The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  “Exactly. It’s all about legal security. People broadcasting this don’t want to find themselves facing injunctions. So they buy the rights in advance – cheaper than a trial.”

  “Who are we talking about here?”

  “O.K., but this is really top secret. The Dutch are on the verge of getting a licence.”

  “And then they’ll start their own refugee trek?”

  “Are they going to send Lara Stone down there?”

  “No, no, they’ll broadcast ours. And it’s not just the Dutch.”

  “Who else? The French?”

  “Them anyway. The Italians have been enquiring too.”

  “Haven’t they got enough refugees of their own?”

  “They’re just thrilled that these refugees aren’t heading for Italy. Just like the Brits. They can watch the show, stick their tongues out and say nyah-nyah.”

  “But ‘Angel in Adversity’ quite clearly follows the educational format – it’s pro-refugee.”

  “Depends on the voice-over.”

  “Surely they can’t run a different commentary over the top?”

  “If they pay enough, they can do what they like,” the technician says.

  “The turds won’t bother them, then.”

  “They won’t bother the Brits or the Italians. But they will the Americans.”

  “The U.S. market?”

  “Yup. They first toyed with the idea of organising the same set-up with Salma Hayek, then Angelina Jolie, but ultimately they gave up.”

  “Because Nadeche Hackenbusch is better than Angelina Jolie?” The technician screams with laughter. “They can’t think that, surely not!”

  “No, because the situation is different.”

  “How so? They’ve got a border too. Who else if not the Yanks?”

  “Yes, but nobody has to walk for so long. In Mexico they can take the bus.”

  Everyone nods; it makes sense.

  “So they need our Nadeche. Who’d have thought it?”

  “But not if she’s standing in shit. That’s the last taboo. Not even ‘I’m a Celebrity’ has shit. Sperm: yes. Genitals: yes. Shit: no. They’ll serve you up a pair of boiled monkey’s nuts, but not boiled monkey’s arsehole.”

  “The turds will just have to be cleared away, then.”

  “But how?”

  “Doggy poo bags?”

  “Very amusing.”

  “Why not?” Karstleiter muses. “That would be the cheapest solution. There has to be a central distribution system for the bags, though.”

  “I can see the headline now: MyTV treats refugees like dogs.”

  “But we’re using cement mixers to help them.”

  “Being treated like a house isn’t as bad as being treated like a dog. At least not in headline terms.”

  “Take a reality pill, all this is nonsense. Look at those people. Do they look like the sort of people who always clear up their mess? Here in Germany the take-up is marginal, and even then people just tend to leave the bags wherever they like. So we don’t just have shit everywhere, but shit wrapped in plastic.”

  “Children will throw them at each other . . .”

  “Or someone will sell the bags on. No, there has to be a different way.”

  “We’ll get some diggers along to plough it all into the ground.”

  “Too expensive. You’d need so many diggers and if the turds really are dispersed as you say, you’d have to plough hundred-metre-wide strips through the landscape.”

  “One hundred metres won’t be enough,” Reliable Anke insists. “I can do you another rough sketch.”

  “Please don’t. Let’s say five hundred metres, then. But that won’t work either. Let’s face it, our concern isn’t environmental protection here!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “It means that we can’t start clearing turds with a digger until everyone has passed through. But why would we bother clearing up behind the column? I mean, we’re not filming there. We want the front, middle and end of the procession to be clean. But we can’t go digging around among the trekkers on a daily basis.”

  “The only other option is Portaloos,” Reliable Anke asserts. “Like at a rock concert.”

  “But for a moving column of people?” Karstleiter says. Sensenbrink shoots her an angry glance. Scepticism isn’t helpful here.

  “Portaloos don’t weigh much,” he says encouragingly. “And they’re easy to assemble.”

  “Most people do it around the water tankers,” Reliable Anke says helpfully. “So let’s set them up there.”

  “Have you any idea how many you’d need?” the technician says. “Thousands!”

  “At least they’d use them,” Reliable Anke continues. “You can close the door behind you.”

  “And every day they’d be driven to the next stop?”

  “That’s another whole load of lorries,” Karstleiter warns. “Just saying.”

  Sensenbrink tries to calculate how many would be needed to transport thousands of Portaloos. Once again he feels as if he’s back at school, struggling with a complicated maths problem involving little heaps of shit, Portaloos, lorries and refugees. You always have to start by formulating the question. So: how many lorries . . .

  “Actually we’re not talking about that many,” the technician says. “You only have to transport them every three days. I mean, the water trucks stay in the same place for three days. So you can leave the loos where they are too, and use them again.”

  “That’s right!” Reliable Anke says. “It’s only the Portaloos at the back that need to be transported to the front. You empty them, then bury all the mess with a digger behind the column of people.”

  “Far fewer trucks, then.” Nice to see Karstleiter making a sensible suggestion too. “But that’s still ten or fifteen juggernauts with Portaloos. Drivers. Helpers.”

  “Which they’ve got already. You just need a few more of them.”

  “O.K., so the problem is solvable. But who’s going to pay. The refugees?”

  “Chance would be a fine thing!” Sensenbrink rubs his eyes. “They don’t seem too bothered by the piles of turds.”

  “But they’re benefiting from the coverage. The trek is gaining acceptance, and if the Yanks buy the rights they’ll get even greater exposure.”

  “Let’s focus instead on where we can save. The firm could give us the loos at a discount. Or even donate them. It’s for a good cause and we’ll mention them during the programme.”

  “An airline could sponsor the transport to Africa,” Reliable Anke suggests. “Then all that’s left is money for running and maintenance. I don’t know how much the licences will bring in, but—”

  “No way!” Sensenbrink shakes his head emphatically. “The broadcaster can earn something from all this, but we can’t organise it.”

  “O.K. But who, then? The Foundation?”

  “That’s more like it. The refugees have to sort it out themselves,” Karstleiter says, “and the Foundation can look after the costs. That might even appeal to Nadeche. Because of Bill Gates. He arranges for the provision of clean water and the sanitary facilities are pretty similar.”

  Sensenbrink’s gaze wanders to the video on the screen, which plays silently. He sees Lionel hugging Nadeche Hackenbusch, checking the water quality with the truck drivers, counting the packages with those golden isolation blankets.

  “And while we’re about it,” Sensenbrink says, now back in his role of leader and decision-maker, “Lionel needs new shoes. They can’t be falling off his feet. They make him look pathetic rather than enterprising. Find him a sponsor. From now on he gets new shoes every four weeks.”

  30

  Twenty minutes. That should do it. A bit of canoodling and then chop-chop! The under-secretary doesn’t fancy the full monty tonight. Nobody’s going to get his brains fucked out this evening, that’s for sure, no matter how long Tommy stands there panting. The under-secretary gives Tommy a kiss and feels himself
being nudged in the direction of the bedroom. This must be brought to a swift conclusion. Once they’re in the bedroom the lighting will have to be adjusted and then the box of toys will come out. Not that the under-secretary has anything against toys, but recently it’s all been taking too long. Yes, he used to like it, but that was then and this is now. By the same token the future will be the future, but he’s going through a bad phase right now and frittering away hours in the bedroom isn’t going to make anything any better. The under-secretary kisses valiantly and tries to nudge Tommy away with his hips. The intended destination is the sofa, where there are no toys and where the business will be carried out rapidly and unbureaucratically.

  “Mmm, I’ve glot thumethling nlew you’ve weally glot to thlee,” Tommy slathers into his mouth. His fingers work their way inside the under-secretary’s shirt. Now this: new acquisitions for the toy box. It’s never ever enough. Nineteen minutes, probably more like eighteen. It helps that he’s somewhat taller and considerably heavier; it means Tommy can’t dictate the action so easily. He tries to make it look playful, but it backfires.

  “Oooh!” Tommy groans. “Someone’s playing hard to get!” Trousers down, both of them, or nothing’s going to happen, then he has to jockey Tommy into the right position, but not too quickly because Tommy likes it when you coerce him a bit, ten minutes at least, it’s going to be bloody tight. And this calculation doesn’t even take into consideration that he has to get a hard-on . . .

  “Are you looking at the clock, or what?”

  “No, I’m just—”

  “Are we in a hurry again?”

  “Not at all, come on, I love you, let’s stay here and—”

  “On the quickie sofa?”

  “Mmm?”

  “You heard me. I’m not stupid. Bedroom: Emmanuelle in the Garden of Earthly Desires. Sofa: wham, bam, thank you, Ma’am. You want the sofa. I get it. I can’t remember the last time you watered the Garden of Earthly Desires. No surprise nothing’s growing there anymore.”

  “If we go on arguing there won’t be any time left at all!”

  The under-secretary doesn’t say this, of course, even though it’s the only logical response when there are sixteen minutes remaining. But strictly speaking the calculation isn’t right anyway. Even with the quickest quickie Tommy wants to lie in his arms for a bit of a cuddle afterwards . . . and when is the right time to switch on the television? After five minutes? Ten? He shouldn’t have got into this in the first place.

  “Sorry, Tommy,” the under-secretary says. “I have to watch the programme. I have to.”

  “You are, you’re looking at the clock!”

  “I’m sorry, really. I can’t help it. Leubl’s on.”

  “Because of the refugee nonsense?”

  The under-secretary nods. Tommy takes a deep breath. He does his best to give the under-secretary a kiss. “Fine,” Tommy says. “Fine. I’m not going to whinge. You’re my under-secretary, you are the cock of my life.” He turns and bends down to the shelf below the countertop. They went for Corian in the end, and it’s not as low-maintenance as everyone makes out.

  “I’m not going to have a hissy fit and I’m not going to make your oh-so-difficult life any more difficult.”

  He takes out a bottle. Red. The under-secretary can’t see which one, but it’s probably the rich Barolo. Tommy holds the neck of the bottle in his right hand. He swings back and aims at the wall they were going to buy art for a couple of weeks ago. Then he tosses the bottle very gently onto a sofa cushion.

  “Catch!”

  The corkscrew sails through the air, the under-secretary just manages to catch it.

  “I’m not going to make a scene because I’m grown-up and mature. I’m going to sit myself down on the quickie sofa like a good boy and support my man. I won’t tell him I don’t want to watch his fucking stupid show, I’m above all that. But he ought to know that my resilience has its limits. And that I need a little support too. Open the wine, you frosty cow!”

  The under-secretary looks gratefully at Tommy. Tommy looks back at him with surprising affection and buttons up his trousers. The under-secretary pours wine into two glasses while Tommy switches on the television. The weather forecast. Tommy shuffles along the sofa and cuddles up to him. “Refugee shit,” he mumbles. “Why do they have to make yet another programme?”

  “Do you ever listen when I tell you something?”

  “Always. Wait, how does it go again? Oh yes. Refugeerefugeerefugee. Herr Leubl. Refugeerefugeerefugee. Herr Leubl. Refugeerefugeerefugee. Hackenbitch. Have I left anything out?”

  “No,” the under-secretary says, forming a circle with his thumb and index finger. “Perfect!”

  “Tell me.”

  “If you ever picked up a newspaper . . .”

  Tommy digs the under-secretary in the ribs.

  “I’m not being difficult. So it would be very, very nice if you—”

  “O.K. The media have got wind of the fact that there’s not going to be a catastrophe. At least not anytime soon.”

  “So?”

  “Well, it means that one hundred and fifty thousand people are marching in our direction. And people are beginning to think they could actually make it.”

  “Could they?”

  “Shhh,” the under-secretary says. “Let’s see who they’ve got on the programme.”

  “What do you mean, ‘Shhh’? You can see!”

  “Just shut your trap!”

  The under-secretary doesn’t say this, of course. He lets Tommy talk and hopes that at some point the verbal diarrhoea will stop of its own accord. Leubl appears on screen. He’s wearing his Lino Ventura face: the strict father, but deep down a good man. This face has won him the last eight elections; he’s perfected it over the past few decades as his forehead has become more furrowed. Nobody in politics uses wrinkles to such good effect. But his high forehead is ideal for it. Unfortunately, nobody in the under-secretary’s family has lost a single hair. He ought to start wearing glasses – that can be effective too.

  “O.K., Mitzi Wallenstein-Abbraciavento, no surprise there,” the under-secretary comments.

  “Oh really, is that so?” Tommy tickles the under-secretary, who tries to push away the intrusive fingers with a movement that could just about be described as “affectionate”.

  “They’ve got to wheel in some human rights fusspot. Oh look, Schwägerle. I hope they give him subtitles.” Schwägerle is harmless. Once a week he writes a decent op-ed, but he’s nowhere near as assertive on television. That’s down to his gruesome Swabian dialect. When the under-secretary was party chairman, the first thing he did was to ban Swabians from radio and T.V. interviews, except for with regional broadcasters. It doesn’t hurt anyone if they clog up the peasants’ airwaves with their farinaceous babble. But not nationally. Dialects in politics are like four-wheel drive: you have to be able to switch them on and off, or they end up doing more harm than good. He still thinks it’s a miracle the C.D.U. put up with Wolfgang Schäuble for decades. “But now they need a right-winger,” the under-secretary says.

  “I used to have something going with a Hamburger S.V. fan,” Tommy says. “Whenever they showed the team line-up before the game he would talk just like you’re doing.”

  “Didn’t I tell you: Blechdecker.”

  “And van der Vaart in midfield again, of course,” Tommy mimics gently. “Can’t someone get rid of him and his druggy blondes?”

  “If Blechdecker didn’t exist they’d have to invent him. You need a Nazi for the programme, but can’t invite one on. Great that the socialists have one of their own.”

  “Talking of reds, top me up, would you?”

  The under-secretary pours wine into Tommy’s glass, spilling a bit when he sees what’s playing out on the screen beside Blechdecker. An image of Nadeche Hackenbusch fades into recorded footage that shows the trek setting off, and the first interviews in which refugees talk enthusiastically about Germany, their planned destination
. Of course there’s that cute little girl again; by now she’s become a YouTube hit in her own right. In one video she’s dancing, and another she holds up empty bottles to people and says, “T’posit, please!” Then the mood changes and the real reason behind the disquiet becomes apparent: the popularity of Pegida is once again on the rise. And just as the presenter asks Nadeche Hackenbusch how things are going, Tommy says, “Oooh, look how brown Nadeche is! She looks great. I do think, though, that if—”

  Watching television with Tommy is a nightmare. The under-secretary bends to kiss him on the lips. Some quiet, at least.

  “. . . coming to you,” Frau Hackenbusch crows. “It’s going to be quite a while yet, of course. But if we all help each other we’ll get there! I’m so proud of Germany!” Tommy’s tongue insinuates its way into the under-secretary’s mouth – excellent, now he can hear the presenter ask about the mechanics of the operation and how she’s managing it. She replies that she’s not managing anything, just offering humanitarian assistance. Either she’s smart or someone’s got her a lawyer.

  “Is your boss going to say something to take the heat off?”

  “Not quite yet. First we need a journalist to say the refugees could make it as far as here.” And here we go. Schwägerle butts in, waffling away as if he were walking alongside the refugees himself. In truth, Schwägerle hasn’t done any proper reporting for at least fifteen years. Feeling tense, the under-secretary reaches inside his flies and pulls out Tommy’s hand. He tries to push it away somehow, but unfortunately Tommy has two hands. Some things would be simpler with Captain Hook.

  Now Schwägerle is talking about the infographic that recently appeared in Focus, the development and structure of the column, and explains that there must be an extremely sophisticated organisation in his trousers.

  “Please, Tommy, it won’t be long.”

  “But I just felt something that is quite long.”

  “Please! I need to concentrate!”

  Behind the trek, the sophisticated organisation is behind the trek. It’s all going to get quite dangerous, Blechdecker says, before issuing some sort of warning about Islamic State. This man has had one of the most astonishing careers in recent years. He started out as a bog-standard cabaret artist, appearing on a few comedy shows and taking a pop at the C.D.U. and S.P.D. like any other whingebag. And at some point people noticed that he never distanced himself from the A.f.D. in any of his routines. Then he wrote a rather ugly book that sold like hotcakes, and ever since the S.P.D. has been trying to get rid of him, in vain. Now Blechdecker says something about being a minority in his own country and terrorism, and that the Germans have a migrant blindspot.