by Timur Vermes
The third screen shows the procession growing bigger: a simple graphic which stays at a constant figure of around one hundred and fifty thousand for ages, before rising steeply in a hair-raising finale and more than doubling by the end. The under-secretary gets caught up in a group of concerned citizens engaged in a lively discussion with an overweight bald man, about some mid-twentieth-century annihilation methods he has tattooed on his arms. Although these were highly effective measures, they say, you couldn’t repeat them in the same way in the twenty-first century. The overweight bald man listens sympathetically to their arguments, then insists that you could. It’s only temporary, after all, and once the problem is solved such measures can always be discontinued. One of the citizens says that if it’s only temporary, then of course you can consider anything.
The under-secretary is stuck. He fights his way back towards Viktualienmarkt and enters the subway to cross Marienplatz. His party colleagues from city hall have on several occasions given him a lively account of how desperate the municipal government has become. Liberal Munich, a city that feels left-wing, where a red–green electorate exploits the advantages and money of conservative Bavaria, has now become as radicalised as Dresden. Every week tens of thousands of people gather here, and it’s only stayed at that number because there’s a second demonstration every fortnight on Odeonsplatz. The city tried to ban the protests, citing historical reasons, but the case was rejected in court. The tally of those now attending regularly hits six figures. And it’s only peaceful because the enormous police presence diverts counter-demonstrations into other parts of the city.
When the under-secretary emerges on the other side of Marienplatz, he hears it again. “We want our country back!” The country has almost become used to this. All restraint has long since disappeared, which is why this other, appalling slogan has caught on. It came from the east, of course; nobody else could have given these words legitimacy. And they chant it relentlessly, which in Munich normally only happens with beer-hall ditties:
“Don’t give them money and soya flour – we need a wall and firepower!”
The under-secretary is elbowed in the ribs. It’s not deliberate and he doesn’t react. Violence hangs in the air, and thanks to the police checks you can still assume, but only just, that nobody is armed. The crush eases slightly, he slips into a narrow stream of pedestrians walking in the opposite direction to the main flow, and allows himself to be carried past Marienhof. When he arrives at the hotel he’s a quarter of an hour late. He walks up the steps to the bar. Lohm, sitting comfortably in a corner, waves to him.
“The capital of the far right,” he says as the under-secretary sits down beside him. “Haven’t you lot got anything under control anymore?” It still sounds like mockery, but these days not even Lohm can hide the fact he’d like the old C.S.U. back, the one that used to enjoy big majorities.
“Don’t ask,” the under-secretary groans. “A new study came in yesterday.”
“And? As bad as the surveys?”
“Worse. They analysed our support base and it turns out that . . . we don’t have one. And apparently we never have.”
Lohm looks at him. “In figures?”
“Still just over 23 per cent.” The under-secretary tries not to hang his head.
“Oh shit,” Lohm says, turning to the waiter. “Half a litre of wheat beer, please.”
The under-secretary orders a gin and tonic with the second-most-expensive gin.
The waiter brings the drinks. The under-secretary takes his first sip. Nowhere near enough gin for his liking.
“I hardly ever see you anymore,” Lohm says with concern. “And whenever I do it’s not worth it. You look like crap.”
“Thanks a lot.”
“You ought to take a week’s sick leave and let Tommy spoil you.” Lohm pokes the inside of his cheek rhythmically with his tongue.
“Tommy’s moved out,” the under-secretary says absentmindedly.
“Really?” Lohm abruptly puts down his beer glass. “That’s . . . a pity.”
“It’s for the best.” The under-secretary knocks back his drink and waves to the waiter. With his fingers he demonstrates that he needs another gin, gin on its own – there’s plenty of tonic left in the little bottle. It’s getting loud outside the hotel. A new group of demonstrators has arrived, they can hear them through the soundproofed window. A squawking police loudhailer, the firepower slogan, but then another one the under-secretary has never heard before:
“Helmets on, get ’em in your sights – the German police need more rights!”
He looks at Lohm. Lohm raises his eyebrows and throws wides his arms with a shake of the head.
“Do you know that one?”
“I’ve heard it in Berlin and in . . . oh yes, Erfurt. I still don’t know what they mean.”
“They’re just sucking up to the police. Something the far-left have never grasped.”
“No, I mean, is it a play on words? As far as I’m concerned there are enough far-right in the police already.”
“Who knows,” the under-secretary says. “They’re not known for sophisticated wordplay. I suspect they mean both.”
“So what’s the ministry of the interior doing?”
“Too little, if you ask me.” The under-secretary listlessly jiggles the ice cubes around in his glass.
“Do I hear something approaching criticism of St Leubl there?”
“Just look at those arseholes outside. We can’t let it go on like that. We have to defuse the situation.”
“And I suppose you’d know how to do that.”
“Oh yes. Ohhh yes.”
“I’m listening.”
“It’s not witchcraft. The first thing is to erect border fences. Every kilometre of fence means one hundred fewer demonstrators.”
“Interesting equation.”
“One hundred and fifty if it’s a good fence. Razor wire. Watchtowers. Floodlights.”
“Spring-guns?”
“If you aim them outwards, let me tell you: two hundred fewer demonstrators. Per rifle.”
“And Leubl’s not keen? Funny that.”
The under-secretary ignores the sarcasm, partly because he doesn’t want to hear it. “I’ve given him a whole heap of suggestions, but he’s not going for them. He’s not rejecting them, but he’s not going for them either.”
“Perhaps because it’s not legal.”
“We have an upper limit on migrants, that’s all the law you need.”
“But that was wishy-washy from the outset.”
“Oh no. It’s only wishy-washy if you don’t have the bottle. I admit, it is an elastic clause, but if you’re careful to harden the elastic in it, the thing is an absolute Enabling Act. You’ve got to keep your nerve. O.K., the federal chancellor’s office, the ministry of defence – none of them is keen to break cover, but that doesn’t surprise me either.”
“You’re surprised at Leubl.”
“Because he’s not afraid, he’s a man of conviction. Because he knows what the C.S.U. is really made of, not just how best to sell them. And that’s why I can’t work him out. If he’s not going to do anything now, when will he? It’s only another three hundred kilometres before they hit Turkey.”
“The Turks are a different kettle of fish, don’t you think?”
“Exactly. We’ve got just enough time to do something. If we began now.”
The under-secretary orders another gin.
“Maybe he’s still deliberating,” Lohm surmises, handing the waiter his half-full glass of beer. “I need a grappa.”
“One thing’s for certain,” the under-secretary says sombrely. “Leubl has long known what he intends to do.”
“You could just ask him?”
“Our department isn’t like yours. We don’t have jolly discussions after which everyone talks about their feelings. The ministry of the interior is a place for real men.”
“Real men running around like the Village People.”
“Ha bloody ha.”
“Where’s the problem? Your boss knows the solution, so lean back and enjoy the journey. O.K., presumably none of the others see it like this. If I spread this around, they’ll say old Leubl’s gone gaga and they’ll start panicking. But you still trust him, clearly.”
“He’s not gaga. But it doesn’t make any sense. Waiting doesn’t get us anywhere. Waiting just makes everything worse. There are no countermeasures that become more effective the later you implement them.”
“Let’s go and grab a bite to eat before I get completely plastered,” Lohm suggests. “On the other hand we could just get arseholed right away. I didn’t know the situation was so desperate. I thought you still had a trump or two up your sleeve.”
The under-secretary stands up. “We do have one,” he says, but doesn’t sound confident.
“Sounds more like the seven of diamonds than the jack of clubs.”
“Hmm? Is that sheepshead?”
“It’s Skat, you pantomime Bavarian. So, have you got a good trump or a shitty little one?”
The under-secretary waggles his right hand, then raises it with a flourish. The waiter comes with the card machine. The under-secretary pays and picks up his coat.
“Tomorrow we’ll know if it takes the trick. The day after at the latest.”
“And if not?”
“Then the boss will tell me I was right and I should get cracking.”
“And you’ll say: you could have told me that in the first place.”
“Exactly,” the under-secretary agrees, and the two of them go down the steps.
You could have told me that in the first place.
39
“Refugeesrefugeesrefugeesrefugees,” Astrid von Roëll types into her laptop. Then she carefully types in capital letters: “PUKE!!!” With three exclamation marks. She highlights everything and enlarges the text to 132 pt. She tries to find a particularly severe font, then changes her mind and plumps for a particularly cutsie one: first “Gigi” then “Palace Script”.
What a fuck-awful job!
Admittedly she felt like this as long as six months ago, and was in a similar state quite recently too, but now the moment really has come. The moment where she’s written everything, well and truly everything there is to write about refugees. O.K., everything interesting about them in connection with Nadeche Hackenbusch, but here almost everything is connected to her. Including what all these people used to do. That material was actually quite readable, because many of these refugees weren’t refugees at all before. And that’s not obvious to people who don’t know any better. Some even had proper jobs, not just what they call “farming”, which usually means they own a goat or two. No, proper jobs. One repaired cars, another was a teacher, and one woman even had a really exciting job, running a boutique for shoes and T-shirts and stuff.
Astrid stares reproachfully at her keyboard. She raises her hands like a concert pianist and then slams them down and hammers away at it angrily. “Lalalalalala,” she says out loud. “Shitshitshit.”
Career stories get tiresome too after a while. You can describe a person’s life, but the lives of one hundred people? Give it a rest! Especially when you consider that real life goes on for the reader. Real life goes on for the reader especially, and for all normal people who aren’t stuck in this strange refugee world. Maybe after a while everything begins to seem normal here, but it’s not! You mustn’t let yourself get carried away. Most of humanity owns more than one pair of shoes. As well as a second and – God forbid! – a third T-shirt. Just because the people here aren’t so fortunate, just because lots of people spend the night wrapped in gold foil, it doesn’t mean it’s the same everywhere else. Thank God!
That fucking gold foil gets on her tits too.
No sooner do you step outside the camper than you hear this rustling everywhere. Someone once told her that there’s no more beautiful view on earth than the sky above the desert, but that someone certainly never gazed at the sky surrounded by rustling enamelled larvae. Who cough. And snore.
A starry sky.
That’s another thing: a starry sky.
Nobody here even bothers looking at it. Quite right too. Once you’ve seen one, you’ve seen them all. And even the most persistent environmental bore would have to concede that you don’t have this problem with a neon sign.
She wonders whether there are neon signs in Silopi.
She googled and found out that when they get to Turkey, the nearest place of any size is called Silopi. With one hundred thousand inhabitants you could call it a town. She’ll pay Silopi a visit. She gave Cairo a miss; she didn’t want to risk being separated from the column. In Jordan and Iraq they were led through the bleakest of areas and only ever past refugee camps. But when they’re in Turkey they’re practically in a proper country. She’s been twice on holiday, once to Antalya and once for a long weekend in Istanbul. They’ve even got trams there. Strange, how as a western European you automatically add the word “even” – “even trams” – but Turkey, well, Turkey and Germany are both members of something, not the E.U., the other one, the U.N. She’ll leave Kay alone for the day, take the car and drive to this Silopi place. One hundred thousand inhabitants, surely they do the odd bit of shopping. There’ll be bars and shops and boutiques and restaurants, and she’ll shop like there’s no tomorrow. Whammy bammy wowie zowie!
My God, how she misses all that. And the worst is that you can’t cross off the days, because nobody knows how much longer it’s going to take. Probably less than six months, possibly quite a lot less than that, but it’s still too vague to start counting. Sometimes she dreams that the German government will simply say, “That’s enough, come in the lot of you, we’ll work it out somehow.” Why not? At least the whole thing would be over with. And she’d stroll nonchalantly into the editorial office as if nothing had happened, and Sibylle is the first to throw her arms around her, then Sonja. A bit like when those young mothers come into the office and show everyone their identical babies, but far more heartfelt, of course. And far more interesting, because she really will have something to talk about. Then the deputy blockhead comes in. “Oh, what’s this gathering all about?” And probably Sibylle would say, “Just look who’s here!” And then the deputy blockhead, deeply moved, says, “Frau von Roëll! I don’t say things like this often, but I’m delighted to see you back safe and sound. You’ve rendered such invaluable service for this firm.” And he really doesn’t say these sorts of things often, in fact she’s only heard him like this once before, when the great Birgit Schetzing-Frank, who was anything but great, left the magazine. But then she, Astrid, says:
“Herr deputy blockhead, all I’ve done is what any woman would have done in my position.”
Or maybe just a plain “Thank you, thanks . . . please, have a glass of Sekt.”
The deputy blockhead then says, “Sekt? No, no, for an occasion like this the company will splash out – champagne!” And everyone cheers and Sonja says, “Tell us all about it.” Not out of politeness, like when someone comes back from a tedious holiday to the Maldives, no, everyone is genuinely eager to hear what she has to say. They gather around her like the Lost Boys around Wendy, and she takes a sip of champagne and starts off with just a short tale, a tale which seems quite ordinary to her, but everyone’s gobsmacked, and only then does she realise that Lou Grant has been standing in the doorway the whole time, getting more and more annoyed. Exactly. And because he wants to appear polite he can’t leave – what a shame, oh, what a shame! – he has to stay there watching everyone gush with admiration, and he grinds his teeth with fury, because all this time nobody has paid him the slightest attention. She can picture the grinding, chips from his teeth dropping out from the corners of his mouth, but she can’t worry about this because at that very moment the publisher walks in. “Hello” and “Frau von Roëll” and “Please call me Hartmut” and “We must sit down for a chat, I’ve got great plans for you.” When he hears the
words “great plans” Lou Grant shrivels, because Hartmut has no plans for him, apart from redundancy, ha! And that’s why, regrettably, he doesn’t hear her tell Hartmut, “That really is incredibly kind of you . . .” Hartmut: “No, it’s kind of you, I insist!” Her: “No, of you, but . . . I’m moving to New York at the end of the year, a new job with Vogue: Creative Premium Executive Director at Large.” And everyone cheers, and Sonja and Sibylle squeal – how delighted they are for her! Because they imagine that at some point in the foreseeable future they too will be working in New York – but they definitely won’t be with Vogue.
That’s for sure!
Then again, she might show some magnanimity and briefly wander over to Lou Grant, to show him that you don’t always have to behave like an arse, and maybe she’ll tells him that in a funny way she’ll miss him too. She’ll give him the sweetest of smiles and offer to meet up for a coffee if he’s ever lucky enough to secure a job in New York.
Ha!
Until then, however, she’s got to fabricate more of this stuff. As if it were easy. It might be for those who just churn out garbage, but she has a reputation to lose. Astrid von Roëll will not submit garbage, and that’s the problem. Even if you were to tot up the total amount of quality journalism in the whole world, it wouldn’t amount to the volume they’re asking of her. And she’s tried everything, absolutely everything – she learned how to do this job, after all. She realised pretty quickly that there was a lack of personnel here, not just assistants for her, but people doing things. Celebs.
“If you don’t have any celebs, make some!”
These were the words of her old editor-in-chief, and before long there was a celebrity butcher, a celebrity baker and a celebrity hairdresser. The T.V. formula: someone becomes famous because they’ve spent enough time on screen. But what happens if you try that here? These people don’t have jobs or anything – they’re just poor. With Nadeche she comes across a load of these characters, and they all make an effort, but to tell the truth she hasn’t yet met a single one she’d see a second time. Even the models from the first shooting have got nowhere. On the contrary, at least two of them – she won’t swear her life on it, mind – are virtually tarts now. Not that she’s judgmental, but anyone who hooks up with lorry drivers has no place in Evangeline.
