
Katja Lipschitz backed this up. ‘Herr Kayankaya is our security chief for the next three days, and we all ought to follow his instructions.’
Rashid nodded again. He liked the sound of that: security chief. I was convinced, however, that Katja Lipschitz did not think any greater dangers lay in wait for Rashid than a destitute colleague who might be infuriated by the sight of what went on in luxury hotels to the point of throwing a glass of beer in Rashid’s face, or a lady sitting beside him at dinner who struck his hand away from her thigh.
All the same, Maier Verlag should get an author to be taken seriously for the money it was laying out.
I went on. ‘In any critical situations, please don’t be alarmed. I carry a gun, and will bring it out if necessary. If I have to throw you to the floor or get you into cover in any other way, I’ll try to hurt you as little as possible.’
‘I see.’ He frowned. Either he thought, as I did, that this was a good excuse if the fancy took me to push him into the nearest broom cupboard, or he really did feel a little queasy.
‘When you’re giving interviews, or you’re in contact with your readers, I’ll be as inconspicuous as possible, although I must insist that if I feel suspicious — and often that’s pure intuition — I shall have the person concerned subjected to a quick search for weapons or explosives. Unless, of course, he or she is well known to you or Frau Lipschitz.’
‘Okay …’ he said hesitantly.
Perhaps he hadn’t imagined my job in such concrete terms, with so much opportunity for hand-to-hand scuffling. Presumably there had been practical, objective reasons for the decision to hire a bodyguard: genuine concern for his safety and the endeavour to make sure he appeared at the Fair to the best possible advantage. However, his image of the bodyguard himself and the nature of his job had probably been more poetic than anything. A mixture of a cheerful companion, Prince Valiant and some Hollywood hero leaping out of a helicopter.
After the barman had brought me my mineral water, Katja Lipschitz asked, ‘What line do we take during demonstrations?’
‘Demonstrations?’
‘Well, there have been indications that there might be protests by Muslim groups at the publishing house’s stand.’
‘Was that in the threatening letters?’ I asked mildly.
‘We’ve had some anonymous phone calls.’
‘Well …’ I sipped my water. ‘Either it’s possible to talk to such people, or Herr Rashid and I go off to eat a beef sausage and wait for the demonstration to be over. Are these anonymous phone calls recorded on your answering machine?’
‘My secretary took them.’
‘You know, there’s quite a lot of time between an anonymous phone call and a face-to-face appearance with a possible police confrontation — time for the caller to consider the tempting idea of staying at home on Day X and lying comfortably on the sofa, putting the next DVD into the slot. Anonymous phone calls aren’t often followed up by action.’
‘How about cases of explosives?’ asked Rashid.
‘I assume that visitors to the Book Fair are checked as they come in.’
‘Well …’ Katja Lipschitz made a vague gesture. ‘The checks aren’t particularly rigorous.’
‘That’s a pity. Then we’ll have to look out for all bags standin
g around unattended. And if we’ — I gave them a good-humoured smile — ‘happen to overlook the one vital bag, then at least we acted in the cause of literature and enlightenment.’
‘Yes, well, very nicely put,’ said Rashid, while Katja Lipschitz made a face as if I had cracked a joke about blondes.
‘But don’t worry,’ I went on. ‘What was it I read the other day? In Europe, the risk of dying in an attack involving explosives is a hundred times less than the risk of choking on a mini-mozzarella. So watch out for the cold buffets over the next few days.’
Rashid tried to make eye contact with Katja Lipschitz. The glance he gave her when she finally looked his way said something like: Can you please get this conversation back on sensible lines at once! Then he took his half-litre cup of coffee and disappeared behind the still-towering foam mountain. Maybe they fixed it with hairspray. If your coffee didn’t come with a mountain of foam, Deborah had told me recently, it hardly stood a chance in the coffee trade today. Milky coffee foam had clearly surpassed beer foam as Germany’s number one foam. I was wondering if I would think it funny to warn Rashid of the dangers of overfoamed milk when Katja Lipschitz finally brought the pause to an end.
‘Herr Kayankaya, I understand that, based on your work and your experience, you take such a situation less seriously than we do. But please don’t forget: Malik is a writer, his world is his desk. The fact that a literary text — and one in which Malik openly pleads for greater tolerance and opposes any form of exclusion or oppression — that such a text, one that sets out to make the world a better and more peaceful place, has led to Malik’s having to fear for his physical safety if not, indeed, his life, is a shock that has affected all of us at Maier Verlag, but of course affects Malik in particular and will do so for a long time to come. We would be grateful if you would be a bit more sensitive.’
Before I could nod and say, ‘Sorry,’ or something of that nature, there was an angry interjection from behind the mound of foam. ‘That’s nonsense, Katja! I don’t want to make the world a better place, if anything I only want to make literature better! You might as well say I wanted to change the world! And there’s your nice little UNESCO scribbler! Off I go into the paperback African Narratives series!’
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