The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  “Who’s paying for that, then?”

  “Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” the under-secretary hisses.

  “You might think so,” Echler concedes, “but apparently they’re doing it for free food and board. They’re refugees too, don’t forget. That Lionel pays his five dollars per day too, by the way.”

  “I’m touched,” the under-secretary says through clenched teeth. “I suppose Hackenbusch does too?”

  “No,” Echler says dryly. “She pays ten.”

  “So, in the eyes of the foreign intelligence service we have an admirable model here.”

  “It’s not our job to give an opinion,” Echler states. All of a sudden he looks grey and exhausted, as if the life had been sucked out of him. “You may detect a certain respect in my voice, but it’s relative. In truth these people have made use of the little they have in an unexpectedly efficient way. And what must worry you most about this is that the model is transferable. No doubt weaknesses will come to light in specific situations, but the model can be developed, it’s got plenty in reserve and it’s adaptable.”

  The under-secretary has heard enough. He pushes his chair from the table. “Thank you. I will inform the ministers. So, your conclusion is that the undertaking is unlikely to collapse any time soon?”

  Tiredness has now crumpled Echler like a stubbed-out cigarette. But the question allows him to blaze one final time.

  “Who’s talking of collapse? It’s working!”

  A woman shows

  her greatness

  A cruel scandal haunts Nadeche Hackenbusch. While the star’s husband reveals his true face, she is helping young female entrepreneurs keep their chins up.

  By Astrid von Roëll

  How astonishing are the twists and turns life’s path sometimes takes as it leads us to our destiny. Life, it seems, never takes the direct route, and we’re often prompted to ask why. But deep down life knows that speed is of no use if it merely takes us to the destination too early. And seldom has this been so evident than with Nadeche Hackenbusch during these past few days under the scorching African sun. “Twenty years ago I would never have coped with any of this,” she says thoughtfully as the desert wind plays her dark hair like a harp. “I didn’t appreciate it back then, but now I’m hugely grateful for everything I learned. Because now it’s standing me in good stead. Me and them.”

  By “them” Nadeche Hackenbusch means the hundreds of thousands she is navigating through the dangers of the Dark Continent before the breathless eyes of the world, with Lionel, her new man, at her side. It is no coincidence that Nadeche Hackenbusch should choose this moment to bare her soul more honestly than ever before, and exclusively to EVANGELINE. For while this still astonishingly young woman is confronting what may prove to be the most dangerous adventure she will ever undertake, in her private life she is also experiencing the most severe crisis that fate can have in store for any individual. It is scarcely imaginable. A woman, who is currently responsible for hundreds of thousands of people, who is in the throes of a young, sensational love affair, which contrasts so palpably and refreshingly with what is often paraded as a “relationship” today; this same woman is now peering into the abyss of unconscionable recklessness.

  Nicolai von Kraken. The man with whom she renewed her marriage vows only last summer on the snow-white beaches of St Barts, where they were toasted by the foaming, champagne-coloured sea. How bitter must it be that this very man, who swore to love her in bad times as well as good, is now standing in the way of her true love. That this man, to whom she entrusted her sons Keel and Bonno, has sent via a heartless lawyer the bizarre message that, if they separate, he will advance a claim for half of her fortune. Nadeche courageously turns her head to look outside – the limitless expanse of infinity does her good.

  “It grounds me,” she smiles bravely. “All this here grounds me. This land, these people, Lionel. There’s so much in life that is more important.” She doesn’t want to talk about Nicolai at the moment, nor can she – her lawyer will not let her. “But even if there’s a lot going on that seems unfair, if certain people start behaving in a way that a woman never would – here, in this land, I learn day by day that nothing happens in vain.”

  We are on the way to an assignment that is particularly close to Nadeche Hackenbusch’s heart. Because once again we’re talking about women who are making a greater effort than others and who are obliged to overcome ever greater hurdles than other people: young female entrepreneurs. Having pinpointed an opportunity in the extremely difficult conditions of this endless trek, having realised that in the middle of nowhere the essentials are often lacking, they are offering their services. And in such a situation it is like a gift from heaven to have Nadeche Hackenbusch on hand. She knows better than anyone the hardships facing young female entrepreneurs.

  Few people have had to fight so hard for the recognition that men simply gather up as if it were lying around on the floor. In early 1999 she took her first tentative steps, because even then she knew that “a woman can’t rely on her looks. This is true for all women, me included. But you can’t imagine the resistance I came up against. I mean, this was just about still in the nineties!” She began sensationally with her line of cosmetics, Smell d’Elle by Nadeche. In spite of a pioneering concept, however, in spite of clever ideas, the highly promising product line had to be taken off the market after only four weeks.

  Once again women are making a greater effort than everyone else

  The speed at which she learned was clearly demonstrated by the success of the HackenPush-ups, which held up remarkably well in an unfavourable environment. “Unfortunately the market then let us down, which can happen any time, of course,” she laughs, even though she’s perfectly aware that here too the industry put a spoke in her wheel. In the same year the HackenPush-ups were introduced, there was a trend for smaller bras – off the record, renowned market analysts do not regard this as a coincidence. Of course, Nadeche Hackenbusch refuses to let this discourage her. Anyone who knows her is aware that she already has another project in her shrewd pipeline, even though it has to take a backseat for now. “I can make use of my experience here just as meaningfully as back home,” she says with determination. “Maybe even more meaningfully. After all, I know the difficulties.”

  “A woman can’t rely on her looks”

  What she has to witness here in Africa is scandalous. “The young female entrepreneurs are being exploited.” Their trade is small-scale handiwork often much in demand en route, especially given the large number of single men who are inexperienced in many ways. “And so day by day these women work hard to allow them to continue on the trek,” Nadeche Hackenbusch explains. “Being paid by the day gives a chance to those who haven’t saved up enough.” This very fact is frequently exploited, however.

  Every one of these migrants must pay by midday. “And the closer the midday deadline looms, the greater the pressure some of these women are under.” What Nadeche Hackenbusch then sees makes her livid. “The clients try to beat the price down, they try to wangle extra work out of the women.” Particularly infuriating is the fact that these customers are always men. “It’s quite clearly a question of education,” Nadeche Hackenbusch says critically. “Women are more skilful at handiwork, they’re trained in it, whereas men aren’t. But the fact that men don’t want to pay an appropriate price for these services . . . I’m sorry, that’s just typical.”

  There’s no sense of guilt here, however. We accompany Nadeche Hackenbusch exclusively as she seeks out one of the defaulting customers and takes him to task. The young man finds the encounter uncomfortable, but he won’t shoulder his responsibility. “I can’t help it that I’m not married,” he says, and when Nadeche energetically asks him what marriage has to do with it, he replies, “If I were married my wife would do it for free.” The determination with which the presenter and show icon intervenes here is astonishing. And afterwards she stands there watching the sheepish custome
r transfer the money he owes via his smartphone to the happily beaming small entrepreneur, barely sixteen years of age. The two are reconciled, he offers an apology and shows contrition. “With a little luck,” Nadeche Hackenbusch says hopefully, “he’ll become one of her regular customers. Long-term business relationships can break down the gender barrier and contribute to understanding between people.”

  A woman who prefers to work with people rather than against them. Who, despite the problems in her private life, believes in the future of men and women. I ask her whether that would have been possible twenty years ago. “Twenty years ago I wouldn’t have been able to help these young women,” Nadeche Hackenbusch insists. “I’m sure that destiny arranged it for me to be here at this time. It’s not about getting to your goal as quickly as possible. You’ve got to be there when you’re needed.”

  26

  Sensenbrink closes the door behind him. He wanders around the desk and slumps slowly into his chair. He stares apathetically at the wall opposite. There hangs the poster of “You’re Not My Mother”, the first show he was solely responsible for. And one for “Extremely German”, which sadly never went further than the pilot. It was very funny. In four weeks, three asylum seekers had to adapt to the host country as well as possible, and the winner came away with a marriage of convenience. That was just an in-house joke; the only prize was money, obviously. But still, one of the three did actually manage to postpone his deportation for half a year by pointing out all his efforts on the show. Life doesn’t write the best stories, television does.

  Sensenbrink gets up and goes over to the small fridge. He takes out a juice and removes the cap with a bottle opener. He goes back to the desk and sets the bottle down beside the telephone. A year or eighteen months ago the broadcaster axed juice for the staff. And mineral water. Instead they attached a carbonator to the water supply and put a sign beside it explaining why tap water is excellent and the carbonator as good as mineral water, if not better. Ever since the “Angel in Adversity” ratings skyrocketed, Sensenbrink has again had his own fridge with bottles of juice and mineral water. Funny how nobody found it necessary to give him a sign explaining why bottled water isn’t so bad after all. People are stupid, but not that stupid. Sensenbrink looks at his juice and realises he doesn’t want it. If he were a smoker he’d probably light up now. He leans back, an uneasy feeling in his stomach.

  An empty feeling.

  Maybe it all happened too quickly.

  Sensenbrink isn’t a fan of hasty decision-making. There are many people whose best reactions are spontaneous, who come up with the funniest ideas on the spot and under pressure. But it’s not Sensenbrink’s cup of tea. You can be spontaneous when it’s not important, at the holiday house on Mallorca, for example – then you can be spontaneous all day long. But he isn’t, not even there. Because being spontaneous is exhausting, and the results are mostly rubbish. You end up somewhere and it’s raining, or you don’t have any swimming trunks or any condoms, because you had no idea just how spontaneous you were going to be. Spontaneity is like sex on the beach: it sounds great in theory, but in the end it’s just sand in your bits and you’re so sunburned your skin peels off your shoulders in huge strips.

  At any rate Sensenbrink sets great store by planning. He wants to know what to do in the worst-case scenario, and if he doesn’t know, then nine times out of ten he manages to postpone the decision. He would even go so far as to say that postponement is the recipe for success in modern management. Very few decisions need to be taken on the spot, and you can prepare yourself even for these. Today ought to have been one of those days.

  He waited as long as he could. He devised two plans. And he even got some wonderful reading material when Olav, who was the last to arrive at the meeting, sauntered into the room like some kind of artist with an advance copy of Evangeline under his arm. Flopping into a chair, he spun the magazine onto the table with an elegant flick of the wrist, where it came to rest in exactly the right position. Though on a round table it’s always going to be exactly right for somebody. “Tell me,” he said. “Is there something wrong with my eyes or did I just read in Evangeline that our star’s collecting money for prostitutes?”

  There was a kerfuffle, of course, as everyone pounced on the magazine. Everyone, that is, apart from Sensenbrink – this was Beate’s job. And there it was, a six-page report on the Hackenbusch–von Kraken divorce story, and reading the end of it anyone would have to agree that Olav was right, unless they were as thick as a post and as blind as a bat.

  “I really don’t know why we’re fretting over every story here,” Olav said. “I mean, all these discussions, twice a week, about exactly what’s happening and how explicitly we should be showing it. In the concept phase and at the final approval stage, our legal advisor looks at all the hoo-ha and gets on everybody’s nerves – so why are we going on about it all if our little sunshine is doing whatever she likes down there? One day she’s the angel in adversity, the next she’s the lover of the super refugee, and today? Surprise: the mother of the nomadic prozzers.”

  There was quite a commotion around the table, something Sensenbrink is usually pleased to see. Commotion is good so long as you assume the role of peacekeeper before anyone else gets there. And what’s so lovely about Beate Karstleiter is that, with all her insecurities, she gets too caught up in the heat of the moment to beat him to it. So this time he just waited calmly until she said it was serious and obviously needed checking out right away. At this point he was able to say, totally relaxed, “Just chill, all of you. You’re behaving as if 1968 never happened.”

  In retrospect, Sensenbrink has to admit that he couldn’t say with any precision what became permissible in 1968. Quite a lot in any case, and afterwards women were allowed to wear miniskirts, although . . . there had never actually been a law against miniskirts. Fortunately, nobody had asked.

  “As far as I know, pimping is still illegal,” Reliable Anke said.

  “Pimping is illegal if you take money for it,” Sensenbrink said, leaning back coolly. “At most, at the very most one could say that Nadeche Hackenbusch is working as a volunteer pimp.”

  “Are you saying that volunteer pimping isn’t promoting prostitution?” This comment was from Hayat. He originally wanted her as a regular in meetings because she seemed fairly bright, but now he doubts whether that was such a good idea.

  “I don’t have a clue about jurisdiction in other countries.”

  “Evangeline is published here,” Olaf said bluntly.

  “And it’s their problem,” Sensenbrink countered. “More importantly, did we know this sort of thing was going on down there?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Me neither.”

  “But why not? It’s quite a story! Whores shagging their way across the desert to Europe. We could even film it. Either Nadeche will burst into tears or do her human touch thing, but she won’t walk straight into a trap.” A short pause to build up momentum, then, “If our top star is heading for Shit Valley, it’s because we haven’t done our job. Because we haven’t been vigilant enough.”

  A longer pause. An awkward silence is fine, but you have to give it time. A really good awkward silence, an effective one, is like pancake batter: it lands in the middle with a loud hiss, and then you watch it slowly spread.

  The silence was, in fact, the ideal platform for the next point: “Good, well, this allows us to zip straight on to . . . to the elephant in the room.”

  It was surprising that nobody had raised it before, but there are some issues everyone shies away from. That’s when you need proper decision-makers who don’t flinch at putting the unpleasant stuff on the agenda too. A general can’t just award promotions; sometimes he has to send soldiers into the fire as well.

  “So far we’ve been lucky that nobody has sent up a balloon on this one, but in our position we can’t afford to be blasé. I’d rather only show the good sides too, I admit, but we can’t. We have to defend our newly gained
journalistic expertise. A2 can’t just become some sort of picnic . . .”

  Those clueless faces. As if he were talking utter shite. He assumed it showed just how far ahead he was of his troops. On and on he went in that imperious tone. He doesn’t want to know what they thought.

  “. . . the next few days and weeks might not be pretty, but we mustn’t in any circumstances allow any other medium to force our hand with the story. We determine the topics, we determine the tone, we determine the race from pole position. We’re the ones checking those boxes . . .” It was roughly at that point that people stopped nodding their agreement.

  “. . . but most important of all is the data. We need to know what’s going on and what isn’t. Unsanitised. And none of the figures leave this room, O.K.? But we mustn’t kid ourselves. I want conservative estimates, you can even err on the pessimistic side, I won’t hold it against anyone. This is so we can sketch a credible worst-case scenario.”

  Sensenbrink was perfectly aware that the next few weeks would be decisive for his career. He realised that he was pumping with adrenaline, now that everything was at stake:

  “Right, numbers on the table. How many dead?”

  The entire room was as silent as a mouse.

  “It’s O.K. We’ll cope. How many?”

  Then someone said, “None.”

  “Ooh, that’s big. But it was to be expected. What we need now is a crisis strategy and—”

  “Sorry, but I don’t think you understood. There have been no deaths.”

  This moment is playing as an endless loop inside Sensenbrink’s head: his face, the interruption, the ten heart-wrenching seconds it takes him to say, “What do you mean, no deaths?”