The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  “Does that really make a difference?”

  “Not with wheat beer.”

  He pours each of them some wine and respectfully pushes the glass towards Leubl. Leubl picks it up and takes a sniff. He closes his eyes; the under-secretary has made a good choice, as ever. He holds out his glass and the two men toast with a faint clink. The wine rolls around his mouth, nestling against Leubl’s gums like a cat in a blanket. “Now,” Leubl says, leaning back, “this is when Christmas begins.”

  The under-secretary puts down his glass and leans back too. Both of them look out at the illuminated city.

  “So, what are you giving Tommy?”

  “The Prince of Namibia, 22 × 5 cm, veined, with suction pad and scrotum.”

  “You can do better than that,” Leubl says, unmoved. “You wouldn’t even fool your mother with that one.”

  “He’s getting art. I’m going to try something new. What about your wife?”

  “The same as in 1969. Actually, we don’t give each other anything.”

  “Since 1969?”

  “Since 1969.”

  “You were early to the party. Anti-consumerism and all that. Not even the S.D.P. was as far advanced back then.”

  “Well, two thousand years before the Left even thought about the planned economy a certain Jesus Christ was already expelling merchants from the temple.”

  The under-secretary takes a sip of wine. “Do you do everything Jesus says?”

  “Who knows what Jesus says.” Leubl gazes with relish at the glass in his hand. “Believe you me, if God wants to say something, he’ll say it so that everybody can hear. And if someone claims to know better, it’s safe to assume they don’t.”

  The under-secretary takes a sip. “I like it.”

  “My daughter hated us for it.”

  “What? The God thing?”

  “No, for the abolition of presents. With her own children she did it very differently from the word go. But ten years later she’d come round to our way of thinking.”

  For a while they sit there in silence. Leubl thinks how lovely it would be if it started to snow.

  “What are we going to do now?” the under-secretary asks.

  “We’re going to wait.”

  “That’s all?”

  “It was worth a try. But it was clear it would only work if we were dealing with someone who couldn’t count. Someone who’d prefer one million euros today rather than ten million tomorrow.”

  “And now?”

  “Now nothing. What were you thinking?”

  “That we might reach further into our box of tricks.”

  Leubl looks at him over the rim of his glass. “By our standards we’re already up to our necks in the box of tricks.”

  “But . . .”

  “Any other suggestions?”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Out with it!”

  The under-secretary pauses for a moment, then says, “The Americans would be doing more. Or the Brits.”

  “Such as?”

  “Without going into detail, they’d play dirtier.”

  “Go into as much detail as you like. But we can’t ban the television cameras. We’re not the Russians.”

  “No, but . . .”

  “What other dirty stuff do we have? Should we start bombing the lorries?”

  “Not exactly bombing . . .”

  “Fine. We’ll get elite police commandos to go along and slash all the tyres.”

  “If you put it like that, of course it sounds silly . . .”

  “Put it differently, then. If it’s effective, it’s an attempt by the German government to have one hundred and fifty thousand people die of thirst. And if it’s ineffective they’ll all have new tyres within three days.”

  “Perhaps we ought to . . . the brains behind this venture . . .”

  “Poison him with polonium?”

  The under-secretary rolls his eyes.

  “The whole thing isn’t dependent on this Lionel chap. The organisation isn’t so complicated that someone else couldn’t take over. And then they’d have a saint to embalm and carry at the front of their procession as one big accusatory finger pointing at us. Does that make things any better?”

  “Are you saying there’s nothing we can do?”

  “Nothing,” Leubl says, “apart from drink this excellent wine.”

  He takes a sip. Feeling the eyes of the under-secretary on him, he returns his gaze.

  “What? What were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know. It seems strange. Uncomfortable.”

  “Because it’s a feeling people are unfamiliar with these days.”

  “What feeling?”

  “The feeling that something’s going very badly wrong.”

  “Are you saying you think they’re really—?”

  “I’m saying we’ve got a poor hand. And we’re not playing poker. We can’t take three new cards. It would be useless in Skat too. We’ve got a poor hand and we have to live with it.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Don’t you play cards? It means that you lose, and then you pay.”

  “Who said we were going to play in the first place?”

  “We did. Because we didn’t stop when we had a much better hand.”

  The under-secretary rests his elbows on his knees and thoughtfully swirls the wine around his glass.

  “People aren’t going to like this,” he says.

  “Politicians can’t only bring good news.”

  “But then they don’t get re-elected.”

  “Maybe, but voters have to come to terms with the fact that sometimes they’re living in an economic miracle, and sometimes in an oil crisis. Never in history has there been a country where things just kept getting better and better. Conversely, there hasn’t been a country where the lights suddenly went out. Usually it gets darker bit by bit.”

  The under-secretary pours more wine.

  “There are alternatives, of course. Other countries can lead the way.”

  “You know what I think of that.”

  “But we’ve got to do something!

  “Because we’re German?”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “Because we have to have a plan for everything. There are plenty of countries who view it differently. They’re saying to themselves: let’s wait and see whether this really happens.”

  “Didn’t we just—”

  “We’ve established that we’ve got a shitty hand. But that doesn’t mean others won’t make mistakes. They might overthink, or not think enough. They might play the wrong card. New, unexpected players could come to the table. The situation is not altogether hopeless just because we can’t shoot anyone.”

  Leubl cheerfully raises his glass. The under-secretary hesitantly follows his example.

  “It’s Christmas. Nothing can be done at Christmas. I’m going home to my wife and I’ll give her nothing. And you’re going home to Tommy with the Prince of Namibia.”

  The glasses clink softly. Leubl looks out of the window. It’s beginning to snow. He puts his glass to his lips and once again treats his gums to this fantastic wine. When he hears the under-secretary sigh, he gives him an encouraging clap on the shoulder. “Maybe we’ll get lucky and the Russians will attack us. We’ll be East Germany all over again, and then we’ll see how many refugees actually want to come.”

  Part Two

  37

  Whenever he can, Lionel takes one of Malaika’s cars. He doesn’t drive far, just to the nearest hill or mountain. There aren’t many of these in northern Iraq; the real mountains don’t begin until the border. Lionel drives up as high as he can and gets out.

  He views the column of refugees through his binoculars. It’s now almost twice as long as when they set off. It’s hard to believe you’d be able to tell the difference between fifty and a hundred kilometres. It helps if you’ve got used to fifty over the course of a year, and ultimately it boils down to whether you c
an see the end of it or not. Or, to put it another way: how high does the hill have to be for you to be able to see the end? In this part of the country, at any rate, they’re not high enough.

  He didn’t think he’d feel this way, but things were somehow more relaxed before Jordan. Simpler. Nobody believed they’d make it that far. That’s why the crowds didn’t get any worse, even though north Africa is full of people desperate to get to Europe. It’s competing madness. Some try to cross the desert alone, and compared to this the idea of the column doesn’t seem quite so crazy, even if it wasn’t as tried and tested as the good old cross-the-sea-from-north-Africa-by-boat routine. So the column was mildly attractive to those who fancied risking a little more. They could adjust to the vast numbers of people.

  Roughly every four to six weeks he would tell Mojo to add another lorry. At some point the burden on Lionel stopped growing. The refugees no longer expected miracles and seemed content with what they’d got the day before. Even the most persistent whingers couldn’t dispute the fact that they’d come fifteen kilometres further by the end of each day. When they reached Jordan, everything changed apart from the magic function of money.

  Mojo had established the contact, and he still gets his commission, of course, because the money goes via him. Lionel learned from Mojo that Jordan isn’t just full of Jordanians, but full of Palestinians too. And these Palestinians are fairly well organised, and no less keen on earning money than anyone else. If only because they’ve got bigger projects planned in Israel.

  The Palestinians did in fact set up the same infrastructure as Mojo’s contacts had previously. Even the shithouses were back; Malaika and her foundation had organised them via Mojo. This was the funniest thing about the whole business, because Malaika and the television people always acted as if the foundation’s money was nice and clean, and had to be spent carefully and somehow more sparingly than other money. He kept out of it, but unlike him Malaika could have dealt with the Palestinians directly. She nonetheless kept going to Mojo, as if he were the only person in the world who knew how to find shithouse drivers. Mojo reliably took the money and sent a good three-quarters of it to Palestine, or wherever. How long did it take him to earn his 25 per cent commission? Fifteen seconds. In fact, probably more like five, because he’s bound to have the Palestinians on speed dial.

  Visibility is excellent. The water tankers and concrete mixers float on a sea of sun, stones and dust. Every so often an unfamiliar vehicle pushes its way through the apathetic crowd, which gives way slowly, then closes the gap again behind the car. To the people in the car it must seem as if they’re driving through highly viscous oil.

  Once the car has passed, the people move so uniformly that they appear to be stationary. It was a while before they got this right. It was the most difficult thing they were asked to do – moving to avoid a jam. The trick is that all those camped around a lorry have to be up and gone by the time the people from the lorry behind arrive. It’s no simple feat, and if new trucks join the convoy you can’t wait for the newcomers to figure this out for themselves; you have ensure that at least 10 per cent – and preferably a third – of the group are experienced walkers.

  Following the track, the procession gradually fades from view and into the expanse of the plain. He can’t see Malaika’s cars; today she’s filming much further back. But given the length of this column no-one would be surprised if they didn’t see a pink zebra car for days. This does her image no harm at all; in fact it only enhances her popularity, especially with the children. His mobile rings, but Lionel doesn’t answer. You don’t always have to answer the phone. In fact sometimes you shouldn’t, to stop yourself from going mad.

  There are so many people – it’s insane.

  They’d barely been in Jordan for five days when Admiral Mahmoud told him about the flood of newcomers. These were people who had watched on television and on their phones the pictures broadcast around the world. All those rubber dinghies, the constant ferry traffic. A paltry fifteen kilometres across the tiny, glassy Red Sea, a crossing so harmless that even the toddlers were looking forward to it. Israel ignored them. The pink zebra cars were already waiting on the shore – these, the medical vehicles and the infant transporters were in the end the only vehicles that had to drive through Israel, and they were given free passage. Malaika had sorted it out with a Jewish-friendly magazine publisher, Astrid’s ultimate boss. When people got out of the dinghies and started walking again, the trucks were already in position. Everything went smoothly, but the inflow of additional migrants was so enormous that extra trucks had to be added after only five days. Mojo could barely contain his laughter.

  “Say, why d’you think it’s been goin’ so slickly?”

  “Because we’re paying you.”

  “You guys don’t pay that well. Just remember: the military, the coastguards. You yourself know what you’re shellin’ out. Didn’t you think it was cheap?”

  “No, it’s more expensive than Egypt.”

  “Yeah, but not much more. Even though there’s no civil war in Jordan and it’s a relatively solid country.”

  “So what does that mean?”

  “Do you have any idea what’s cookin’ there?”

  “There’s no war – we’re not interested in anything else.”

  “There’s no war, but there are refugees. Hundreds of thousands of them.”

  “And?”

  Mojo sighed.

  “Right. We’ve gotta country full of refugees. Millions of refugees. You’re there because you can’t go nowhere else, but the bottom line is: nobody likes you. Sound familiar?”

  “Look, I’m not stupid.”

  “An’ along comes the super-refugee who’s managed to bring one hundred and fifty thousand of the world’s biggest losers ten thousand kilometres. A distance so great that they ain’t never goin’ back. Have you got it yet?”

  Lionel didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, because his head, stomach and everything else was now churning.

  “They’re goin’ to send you on through, keepin’ you well away from their cities an’ as close to their refugee camps as possible. An’ the more of those refugees you take with you, the less they’re gonna hold you up.”

  “But Mojo, how am I going to organise that?”

  “Don’t be like that, you’ll manage. Just keep rememberin’ that this is your ticket, amigo. Not only through Jordan, but through Iraq too. So stop your grizzlin’ an’ get some towelheads on board.”

  Since then Lionel and his people have been getting towelheads on board. Eighty thousand joined in Jordan alone. He even managed to negotiate a few little concessions, just in time. Extra lorries weren’t a problem, and water was provided for nothing anyway. When they crossed the border and the Peshmerga took over the transport, trucks and supply business from the Palestinians, there were two hundred and thirty thousand of them in total. Almost eighty truck stations. Eighty kilometres.

  They integrated the newcomers into the column and kept hold of the reins. As much as he is terrified by the magnitude of this operation, he is comforted by the fact that it’s mainly Africans calling the shots. There are remarkably few arguments, because it’s unequivocal that this is a black set-up. The Syrians, Tunisians, Egyptians, Lebanese, Afghans, Palestinians and Iraqis can be glad that someone’s bringing them along. It’s the first time Lionel or anyone has seen black people so clearly in charge of such a massive initiative. And without debate, for it’s clear the others have never pulled off anything like this.

  Now there are three infant transporters in the convoy. As well as the food and water, the lorries also carry a supply of donated blankets organised by Malaika’s foundation. But even at night the temperatures are bearable now. It’s summer, not entirely coincidentally, for MyTV calculated the best time to arrive: before the summer holidays and after the end of the football season. The T.V. executives have been popping corks to celebrate the fact that the refugees’ trek is taking place in a year without the Europ
ean Championship or World Cup.

  They were joined by a further seventy thousand in Iraq. Lionel lowers his binoculars and looks down at the endless worm of people. The head of the procession has now passed his observation point, heading for truck 7, six more kilometres. Truck 5 would be four kilometres; he no longer has to work this out by counting on his fingers. At some point the number could reach three hundred and fifty thousand. Lionel takes a deep breath. It unsettles him still, but he’s less panicky than he used to be. Three hundred and fifty thousand – sometimes it even sounds good.

  Two more weeks.

  Then they’ll be at the Turkish border.

  38

  The under-secretary pushes his way through the crowds on Marienplatz. He could take a driver – the ministry, the government, someone would organise it and pay – but the under-secretary likes to follow Leubl’s example: a politician must take every opportunity to see what’s happening on the streets. And there’s so much happening that the under-secretary doubts he would have made swifter progress in a car. Marienplatz is as full as during a Christmas market, as it is every Monday. It wasn’t always like this.

  He remembers the loonies in the past – Pegida in Munich. Demonstrating every Monday against Muslims or the call to prayer. A handful of idiots, literally: if there were six of them it was a crowd. Nowadays it’s different. Police vans are lined up on the other side of Viktualienmarkt.

  Edging his way through the mass of people, the under-secretary sees the huge digital screens above heads and shoulders. The organisers have hired three of them. The first shows drone footage of the procession on a loop: the legendary drone video, forty-five minutes in one take of never-ending refugees. The second, also on a loop, meticulously shows the procession day by day, like footage from a front line in wartime. In between are the most menacing images: the endless snake on the footpath in the Suez tunnel, the dinghies on the Red Sea with their provocative hint of invasion. Beside these, a count-down of the number of kilometres – the distance to the German border. Clever and effective, because at the start of the video twelve thousand plus kilometres looks reassuring, whereas at the end there are only three thousand to go. The under-secretary can count too, of course, but it’s only just struck him on this Monday in Munich that the refugees have completed three-quarters of their trek.