by Timur Vermes
“Then maybe you should put your question differently.”
“Fine. From some of the scenes in the A2 special, one might conclude that the relationship between Frau Hackenbusch and her colleague extends beyond the purely professional.”
“And which scenes are you thinking of?”
“The ‘Month’s End’ episode. The family that has literally nothing—”
“—and doesn’t get anything either. That’s the norm in those camps, that’s reality when you’re living your life on rations. This is how the cycle goes. On the first five days everyone’s got something to eat. On the next five days you visit friends to spare yourselves a meal. And then come the fifteen days when everyone’s starving. Frau Hackenbusch had no idea about this, nor did any of the team – even me. When you see and experience this in real life, it hits you hard. So I think it’s perfectly normal that even a strong personality like Frau Hackenbusch should need another human being to lean on.”
“She could have leaned on the camera team, but she went for Lionel.”
“Are we really going to spend our time discussing who Frau Hackenbusch leans on and when? If this shows anything at all, it’s professionalism, because the cameraman mustn’t let the camera wobble.”
“How about the episode with the dirty water . . . or the little boy who died of fever?”
“I’m hearing you. The short scenes where Frau Hackenbusch reaches for Lionel’s hand, his shoulder. Speaking as a T.V. guy, let me tell you quite frankly that we’re amped when we see moments like this – they’re pure gold. Not just for us, for any broadcaster. Despite this we neither ask for them nor orchestrate them. But if I get one on camera I’m not going to be so stupid as to cut it, am I?”
“Because it’s more meat in your soup.”
“Exactly. The viewers are drawn in closer. And seeing as you ran it up the flagpole, this is true for the relationship between those two as well. I can’t tell you what’s going on between Frau Hackenbusch and Lionel, you’d have to ask them that. But at the end of the day, it’s genuine. We don’t script anything, we don’t know ourselves what’s happening on an emotional level.”
“You don’t know what’s happening on your own show?”
“No, I don’t. And I’m perfectly happy to take responsibility for the fact that the tension is working. I mean, this is something you can only do with Nadeche Hackenbusch. As your questions make quite clear.”
“How so?”
“Because if this was anyone else you wouldn’t be asking. It wouldn’t interest you whether what happened in the programme was real or not. But with Nadeche it’s different, because she’s done a lot of television, without ever going so far as to capitalise on her private life. Or do you think that Frau Hackenbusch is putting on an act for the nation here? A married woman with two children?”
“It’s hard to imagine . . .”
“There you go.”
“How important is Lionel to the success of the show?”
Sensenbrink can feel himself relaxing, sinking into the chair. If this interview were a cow that needed to be rescued from the ice, it would now be in safety. Yet he doesn’t feel any better.
“Again your question hints at the answer. He’s essential.”
“Is it true you chose him yourself?”
“Yes, it is.”
It takes him a moment to realise what this is leading to. Now comes all the trivia.
“And you’ve scripted nothing of what he says?”
“Nada.”
“Not even phrases such as ‘At night the sun shines elsewhere’? Or ‘Nobody knows why the monkey scratches himself ’?”
“Fabulous, isn’t it? These words just tumble from the guy’s mouth. Those clips are the most viewed on our website. The kids make memes out of them. Only yesterday I saw a young couple – he had a T-shirt that said: ‘When the Lion yawns, the gnu goes to bed’. And hers: ‘The heart beats in secret’.”
“‘The heart beats in secret’, ‘At night the sun shines elsewhere’ – have you got a clue what any of this means?”
“Not always. But it’s a peculiar mixture of strength and thoughtfulness, which makes him the perfect foil for Nadeche Hackenbusch, who – and I’m certainly not saying anything new here – isn’t particularly known for her thoughtfulness. You can try as hard as you like to deliberately cast someone like that, but ninety-nine times out of a hundred you’ll get a turkey. Lionel is fabulous, a lucky find for any producer.”
The niceties. Questions formulated in a way that allows Sensenbrink to place everything he wants to place. They signal that the climax of the interview is over. Sensenbrink feels something akin to the pain of separation. All the importance, all the attention is now dissipating. Yes, tomorrow it’ll be printed and more people will see it. For most people – well, virtually everybody apart from Kasewalk and him – this whole conversation won’t take place until tomorrow. They’ll call or e-mail him: “Great interview in the S.Z.” All the same. It’s like when the long summer holiday is coming to an end and you’re thinking about the first day back at school.
“How’s the programme going to end?” Kasewalk says. As if he could read people’s minds. “Surely you can’t wing it, you must have planned something.”
Sensenbrink feels an absurd acrimony welling up inside him. Towards Kasewalk, strangely. It takes him a while to locate the cause, probably because it’s so silly: he envies this man. It annoys him that Kasewalk will still be on holiday tomorrow. He’ll interview someone else, and the day after that and so on. Kasewalk will always feature in the Süddeutsche Zeitung.
“That’s one sunroof I can’t open,” Sensenbrink says. “Of course we’re trying to tie up loose ends, but we’re also aware that we have to make compromises. A refugee camp isn’t a holiday home, you can’t clean and tidy before you leave. That’s what happens when you film real life. I fear the viewers might be left slightly unsatisfied. Unsatisfied or, to put it a better way, eager for the next series of ‘Angel in Adversity’. We have new episodes planned for November.”
“That’s a nice way to conclude,” Kasewalk says.
“Isn’t it?”
They say goodbye and then it’s over. Only for now, Sensenbrink consoles himself, only for now. If things keep going in the right direction, who knows where it might end?
13
The under-secretary parks the car in the basement garage. He knows that Tommy is waiting for him upstairs. He ought to be happy; they’ve got a three-day weekend ahead of them. And everything has worked out splendidly, even though they had a special meeting today in the ministry. He wasn’t in the office any longer than usual. He should be happy, he should be leaping out of the car, full of joy and lust, he should already be removing his tie and chunky watch to save precious seconds. Instead he’s still in the car, having switched the engine off, absentmindedly flicking the indicator. Left. Right. Left.
Right.
He can’t complain about the meeting. To the point and purposeful.
And he knows you can’t take this for granted, having been to enough meetings in his life. Lohm is always telling him about endless meetings where the preparation’s shocking and there’s no outcome. One lot are worried about divulging information, another are worried about making decisions, and in between you’ve got those who haven’t got a clue, nor are they worried about opening their mouths and spouting the most cretinous noise. Nothing like that happens in Leubl’s ministry.
Left.
He called in pretty much every department connected with refugees and internal security, and relayed the minister’s impatience. One could also say that he gave those assembled a rocket and made it plain that he, and nobody else, was Leubl’s right hand.
Right.
“We need to keep an eye on this,” he said. “Everyone here has to understand that it’s serious.”
“Possibly, but let’s not blow it out of proportion. We’ve got enough problems as it is.”
That was fro
m Gödeke, of course. The roles assign themselves, and even if the anger in the room is so thick you can cut it with a knife, the police, protected by their limited powers, are always the first to break cover.
“If we remain vigilant, this might not turn into another one. I’m not even saying that anything’s going to happen. But there are a number of possible scenarios and it could become the biggest problem of all. Let me reiterate: we have to remain vigilant. And I’m purposely not going to raise the issue of why nobody has brought this matter up for discussion till now.”
“Because it’s a shite programme. A shite T.V. programme on a shite T.V. channel.”
There’s always one who takes the bait. This time it was Dr Berthold, head of the department for public security. Sixty-four years old, normally unobtrusive and dependable, but noticeably reluctant, being on the verge of retirement, to be lectured by someone in their mid-thirties.
“Nicely put. It’s a shite T.V. show on a shite channel. And so you imagine it’s harmless?”
“I’ve no idea, for God’s sake, but does that automatically make it dangerous? I can’t speak for my colleagues, but I can’t be the only one here who thinks we might benefit from being a bit more relaxed about this. What do you think’s going to happen?”
“Well, the most trifling outcome would be them wanting to bring one of their refugee models to Germany.”
This failed to ruffle Berthold. “You can forget that.” And Dr Kalb from migration nodded sagely: “Asylum law applies to television too.” Sometimes it’s so simple, the under-secretary thinks – you just need to offer them up the knife.
Left. Right.
“Great,” he said. “Then legally we’re off the hook, aren’t we? So what are we going to do if a million T.V. viewers sympathise with this model? For weeks on end? Is the minister going to stand up and say that legally this makes no difference?”
Berthold murmured something barely audible, which sounded like “But that’s how it is.” In truth, however, everyone around the table was suddenly struck by the magnitude of this affair.
“Gentlemen, this isn’t a news team that’s gone down to Africa,” the under-secretary declared. “These aren’t journalists who know how to report with a degree of neutrality and otherwise don’t interfere. This is a bunch of idiots who spend the rest of their time making garbage like ‘Wife Swap’.”
It was at this point that he noticed a sense of unease creeping into people’s faces. So he upped the ante.
“And they’re not in some prefabricated T.V. jungle with plug sockets like on ‘I’m a Celebrity’. They’re in the real world now.”
It was good to watch the pack gradually pick up the scent, Gödeke to the fore: “Are you worried that one of them’s going to take her hostage?”
“You see? Doesn’t sound so harmless now, does it? But this is only one possible scenario. The main problem is that nobody knows what’s going to come out of it, not even the telly people. They think it’s just like in the T.V. jungle, they think they’ve got it all under control. But they’re not in control of anything, because in real life anything can happen. And as soon as the general public rewards this with high ratings—”
“—they’ll have thirty models in tow, with families and friends too,” Kaspers from crisis management interjected, leaping to his feet.
“And with two or three million viewers putting pressure behind it—”
“It’s true, I know a few T.V. people too. And they really are like that, ‘What’s the problem?’ they think. ‘For any emergency we’ve got Medic Bob’s safety goggles.’”
Now there was only one way the meeting could go. He just had to scoop them up, one by one.
“Welcome to the modern world. If all of you are now up to speed on the situation, we can move on to the positives. The good news is that it doesn’t have to be a problem,” the under-secretary placated them. “But it could turn into one very quickly.”
Left.
He really can’t complain. He didn’t once have to refer to the minister; he didn’t say something like, “Minister Leubl wishes . . .” He simply gave instructions.
“The most important thing now is to gather information. We need to know as much as possible about their team. So that at least we’re prepared to some extent.”
Right.
“Then we’ll decide who to approach. We’ll talk to their bosses. One of us and someone from the foreign ministry. All softly-softly, very restrained.”
“We’ll raise their awareness to prevent them from doing anything silly.”
“We’ll remind them of their civic responsibility, so they don’t whinge about censorship.”
“Right. I mean, it’s in their interests too.”
“The key thing is that they keep a close eye on Hackenbusch. She’s as thick as two short planks,” Berthold bitched.
“So our position is this: let them do their stuff, no problem. But they need to realise it’s in their own interests to get out of there quickly.”
Then he declared the meeting at an end and went to see Leubl in his office.
Left.
Right.
Left.
Leubl listened over the top of his spectacles as the under-secretary gave him a quick briefing.
“Good,” Leubl said. “Good. Maybe we’ll regain control of this.” Then leaned back in his chair.
“Which brings us to the last point. How was this able to slip past you?”
Right.
“I . . . I . . . it just wasn’t on my radar.”
Leubl took off his glasses. “It was on your radar. You certainly didn’t hear about the programme from me. You just didn’t know what it might turn into. But why?”
“Why? I don’t understand the question. I just missed it.”
Left.
“Refugees. Television. Celebs. All the ingredients for a catastrophe. How come you didn’t see the danger?”
Rightleftright.
Leubl was right. Why hadn’t he seen it?
Leftrightleft.
“I might have been distracted.”
“Exactly. You were distracted because you’re gay.”
“What?”
Now his fingers switch on the headlights. The wall of the underground garage glares brightly.
“Let me tell you what happened. Somebody told you about the programme. And you thought they were only mentioning it because Hackenbusch is a fag hag. So as far as you were concerned that was the end of the matter.”
He flashes the headlights as if they could bore through the wall.
“But—”
“You know I don’t hold your homosexuality against you. And just so you don’t take it the wrong way, you don’t have to be gay for this to happen. It could happen if you were a drinker, a gambler or because you’re snorting coke or having an affair. It can happen whenever certain things are up closer than usual. As soon as these things blind you to what’s really going on.”
“I’ll bear that in mind.”
“Bearing it in mind isn’t going to help. It’s a sign that you have to make a decision.”
The under-secretary raised his eyebrows at Leubl. Had this been anyone else, he might have expected to be told to turn straight or give up the job. But not Leubl, out of the question.
“You always pretend not to care whether someone’s gay or not; in particular you pretend not to care that you’re gay. But you do care!”
“Of course I care!”
Leubl nodded. “Which doesn’t have to be a problem. It might even help you within the party. It certainly makes you a more human politician. But at the same time it makes you a poorer minister. Some ministers are always keeping an eye on their party, their constituency, or their anxieties and weaknesses and the manner in which they hide these or exploit them in public. They have their eye on so many things that they become a poor minister. A good minister is a minister and nothing besides.”
Leubl reached for a file. The lecture was coming at an end.
“It’s your decision as to what sort of minister you want to be.”
The under-secretary takes his hand from the headlight lever and pushes the door open with his elbow. He gets out, lets the car door slam shut and goes to the lift that will take him up to his apartment. The apartment is in darkness apart from a tealight flickering on the floor.
He hangs his key on the hook and steps into the apartment. He spies a second tealight. And a third, and then a line of others showing the way to the bedroom.
He doesn’t fancy it. He feels as if he’s lost a match, a final. He hasn’t played worse than anyone else, but it was his job to captain the team. He didn’t act like a leader, merely like a hanger-on. And Leubl is right: he does care. Some people have to be better than others. If you’re black or a woman or disabled or gay. And if you’re not better than the others, can you afford to be gay?
As the under-secretary was leaving Leubl’s office, his hand already on the doorknob, he turned around.
“Herr Leubl?”
Leubl looked at him and raised his eyebrows.
“Has it ever happened to you?”
Leubl calmly browsed his files.
“No. I’m not gay.”
He took a moment before peering above his glasses, assuming a look of innocence.
“Let’s say I decided my first priority was to be a good minister.”
“It has happened to you.”
“Yes. It happens to everyone. But my marriage came within a whisker of breaking down before I found the answer. So don’t dawdle.”
The under-secretary looks at the tealights leading to the bedroom.
He takes his key from the hook and leaves the apartment.
14
Something is happening. Or something is going to happen soon, either/or. She knew it from the first moment, she could tell by the look in Nadeche’s eyes, and the look in his. They can’t fool her. Some consolation, at least, for all she’s had to put up with recently. Sometimes Astrid von Roëll has no idea how she’s supposed to get it all done. Today, for example, they want her to write yet another piece. She wonders what on earth the editorial team back home are thinking.
