by Timur Vermes
“What’s a migrant blindspot?” Tommy asks with astonishing attentiveness.
Leubl shakes his head. Now it’s his turn, and after just a few words the under-secretary’s thinking how he’d love to set up a fan club for him. Leubl thanks Nadeche Hackenbusch for her efforts. He says how much he admires her work, but advises her to be careful she doesn’t become liable for prosecution for people smuggling. It’s the most polite, friendly and charming warning ever issued on television. Then he insists that people shouldn’t be worried. This is a rather vague assertion and thus rather daring too, because you can never know what the viewers’ worries are: is it whether the refugees come or not, or is it whether or not Nadeche Hackenbusch and Lionel are going to find somewhere nice to live? That, at least, was the last Evangeline exclusive: NADECHE AND LIONEL: DREAM APARTMENT IN MUNICH? But Leubl covers all bases by referring to an array of well-functioning agreements; to the legal situation, which is clear, and to the E.U.’s binding accords. He refers to Frontex and the massively reinforced defence of the external borders. And to the fact that, technically, there are obstacles to surmount which are a touch more complicated than a border in Africa.
“I admire your optimism, Frau Hackenbusch,” Leubl says. “The effort and confidence you display is something I encounter far too seldom in Germany. Don’t get me wrong, I have great sympathy for the people you’re marching with, for their impatience and their hopes. I find it perfectly understandable that in such circumstances people don’t think purely in terms of the existing legal framework. They have to look out for number one. But if you continue like this, you’re heading for disaster. I doubt you’ll get that far, but when you hit the Suez Canal or the Bosphorus at the latest, you can go no further. Those are eyes of the needle and no sovereign government in the world is simply going to let you through.”
It’s not the law, it’s not the government and it’s not the Germans – it’s the Suez Canal and the Bosphorus. Nobody can criticise a canal and a strait. The under-secretary leans back in the sofa in admiration. He becomes aware that Tommy’s hand is no longer down by his crotch, but his mouth is. He tries to push him away, but then Tommy flicks his tongue in a particular way, and it’s . . . soooooo good.
Wallenstein-Abbraciavento is just as surprised. By Leubl, that is. She was prepared to take potshots at the government, at the C.S.U., at the E.U., but not at the Bosphorus. It takes her so much by surprise that the only thing she can hold against Leubl is that he’s fondling his balls . . . no, that’s Tommy. The only thing she can hold against Leubl is that he’s not giving more support to the refugees, seeing as his trousers are off. And this is child’s play for Leubl, of course, because all he has to say is that it can’t be the federal government’s handjob to get refugees . . . oh my God, who’d have thought you could get refugees so deeply into this country and this country is so warm and wet!
Thank God it’s Schwägerle talking again now. If there’s one thing that makes it impossible for a normal man to maintain an erection it’s Swabian, this dialect-cum-contraceptive. Schwägerle elaborately explains that for an accurate assessment of the situation you need to have a good knowledge of African history. One can comfortably ignore what he’s saying because no amount of African history is going to help refugees across the Suez Canal or the Bosphorus. Leubl has set down two large full stops, and viewers can now visualise one hundred and fifty thousand refugees standing on the banks of the Suez Canal, unable to swim across. Blechdecker can lash out all he likes, but the comforting image of the hundred and fifty thousand, which the Suez Canal separates from the Promised Land like the deep water of the folk song that keeps the two royal children apart, is cemented in people’s minds. Relaxed now, Leubl can turn to Nadeche Hackenbusch and praise her in such a way that you can literally see the Green voters migrating to the C.S.U.; this Lino Ventura exudes a feeling of warmth and objectivity that makes you feel warm and cosy and wet and you stretch out and grow and if possible keep your hands off Tommy’s head because you could never move him as perfectly as he moves himself, instead you could deal with this briefest pair of briefs if your head weren’t spinning.
And when Schwägerle appears menacingly on the screen again, the under-secretary, as quick as a flash, grabs the remote and switches off the television. He gets up slowly so as not to interrupt Tommy; now he does fancy the bedroom after all, and the toybox, and then his mobile buzzes three times.
Tommy glances up.
But three buzzes means Leubl.
Tommy swallows the under-secretary like a hoover.
The under-secretary feels soft and warm and unsteady. He moans something incomprehensible, and with a sound that is something between a victory cry and leaky bicycle tyres, he collapses onto the sofa. He needs to summon every iota of his strength to pick up the phone. And as he reads the text from Leubl, he hears the spanking-new living-room door slam with such ferocity that the spanking-new handle falls off.
“9.00,” the text reads. “Theresia.”
31
Leubl is in his usual seat in Café Theresia, waiting for a coffee and a croissant. The seat is concealed by the loaded coat rack, in the spot where waiters used to sneak a quick smoke when it was still allowed in cafés and restaurants. Even now this table isn’t really for guests; the waiting staff still have a coffee here, perhaps a little cognac or a digestive bitters. An exception is always made for the minister of the interior, however, for old times’ sake. When Leubl first ordered a tea in the Theresia, the Beatles were still playing concerts.
Leubl opens the daily paper. He already knows most of the national news, but sometimes he likes to read the local section. Old Rebach’s columns, though they’re getting worse and worse. But when you’re as old as Leubl you’re grateful for anyone who doesn’t consider “the past” to be just the last twenty-five years. He could do with a coffee now. A coffee and a croissant. But it’s slow in coming. The under-secretary will be here in a quarter of an hour, and by then he’d like to have eaten his croissant in peace and brushed all the crumbs off. Leubl doesn’t like people watching him eat, telling him “It looks delicious!” Leubl has learned to come to terms with much in life, but not with people who talk at him while he’s eating.
Not to mention those who want a taste.
Leubl checks the time and feels himself becoming irritated. In the mirror he catches sight of the under-secretary approaching his table. He sits down just as Anna serves the coffee and croissant.
“Punctual to the minute,” Leubl says with a certain degree of regret.
“But I thought . . .”
“It’s fine.” Leubl pushes the croissant to one side.
“Don’t you want it? It looks delicious.”
Leubl takes a deep breath. “I’ll have it as a take-away.” The under-secretary waves subtly and gestures to Anna that he’d like the same order. She confirms this with a nod.
“You were great yesterday,” the under-secretary then says.
“Do you think so?”
“Very convincing.”
“Did you see the viewing figures?”
“No, why?”
“I had them sent to me: 65 per cent higher than normal,” Leubl says.
The under-secretary whistles through his teeth.
“Let’s tot up the Pegida figures too, and I don’t just mean the loonies in Dresden. It’s happening all over Germany. They’re making a comeback. Big time.”
“But like you said, the refugees won’t actually be able to get here.”
“I’m afraid that’s irrelevant.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ever seen Jaws?”
“Spielberg? Yes, but years ago.”
“Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun,” Leubl hums. “Remember the music?”
“I think so. Creepy.”
“Before the viewers see the shark, before they see its fin, they hear the strings: dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun. Softly at first, then increasingly louder as the sha
rk gets closer. Why does the director do this?”
“Because it’s scary,” the under-secretary says.
“Precisely! Because it’s scary when something unstoppable approaches slowly.”
The under-secretary considers this briefly. “One hundred and fifty thousand refugees on prime-time telly every evening.”
“Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun,” Leubl hums, twisting his hand to imitate a shark. The hand twists its way back to Leubl, then slaps the back of his other hand on the table in front of him. “Dead certain. It always works.”
“But how many people think they’re a threat? I mean, the refugees have got plenty of fans too.”
“Those fans are just as much of a problem. The refugees have popstars behind them, and that Internet saleswoman. And the more momentum that’s built up, the greater the number of people who begin to worry.”
“But what I thought was absolutely superb was that thing about the Bosphorus. The Suez Canal,” the under-secretary says.
“But it’s not going to help us.”
“What? All of them coming to a standstill at the Suez Canal? How much more clearly can you say it? It’s obvious. Theirs is a hopeless cause.”
“Yes, but it’ll be another year at least before they even get to the Suez Canal.” And what do you imagine this country is going to look like after a year of watching the shark get closer and closer?”
The under-secretary tries to imagine. He nods and kneads his cheeks. “And it won’t stop there. They’re not stupid, are they?”
“Not at all.” Leubl refills his cup.
Anna arrives with the under-secretary’s order. “Well, then. We need a quick solution,” he says. “But we can’t drive one hundred and fifty thousand people to the Suez Canal just so that they can see what would happen.”
“Thank God, that’s the last thing we’d want,” Leubl insists. “It’s not a good image: one hundred and fifty thousand at the Suez Canal, one hundred and fifty thousand at some mountain pass. Those kinds of pictures would just escalate the situation. We can do without escalation. Escalation requires decisions to be taken. And we’ve nothing to gain from taking decisions. What we need is well-cultivated boredom.”
By now the under-secretary has scoffed his croissant. He dunked it in his coffee and polished it off without dropping a single crumb. There aren’t even any floating in his cup. Leubel wonders whether these homosexuals might not possess special abilities after all.
“Isn’t this going to become the foreign ministry’s business?” the under-secretary suggests. “Surely they can’t just keep walking through all these countries?”
Leubl shrugs. “What do you intend to do? These countries are trying to play for time. They fob us off for as long as it takes the procession to pass through. They’ve no interest in fast solutions.”
“Which means we’re running out of possible solutions.”
Leubl doesn’t respond.
“Or have I missed something?”
Leubl sips his coffee.
“O.K., let’s put it another way: what do we need? We need a fast, boring solution. For example, the refugees all turn around one by one and . . . No, they can’t be that daft. But
. . . they get lost in the desert . . .”
Leubl holds his lower lip between his thumb and index finger and listens.
“. . . they disperse,” the under-secretary adds, still thinking aloud. “O.K., that sounds really boring. They disperse because . . . because nothing’s working anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Back luck. Fate.”
Leubl scowls. “That would be a tragedy.”
“O.K., sure,” the under-secretary ponders. “We don’t want tragedies. Not bad luck, not fate, but—”
“—their own stupidity,” Leubl says.
“Their own stupidity,” the under-secretary repeats thoughtfully. “That’s it! They have only themselves to blame. They botch it. Sounds good.” With the tip of his index finger he picks up a flake of croissant from his plate and pushes it between his lips. “Let’s see . . . they can’t get lost. And most of them can’t do much wrong overall. If something is susceptible, then perhaps it’s the organisation.”
Leubl looks out over the room. More or less incidentally he says, “We’ll just have to see what sort of people that lot have got themselves involved with.”
“Well, they’re criminals . . . businesspeople . . . Mafiosi . . .”
“That’s who they get their food and directions from,” Leubl says from the corner of his mouth. He leans forwards, picks up his cup and empties it. “And water.”
“And water.” The under-secretary allows the thought to take effect. “But that would escalate pretty quickly too. The cameras are a permanent fixture there . . . People dying of thirst in the desert is just as potent an image as a great white shark . . .”
“That depends. My favourite film goes like this: somewhere, in the vague vicinity of a largish settlement, the water runs out.”
“They stay in the settlement, of course, without any water they have to stay there,” the under-secretary keeps the thread going. “One week, two weeks, three—”
“But they don’t get any further,” Leubl says. “So what do the people living there say?”
“The inhabitants become anxious, the government has to do something about it . . .”
Leubl looks at him over the top of his glasses.
“The government has to . . . do something about it,” the under-secretary repeats, and then it clicks. “All of a sudden they have to do something about it.”
Leubl gestures to Anna for the bill.
“. . . and the hitherto smooth passage of people, which has been a profitable enterprise, becomes a problem case they’re left with.”
Anna arrives. Leubl glances at the bill. It’s unbelievable what you can charge for two coffees and two croissants these days. He’ll pay for it, without getting a receipt. He can’t bring himself to foist these prices onto the taxpayer.
“And if that’s the scenario, would they let people like that into the country again?” he asks the under-secretary as he puts the change into his wallet.
“I would see to it that whoever’s responsible for having dumped these people in my country has the smile wiped off their face,” the under-secretary says, getting up. “But first of all I’d seize the money they’ve earned for it. And anything else they’ve got. They won’t do it again.”
“Let’s hope so,” Leubl says, putting on his overcoat. They wait for Anna to bring the take-away croissant to the table in a paper bag. Leubl takes it, now with a certain relish after all. He’ll have it in the office, on the sofa. On his own.
32
Nadeche Hackenbusch couldn’t say precisely when the thought occurred to her. Certainly not in the first week. Probably not in the second, either. But certainly not just now, a quarter of an hour ago. The thought goes: it really is quite a long way away.
She has to admit it wasn’t that clear to her. She does know that it’s a long way; she realised that on the flight out. There are some flights where you can see two films in succession, or even three films plus an episode of “The Big Bang Theory”. There are some flights where you don’t want to watch anymore films and you think, “I’d love to have a book now.” But it’s in the suitcase. Then there are flights where you get pyjamas and a sleeping mask once they’ve cleared away dinner, and when that happens even Nadeche Hackenbusch realises you’re so far away from home that you’d definitely have to change if you were taking the train. Or have a few stopovers. That’s really far away.
But not as far away as this.
She wakes up and crawls out of the car. Lionel is already up and about, and the first thing she sees is that . . . this morning looks just like yesterday morning. It’s as if they haven’t moved at all. The main difference between days is that the broadcasting van might be three metres further to the left or four metres further ahead. Every day the sky is the same shade of blue;
there are no clouds here. And the best thing you can say is that it’s not as hot as it’s going to get. But there’s hardly anyone you can say that to. If you even hint at it in an e-mail, they’ll write back straightaway, saying, It’s always hot down there. But this country is too inventive for that. This country get can really cold at night as well. “This country” is definitely the right name, because you never know if you’re in one or the other. It’s not like in Europe where you’ll find a baguette in one country, but not in the next one. They may well have differences here too, of course, African differences, but to find that out you’d have to get to a town. A real town, not just something around a watering hole.
A town. What she would give for a town right now. With one shop. Selling shoes.
No . . . handbags. A town with one shop that only sells handbags.
Nadeche rummages around for her boots and knocks them together. Not that she’s ever found a scorpion inside. It’s probably a myth that scorpions hang around in shoes. A myth dreamed up by those tropical researchers, because nobody here ever wears boots. Even Lionel’s trainers are exotic. This sliders culture is something she can’t get her head around. But maybe it’s to do with one’s homeland. This African soil will never be as familiar as a German meadow.
Nadeche Hackenbusch hops out of the car. She usually feels stiff for the first few steps, but all in all she’s astounded by how easy she finds this simple existence, physically at least. The television van is opposite, with its pink zebra stripes. There’s a pretty little fleet of cars now, if you include the doctor’s car and the midwife’s car, which will be here soon for the newborns. It makes her feel proud. Many people have their own companies, but this here, this is . . . more. It’s like the Red Cross, or a bit like the pope, this new reasonable pope who likes gay people too. The HackenPush-Up was hers, and it was something she could be proud of, but it wasn’t the same, it lacked this . . . higher purpose. This here is something only she is capable of, only Nadeche Hackenbusch, no-one else. In the entire world.
