Brother Kemal (17 page)

‘Herr Hakim, I know that you are active in the field of heavy hints and impenetrable remarks, but I am probably not wrong in assuming that you’re not concerned with religion at the moment. If you want to talk about your deplorable nephew, go ahead. If you just want to beat about the bush I’m hanging up. Oh, and kindly get out of my office at once.’

That coughing laugh. Rashid emerged from the toilets beside me, pale-faced. I signalled to him to wait.

‘I’d like to put it more plainly but we’d better not do that on the phone.’

‘Why not? I have nothing to hide – or, as you would say, I have a clear conscience. How’s your conscience, Herr Hakim?’

‘Where are you now? I can come to you at once.’

‘Sorry, but I’m working. I have no free time until Monday afternoon.’

‘I can’t wait as long as that.’

I thought of his threat to find out where Deborah and I lived. ‘Okay, if Methat tidies up after him and replaces the lock on the door, if it suffered when you broke in, then we can meet late tomorrow evening for a little while in some public place.’

‘How about in my mosque?’

‘As I understand it, Sheikh, a mosque is more of an intimate place where you talk to the Lord God. I suggest Herbert’s Ham Hock at the railway station. If you’re hungry they serve salad too.’

He said nothing. I thought I could sense him shaking his head.

Finally he said, suddenly with an icy tone to his voice, ‘Don’t go too far, Kemal Kayankaya. Very well, tomorrow evening, Herbert’s Ham Hock – around eleven?’

‘Right at the back of the dining room there’s a nook on the left where we can talk undisturbed. I’ll have it reserved for us. See you tomorrow evening, then.’

I broke the connection and turned to Rashid. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. How are you?’

‘Ah, well …’ He sighed. ‘I must have caught some bug. Or maybe there was something wrong with the egg salad yesterday evening.’

‘If I were you I’d lay off the coffee at the Maier Verlag stand. And the coconut and banana cake, too.’

‘I only had a small piece. I mean, a colleague’s home-baked cake – you have to try it at least once to be polite.’

‘Even if Hans Peter Stullberg had baked it?’

Rashid raised his slightly clouded, sickly eyes from the floor and looked at me. ‘He’d have been more likely to heat up some sangria and then do us a dance. Unfortunately his back doesn’t allow it.’

I grinned, and we set off back to the Maier Verlag stand.

‘Come to think of it,’ Rashid said, ‘I’m glad that I don’t have to take your tone earlier today personally.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Well, when you were phoning your client just now you sounded just as grumpy.’

‘Hmm. Tell me something: the
Wochenecho
, is Lukas Lewandowski supposed to do the interview?’

‘Yes. I heard all that in the toilets as well. The publishing house said it was a “health issue”.’

‘Well if the story’s right, that’s what it is, too.’

Just before we reached the Maier Verlag stand, Katja Lipschitz’s assistant came towards us. ‘Malik! We’ve been looking for you everywhere. The lady from Radio Norderstedt has been waiting for ten minutes.’

Rashid, still pale from the activity of his intestines, switched in no time at all back to his ‘A good thing there are guys like me around’ advertising campaign. The colour returned to his face, and his shoulders went back.

‘We just went out for a breath of fresh air. Ready in a moment.’

An attractive young redhead with big green eyes, red lips, a short skirt, bare legs and high-heeled boots was waiting at his table. Her lips twitched nervously at regular intervals, making her look vulnerable. You could see Rashid rubbing his hands with glee.

And then the lady from Radio Norderstedt said, after preliminary greetings, ‘I’m from the
Other Way Around
programme, and may I tell you how glad I am to have a self-confessed gay Muslim on the programme at last.’

On the way to the House of Literature for the panel discussion with Dr. Breitel, I called Deborah from the taxi.

‘Everything all right?’

‘A full house, I’m busy. Keep it short.’

‘Will you wait for me when you close down, please? I’ll collect you from the wine bar.’

‘Fine. Has something happened?’

‘Someone broke into my office, and I don’t want you to go home to the apartment by yourself.’

‘And there was I thinking it was something romantic.’

‘I’ll steal you a rose on the way home. See you later.’

The rest of the evening in the House of Literature and the bar of the Frankfurter Hof went, with a few exceptions, that now almost familiar uneventful course that seemed to be the basic tone of the Book Fair. People talked a lot and drank a lot, but what with all the friends, colleagues and acquaintances they were talking to and drinking with, they almost never had time to finish talking to one person on a subject or sometimes even to finish a sentence. As if the room
were full of turning circles that only briefly collided with each other, changing direction, bumping into the next circles, and so on and so on.

Unusual event number one: Dr. Breitel, who, with his grey flannel plus-fours, leather braces, a bright red-and-blue striped shirt and a yellow bow tie, looked like a cross between a fat Hitler Youth boy and Lady Gaga, talked the usual stuff about ‘the threat of an Islamised Europe’, yet somehow was taken seriously by almost everyone present as if Kant in person in a grey three-piece suit were speaking on the stage.

Unusual event number two: Gretchen Love entered the main hall of the Frankfurter Hof bar at about eleven, in a close-fitting nun’s habit and bright blond Pippi Longstocking braids, and at a rough estimate caused seven hundred male jaws to drop.

Unusual event number three: an intoxicated young colleague of Rashid’s, who obviously wanted to make up to Katja Lipschitz, entertained our company for a while with good-humoured gossip about other colleagues and the staff of other publishing firms. As so often that evening, the conversation turned to Lukas Lewandowski, among other things, and the
Wochenecho
interview that had been postponed for the time being. Rashid and Katja Lipschitz agreed for what felt like the hundredth time, with downcast expressions, that this interview might have been/probably would have been/was one hundred per cent certain to have been the starting shot in an unexpected rise in sales of
Journey to the End of Days
and would even have guaranteed the book a place on the best-seller list. The drunken author ruined his chances with Katja Lipschitz with a joke that, for a change, I at least half understood. Rashid, he said, should be glad: Lewandowski’s chatter, low in meaningful content but always eloquent, was ultimately a danger to authors. Because his nonsensical sentences sounded so good, many listeners who should have known better let themselves be drawn into one
of his cocaine-inspired ideas. As he saw it, Lewandowski was the Cristiano Ronaldo of the German culture pages: incredibly talented ‘but not very bright. Well, I ask you: a vision of the Virgin Mary!’

Maybe it was because Katja Lipschitz didn’t understand the half of that joke that I did understand, namely the bit about the footballer Ronaldo. Or because she wouldn’t allow herself any doubts about her professional world at midnight and at an increasingly boisterous party – or so it seemed to strangers to that world like me – and Lewandowski was clearly one of the power centres of the book trade. Anyway, she closed ranks with him surprisingly sharply. ‘That’s stupid. Lukas Lewandowski is one of our most important promoters of literature. I don’t like to hear him run down.’ A little later the noticeably less inebriated young author left the party. However when Rashid and I left the bar of the Frankfurter Hof, I spotted him in the crowd around Gretchen Love and, judging by his gestures and the laughing faces around him, he seemed to be back in form as an entertaining if malicious humorist.

Apart from that, the circles turned with impressive regularity. ‘Hey, you! It’s ages since we met … Absolutely delighted … I love your interview/dress/contribution to the debate in the
Berliner Nachrichten …
Oh, there’s So-and-So, I must just have a word with him … back in a minute.’

There was nothing for me to do but smile and shake hands now and then. Although alcohol during a job as a bodyguard was strictly taboo on principle, several times that evening I toyed with the idea of indulging in a small beer. The danger of an assassination attempt seemed to me as slight as the likelihood of Rashid’s novel reaching the best-seller list without the headline ‘Author Stabbed by Religious Fanatic in the Frankfurter Hof’.

At one twenty I delivered Rashid by taxi to the Hotel Harmonia. Ten minutes later Deborah got in, dropped her
handbag on the floor and laid her head on my shoulder.

‘Read anything good?’ she murmured.

‘Read what?’

‘Well, isn’t there a Book Fair going on?’

Even the taxi driver laughed quietly. As he did so, I noticed a pair of headlights following us in the rearview mirror. On the Bockenheimer Landstrasse, I asked the taxi driver to shake off the car for a twenty-euro tip.

‘What’s going on?’ Deborah was alert at once, lifting her head from my shoulder as we suddenly turned full speed into Mendelssohnstrasse.

‘Someone’s following us.’

Luckily she was too tired to worry.

We raced round two more corners and jumped a set of red lights, and then we were rid of the car following us.

At home Deborah fell asleep at once on the sofa, while I called Slibulsky.

‘Hey, any idea what time it is?’ he whispered.

‘I’m sorry, but I need your help tomorrow. Urgently.’

‘It’s not a good time. I have our monthly meeting with the branch managers of my firm at midday tomorrow, and Lara wanted to go to a reading with me tomorrow evening. Don’t you know the Book Fair is on?’

‘Yes, I know. The Book Fair.’

‘Or something like that. Anyway, someone’s going to read a bit of his book to us, what’s its name, wait a minute … Yes, everything’s okay, sweetheart, go back to sleep. It’s Kemal calling.’ I heard a kiss and some murmuring. Lara didn’t particularly like me because I didn’t make any effort to take her religious quirks seriously. Slibulsky didn’t take them seriously either, but he tried not to show it.

‘I’ll just go into the kitchen … Right,’ he went on, at a normal volume, ‘so like I said, he’s going to read us a bit of his book. Something philosophical, but straightforward and humorous, Lara says. He looks the way Monty Python would
have done a French pop star. Kind of long soft hair, and a blasé face like an ad for aftershave.’

‘Lara really seems to like him.’

‘She thinks he’s super cute and wildly intelligent, and the sight of him makes me feel sick.’

‘Well, I don’t want to spoil your evening. I’ll find someone else.’

‘Very funny. I just don’t know how I’m going to tell Lara. And if she goes on her own you can bet the philosopher will try to get his claws into her.’

Lara was twenty years younger than Slibulsky, looked like Christina Ricci, and always dressed so that her pretty breasts and behind would show to advantage. I could understand that. What I couldn’t understand was why Slibulsky, although she had been living with him for more than four years and as a freelance jewellery designer was more or less living on his money, still seemed to be afraid of losing her at any time and thus missing out on the chance of his lifetime. Although as I saw it, Lara loved him very much, if in her own bitchy way, but that’s how she was.

‘Maybe Deborah can explain it to her.’

Lara had been in awe of Deborah ever since finding out about Deborah’s Jewish grandmother. Once she had turned up at our apartment on a Friday evening with a plaited loaf and candles, intending to celebrate the Sabbath. With the words, ‘You go on watching the sports programme, I’m sure this isn’t your sort of thing,’ she left me sitting on the sofa. It wasn’t Deborah’s sort of thing either, but for once she went along with Lara’s more or less correct ritual just to be friendly, although she said afterwards that from the next week she had to go to a sommelier course on Friday evenings. It was almost true; the course was on Thursdays.

‘Explain what to her?’ asked Slibulsky.

‘That I need you to be with Deborah tomorrow. Someone is out to get me, and I’m afraid he’ll try to do it through her.’

‘And where will you be?’

‘I’m on a bodyguard job all day. Can you have the branch managers meeting at the wine bar?’

‘No problem.’

‘Okay, then Deborah will call Lara tomorrow morning. And as for the reading, I know an author who’ll be reading at the House of Literature next week. His novel is called:
An Occitanian Love
, south of France, lavender fields, older man, young girl, “very movingly told, with a humorous slant, light, without avoiding the big questions in life …” ’

‘Are you drunk?’

‘Just quoting from the ad. I’m working at the Book Fair for a publishing house, and the author, Hans Peter Stullberg, is one of their stars. I’ll be meeting him tomorrow, and I’ll try to get a personal invitation for you and Lara. I’m sure Lara would like the occasion. It’s chic.’

‘Older man, young girl … I’m not so sure.’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sake! What’s the matter now?’

‘Lara’s ex was here the day before yesterday. He’s the same age as her, up and coming rock star – you know the kind of thing, clever texts, all that shit – and I felt like my own granny. Hey, don’t ash on the carpet, please, and: Assam or Darjeeling tea? Enough to make you sick.’

‘Hmm.’

Luckily I heard Lara calling to him at that moment. She didn’t like Slibulsky to talk to me for too long.

‘Well, fine, then. I’ll go back to bed. So Deborah will be calling tomorrow morning?’

‘Yes,’ I said, and, ‘Sleep well,’ and we hung up. I recalled how in the old days Slibulsky had been a drug dealer, a bouncer, and even for a while a debt collector and henchman for one of the biggest pimps in Frankfurt. Life was a wonderful thing.

Then I undressed Deborah, put a nightdress on her and carried her to bed.