The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  Sensenbrink: Obviously we’re not going to let other people prescribe the weighting we give to different issues. Others have tried and as we’ve already said: we’re sticking with the programme.

  SPIEGEL: Critics say it’s gone past that point, and argue that without your company’s involvement this wouldn’t be an issue at all.

  Sensenbrink: The refugee issue has been on the agenda since 2015. Even Donald Trump couldn’t dislodge it.

  SPIEGEL: It was topical, but not in this form. Without Nadeche Hackenbusch, without your star and your cameras, the trek would never have got off the ground. Your entire programme would never have happened.

  Sensenbrink: I dispute that.

  SPIEGEL: You may not have invented the issue, but you escalated it.

  Sensenbrink: That’s a matter of opinion. Let’s take the example of an earthquake in South America. You write an article about it. You broadcast a radio report. You give it television coverage. You make a documentary. In the end it’s the same earthquake. Cameras, images in general, don’t make an event bigger – only more visible.

  SPIEGEL: And yet you lend it social significance.

  Sensenbrink: It’s still the viewers who decide how important it is, by letting their remote controls do the talking. We’re just giving them the choice. And we’ve got it wrong before. We’ve had the odd reality show go south straightaway and haven’t had to do a SPIEGEL interview about it. But a broadcaster like MyTV can’t survive on that.

  SPIEGEL: Now your company is flourishing. At the same time, so is the A.f.D., which is getting close to 20 per cent in the polls – in some parts of Germany it’s much higher. Pegida too: they’re having no problem getting tens of thousands of people out onto the streets. It was only bad weather that prevented one hundred thousand people from demonstrating in Berlin last weekend.

  “The viewers let their remote controls do the talking”

  Sensenbrink: There’s no connection. If we report on wintry weather, people go out and buy jumpers. But we haven’t invented the winter.

  SPIEGEL: Sometimes you broadcast twice a day. You’re making more out of it than there actually is.

  Sensenbrink: 150,000 people are on the march to Europe with Germany’s top presenter right in the thick of it – I don’t know how this can be exaggerated.

  SPIEGEL: So you don’t care about the social consequences?

  Sensenbrink: You make it sound as if we’re encouraging the far right.

  SPIEGEL: Aren’t you?

  Sensenbrink: Let’s get one thing straight: Nadeche Hackenbusch is not on the far right.

  SPIEGEL: That’s not what we said.

  Sensenbrink: Nadeche Hackenbusch is helping refugees, tirelessly. The programme is . . . I wouldn’t go so far as to call it pro-refugee, but it’s pro-people. I can well imagine the far right not liking this, but that doesn’t mean I’m going to pull the plug on our reportage.

  SPIEGEL: What you’re doing is no longer reportage.

  Sensenbrink: It may not be the traditional, dusty old format SPIEGEL T.V. serves up, but it is reportage.

  SPIEGEL: Is it true that the times when the refugees walk have been organised to fit the T.V. schedules? In every film about the desert you learn that people are supposed to walk in the evenings and at night.

  Sensenbrink: There are better kick-off times for footballers too, but the question is: does the club want the game to be broadcast?

  SPIEGEL: Are you comparing a march for survival with a football match?

  Sensenbrink: All I’m saying is that most refugees have seen a football match on television. They’re not as naïve as you would have them be. They also know that things like ad pop-ups exist.

  “The programme encourages discussion. That’s democracy”

  SPIEGEL: For Portaloos.

  Sensenbrink: I haven’t received any complaints so far. The product has to prove itself over and over again on primetime television, and it comes through with flying colours. The customer is satisfied, and the refugees are too.

  SPIEGEL: And you’re already planning part two.

  Sensenbrink: So what? You’re talking as if the refugee issue has been solved. But it hasn’t.

  SPIEGEL: Well, the Mediterranean was so impassable that even the C.D.U. stopped moaning temporarily. And all of a sudden there was room for the F.D.P. in politics again.

  Sensenbrink: Temporarily. We’re giving the refugee issue the space it actually warrants.

  SPIEGEL: Or the broadcasting slots you need.

  Sensenbrink: If 150,000 people embark on a march because our cameras just happen to be down there, you might assume these people would have embarked on the same march at some point whether cameras were there or not. Maybe they would have waited until there were 300,000 of them, but they would have set off all the same.

  SPIEGEL: Now you’re speculating.

  Sensenbrink: But we’re talking about MyTV here! The channel for lightweight films and dumbing down. But now it’s about the refugee crisis, which has become an international issue, by the way. Almost all E.U. countries have bought rights to the show, as has the U.S. Even SPIEGEL can’t think that’s bad.

  SPIEGEL: In Hungary and Poland they’re watching with a certain degree of schadenfreude.

  Sensenbrink: Our market research has come up with different findings. Attitudes towards refugees have become more positive among regular viewers.

  SPIEGEL: Among those who support refugees. Among those who oppose them, rejection is ever stronger.

  Sensenbrink: In any event it encourages discussion of the issue, and that’s called democracy.

  SPIEGEL: How will the programme continue in future?

  Sensenbrink: I don’t know. But I’m not going to deny the fact that it could end tragically.

  SPIEGEL: So you’ll broadcast the great catastrophe as a Saturday night finale?

  Sensenbrink: Whatever happens, our reportage will be appropriate. But given the magnitude of events, any other broadcaster would do the same. Do you seriously believe that neither A.R.D. or Z.D.F. have anyone down there? If the refugees do make it to Europe and fail, the public channels will report on events just as we are.

  SPIEGEL: The presentation might be slightly different, though.

  Sensenbrink: That’s true, you won’t get any smug commentary on our channel. That remains the privilege of licence-fee payers.

  35

  One thing you can really learn from Malaika is how to work the journalists. Malaika always knows what she wants to get out of them, like a real dealer. She’s like Mojo, or better. If a journalist says they want to write about this or that, Malaika tells them they ought to write about something else, like the medicine crisis, for example. And in return she’ll put her shorts on. Or they’ll get him, Lionel, in the shot too. Now there’s a second truck for looking after newborns. And some firm is donating health-boosting supplements that get poured into the tankers carrying drinking water.

  Still, it’s exhausting. Especially since the programme has been airing in other countries. Now they could be giving interviews all day long. But most astonishing is that all these dozens of journalists ask the same three questions:

  How did you come up with the idea?

  Where are you hoping to get to?

  Will you make it?

  They could look at all the old interviews to find out what Malaika and he have already said, but they don’t. Sometimes two come at the same time and realise they’re asking the same thing. Even then they don’t come up with any other questions. Nor do they mind that the answer is always the same; they just want to have it repeated, especially for them.

  He can tell the story in his sleep, of how he came up with the idea at Miki’s bar. It’s a memory he’s cherished, but recently it’s felt like a well-squeezed piece of fruit that everyone keeps putting back. Malaika doesn’t appear to mind one bit. She blossoms when reporters arrive on the scene, and cheerfully regurgitates all her set phrases. Sometimes he gets the impression she think
s she’s giving the answer afresh each time, but is that possible? It feels more and more artificial. Please say that again, Lionel. Please make it shorter, Lionel. Please speak a little slower, Lionel, and as you say it could you look out over the plain and hold that expression for ten seconds?

  He’s reached the point where he almost believes his name is Lionel.

  His phone rings. Perhaps he should make Mahmoud newspaper admiral. But then that idiot will put on his daft captain’s hat again. Better if he does it himself. Taking a deep breath, he answers.

  “Ciao! How’s my favourite hiker?”

  “How’s it going with ‘Baywatch’?”

  Lionel sounds as relieved as he actually is.

  “Who’s gives a fuck about ‘Baywatch’, amigo? Ever seen ‘Friends’? You should take a look sometime! You’ll get a boner just watching the intro. It’s the best porn show in the world. They’re all bouncin’ around in this fountain. Jennifer Aniston, check out her ass. Her tits. She’s wearing this tight sweater which they make nice and wet for us. Aaaah. That face! An’ nobody’s fuckin’ her. Nobody! Or at least nobody who counts.”

  “Maybe that’s not what the programme’s about.”

  “Get the fuck outta here! There are two other broads in it, an’ they’re not gettin’ it either. A blonde horse an’ some dull brunette. Let me tell you, amigo, it’s deliberate. It’s what’s called dramatic technique! Jennifer Aniston doesn’t get fucked because she’s always hangin’ round with these dreary donkeys. The whole show is literally screaming: Mojo! Come to the U.S. an’ save Jennifer Aniston from her god-awful life.”

  “Well? Are you going?”

  “Too right I am! I can’t go into more detail or my pants will burst. There’s more important stuff. I’ve been hearin’ a few funny stories. Stories about you.”

  “There are no funny stories here.”

  “So, you goin’ to Morocco?”

  “No.”

  “Libya?”

  “No.”

  “Tunisia? Algeria?”

  “Nope.”

  With his silence, Mojo adds an unpleasant spice to the conversation. Lionel doesn’t quite know what’s expected of him, so he keeps quiet too. He wins.

  “So it is true!”

  “What’s true? I never said I wanted to go to Libya or Morocco.”

  “Ah, but you never said you didn’t want to, either.”

  “But it doesn’t matter. I mean, it’s good for you. You’re being paid by the day.”

  “It’s not about days here! You’re an investment for the future, amigo. You’ve gotta get your ass to whoreland. Only then will the roubles start rollin’ in. I don’t get nothin’ outta you shufflin’ through the desert for years.”

  “Then we’re agreed.”

  “No, we ain’t. You’re gonna get yourself to Morocco or Libya an’ find yourself a boat like any normal person.”

  “I can’t.”

  “You tryin’ to tell me what to do?”

  “I can’t say to people that they’ve wandered through the desert for months, only to drown like thousands before them.”

  “They’ll get their chance, they’re not askin’ for no more.”

  “But they don’t want just any old chance.”

  “Morocco’s a golden opportunity, amigo!”

  “No! Boats are shit!”

  “Boats have been around for thousands of years. Nobody’s complained.”

  “You can’t control the sea. You can’t control the quality of the boats.”

  “Nor the desert neither.”

  “You can’t get drier than the desert. And our strength is in our numbers. The people smugglers want lots of money, they’ll divide us up into small groups and let us drown one by one. And those that make it are just a bunch of Africans. The Europeans will just send a bunch of Africans straight back, or worse. We’ll have no T.V. crew with us, and we’re in their hands in the middle of the sea.”

  “But supernigger here has a better plan.”

  “At least it’s a plan that doesn’t rely on others. It just relies on ourselves. Our feet. Our money.”

  Mojo listens in silence.

  “That’s good news for you too. More success, more money, more vehicles, more Jennifer Aniston.”

  “How far you gonna go, then? Egypt?”

  “Further.”

  “Further?”

  “If we only walk as far as the sea, all this would be in vain. We’re not going to the sea. We’re going the whole way.”

  “Through Egypt?”

  “Through Egypt.”

  Mojo pauses.

  “That’s our—”

  “Shut it. I’m thinkin’.”

  Lionel keeps his mouth shut.

  “Now listen up, dumbass. Listen carefully, O.K.?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’m feelin’ very patient at the moment, dumbass, and I’m not usually so patient. You’ve told me a load of crap in the past, but it was true crap. You promised me moolah, and I got lots of moolah. I respect you, amigo. You’re a bro. A crazy bro, but a bro. And I like you and your crap. You listenin’? I’m even prepared to admit you’re right sometimes. Boats are shit, the sea is shit. Smugglers take your bucks an’ let you drown. It’s a smart idea of yours to pay by the day. I’d rather have your money up front, but I can see it’s better for you, amigo. You’re not so crazy, crazy bro’. But the model has its limits. I can’t go further than Egypt.”

  “You’ll keep getting your percentage.”

  “Damn right, but this isn’t about my percentage.”

  “What then?”

  “Ever looked at a map, dumbass? I’m not talkin’ ’bout Syria here, or Jordan. Sure, there might be folk there who’ll let you through, but for every one of those, there’ll be at least three who won’t. Forget it! The Turks – nobody knows what they want except respect. It’s everything. An’, hey, you’ll also get by minor obstacles like the Suez Canal. All that seems kinda possible. But there’s one thing that’s absolutely unthinkable.”

  “Israel?”

  “Israel.”

  “Ten kilometres as the crow flies. Fourteen by road. A joke.”

  “No, a joke is what it ain’t. Ten kilometres across a country that’s a bigass paranoid military power and deploys its weapons against anythin’ that seems suspicious or it don’t like the look of. The Jews shoot first an’ ask questions later. They might let one or two of you through if they’re in a good mood or wasted. But not three, no way. Let alone my trucks. So that’s the end of the food and water. Not to mention shithouse paradise.”

  “What about Jordan?”

  Mojo takes a deep breath, then yells, “Jordan, waddya want with Jordan? O.K., with some dough you might be able to arrange a few things. But don’t imagine you’ll ever be gettin’ into Jordan.”

  “Ten kilometres as the crow flies,” Lionel says obstinately.

  “A clear line of fire, you mean! The Jews will blow that pretty black head of yours clean off. An’ for sure that’s adios, amigo. From what I hear you still need a head in life. Even in whoreland.”

  “We’ll find a way,” Lionel says. “And your lorries are coming with us. If we don’t make it, at least you’ll have had six more months of earnings off us. And now I have to go, I’ve got an interview.”

  He presses the red button and puts his phone away. Of course he knew about Israel. He’d been hoping Mojo would come up with something. Mojo, the cornucopia of ideas. Suddenly Lionel is overcome by despondency. When it comes to Israel, Malaika is going to be about as helpful as the admiral for food and drink. Yes, he’s got time – they need to get there first – but he’s got even fewer ideas for Israel than he had for all the other borders.

  His phone rings. An American number. He’s about to take the call when a text arrives. From Mojo.

  “Watch your ass, crazy bro’.”

  36

  It’s dark. Most of the offices are empty, even emptier than at the weekend.
Many doors along the corridor are locked. Chairs are pushed in, neatly parked as if the desk were a mini garage. It’s strange, but you can see straightaway whether a desk has been cleared for the weekend or for the Christmas holidays. Weekend desks are tidy; holiday desks look as if their occupants aren’t coming back. Leubl likes that. It’s how his own desk looks just now.

  He lays his coat over the railing and peers down. They’ve put up a Christmas tree in the foyer. Without any presents. This is what differentiates Christmas trees in shops from those in offices. Shop trees have presents beneath them. Frau Krassnitzer at reception looks up at him and waves. She’s packing away her things. Leubl waves back and mouths a silent, “Happy Christmas!” She blows him a kiss, and Leubl feels a pleasant peacefulness spread through his body.

  Taking his coat, Leubl continues on his way, along the corridor to the corner office at the end. The door is open and he knocks.

  “May I come in?”

  “Who else if not you?”

  The under-secretary is still at his desk.

  “Time to knock off! Not even an under-secretary can make the world a better place on the evening of December 23rd.” Leubl hangs his coat on the stand.

  “It’s not work-related,” the under-secretary says.

  “So, what have we got, then?”

  “You have a choice, as ever.” The under-secretary reaches down and sets a bottle on the table. “Firstly, Glühwein. From Bavaria. I looked out for it especially.”

  Leubl eyes the bottle. “Franconia isn’t Bavaria, believe you me. Not that we haven’t tried.”

  “Is that a no, then?”

  “It wouldn’t be my first choice.”

  “I even brought in a mini gas cooker. So we wouldn’t have to make it on the unromantic hotplate.”

  “What else have you got?”

  “A cuvée from Apulia.”

  “Sold!”

  “As if by magic it’s already been decanted.”

  Leubl looks as if he’d expected no less from the under-secretary and he goes over to the comfy chairs, where a short, thick candle is alight. Its flame is reflected in the dark windowpanes. From the corner of his eye Leubl notices the under-secretary covering his screen to eliminate the blue glare. He brings over two glasses and a decanter, then sits opposite Leubl and swirls a little wine around the glasses.