The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  “Hey, d’you fancy a green tea too?” she asks the intern. She’s sitting at the screen beside Astrid, wearing earphones and scanning through the previous days’ footage.

  “Sorry?”

  They’re at the same desk inside a container. Three weak neon lights and one that flickers lend the room all the cosiness of an abandoned underpass. Two fans ensure the equal distribution of warmth and stale air; when you get close to them it’s like being coughed at by a very old woman. Three people work at this desk and the moment someone leaves the room, another immediately claims the free chair.

  “What I’d give for a green tea now!” Astrid says. She goes over to the small, calcified kettle and fills it with water from a vessel that she still can’t look at with anything other than scepticism.

  Water that doesn’t come from a tap.

  That sits around for days in the same tank.

  Clean, of course, that’s guaranteed. At least as clean as the official water points accessible to all refugees. And far cleaner than the unofficial ones – there’s no comparison. Nobody would believe what she’s seen here with her own eyes. One day it comes out cloudy, the next a rusty brown, and sometimes it’s the colour of pee – she can’t be doing with that. You can’t drink the stuff and everything you wash with it just gets dirtier, both clothes and bodies. Even so, people queue for hours.

  The water is lukewarm again. She lets it run. It doesn’t look that bad. You just can’t think too closely about how it sits all day in that gigantic metal container with all those particles floating about.

  She shouldn’t complain, but having to drink lukewarm water all the time is starting to piss her off. If you want something cold you have to get a Coke from the fridge, but it’s not even Diet Coke, it’s packed full of sugar and, besides, everyone looks at you. They watch to see whether you replace it with another one, whether you’re drinking too quickly. And they wonder why you want a cold drink in the first place. Or why you’re taking this perfectly good water . . .

  “Hey! It’s not going to get any colder!” Grande again. Miss Water Watcher, she really gets on her tits! Astrid turns away, looks upwards and meekly turns off the tap.

  “You could try to keep an eye on her!” Grande hisses at the intern.

  “Sorry, mind was elsewhere.”

  “How many times? We pay to have this water delivered. I can’t keep going over budget just because it’s not cool enough for Frau von Roëll.”

  That’s another thing. A couple of weeks ago Grande wouldn’t have dared behave like this. They were delighted to have Evangeline on board as a partner. They’d have served her drinks at whatever temperature she desired. And nobody gave a damn when she used water from the plastic bottles, back when they still had green tea. But now the show’s taken Germany by storm, it’s being reported on everywhere, in all the magazines, newspapers, social media. Anybody who can afford it – and an astonishing number of media outlets still can – is sitting here in this container. Now Astrid has to fight tooth and nail to prove that she’s not just one of many. Stern has sent someone, Bild too, of course, and now the F.A.S. as well, that Sunday version of the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung that actually publishes articles about things that might interest a normal individual. And then some idiot back home comes up with the idea that she could write more, seeing as it’s a daily programme. For their “online presence”. Lou Grant, no doubt, that scheming fungus. She can just imagine him in the editorial meeting, saying in his nasal voice, “I want to read about this more often.” But she bets he visits the Evangeline website as seldom as anyone.

  The deputy editor relayed the happy message by phone.

  To begin with she tried to be obliging: “I don’t know whether they’ve got any more room here.”

  “What?” the deputy blockhead said.

  “It’s really cramped and that. And I presume we’re talking about Sibylle or Sonja. They’d have to find somewhere to sleep too.”

  “Why would we be talking about Frau Bessemer or Frau Laienfeld?”

  “Who do you think’s going to write all that stuff?”

  Initially he seemed at a loss. Then he said, in his really stupid way, “Hmm. Tricky. Let’s see: what about . . . you?”

  “Sorry? No offence, but I’ve got plenty on my plate already, what with the fashion shoots and all the research and—”

  “Look, in a camp with more than two million people there must be something happening every day. Surely you’ll be able to write a hundred lines or so about what’s going on.”

  “I see. Well, O.K. then. I thought you meant on a daily basis.”

  It was probably only then that the lunacy of his demands occurred to him. Typical man: they never admit to their mistakes. They always have to stick to the wrong path, stubbornly and to the bitter end. It must have taken him at least a minute to come up with an answer, which turned out to be as idiotic as the first one. More idiotic, in fact.

  “Yes, of course on a daily basis.”

  “I’m not a sodding typewriter.”

  “You’re a journalist! Have you ever taken a look at a newspaper? There’s stuff in there every day!”

  This left her speechless. And then of course he turned the screw – men are better at this than anything else; they can sniff out weakness at a distance of eight thousand kilometres and down a telephone line – by saying, “Do you seriously want me to go running around the office, saying that one of Evangeline’s best writers can’t pull off what any hack for the Nowheresville Arsevertiser can?”

  Insolent shithead! What cheek!

  And the “one of Evangeline’s best writers” crap. Of course she’s one of the best, that’s beyond doubt. In fact Evangeline’s problem is that, apart from her, they employ losers. Sonja and Sibylle, they’re nice girls and perfectly adequate for routine jobs. But on balance the entire company is nothing but a collection of overpaid dyslexics!

  And even though Astrid isn’t one of those perpetual whingers, even though Astrid isn’t a clock-watcher, often staying longer than the others, even though Astrid’s articles are among the most widely read in the entire magazine, even though she never makes a fuss about being the last to get a new work mobile, despite all this she demanded this be referred to the editor-in-chief. Because this was a matter of principle.

  “And quality!”

  “Sorry,” the intern says. “I wasn’t listening. What’s that?”

  “I said it’s a question of quality too,” Astrid says insistently.

  “Is there something wrong with the coffee?”

  “No! I’m talking about journalism! Quality journalism!”

  The water is boiling and she makes a ghastly instant coffee. In the office back home they have a fantastic pod machine, so you can make whatever coffee you fancy: cappuccino, latte macchiato, everything. What a shame there’s not one here, seeing as everything you need is right outside the door. The coffee grows in Africa, and someone told her that the aluminium for the pods comes from here too. You could save on all that transportation. But this is exactly what crisis areas are like, they have everything in abundance, yet can’t do a thing with any of it, like that Ancient Greek man who stood under the fruit tree but couldn’t get a bean. Syphonos.

  “It’s impossible for the same person to write one hundred lines every day. One hundred! Every day! How’s that supposed to work?”

  “I don’t know,” the intern says. “I’m subscribed to a couple of blogs on my mobile. They seem to manage it somehow,”

  “Sure. Blogs. Self-exploitation.”

  “And I’ve heard Spiegel Online are toying with the idea too. Normally they only do it for ‘I’m a Celebrity’.”

  Cup in hand, Astrid plants herself firmly on the chair. Spiegel Online. Yeah. They sit there comfortably watching the show, then gossip about it afterwards.

  “You’ve never written anything, have you?” she asks coldly.

  “The odd essay, that sort of thing.”

  “That’s quit
e different,” Astrid explains, then adds in more friendly tone, “But you’re still young. Good journalism takes time. That lot at Condé Nast laugh when they see our set-up. They know that good journalism has its price. They’d turn up with two photographers, four or five researchers and another two people to write the text. And what do we do?”

  The editor-in-chief caved in immediately, of course. Not directly to her, but to his deputy. That spineless character. They’d never have dared behave like that towards Nadeche. “There’s no such thing as impossible!” Nadeche would say. They’d be a dream team: Nadeche Hackenbusch and Astrid von Roëll, the first joint female editors in upmarket tabloid journalism.

  “They’re lucky that I can do both: research and write!”

  The intern nods and her eyes seem to twinkle with gratitude for this background knowledge about the particulars of the media world. But she’s a bit too quick to turn back to her screen, at least for Astrid’s taste. And has she actually got two earphones in?

  She has. Bitch.

  All because of that guy. She realised at once that there was something about him. How they found him in the first place is pretty incredible. He’s not even that good looking, not at first glance anyway. But he has this astonishing way of saying things. And his way with women, well . . . even she finds it rather unusual. He’s so respectful, but not submissive, not like those usual types who are “in touch with their feminine side”.

  She collared him on one occasion, for half an hour right at the start, before the telly people started shielding him. And what an impression he gave once she’d got used to his English, which took a little while because hers is a touch rusty too. She’s never been particularly good at languages, but she understood everything all the same.

  Anyway, you only hear properly with the heart, don’t you?

  He comes from a city – it doesn’t really matter which one, they can always check later – where his parents were English teachers, which was lucky for him, of course. Then civil war broke out, or it might have been a tribal conflict – again, this needs checking in the final edit – and his parents died, they weren’t killed, or at least she doesn’t think they were, more likely while fleeing or after their flight, exhaustion, homesickness, something like that can break you emotionally. Then he did something with cars and wanted to study, or even started a course (so there’s actually a university?), something to do with cars or machinery, but then there was persistent unrest and he had to enlist in the army – the bottom line is that it’s one of many refugee life stories, there’s no need to drag it out. That’s for the amateur bloggers. As a professional it’s her job to focus on the key issue: what’s it like working with Nadeche Hackenbusch?

  “Oh,” he said, beaming. “Malaika!”

  Astrid takes a deep breath. She’s going to get it over and done with now. One hundred lines. But they’re going to notice how it affects the quality. She’ll write about some crap like the weather, whatever. It mustn’t be too good or they’ll keep wanting more of the same. And the difference from the print edition must be evident straightaway. She’s going to bang out such an amazing piece for the print edition they’ll be worrying Condé Nast will be out to poach her.

  15

  “The material is ace,” Sensenbrink says. “I wasn’t expecting that. Were you?”

  He’s sitting in the cutting room, viewing yesterday’s footage. In fact it’s a compilation of yesterday’s footage because crazy amounts of broadcast material are now coming back from Africa.

  “No, I’m pleasantly surprised too,” Beate Karstleiter says.

  They’re watching Nadeche and Lion Man cooking dinner with a family. It’s quite banal actually, and yet fascinating, because there’s practically nothing to see. There’s no kitchen, only a fire outside of the house. There’s no salad, no fruit, nothing. There’s no real preparation either, because there’s nothing to prepare. They have the ingredients you get as a refugee: beans, oil, sugar, salt and water. There are no spices in a camp where two million people abandoned their search for variety in their food years ago. The images are both dismal and intimate. Not even A.R.D.’s “Weltspiegel” programme would broadcast that, but Nadeche and Lion Man make the footage so effective.

  Now, Lion Man translates into English, the refugee woman of indeterminate age is about to disclose her secret. This is a good starting point because, with the best will in the world, Nadeche and the viewers wouldn’t be able to make anything out of those ingredients apart from an insipid sludge. The scepticism in Nadeche’s eyes is clear; it’s the same look you see in those docusoaps, when the middle-class wife who’s swapped house is trying to get the lower-class kids to eat fish. Unlike the lower-class kids, who are guided by a script, Nadeche is trying to be polite and her face beams with genuine hope, because like everyone else she believes in the dramatic art of television. The magic potion, the miracle ingredient that bestows a happy ending on a looming tragedy, like in the normal episodes of “Angel in Adversity”, where colouring pencils are produced for the children at the very last minute. The refugee woman says something. She closes her eyes, makes a few rhythmic hand movements, opens her eyes again and adds a little sugar to the pot with a meaningful look. Nadeche watches with interest. You can literally see her searching for the unique aspect of this process and failing to find it. She looks at Lion Man.

  “What’s she doing?”

  If you focus on her lips you can see what Nadeche is actually saying: “What do she?” But thank God they’ve already dubbed her in pre-production with the voice of the translator. Initially they were going to use subtitles, but this was before they were fully aware of how absurd Nadeche’s English is. By synchronising the translation with the original, they’re ostensibly keeping the narrative up to speed, whereas what they’re actually doing is fading out Nadeche’s gobbledygook to the point where it’s virtually inaudible.

  “She’s singing.”

  “A magic song?”

  Lion Man laughs. So friendly, so amicable, so caring and yet so special that Sensenbrink can hear Karstleiter holding her breath beside him. This isn’t just down to the dubbing; you can hear his real voice too. The original intention was to sync it, as with Nadeche, but Sensenbrink stuck his oar in.

  “No, it’s not a magic song, it’s a children’s song. She says you have to get to the end of the first verse.”

  “And then?”

  “That’s when to add the sugar.”

  “What about the recipe?”

  “That is the recipe.”

  Nadeche Hackenbusch looks blank.

  “But . . . that’s not a recipe! When the water boils, put the pasta in – that’s not a recipe either! Please ask her again.” Sensenbrink thinks he hears, “Question her please again.”

  Lion Man asks the woman something. She replies with visible pride, and his face shows that he understood her correctly first time around.

  “Malaika, look!” When he takes her by the hand, Sensenbrink can scarcely believe that Nadeche Hackenbusch, control freak of the small screen, is allowing him to do this, trusting him. Pulling her a little closer to the ingredients, he shows her in turn the plastic bottle with the indeterminate cooking oil and the carefully closed box of beans. “Malaika! That’s all there is.”

  “I know. But the recipe?”

  “What are you going to do with a recipe?”

  He approaches the refugee woman, takes the wooden spoon apologetically from her hand and stirs the pot for a while before pausing.

  “You want a new recipe? I’ll show you a new recipe.”

  Then he stirs in the opposite direction.

  “That guy is a guru,” Sensenbrink mutters, then turns to Beate Karstleiter, who was putting her glasses back on. “I told you right at the start! Have you seen how he deals with her? She’s putty in his hands.”

  Karstleiter clears her throat and nods.

  “Do they always send so much material?” Sensenbrink says.

  “Yes, but that�
��s fine. We had a call from the boss’s office just now. They’re planning to extend the programme by fifteen minutes.”

  “Get in! Is this public education week?”

  “No, they can’t squeeze in the commercials otherwise. They don’t want it to end up looking like an infomercial interspersed with a few clips of refugees. I’m flabbergasted, to be honest. They’re not always as sensitive as this.”

  Sensenbrink folds his hands in his lap and taps his thumbs together thoughtfully. “It’s astonishing, especially since nothing actually happens in the programme. Apart from that episode with the mass panic.”

  “Another reason I wouldn’t tell them to be more sparing with the footage. You only capture stuff like that if the cameras are rolling all the time.”

  “And then we’ve got Lion Man having his merry way with our star.” Sensenbrink shakes his head. “If you were to write that in a script, nobody would believe you.”

  “We’re already getting the first love letters.”

  “What?”

  “O.K., not by the bucketload, but one or two a day.”

  “Proper letters?”

  Karstleiter opens her eyes wide and nods. Sensenbrink glances approvingly at the screen. “I didn’t know people still did that these days.”

  “We’re surprised ourselves. Some are from young girls, and I wouldn’t have thought they knew what a stamp even looks like. It’s all down to Lionel.”

  “Lionel?”

  “That’s his name apparently.”

  “No,” Sensenbrink corrects her. “That’s what we called him. But it’s not his real name.”

  “Are you sure? It’s what Nadeche calls him too and he’s never complained.”

  “A coincidence, maybe,” Sensenbrink wonders.

  “But it’s not just love letters. Some people want to donate.”

  Sensenbrink is jolted from his contentment. “Wait. Let’s not get our ducks out of line here. We’re not Médecins Sans Frontières. A donation account and stuff, that’s O.K., we’ll get some organisation or other to piggyback on it. It’ll go down well if someone like Bread for the World are behind it. But we’re not going to start having Nadeche dole out money down there.”