The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  Nadeche looks perfectly content. In the past Marion thought this was down to satisfaction with her work, but now she’s not so sure. It’s more that Nadeche is satisfied with herself. It’s Marion, of course, who has been turning in reliably good work for eleven years. Nadeche no doubt thinks that she herself has been responsible, because she always insists on Marion for her make-up. Many might not consider this to be much of an achievement, but look at Putin. Even celebs can have a face like a turkey breast wrapped in clingfilm.

  They’ve known each other ever since they were flatmates, and Marion managed to carve out a career on the back of Nadeche’s success, behind the scenes. Everyone benefits. And Marion knows she just doesn’t have the body to be a model. Her shoulders are too broad, her bum too narrow . . . the perfect physique for a stripper in a gay bar.

  And then there’s her face.

  It’s definitely pretty, in a way, or . . . distinctive. She doesn’t like her nose, but she’s also somehow grateful for it. It’s almost an advertisement for her trade, because the way she’s able to make it look small demonstrates how good she is. Sometimes Marion can see people she meets for the first time trying to work out how much nose is hiding beneath the shading. And those who work it out know that she can work on a rotten banana until it looks like a fresh radish.

  Not that Nadeche Hackenbusch is in need of any such magic. But Marion’s art ekes another 5 per cent out of her gorgeous natural features, maybe even ten. And the figure goes up every year. For make-up is not merely a matter of expertise, but of experience. Marion knows Nadeche’s face. That unevenness, there, where her left cheek becomes her left nostril. Or that point on her forehead which is always shinier than the rest under spotlights. Marion knows exactly the eye shadow that works best, and the tone of lightening which looks too artificial.

  “Those two days paid off,” Marion says, darkening the cheeks with wonderful subtlety. If you didn’t know she was enhancing these, you’d never guess. Here is another advantage. Different make-up artists work on problem areas slightly differently, whereas Marion always does it the same way. And that’s why you can scarcely see what’s not real, even if you compare press photographs from the past few years. Marion has made a philosophy out of this. “You have to stick with the same story,” she says. “If you’ve been narrating a Western the whole time, you can’t suddenly bring on an astronaut’s helmet.” This isn’t her invention, of course; in Hollywood they’ve been following this principle for years, but in Germany, where every actor needs to keep an eye on the money, it’s a different matter.

  “You’ve got such a great complexion,” Marion says modestly. “You don’t really need me at all.”

  “Of course I do,” Nadeche says. “What would I do without you? With my face like a criminal’s?”

  “You’d find another stylist.” Marion turns away and bends over the small make-up box. This is another thing that Nadeche loves about Marion: rather than lugging around crates of stuff she can make do with a handful of things in the tightest of spaces. She’s made Nadeche up in the back of a taxi, in a barely accessible wardrobe and once in a Portaloo, by the light of a flickering torch.

  Nadeche looks in the mirror and her eyes meet Marion’s.

  “Never,” she says seriously, as her reflection smiles affectionately at Marion. “I’d never go in front of a camera again.”

  Marion is touched and smiles back, and for a moment she thinks it may be meant truthfully. On the other hand, two days have been quite enough, as evident not merely from Nadeche’s complexion, but from the general sense of unease too. Or from Grande’s voice as she knocks at the door and tries to winkle out something akin to a timetable. Grande is usually a rather calm and laid-back production manager, but as the hours and days have passed her voice has become increasingly strained. And higher. At the end of the first day, she said, “Shouldn’t we be thinking about planning the first few days’ schedules?”

  Marion, who had just arrived, remembers Nadeche’s answer: “Have you noticed how beautiful it is here? We like, only have this one world and we pass through it so thoughtlessly. We should start by making some features, and you don’t need me for those.”

  “But we ought to—”

  “And these marlboros!”

  “Marlboros?”

  “Haven’t you seen them? Those huge birds? Awesome! We need footage of them landing in a tree. You must have seen them. They’re all over Google! Don’t get so stressed, just go outside too! We’re only human, all of us.”

  “Fine, but—”

  “No machinery. Just people.”

  “Yes, sure, but—”

  “And the trees have to bob up and down.”

  “What?”

  “The trees. When they land the trees have to bob up and down, so you can see how big the marlboros are.”

  “Oh, you’re talking about marabous.”

  “That’s what I said.”

  “But for now—”

  “Sorry, I’ve got to make an urgent call. Don’t forget, though! Take a look outside. They should film the leopards too. And the tigers!”

  After choosing the colours Marion didn’t have much else to do, except be a companion for Nadeche. Since Grande has been coming at ever shorter intervals she’s also noticed that unease within the team has reached the right level for Nadeche. And this is what it’s all about. You need to cause the maximum amount of unease, for only then can you appear as the knight in shining armour. Ideally when chaos, panic and helplessness have reached their absolute zenith. If you do it right, if you then confront the team – the camera people, the assistants, lighting crew and set builders – with politeness and friendliness, if you exude overwhelming kindness and a willingness to help, you will see a certain radiance in people’s faces. They’ll look at you with nothing but gratitude.

  Marion opens the hairdressing cape and carefully flicks it so that no make-up, no powder gets on the clothes. Nadeche Hackenbusch stands up and checks her hair. Unfortunately her request for a separate hair stylist fell on deaf ears, but if she is to be the new Schreinemakers – so she’s promised Marion – this will become standard. Marion will have an assistant. Nadeche turns to her make-up artist.

  “What do you think?” she says, opening her arms like a show master. “Is this alright?”

  Marion nods, then screws up her eyes. “Perhaps the rhinestones aren’t quite—”

  “What do you mean? They’re great!”

  “Sand-coloured jeans, fine. They’re expensive, but you can’t tell if you wear a boyfriend shirt over the bum like that. T-Shirt not see-through so none of those repressed guys gets any funny ideas, you can’t see the nipples, everything nicely hidden. No earrings, no bangles, very nice. The old Swatch, cool but not flashy. The trainers are right too, but the rhinestones . . . I don’t know. I don’t know that design at all—”

  “I stuck them on myself. Good, eh?”

  “Sure, but here? Now? These people are really poor.”

  “Come on, it didn’t bother anyone in the hostels back home.”

  “That may well be, but . . . I mean, I think it’s all well and good for you to have a bit of R. and R. and all that, but I’ve had a look around this camp and there . . . I’ve never seen anything like it. So poor.”

  “Television thrives on contrast!” Nadeche says, now back at the mirror and gazing at herself with satisfaction. She’s been missing this contradiction, and now she knows for sure that she’s doing it absolutely right. “People don’t want to see any old bag who’s just as poor as the people she visits. This isn’t ‘Cinderella in Adversity’, is it? Are you coming?”

  With an economy of movement, Marion packs up her cantilever beauty case. She checks the make-up table and peers into the silver box that looks a bit like a princess’s tool-box. Then she flips the box shut and follows Nadeche to the S.U.V. The heat is as absurd as the ice-cold air that hits them as they get into the car. Already inside are Grande and Astrid von Roëll, who says, “
I’ve already switched on the seated heats.”

  “What a darling,” Nadeche says. “What would I do without you?”

  Grande’s facial muscles tense and she says, “It’s not far. We could walk it.”

  “Maybe we could,” Nadeche says. “But an angel like, needs wings. By the way, when are they going to be resprayed?”

  The car eases away. Only now does Marion notice that a dark, good-looking man in the front passenger seat is attempting to say hello to Nadeche. But she’s ignoring him and Marion guesses why: the T.V. company’s chosen a man for her, but Nadeche prefers to work with women. She casts a glance at Grande, who should be mediating between the two of them, but Grande is shirking her responsibility by staring into her smartphone. Maybe, Marion thinks, this is the actual reason for the triumph of the smartphone. Whereas children can close their eyes if there’s something they don’t want to see, adults have always had to face up to things . . . until now.

  So it comes as quite a surprise when Nadeche puts down her mobile and stares out of the window, almost like a child. Grande frowns. It’s almost beyond belief that her star hasn’t stepped outside in two days.

  The streets inside the camp all look the same. It’s hard to tell which block they’re in, which area, or even if they’ve just been driving in circles for ten minutes. The car pulls up outside a building made up of several containers and extended with tents. A mass of people are queuing there, lots of women with children, older children with smaller ones. Clearly an attempt had been made to erect a canopy over the area outside the building, to shelter those waiting, but the numbers must have grown and then they stopped cobbling more onto the cobbled-together roof construction. Marion sees people squatting in long lines, in that peculiar latrine position. She’s familiar with this from the refugee hostel where Nadeche filmed; people squatting in the corridors, or wherever they can get a decent wi-fi connection. But she doesn’t understand how they do it for even a minute without one of their legs going completely numb.

  First the passenger gets out and then the vehicle turns, so that Nadeche can get out in front of the entrance and the camera. Marion sees the camera team, and beside them in canvas trainers is the passenger Nadeche ignored throughout the drive there. He looks relaxed, wearing the shirt Marion and Nadeche chose for him – not one of those garish things Africans love to wear, but a dark-blue shirt, not too fitted, even though he could easily carry that off as he’s got the sort of figure people love to dress. Marion is desperate to get out too, to see how Nadeche gets on with him. But she doesn’t want to be in the way of the camera team. Astrid has got out the other side, as has Grande. Marion stays in the car.

  She’s already done a recce of the building and there’s nowhere you could set up a make-up station. She picks up the make-up box from beside her feet, opens it and prepares everything for her work. Cotton wool, tissues, cape. Experience tells her that it will be an hour at most before Nadeche comes back for a touch up. In this weather Marion reckons it’ll be less.

  Through the open door she sees Nadeche approach the young man. He offers her his hand, casually and yet attentively, as if he’s been taking lessons from Barack Obama. From behind she can’t see Nadeche’s reaction, but she can see the way he moves – a natural talent. You’d even watch him open a bottle of water. She leans back and goes through her e-mails. An unusually large number of questions have appeared on her cosmetics blog today, and when she’s finished with them she sees that Nadeche isn’t back yet.

  Marion checks the time. Way over an hour. That’s unusual. She looks through the windows in all directions and sees nothing but refugees, dust and sun. She thinks about asking the driver, but he’s busy with his mobile too. There’s wi-fi outside the hospital, which explains the presence of all those refugees who aren’t in the queue. Marion gets out, stretches, thrusts her hands into her jeans pockets and walks, stiff-legged, around the car.

  The hospital has electricity too. There is an accumulation of mobiles attached to chargers, and bundles of leads creep along the ground like wiry plants. When people come to fetch their mobiles, others leap up and grab the coveted slot. Plugs are the new waterholes, it occurs to Marion. Two little girls come up to her and laugh as they tug at her trouser legs, but in these two days Marion has learned that you can only offer help at fixed times and fixed places – otherwise those in need will demand it everywhere and at any time. Back home Marion has a dog, so this wasn’t particularly hard to learn.

  She goes back to the car to fetch some sun cream. She hadn’t anticipated having to reapply today, but she can’t sit in that bloody freezing car anymore.

  The girls don’t leave her alone. They seem bored. Marion crouches to show them a little clapping and counting game. “Aramsamsam,” she sings to them, and because they seem to really like this she continues: “Bei Müllers hat’s gebrannt, brannt, brannt”. Soon the girls can sing it really well, but Nadeche is still not back. The girls are already making up a new version in which they warble “ulliulliulli” in an impressive, but also slightly awful two-part harmony. Marion gets up and wanders to the hospital entrance to peer inside. There are no signs of any disquiet; the sick wait there with the patience of a saint.

  Ought she to be worried?

  Can you attack a camera team and a star presenter without making a noise?

  Or abduct them?

  Unlikely. She could give Nadeche a bell, but she’s bound to have switched her mobile off for filming. Marion circles the hospital building, which turns out to be bigger than expected. There are barely any windows to look through. But nor does anybody appear agitated. People come and go, always carrying the same things: sacks of flour or grain, water canisters, long bundles of sticks. Sacks, canisters, sticks. Sacks, canisters, sticks. A goat. Sacks, canisters, sticks. By the time she’s back at the car she hasn’t heard from Nadeche Hackenbusch for two and a half hours.

  She calls Grande. Voicemail. Who else could she ask? And she can’t just leave. If Nadeche needs a touch up and she’s not there all hell will break loose. She returns to the vehicle and closes the door to have a drink. The children mustn’t see her drinking the clean, bottled water. She rearranges a few of her make-up tools, then puts them back in their original positions. The air conditioning is working flawlessly, as are the heated seats. The car must have a battery the size of a fridge. It’s all rather pleasant, in fact.

  She sits up with a start. How long has she been asleep? What’s happened? Hearing a shriek, she pushes open the door and stumbles into the bright light. Children are pouring out of the hospital, a camera assistant is moving swiftly with the backwards-walking cameraman in tow, guiding him around obstacles and tent posts. Then Nadeche Hackenbusch appears and with her the passenger. Her sleeves are rolled up, her shirt is open and there are stains on the T-shirt beneath. Sweat, dirt? It could be blood too, but not much. She doesn’t look unhappy, but not especially enthusiastic either. If Marion had to describe her expression she’d say: different from normal. Serious. Like someone with a job to do. Like a politician with a full diary, not a party politician, but someone working in overseas aid. Her hair is all over the place. In the background Marion can see Grande, who seems out of breath. Nadeche turns to say something to her, waving her arms assertively. Marion catches her eye and gestures in an attempt to find out whether her make-up skills are required, but Nadeche shakes her head. Then she sits on the floor and the passenger follows suit.

  To begin with Marion loses sight of her; Nadeche has almost entirely disappeared into a cluster of children, but from the cameraman’s face she can tell that the situation isn’t threatening. As he endeavours to hold her in the picture, his assistant keeps a few angles free for him. Marion approaches to find out what’s going on. Astrid von Roëll is now beside her, but she’s taking photos on her smartphone and trying to jot things down on a little notepad.

  Nadeche is sitting with her designer jeans in the dust. Her left foot is resting on the passenger’s thigh and she’s laughin
g. The children laugh too. The passenger is holding a knife, which he’s using to remove the rhinestones from her shoe, one after the other. He passes them to Nadeche, who hands them out as fairly as possible.

  One stone per child.

  He’s being careful, but he can’t help making holes in Nadeche’s trainers. She doesn’t seem to care. He raises his eyebrows, but she gestures to him to keep going, grabbing a child with the other hand to take the rhinestone out of its mouth. Marion recognises the little girl. She’s laughing and singing, “Müllerhatzgebanbanban”. Then she puts the stone back in her mouth, but only until Nadeche protests.

  The rhinestone process doesn’t come to an end until Nadeche takes off her ruined shoes and tosses them away. Squealing, the children leap after them. The passenger gets up. He offers Nadeche his hand and she allows him to pull her up. She slaps the dust off her bottom, then takes her socks off too. For a moment it looks as if she’s going to embrace the passenger, but instead she gives him her hand before heading back to the car in bare feet. Marion watches as a woman comes up to her. Nadeche turns to the woman, who thrusts a pair of those cheap sliders into her hands. Nadeche makes a gesture of payment, or more accurately non-payment, she pats her pockets, she doesn’t have any money on her, only her socks. The woman declines the socks, these sliders are a gift. Embraces.

  Nadeche gets to the S.U.V. Astrid joins her, then Grande, they reconvene in the car. Grande looks under great strain. Astrid is scribbling as if her life depended on it. Nadeche sinks into her seat as if she never intends to get up again. She closes her eyes.

  “What was that all about?” Marion says.

  Nobody answers.

  Grande takes a deep breath but doesn’t speak. Her eyes still closed, Nadeche says, “Ten minutes’ rest as soon as we’re back. Then I want a meeting. We’re going to like, plan some schedules for the next few days.”

  “I’ve already—” Grande says.