I responded to Katja Lipschitz’s professional smile by asking, ‘Would you like an autograph?’
‘Later, maybe – as your signature to a contract. As to the reason for my visit to you here …’ – she cast a brief, disparaging look round the place: backyard, wood-boarded entrance, all the traffic on Gutleutstrasse – ‘would you like to hear it outside?’
‘That depends. Does Maier Verlag sell magazine subscriptions door-to-door? Your trouser suit doesn’t look as if a door-to-door salesman could afford it, but maybe that’s just because it suits you so well …’
She was brought up short, apparently baffled at least momentarily by the term door-to-door salesman. Perhaps she was a neighbour of Deborah and me; you didn’t meet door-to-door salesmen in the elegant West End. By way of contrast, three shabby, pale-faced guys had been haunting Gutleutstrasse in the last year alone: ‘Want a great deal? Gala, Bunte, Wochenecho? Lots of good reading there. Or hey, just give me ten euros anyway, I haven’t eaten for days.’ It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a poor bastard to scrounge the few euros he needs to survive from a rich man.
She shook her head and said, amused, ‘No, no, don’t worry. We’re a highly regarded literary publishing house. Haven’t you ever heard of us? Mercedes García is on our list, and so are Hans Peter Stullberg, Renzo Kochmeister, and Daniela Mita …’
She was looking at me so expectantly that the possibility of my being unacquainted with her authors would have marked me out as a total idiot.
I knew the sixty-something Stullberg from newspaper interviews in which he called for young people to devote themselves to the old values. Reading his words, I thought how writers like to express themselves in metaphors: he was the old values, and the young person devoted to him wore close-fitting jeans and had nicely curved breasts. I’d once seen photos of Daniela Mita in Deborah’s Brigitte magazine, and it could be that the idea of the young person turning to old values had occurred to Stullberg at the sight of his colleague on the Maier Verlag list. I hadn’t read anything by either of them.
‘Sorry, of the two of us my wife is the one who reads books,’ I said, and couldn’t suppress a grin when I saw Katja Lipschitz’s slightly forced smile.
I looked at her with a twinkle in my eye and nodded towards the entrance to the building. ‘Come on up and I’ll make coffee. While I’m doing that you can look through my annotated edition of Proust.’
A quarter of an hour later Katja Lipschitz, now relaxed, was sitting in my wine-red velvet armchair stretching her long legs, sipping coffee and looking round her. There wasn’t much to see: an empty desk with only a laptop on it, a bookshelf full of reference works on criminal law, full and empty wine bottles, and a plastic Zinedine Zidane Tipp-Kick figurine from a table football game that Slibulsky had given me. Several watercolours painted by Deborah’s niece Hanna, who was now fourteen, hung on the walls, along with a large station clock with my little armoury hidden behind it. Two pistols, handcuffs, knock-out drops, pepper spray.
‘Do you have children?’ asked Katja Lipschitz, pointing to the watercolours.
‘A niece.’ I sat down with her in the other red-velvet guest armchair. The chairs were left over from Deborah’s past. She had worked for a couple of years at Mister Happy, a small, chic brothel on the banks of the Main run on fair lines by a former tart. When Deborah stopped working there ten years ago, she had been given the chairs as a leaving present.
‘Well, what can I do for you?’
Katja Lipschitz looked at me gravely and with a touch of concern. ‘My request is in strict confidence. If we don’t come to an agreement on it …’
‘Anything we discuss will be between us,’ I ended the sentence, guessing what was on her mind. ‘Forget Gregory. I’m not bothered about him. Gregory’s career is over; his manager just wanted to attract attention by hiring a bodyguard. They took me for a ride with that photo.’
‘I see.’ The words took me for a ride were obviously going through her head. The character I want to hire for a delicate job was taken for a ride by a third-class (at most) manager and a roughly twenty-second-class beer hall porno pop singer …
‘I had no idea who Gregory was,’ I said, trying to dispel her doubts. ‘The agreement came by fax, and it seemed like easy money.’
‘Right.’ She put her cup down, looked at one of Hanna’s pictures again and pulled herself together. ‘It’s about one of our authors. He’s Moroccan, and he’s written a book that’s created quite a stir in the Arab world. He’ll be coming to Frankfurt for the Book Fair, and he needs protection.’ She paused for a moment. ‘He’s in serious danger. There have been several assassination threats from various Islamic organisations, and even intellectuals are attacking the book and its author harshly.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Our publisher is taking quite a risk himself by bringing it out.’
‘What’s the book about?’
‘It’s a novel. It takes place in a police station in a fictional Arab setting, although it’s obviously modelled on one of the Maghreb countries. Well …’ Katja Lipschitz looked me in the eyes, as if hoping to read something there. Her look reminded me slightly of Valerie de Chavannes before she told me that the quarrel in which Abakay and Marieke got involved that evening had been about the caricatures of Muhammad.
I nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes?’
‘Well, during an investigation in the red light district the central character, a police detective, discovers that he has homosexual tendencies. He falls in love with a boy and they begin an affair, endangering his marriage and his job, in the end even his life. At the same time, of course, the book is really studying the relationship between Muslim society and homosexuality. There are passages in which the police detective – until then a devout Muslim – thinks about the Koran, God and love between people of the same sex, and in his despair and anger turns against his religion. Meanwhile the book also describes an abyss of drugs, sex, poverty and criminality – fundamentally afar from sacred society. Religion is only there to conceal the widespread misery and keep the people calm – do you understand?’
‘I do. And the author himself has’ – I couldn’t resist a slight imitation of Katja Lipschitz’s excessively cautious tone of voice – ‘homosexual inclinations?’
‘No, no, the story is pure fiction.’
‘How do you know?’
With the slightly exhausted look that comes into all women’s eyes when they are talking about crude, unwelcome advances from men, she said, ‘He was at our offices last year, and I accompanied him to several interviews.’
‘How big is he?’
‘As an author?’
‘No, as a man.’
She frowned. ‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Well, none of the Moroccans I’ve met so far are giants, and I imagine that if a rather small man tries making up to such an imposing figure as you I can draw some conclusions about his character.’
‘So?’ For a moment she obviously thought I was round the bend. ‘In fact he is rather small. What conclusion do you draw from that?’ Her tone was stern, even a bit angry. Perhaps she didn’t like that ‘imposing figure’, although I had meant it as a compliment.
‘If he was seriously interested in you and outward features like size hardly mattered – none at all. But if he is the kind of man who simply tries to jump on anything female, never mind what his chances, from the perspective of twenty-four-hour personal protection that is not a completely irrelevant factor.’
She thought about it for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, of course you’re right. Hmm …’
Once again she thought it over. She disliked the subject, but not as much as she probably should have, given her position. She couldn’t hide a certain satisfaction in having to make her views clear because the situation demanded it.
‘He certainly doesn’t miss out on anything. Or rather, he’d like to think he doesn’t. His advances aren’t very successful. I spent two days
travelling around with him, and he got nowhere with any of the women he made up to. Don’t misunderstand me: he’s good company, well educated, even good-looking, but …’
She stopped.
I said, ‘But he gets on your nerves.’
‘Maybe you could put it that way, yes. However, I’m sorry for him. You see, I think he simply doesn’t understand that it’s different between the sexes here, that communication is more along the lines of equal rights, that we …’
She stopped. The little word we echoed soundlessly in the air, as if Katja Lipschitz had farted and was hoping I’d put the sound down to the chair creaking. We, the civilised Europeans Lipschitz and Kayankaya, and he, the Moroccan Freddie the Flirt? Or more likely you two Orientals and I, the tall blonde …?
I tried to help her out. ‘You don’t have to explain your author to me. I’d just like to know what he does and can or can’t do. The reasons don’t matter to me.’
‘I just didn’t want you thinking that he …’
‘Pesters women?’
‘Well … no … yes, I definitely didn’t want that.’
‘Don’t worry. Besides, he’ll leave me in peace. What languages does he speak?’
‘Hmm …’ She wanted to say something else about her author, but then let it rest. ‘Arabic, of course, French and German. He studied in Berlin, and always spends several months a year there. And incidentally … he chose you.’
‘He chose me?’
‘Well, we showed him a list of all the Frankfurt agencies offering personal protection, and he thought it would help his public image if his bodyguard was a Muslim. You are Muslim, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, well.’ I gestured vaguely. ‘My parents were. I mean my birth parents. They died early on, and I was adopted by a German couple who raised me. I assume they were baptised, but religion didn’t play any part in our family.’
Katja Lipschitz hesitated.
‘But … forgive me for asking, presuming we’re to work together it might not be totally unimportant: how do you see yourself? I mean are you religious in any way?’
I shook my head. ‘No religion, no star sign, no belief in hot stones or lucky numbers. When I need something to lean on I have a beer.’
‘Oh.’ She looked confused and slightly repelled.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t offer you any faith. But that can hardly be of any importance to the public image of your author. My name is Kayankaya, and I look the way I look. I don’t know how Muslim I am under religious law, but ask any of my neighbours, I’m sure they could tell you.’
‘Do you mind if I pass that on to our author?’
‘Not in the least. So he chose me. Was it his idea to hire a bodyguard in the first place? Does the information that his book is causing an uproar in the Arab world come first and foremost from him?’
Katja Lipschitz’s glance lingered on my eyes for a moment. But she wasn’t seeing my eyes, rather something or other beyond them – her boss, a furious Freddie the Flirt, or the newspaper headline: Moroccan author invents role of victim to crank up sales of book.
‘That’s nonsense,’ she said at last, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced.
‘Glad to hear it. I’ve been rather suspicious ever since Gregory, as I’m sure you’ll understand. What’s your author’s name? Well, I can find that out anyway: Maier Verlag, Morocco, gay police detective – Google ought to provide enough hits. And then I can convince myself of the outrage in the Arab world.’
‘Malik Rashid. I’ll be happy to show you the threatening letters.’
‘In Arabic?’
‘We’ll get them translated, of course. In case we’re forced to publish them, or we have to turn to the police.’
‘If you hire me I really would like to see those letters.’
I looked at the time; it was just after noon. I’d determined to get Marieke home in time for lunch. On the one hand, the fastest possible performance of a job is of course part of the service; on the other hand, I liked the idea of impressing Valerie de Chavannes with my swift, uncomplicated help.
‘When does the Book Fair begin?’
‘Next Wednesday. Malik is arriving on Friday and staying until Monday.’
‘Is he staying at a hotel?’
‘The Harmonia in Niederrad.’
‘Not a very cheerful neighbourhood.’
‘We’re glad to get any hotel rooms at all. You may not know it, but Frankfurt is fully booked during the Fair.’
‘I’m only wondering what Rashid’s evenings look like. People don’t usually like going home to Niederrad early.’
‘He has engagements on all three evenings – dinner with the publisher, a reading and a panel discussion, and after those he’ll be exhausted and want to go to bed.’
‘Does he drink alcohol?’
‘He says not, for religious reasons, but to be honest … well, I’ve seen him at least once when his conduct made me think he was under the influence.’
‘Maybe he smokes weed?’
‘I … you’ll have to ask him that yourself. You see, I’ve tried to avoid personal subjects between us as much as possible because …’
‘Yes, I understand.’ I nodded to her. ‘Fine, Frau Lipschitz, I have enough information for now. I assume you’ll want to think it over. You can call me anytime.’ I took one of my business cards out of my shirt pocket and gave it to her. ‘My usual fee as a bodyguard is a hundred euros an hour plus taxes, but for round-the-clock standby duty, at least a thousand euros a day, plus taxes. If Rashid gets drunk or catches flu and spends all day in bed it will still cost you just under a thousand two hundred euros. However, I’m flexible about calculating working hours: for instance, if Rashid wants to go to the cinema or something like that, and I can go for a coffee in the meantime, I won’t sit outside the cinema and claim I was searching the street for Al-Qaeda for two hours on end.’
‘I’ll have to discuss it with the publisher.’
‘Do that. And if we come to an agreement, please let me know as soon as possible so that I can check out the hotel before Rashid arrives.’
She nodded. ‘And in that case I would also send you his daily schedules.’
‘Great. And the threatening letters.’
‘And the threatening letters.’
‘I’ll wait for your call.’
We rose from the armchairs and shook hands. Then I showed her to the door and out into the stairwell, and pressed the light switch. The energy-saving bulb shed its cool grey light.
‘So what is the title of Rashid’s novel?’
‘Journey to the End of Days.’
‘Ah. Does something like that sell well?’
‘The advance orders were enormous. With a subject like that … and although the book is only just out, everyone’s already talking about it. That’s why we’re so anxious in case anything happens during the Fair.’
We nodded to each other once more, exchanging friendly smiles, and then Katja Lipschitz made her way downstairs. I thought of warning her about the low ceiling on the last landing, but then let it be. She must have enough experience with low ceilings to notice, and judging by her reaction to my remark about her imposing figure she would rather do without further references to her size.
Back in my office, I typed ‘Malik Rashid: Journey to the End of Days’ into the Google search box. Among other links, I found the Maier Verlag website. The novel had appeared in Paris a year before, and the French critics quoted by the publishing house were of course over the moon about it. Even elsewhere on the Internet I found, almost exclusively, praise for the book. Apart from a comment in a blog from one Hammid, who hated it like poison. Or at least my tourist French was enough for me to get the drift of un roman de merde and sale pédé. But as far as I could tell there were no reactions at all from Morocco or any other Arab country. So the fact that, according to Katja Lipschitz, the novel had caused a great stir there was a pure publicity spin. That was fine by me. Easy money again.
&nb
sp; I took the station clock off its hook, opened the safe behind it and put the pistol and the handcuffs in my pockets. They should at least make a bit of an impression on Abakay if necessary. Then I shouldered my bike and set off for Sachsenhausen.
Chapter 3
The sun was shining on the terrace of the Café Klaudia, where people were sitting eating lunch or a late breakfast. Talk, laughter and the clink of crockery mingled to make an inviting cloud of sound. I padlocked my bike to a traffic sign and went to the front door of the building, which was next to the terrace. There was a smell of raw onions, and full glasses of cider shone golden and enticing on the tables. ‘The locals’ favourite drink is a laxative, Edgar would say.’ That had even annoyed me a little when Valerie de Chavannes shared it. What was the damn Dutchman thinking of?
The front door of the building was not locked. I found Abakay’s name on the list beside the doorbells, went into the hall and climbed the stairs to the third floor as quietly as I could. But it was an old building, and the wooden steps creaked. When I reached the second floor, I thought I heard another creak from above me.
I didn’t exactly know what I was planning to do. Listen at the door, ring the bell? ‘Good morning, Kayankaya here, city gasworks, you must have an old pipe in there somewhere that’s been supplied with gas by accident, may I take a quick look through the rooms?’ Or, ‘Hey, Abakay, old boy! Remember that night at the club the other day? You gave me your address, and here I am. It’s me, Ali!’ Or simply, ‘Hand over the girl or I’ll smash your face in!’ And suppose no one came to the door? Did I wait on the stairs or in Café Klaudia? Or stroll around and keep my eyes open for the pair of them?
I didn’t have to know for certain. I didn’t have to know at all. On the third floor the door to Abakay’s apartment was open. On the floor on the other side of it, a fat, half-naked white man was lying on his back. He wore jeans and white sports socks, and his paunch bulged over the waistband of his jeans like a large flatbread dough. His head had fallen to one side, his face was turned to me, saliva was running out of his mouth and his eyes had a blind, staring look.
Brother Kemal Page 4
