The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  “Ah, that sounds quite different. Do you know what that reminds me of? It sounds like the Bill Gates thing.”

  Nadeche holds out her free hand and frantically grabs at nothing. Astrid hastily passes her the bottle of water.

  “Thanks. No. Why Hackenbusch Foundation? That could be anybody . . . Anybody called Hackenbusch . . . Nadeche Hackenbusch Foundation. Write it down! Got it? Now, what else? . . . Wait, did you think that was it? It needs something else!”

  She holds her hand over the phone again. “Now I’m going to get the less-is-more spiel again,” she says with a smile. Astrid smiles back.

  “Well of course there’s something missing. I don’t want to have to stand there next time I’m in New York with everyone saying, ‘Aha, interesting, Nadeche Hackenbusch Foundation,’ but in fact everyone’s totally like, ‘A Foundation, but what’s it for?’ Do I really have to think of everything myself?”

  Nadeche takes a sip, then drips some water over her wrists and into the crooks of her arms.

  “And don’t give me that ‘Menschen’ stuff again, it sounds too much like ‘Problem Child’ – all 1960s lentils and kaftans, ugh! No, we need that thing, what’s it called? . . . Astrid, what’s that thing called when everyone chips in?”

  “Crowdfunding?” Astrid guesses.

  “That’s it, krautfunding. But we’ve got to make it clear that it’s not any old kraut funding it, but me . . . People? Dunno. Nadeche Hackenbusch Foundation for People . . . sounds O.K., but something’s not quite right. Shouldn’t it be ‘for the people’? . . . What do you mean, North Korea?”

  This time Astrid holds her tongue. Nadeche takes a large slug of water then nonchalantly hands the bottle to Astrid so she can put the top back on.

  “Humanity? No, not that. Why do you lot always have to go one step too far, always another thing and then something else until it sounds really shit? Humanity is too much. I mean, who do you think I am? Yes, I’m Nadeche Hackenbusch, but the whole of humanity? . . . I can only help individuals

  . . . Yes, humans. Well, sometimes a few more, but the whole of humanity is five billion people! No, we’re going to stick with the Nadeche Hackenbusch Foundation for the Humans. That’s what’s going out – end of. Tell Madeleine to get going with it this afternoon. Strahlemann & Bullwinkel can design another pretty logo, by tomorrow, and then it’ll be up and running. We haven’t got for ever. And I want offices in Berlin, Hamburg and Düsseldorf. No skimping, either. You have to spend money if you want it to come in. Over and out!”

  She slips the mobile into the back pocket of her trousers and smiles broadly. Astrid raises her eyebrows.

  “I’ve decided to set up this foundation after all. For donations. So people see that it’s serious and that. We’ll have them like, howling at their telly screens! You heard our conversation. Now we’ve got the name at least – and it’s great, isn’t it? What about you? Have you got your footage? Because now I’ve got to go and save a few people!”

  Nadeche climbs back onto the pick-up with astonishing agility. She pulls down her dusty shades, bends round to the driver, raps twice on the metal and says, “Let’s roll.”

  24

  Mojo the Blue strokes the underside of his nose with his right index finger, to the tip and back again. He repeats the movement, this time with less pressure. The nose shouldn’t be pushed in. And it’s got to be slower. Not like lighting a match. Or is it?

  Mojo picks up the remote control. He rewinds the video and plays it again. He was wrong, in fact it’s just like lighting a match, but without any pressure. And you don’t stroke all the way, it’s a combination of stroking and tapping. Too long for just tapping, too short for just stroking. The index finger isn’t rigid, it’s relaxed. And you shouldn’t glance at your finger, not ever; your eyes must be fixed on the person opposite the whole time. Mojo presses pause. He picks up his mobile, taps the camera function and switches to selfie mode. He films all the variations, then checks them.

  “Bandele!”

  Bandele turns round in the passenger seat.

  “I need a bigger screen. Sort it!” He gently caresses the side of his nose, then the tip of his index finger springs forwards like in a ski jump, pointing at Bandele for a fraction of a second. Bandele nods and faces forwards again. Mojo sinks back in his seat, satisfied. A good gesture. Better than the rest of the film. The boss who makes the gesture has funny hair and he dances too much, but it’s a good gesture. He probably has to dance so much because he’s a white man ordering a whole load of blacks and latinos around. He needs to show them he’s black enough to be their boss, that he can move, and he does move well for a white guy. But Mojo doesn’t have to dance. A boss needs to stand out from his employees. They have to admire him. They have to aspire to be like him. And what’s going to happen if they find out that he’s no different from them? If you want to be a leader, you have to keep giving your people goals, rather than the message that they’ve already arrived.

  And you mustn’t get shot.

  Mojo snaps open a water bottle and takes a sip. He’s not going to die among tomato plants like the Godfather. He’s not going to get shot either. He’s going to see what comes, that’s all. Just because everyone makes mistakes at some time or other, it doesn’t mean he has to. And the jury’s still out on whether everyone actually has to grow old.

  He senses the car slowing. They drive past a long column of lorries before coming to a stop. Bandele gets out and opens the door for him. Mojo puts on his sunglasses and climbs out of the car. The boys have already leaped out of their S.U.V. Two secure the area, but there’s nothing out of the ordinary so they sling their AK-47s casually over their shoulders. A small lorry has stopped behind Mojo’s car. The doors open and five men get out.

  “Vamos,” Mojo says.

  Bandele gives the five men a signal. Two of them put on the baseball caps they’re holding. Mojo starts walking, Bandele joins him and the five others follow. It’s a good feeling, walking past these tankers. He wasn’t sure to begin with, but this armada of lorries has been worth all the effort alone. His armada. It’s one thing to know it’s possible, but to see it actually happening is something else. He strolls along as if inspecting a parade. But he shows no pride – that would be silly. He just takes it all in his stride.

  His trucks.

  His armada.

  They make for truck number 34 where a large group of men are assembled. They shrink back a little when they see the boys and Mojo. Mojo looks at them silently. At some point Bandele says, “O.K., listen in. Here are five new drivers. One of you needs to explain to them how all this works. Any volunteers? Forget it. Who does this truck belong to? Who has truck 34?”

  A hand is raised. A beanpole with a Brazilian football shirt.

  “O.K., Pelé,” Bandele says, “tell them.”

  “I dunno . . .” Pelé looks embarrassed. “Where . . . where should I begin?”

  “Who gives a fuck? Just begin!”

  “O.K., then. It’s no great shakes, really—”

  “Did you hear that?” Bandele roars at the five men. “No great shakes. So keep your ears open!”

  “You . . . you basically fill the lorry with water. You get told where the water point is, because it’s not always the same one. Then you drive there. But you don’t have to find it yourself, the other drivers know where they’re going and you just follow them. And it’s the same on the way back. Then you get told your location and what number to mark on your lorry.”

  “And? What else?” Bandele reminds him.

  “Oh yes. You’re responsible for the generators and charging stations. The generator must be full of fuel. When you arrive at your location you set up your charging station. It’s a bit of a faff to get all the cables and plugs out.”

  “Is that a complaint?” Bandele says.

  “No, no,” Pelé replies hastily. “No complaint at all, it’s fine, and you can always rope in the odd child. It’s simple enough if you’ve got three or fou
r helpers. And you don’t start up the generator until all the cables are laid out?”

  “Mobile network?”

  “I don’t know about that. My lorry’s only got water and electricity. Only every fifth or sixth needs to know about the mobile network and how to work it.”

  “What about the rules?”

  “Oh yes, the rules. You don’t just fill the lorry, you have to clean the tank too. Electricity is as important as water.”

  “Distribution?”

  “Nobody gets anything from us directly. They distribute everything themselves.”

  “Exceptions?”

  “No exceptions.”

  Bandele steps to the side; he has no more questions.

  “You see?” Mojo says. “Well done. No great shakes. Any fool can do it.” He nods at Pelé, and Pelé, visibly relieved, rejoins the others.

  “Any fool,” Mojo repeats. “But no-one here’s being paid like a fool, are they?” He steps up to them as they start grinning broadly. “You there, Ghostbuster, what do you earn?”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars a week,” a strong-looking man in a Ghostbusters T-shirt says.

  “And you?”

  “Two hundred and fifty dollars a week.” A boy, not even twenty, with a bare torso.

  “Two hundred and fifty bucks a week. Any of you know anyone else who earns that?”

  A shaking of heads.

  “Two hundred and fifty bucks a week. For a fool’s job. If you’re pocketing two hundred and fifty bucks, what do you think the guy’s gettin’ who pays you so much?”

  Silence, but Mojo’s not having that. “C’mon, gimme a figure!”

  “Five hundred?”

  “A thousand?”

  Mojo laughs. “I pay two hundred and fifty bucks a week. To a guy who thinks I do this shit here for a thousand.”

  “A day?” says the driver sheepishly. Mojo laughs even louder, then turns to the boy with no shirt.

  “Xbox or Playstation?”

  “Xbox . . .”

  “Xbox? O.K. Xbox. 2010. The Xbox 360 has Kinect. The thing that registers your movements. And it can monitor you too. Why? Because behind the Xbox is Microsoft. They collect your data, the Americans collect your data, it goes straight to them via the Internet. So, you’re workin’ in our business and want an Xbox? It’s a good thing you don’t have one. Right then, Ghostbuster: Xbox or Playstation?

  “Playstation, Mojo!”

  “You think the Japanese aren’t watchin’ you?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Think about it, bozo. The Japs are watchin’ you just the same. Hey, shirtless, here’s your second chance: Xbox or Playstation?”

  “Neither!”

  “Why’s that?”

  “So nobody’s watching me.”

  “Keep up, man. Who’s going to keep tabs on a dumb asshole like you? Who gives a fuck what you’re up to? You’re just a nigger on some unimportant continent and you want to go without cool games because someone makes you believe you’re being watched? Come on, now, Playstation or Xbox?”

  “I . . . I don’t know, Mojo.”

  “Yes,” Mojo smiles, clapping him reassuringly on the shoulder. “It’s fine. You’re all dumbasses. You know nothin’ and still I pay you two hundred and fifty bucks a week. Why? Because I earn so much from this thing that I couldn’t give a fuck how dumb you are. Because dough rains down on me every day like it’s monsoon season. I’ve never made so much dough for such little effort in such a short time. I have hookers who earn in an hour what you lot earn in a week. I order them by the dozen and send half of them back again, unfucked. And it goes on like this, day in, day out. Until these refugees get to where they want to go. What then, Pelé?”

  “I . . . dunno . . . ?”

  “Then come the next lot. From that camp or some other one. I don’t give a fuck. They’ve heard how it works, you see, and so they come to me and say: Do something like that for us too. And so I do. And it’s monsoon season all over again. I can’t shut my door because there are so many bucks flyin’ in. What then?”

  “I . . .”

  “Then I pay you three hundred bucks a week just to get rid of the money!”

  They’re all whooping by now.

  “And my hookers? I have to pay them five hundred bucks. Just to get shot of enough greenbacks that I can at least see outta my window.”

  Now he’s got them.

  “That’s what the future looks like, folks. There’s just one thing could get in my way. What’s that again, Bandele?”

  “An asshole,” Bandele says impassively.

  “That’s right: an asshole. An asshole who stops these happy walkers gettin’ to their destination. How might an asshole stop them, Bandele?”

  “No electricity.”

  “Right again! No electricity. Every last buck, all the organisation goes via their cell phones. No electricity, no moolah. No moolah, no hookers. Anything else, Bandele?”

  “No water.”

  “Right. No water. Why’s that so important, Ghostbuster?”

  “Because . . . because of the hookers?”

  “Exactly! If there’s no water when the walkers arrive in the evenin’, they start to panic. The shit starts flyin’ around, and when that happens we’ve got dead walkers. Every walker who dies on me costs me dough today. And tomorrow they’ll cost me more dough. ’Cause every walker who makes it will make sure ten more sign up tomorrow. Now I ask myself: How can it be that there’s no water? We’ve got one hundred trucks. And there are two in reserve every day. How can anything go wrong?”

  The men say nothing.

  “Any ideas? Suggestions?”

  Mojo looks around.

  “What would an asshole do? He might think, ‘I’ll sell off a few bits of my truck. Spare tyres. Spark plugs. I mean, we’ve got trucks in reserve.’ Could that happen?”

  Now they avoid his gaze.

  “Or does he start cuttin’ a few little deals? There’s always something the walkers need, not just water. He can sort them out. But then the water truck doesn’t get on its way because someone’s waitin’ for their goods. Know anyone like that, Pelé?”

  All of a sudden it’s as if Pelé has a highly infectious disease. One moment he’s in the middle of the crowd, the next he’s repelling the others, at least that’s what it looks like.

  “Mojo, that was just . . . I didn’t wait. Not one second!”

  “Five-hundred-dollar hookers. I know you guys ain’t had none, but I swear they’re worth every last dime. You can’t imagine it, but these five-hundred-dollar hookers don’t want to get it over with fast. Once you’ve had one you won’t go takin’ a cheaper broad no more. And now here’s a price question for you, Pelé. How do you think it feels, havin’ your dick in a five-dollar hooker after a five-hundred-dollar one?”

  “Mojo, that’s . . . I don’t know . . .”

  Incredibly fast. Incredibly loud. All they can see is Mojo putting something back in his trouser pocket, but now Pelé’s sitting on the ground holding his belly, from which blood is spurting.

  “Tell us, Pelé.”

  Pelé opens his mouth and groans. There’s fear in his eyes. “Mojo,” he says.

  Mojo squats beside him.

  “Tell us. It interests me. It interests me far more than who helped you. You see, that don’t interest me one bit.”

  Mojo takes Pelé’s hand and pushes it carefully to the side. He gently lifts the football shirt to examine the wound.

  “It don’t interest me because I already know.”

  It’s a remarkably slick movement. Two bangs and two more men are sitting on the ground, desperately trying to stop the blood with their hands. It looks as if they’re trying to squeeze the blood out of their bellies. A third man has broken away from the crowd and is sprinting away. Mojo casually drapes the bloody Brazil shirt over Pelé’s wound. Without a word, Bandele has one of the boys toss him his rifle. He takes rapid and accurate aim, the rifle coughs, then Bande
le returns it to its owner without even a glance at the target. The two men moan, Pelé begins to scream.

  “Get a grip!” Mojo says. “It’s important you listen to me. I need you alive! And you over there, come back here. I don’t wanna have to keep yellin’ no more.”

  Pelé’s face has turned a greeny-beige colour and is bathed in cold sweat. The group turns towards the escapee. They can hear a whimpering, which must be significantly louder fifty metres further on, and they see him convulse with pain and turn over awkwardly. First he tries to crawl forwards, but abandons the attempt so abruptly that they can imagine the pain he’s in. In tears, he hauls himself onto his side and starts wriggling back to the others.

  “Imagine you’re in a Western here,” Mojo says impassively. “You know what a Western is, don’t you? John Wayne! There we go! Only one thing ever matters in a Western: that the herd makes it. The entire herd. I can’t replace any of the cattle. But I can replace the cowboys. Which is why I only go for cowboys I trust. Where are the keys to your truck?”

  Pelé pushes a quivering finger into his trouser pocket. The beads of sweat shine on his green face like morning dew on a leaf. It takes him several attempts to fish the bulky keys from his trousers. He holds them out to Mojo. The blood drips into the sand a few millimetres from Mojo’s shoes. Mojo beckons the new boys over and points to the keys. The bleeding men are having such difficulty fishing them out of their pockets that it’s hard to watch. Then he stands up.

  “Pelé here says that nothin’ happened. But I don’t wait for things to happen. I spy the source of trouble and eliminate it. I don’t train folk, I don’t have to educate nobody. Any jerk can do this job.”

  The group makes room, a hunk of flesh scrambles into the circle, collapses and rolls onto his back, shattered. Mojo bends over him and says gently, “Keys, please.” He gestures to one of the new boys.

  “Any jerk,” Mojo repeats. “That’s why I don’t give a fuck if someone screws me, or someone just knows about it, or someone else has forgotten to ask. I’ll just give his job to some other dumbass. He’ll do it better. Pelé and his pals here will take care of that from now on, won’t you Pelé?”