Brother Kemal

by Jakob Arjouni

  ‘Of course you know that I’d love to believe you.’

  ‘Of course I do. But tell me a reason I’d lie to you.’

  She hesitated. ‘Because you don’t want to hurt me.’ She was trying to keep the cool tone of voice going, but it didn’t entirely work. Or she acted as if she were trying to keep the cool tone of voice going, and let it slip into emotion on purpose.

  ‘I really would be very reluctant to hurt you, but I wouldn’t tell you fairy tales on that account.’

  ‘How do you explain Marieke’s behaviour over the last few days?’

  ‘Well, my bet would be she feels crossed in love. I didn’t say the photos were all of it. And Abakay certainly knows how to impress a sixteen-year-old. Anyway, if I were you I’d make sure Marieke doesn’t go prison visiting in the immediate future.’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘You should be glad she’s spending all day in her room. Maybe you should buy her a different CD.’

  For a moment there was silence on the line. Obviously her breathing had calmed down, or she was holding the receiver to one side. Then she sighed, sounding surprisingly amused, and asked, ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Fifty-three. Why?’

  ‘Because no one buys CDs these days. They download music to their MP3 players.’

  ‘I even still have some cassettes.’

  ‘Simply Red or something like that, I expect.’

  ‘No, Whitney Houston. But I can’t listen to the cassettes anymore, my recorder’s broken.’

  ‘Whitney Houston,’ she repeated, and was about to say something making fun of me – it wasn’t difficult to make fun of people who still listened to Whitney Houston – but then something seemed to occur to her and she suddenly fell silent.

  So did I. Probably we had both carried on like that because we were glad to get away from the subject of Abakay for a moment. But in no time at all we had landed in front of an open door. For instance, she went on: Whitney Houston – right, now I do believe you’re fifty-three. What else do you like? Foreigner? Münchner Freiheit? And I: You’ve never listened to Whitney Houston properly. At three in the morning, with a few beers or something else inside you, windows of the bar open, mild air, and then ‘The Greatest Love of All’ on the jukebox – you could fall on your knees with happiness. And she again: Well, okay. I have a recorder that still works … Or something like that. Anyway, we both knew that from here to a Whitney Houston evening together with wine and candlelight it was three more sentences at the most.

  Finally I said, ‘Apart from which my Whitney Houston days are over.’

  She cleared her throat, and her tone became friendly but objective. ‘Well, I hope so, at the age of fifty-three.’

  ‘You mean fifty-three is too old for Whitney Houston?’

  ‘Too old for Whitney Houston period, I’d say. A song now and then, why not?’

  I noticed that I was baring my teeth. ‘I bet you’ve listened to a Whitney Houston song now and then on your MP3 player.’

  She hesitated. ‘Could be. I don’t know. It’s a long time since I listened to any music at all.’

  It was on the tip of my tongue to say: Surely a ballad or so with Abakay now and then?

  Instead, I said, ‘It’ll come back. These are just phases.’ And then, more briskly, ‘Did you get my bill?’

  ‘Yes.’ A short pause, then back to the cool tone. ‘Do I destroy that as well?’

  ‘Don’t transfer the money direct to me anyway. I’ll collect it in cash sometime.’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Or maybe I’ll send a friend to collect it.’

  ‘Yes, let’s do it that way,’ she said.

  It annoyed me. I didn’t want her letting me go so quickly. And it annoyed me that it annoyed me.

  ‘Okay, we’ll do it that way. And please let me know at once if anyone asks you about me.’

  ‘Can’t I tell your friend? Wouldn’t that be simpler?’

  I looked at my big station clock, behind which my pistols, handcuffs, knock-out drops and pepper spray were hidden. ‘No, it wouldn’t be simpler, because my friend has no idea what this is about.’

  ‘Fine, then, I’ll call you. Anything else we ought to discuss?’

  I said no, we said goodbye and hung up. I was furious. With her, with myself. And briefly I wondered how, after Whitney Houston, I had gotten to Foreigner and Münchner Freiheit. Brothel music, all of it.

  I was still sitting thoughtfully at my desk when Katja Lipschitz called ten minutes later.

  ‘Hello, Herr Kayankaya.’

  ‘Hello, Frau Lipschitz.’

  ‘I’ve spoken to our publisher. If you’re still prepared to do the job I’d like to hire you as bodyguard for Malik Rashid for three days at the Book Fair.’

  ‘Yes, I’m ready to do it. Did you tell your publisher my fee? We don’t want problems about it later.’

  I didn’t know why, probably it was just a cliché picked up from cheap TV films. But I thought there could be some difficulty in meeting financial obligations in the book trade.

  ‘It’s all decided. Send me your contract by email.’

  ‘I’ll do that at once. The advance is a minimum daily fee, a thousand euros plus taxes. As soon as that’s in my account I’ll take a look at Rashid’s hotel. What was its name again?’

  ‘The Harmonia in Niederrad.’

  ‘When does Rashid arrive?’

  ‘At noon on Friday, is that all right for you? Midday Friday until midday on Monday, three days?’

  ‘That’s okay. Shall I fetch him from the airport or the railway station?’

  ‘No, my assistant will do that. Rashid, you and I will meet at twelve at the hotel to discuss everything. From then on he’ll be in your care.’

  ‘Fine. See you at twelve on Friday, then.’

  ‘I have one request, Herr Kayankaya. It’s possible that journalists will approach you during the Fair. Rashid and his novel will be much discussed, so his bodyguard could be a subject of interest as well. Have you read his book, what you think of it as a Muslim, and so on …’

  ‘And you’d like me to keep my mouth shut.’

  ‘Well, what you told me about your attitude towards religion, and your manner in general … don’t misunderstand me, I thought it was very … interesting to talk to you, but … you see, journalists don’t like anything complicated. And a Turkish bodyguard who compares God to hot stones and possibly doesn’t take the man he’s guarding, an internationally famous author who is generally considered to have written a very important and sensational book, well, possibly doesn’t take him entirely seriously – anyway, it wouldn’t be simple to get that across. And then the papers might say: best-selling author mocked by own bodyguard, or something like that.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not at all interested in getting into the papers.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I just wanted to warn you – some journalists can be very pushy.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And something else …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘In Rashid’s daily schedule you’ll see what events he’s taking part in. One of them is a panel discussion at the House of Literature with Dr. Breitel …’

  She paused, giving me time to react, and when I said nothing she went on to explain, ‘One of the editors of the Berliner Nachrichten. The title is “The Ten Plagues …” ’ Another pause for my reaction. ‘It’s out of the Bible, when God sent plagues of heat, locusts, hail and so on into the country … Oh, I don’t remember all of it. Anyway, the discussion will turn on the various threats to Western society: falling birth rates, families breaking up, isolation, excessive technology, the Internet, a few more things, and finally – with Malik Rashid as the guest, of course the real subject behind all this is whether there isn’t an increasingly well-organised Islam behind it all, preparing the threats, that’s to say the plagues, more or less intentionally. For instance, there’ll be the consequences of the falling birth rate am
ong, er …’

  ‘Us,’ I said, helping her out.

  ‘Yes, us, and the rising birth rate among …’

  ‘Immigrant families.’

  ‘Thanks, it’ll go something like that. Sorry, not a subject I know very well, and I can’t find my notes about it at the moment.’

  ‘Do you remember what it said about Islam overwhelming us with excessive technology?’

  ‘Well, it was to do with the internet. I think Dr. Breitel is going to say that the internet is the real engine of destruction in our society because – oh, look, here are my notes and they say “it creates lonely, frustrated, dehumanised creatures who can no longer function in a society unable to defend itself.” And lower down: “Do we know how much Arab and Iranian oil money has gone into the World Wide Web? From a region where the majority of the population doesn’t own computers? Is the internet a drug with which the rulers and religious leaders of the East are swamping the Western world to make us a crowd of couch potatoes stuffed with useless knowledge and satiated with pornography? Is the internet perhaps nothing but an intelligent means of warfare? Just as the British weakened China in the nineteenth century from within with opium, then overthrew it by military means?” And so on … We’re looking forward to a controversial evening. Questions from the audience will be allowed at the end; we’re asking for them to be sent to our home page for security reasons. Driss Mararoufi, head chef at the Tunisian Medina restaurant in Sachsenhausen, will provide refreshments.’ Katja Lipschitz paused for a moment and then proclaimed, in rather too loud a voice, as if to drown out any possible doubts: ‘It will certainly be a very interesting evening.’

  ‘It certainly will. But what did you really want to tell me?’

  ‘Oh … yes. Well, as I said, we’re asking for questions in advance for security reasons. In fact, it’s not open to the general public, but we didn’t want to make that obvious. People are more likely to buy books at occasions where they couldn’t get tickets than at those they weren’t expected to attend. The risk of letting in all and sundry was just too great. The mayor of Frankfurt is coming, maybe even the Hessian minister of the interior … well, anyway, in that connection I wanted to ask you to wear … well, suitable clothing.’

  ‘How do you mean? A turban?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She gave a brief, nervous laugh. ‘If you have a suit, or at least a smart jacket … it will be a very exclusive evening, and in your own interest … I assume you wouldn’t like to be the only one in jeans and a corduroy jacket.’

  ‘Thanks for the helpful hint. Is a blue pin-striped suit okay?’ I thought of Slibulsky, who had once called blue pin-striped suits the monastic garb of all disreputable folk such as Turks. But obviously Katja Lipschitz wasn’t familiar with this association.

  ‘Wonderful,’ she said, pleased. Then her tone of voice suddenly became slightly troubled. ‘And I’d like to point out one more thing that can – well, can be surprising for people who don’t know him or the book trade. Er … Dr. Breitel likes to wear short trousers, even in the evening and anywhere, I mean …’

  ‘He does? Even in winter?’

  ‘With knee-high socks.’

  ‘Well, what a good thing you persuaded me not to wear my cord jacket. That would have been a real faux pas!’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘Would you like me to wear short trousers as well?’

  ‘For heaven’s sake, no – that’s Dr. Breitel’s privilege, so to speak. His own signature style, if you see what I mean.’

  ‘I do. May one pay him compliments? On the fabric, the cut of the trousers, maybe on his legs?’

  ‘No, no, please don’t. Just try not to notice.’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Dr. Breitel is …’ I liked the way she obviously had to overcome her embarrassment ‘… very important. If you want to sell books, I mean.’

  ‘I do indeed see what you mean, Frau Lipschitz. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to attract attention.’

  ‘Thank you very much, Herr Kayankaya. Sometimes it isn’t entirely easy …’ She was searching for words.

  ‘Exactly,’ I said.

  ‘Yes. Well, yes. Anyway, I’ll send you the schedule for those three days with the signed contract, and a pass to the Book Fair.’

  ‘And the threatening letters.’

  ‘Oh, yes, the threatening letters. Of course.’

  ‘I’ll see you on Friday next week, then.’

  ‘Friday next week, Herr Kayankaya, thanks.’

  Chapter 9

  The advance payment came into my account at the end of the week, and by post I received the signed contract, Rashid’s schedule for his visit to Frankfurt, and a pass to the Book Fair. No threatening letters. Those were either a pure invention or a ridiculous insult, but in any case nothing that Katja Lipschitz could show me or wanted to show me. And fundamentally it made no difference. Rashid was getting a bodyguard for promotional purposes. A Gregory job. As long as Maier Verlag was paying.

  On the Monday I visited the Harmonia Hotel. A typical middle-class dump with worn fitted carpets; cheap and brightly coloured sofas; little halogen lamps; a bar with beer, spirits and cheese crackers; and a collection of signed postcards on the wall from B-list celebrities who had once stayed at the Harmonia. I bought a bad espresso and got the waiter to show me the back door and the emergency exits. ‘Because of my father. He might be staying a couple of days here next month, and he’s terrified of fire.’

  On Tuesday I made my official statement on the Abakay case to the police.

  On Wednesday I had a call at the office from a man called Methat who said he was Sheikh Hakim’s secretary. He began by speaking Turkish, until he gave me a moment to explain that I’d never learnt the language. After an incredulous pause, a Turkish curse – at least, it sounded Turkish – and a few contemptuous lip-smacking sounds, he finally went on in German with a strong Hessian accent, and I had to ask three times before I got his drift, which was that His Magnificence wanted to see me.

  ‘Who wants to see me?’

  ‘Is Nificence.’

  ‘Munificence?’

  ‘No, no! Nificence!’

  ‘Sorry, try again.’

  ‘Is Nificence! Like nificent view!’

  ‘Ah, I get it. His Magnificence.’

  ‘Don’t pretend you …!’

  ‘Er … who is His Magnificence?’

  ‘I ave said I am secretary of Sheisch Hakim!’

  ‘Okay. Then please tell Sheisch Hakim that if he wants to see me he’d better make an appointment by phone or email. He’ll find my address in the Yellow Pages. I’m travelling a lot just now and I’m only occasionally in my office.’

  ‘You must be crazshy!’

  He was getting on my nerves. ‘I assure you I’m not,’ I said, in as heavy a Hessian dialect as I could manage. ‘But I’m bizshy! So tell him to make an appointment, saying what it’s about. As I said, I’m busy at the moment and I have to hang up.’

  I cut the connection before he could call me any more names.

  So it was only one day before Sheikh Hakim heard of my statement to the police. I decided that when I got the chance I would tell Octavian that not only did he ‘know a great many people who prefer to save their own skin over the punishment of a criminal’, he also had at least one officer at police HQ who preferred a small fortune in cash, a bag of heroin, a free visit to a brothel or some other inducement within Hakim’s or Abakay’s reach to the punishment of the said criminals. I firmly believed that Octavian did not know who it was, or who they were, but someone was keeping Sheikh Hakim up to date. I didn’t believe quite so firmly that he would do anything to unmask the person or persons concerned. It probably depended on what height he or they had reached in the pyramid of police power. When Octavian took me to the door after I’d made my statement the day before, his quiet words of farewell had been, ‘You’re doing this at your own risk, I hope you realise that. When all this is over, we can see each other again, but u
ntil then I guess we’d better not. My promotion will be decided in the next few weeks.’

  ‘I tell you what, Octavian, maybe we’d better not see each other again, full stop.’

  ‘Oh, don’t come over like that! I’d get another thousand a month, and I have family to support in Romania.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ I said.

  ‘You don’t,’ he said coolly.

  ‘I’ve seen the girls in Abakay’s catalogue. They’re my Romanian family.’

  ‘Don’t turn sentimental.’

  ‘Is it sentimental to feel ill when I think of thirteen-year-olds on sale for fucking? Is it sentimental to want to nail the man who’s offering them? You’ve been in the Vice Squad too long, Octavian, it’s bad for your morals.’ And with that we left each other without further goodbyes and went our separate ways.

  On Thursday Valerie de Chavannes tried to reach me on my mobile. I was sitting in the wine bar with Deborah, eating tripe sausage, drinking red wine and reading the sports pages, and the first time the phone rang I ignored the call, the second time too. Then she sent a text message: Please call back as soon as you can! Urgent! Danger! I finished my sausage, emptied my glass, went into the little courtyard behind the wine bar and called back.

  Valerie de Chavannes answered at once.

  ‘Herr Kayankaya! At last!’ Her voice was shaking, and sounded nasal, as if she’d been shedding tears. Now and then I heard her breathing heavily again as she struggled for air.

  ‘What’s the matter, Frau de Chavannes?’

  ‘A man called Methat rang just now! Had I set a private detective on Abakay?’

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘What you told me to say – I said I didn’t know what he was talking about.’

  ‘Did he believe you?’

  ‘No idea. He threatened me!’ She struggled for air. ‘He said if I’d hired you then I must get you to withdraw your evidence against Abakay as quickly as possible or my daughter’s life would be in danger!’

  Maybe it was because I imagined that sentence coming from Methat in his heavy Hessian dialect – life in danscher – but anyway, I didn’t take the threat as seriously as I probably should have done when talking to Valerie de Chavannes. I said, ‘Oh yes?’