Fame (8 page)

No, he thought on the streetcar on the way to Matthias Wagner’s place. Of course it didn’t prove anything of the sort, it merely showed that self-examination disturbs the personality, deflects the will, and saps the mind; it proved that no one, seen clearly from the outside, resembles themselves at all. He got out at the next stop, waved down a taxi, and had himself driven home.

Once there he asked Ludwig, his valet, to draw him a bubble bath and prepared to listen while he waited to the voice messages on his cell phone. But there weren’t any. Nobody seemed to have missed him. It was as if someone else had taken over all his personal affairs.

He spent the next day in restless distraction. His best friend Mogroll, the failed actor, had swallowed an overdose
without warning. Intentional or unintentional, no one knew; he hadn’t given any kind of a signal, hadn’t talked to him, hadn’t left any note. Ralf didn’t understand it.

His personal trainer made him do his usual Wednesday push-ups and told him he had to work on his stomach muscles: there would be scenes in his next film where he’d be stripped to the waist, he mustn’t be laughed at for no longer being young.

He checked the film forums to see if there was anything new about him, but when he read a posting saying that he had sawdust in his head and was as ugly as an ox, he gave up for the moment. Who wrote such stuff, and why? He talked to his agent, then with Brankner the director, who was embarrassingly obsequious. He knew that Brankner didn’t reckon him a good actor but had to have him, because without his participation the movie would never get financed. Halfway through the conversation, Ralf hung up. He leafed through Miguel Auristos Blanco’s
Peace, Reach Deep into Us
for awhile, then paced up and down looking at the flowers in the tall crystal vases that were suddenly scattered all around the house. He didn’t like flowers, and had no idea how all the vases had got here. Had Ludwig bought them on his own initiative? He was getting stranger as he got older.

Ralf paused for awhile in front of the mirror on the wall, and watched his face become less and less recognizable by the second. Then he left the villa.

He breathed a sigh of relief when he reached Matthias Wagner’s street. Supermarket right there, newsagent next
door. The elevator car smelled of cooking. A fat woman greeted him casually. His room welcomed him like a lost refuge.

He watched TV and drank beer out of the can. A newscaster said something about war, the Near East, a visiting minister, tomorrow’s weather. A housewife held up a colorful hand towel, then for some reason an elephant charged across a meadow, then Ralf Tanner appeared, steering a car through big-city traffic and talking to a blonde in the passenger seat. “
Time’s running out and all these people will be turned to dust!
”

“
But maybe,
” said the woman, “
we can stop it.
”

Then in rapid succession came a series of explosions: a car flew into the air, then an oil platform—flames rolling decoratively over the sea—then an apartment building, hit so hard that a blizzard of glass shards flashed in the sun. Then Ralf Tanner’s face again, and underneath, against a black background, the letters:
BY FIRE AND SWORD. In theaters now.

What garbage, thought Ralf. Cringe-inducing.

That was when he realized he couldn’t remember shooting it. And that he’d never even heard of the movie.

He channel-surfed for awhile, but the trailer didn’t show up again. He went downstairs and across the street to the Internet café. The owner knew him already and pointed him, smiling, to one of the computers.

By Fire and Sword
was listed on
imdb.com
. The film, which had apparently been reviewed very negatively in the papers the previous week, already had an entry in Wikipedia. In the MovieForum someone praised the intensity of his performance.
But why had he gotten involved in such a film? Maybe, someone else replied, he needed the money, hardly surprising given the way he lived. A third person reported that Tanner was currently in Los Angeles, a fourth contradicted him: he was on a publicity tour in China. He’d also added a link, and when Ralf clicked on it, he found himself on the Web site of a Chinese newspaper. A large picture showed him grinning and shaking hands with two officials. He didn’t know these people, he had never been to China. He paid and stumbled out into the harsh morning sun.

By Fire and Sword?
Of course, said Nora, she’d seen it. And liked it. Who cared about the critics? She sighed. She’d worshipped Ralf Tanner since she was thirteen. She’d seen all his films.

“So that’s why? Because I look like him?”

“Oh, you’re not that like him. Maybe you should imitate someone else. You’re good, but … he’s not the right one for you.”

His eyes slid to the mirror. There she was, and there he was, and suddenly he didn’t know anymore which side the originals were on and which side the reflections. He ran his hand over her hair, murmured something to cover his confusion, and went downstairs to the streetcar stop.

In the streetcar, no one bothered him. He tried to see himself in the glass, but it didn’t work, any more than it did in shop windows, there seemed to be no more reflecting surfaces to be found anywhere. On the edge of the sidewalk he saw two posters for
By Fire and Sword.
It wasn’t till he reached the
gate of the villa, all out of breath, that he realized his pockets were empty. He must have lost the key in all the turmoil. He pressed the bell.

“It’s me,” he called into the intercom. “I’m back early.”

“Who?”

He swallowed. Then, fully aware that this response wasn’t a good idea in the circumstances, he repeated, “Me.”

The intercom was switched off. Thirty seconds later the front door opened: Ludwig came out and walked across the lawn, dragging his feet. Leaning against the grill, his weathered face peered through the bars.

“It’s me,” said Ralf for the third time.

“And who is ‘me’?”

It took him a moment to understand that Ludwig wasn’t trying to debate an abstract philosophical point, but that he didn’t recognize him.

“I’m Ralf Tanner!”

“That’ll surprise the boss.”

“I’m back early.”

“The boss came home hours ago,” said Ludwig. “So please leave.”

“This is my house!”

“We’ll call the police.”

“Can I … speak to the man who claims he’s Ralf Tanner?”

“That’s you.”

“Excuse me?”

“The man who claims he’s Ralf Tanner is you.”

“Can I … speak to Ralf Tanner?”

Ludwig looked at him with a thin smile. “Ralf Tanner is a very famous actor. Hundreds of people want things from him. His phone never stops ringing. Do you think he’s going to interrupt what he’s doing to chat with you, because he’s so glad you look like him?”

“Ludwig, surely you recognize me?”

“You know my name. Congratulations. So when did you hire me?”

He rubbed his forehead. What kind of a question was that? He was too taken aback to remember. Ludwig seemed to have been with him forever, that lumpy, lugubrious face his lifetime companion. “Can I speak to the others? Can you get Malzacher on the phone with me?”

“My dear man, let me give you some advice. Of course we can do these things. You can summon the entire household. Maybe you’ll even get Ralf Tanner to come outside himself. But what would you have gained? Ridicule, mockery, an extremely unpleasant encounter with the police, and, if you keep this up, a charge of harassment. You’re dealing with a star, and that means zero tolerance. He has to protect himself. I know he plays a large role in your life. You know all his movies, you accompany him and he accompanies you, he has no finer audience, but now you’ve reached a line you shouldn’t try to cross. Go home. I’m an old man, I’ve seen a lot of you, and I don’t want people to make themselves unhappy. You seem to be a nice guy. Pull yourself together!”

He felt dizzy. Opened his mouth and closed it again. Breathed in and out. Blinked in the sun.

“Are you feeling all right?” asked Ludwig. “Would you like a glass of water?”

He shook his head, turned around, and walked away slowly. All around him were villas, hedges, and high garden fences. There was a smell of mown grass. He stopped, then sat down on the ground.

What had happened? Had some imposter taken his place? It must be the impersonator he’d met in the Looppool; maybe the guy had seen through him and taken advantage of the moment to relegate him forcibly and completely into the role of a man named Matthias Wagner, spectator, imitator, and fan. A man who’d so submerged himself in the existence of a model who looked just like him that he’d come to confuse that other existence with his own. It happened. You could read about it in the newspapers. Pensively he took out his identity card, read the name printed on it as if for the first time, and put it back.

He looked up. On the other side of the street, the garden gate had opened. Ludwig and Malzacher came out, and between them, tall and well built, Ralf Tanner.

He couldn’t remember ever looking that good himself. Whoever had chased him out of his own life, he was perfect at it, he was the right person for it, and if anyone had earned the right to Tanner’s existence, it was him. What dignity, what charisma! A car drew up, Ralf Tanner opened the door, nodded to the chauffeur, and disappeared into the back. Malzacher got in after him, and Ludwig closed the gate.

As the car went by, Matthias Wagner leapt up and bowed,
but the windows were tinted and all he could see was his own reflection. The car had already passed him, turned the corner, and was gone.

He pushed his hands into his pockets and walked slowly down the street. He’d actually found the way out. He was free.

He paused at a bus stop but then changed his mind and continued on his way, he had no desire at this moment to use public transport, it was always a strange experience when you looked like a star. People stared, children asked stupid questions, and used their cell phones to take photographs of you. It could even be fun sometimes. It made you think you were someone else.

The East

H
ow could she have known it was hot here? She’d imagined snow-covered steppes, swept by icy winds, whirling snows, nomads in front of tents, yaks, and campfires at night under huge skies canopied with stars. Actually, it smelled like one gigantic building site, cars blasted their horns, and the sun was scorching. A fly buzzed around her head. No cash machine anywhere. Yesterday at her bank, the teller had laughed at her: they didn’t carry currencies like that, she’d have to change her money once she got there.

And here she was, enveloped in gas fumes, after an endless flight through the night. A hugely fat man in the next seat had snored all the way. Every time his hand fell into her lap, she’d asked herself why in the world she’d ever agreed to step in and make this trip. But she’d been curious to see this distant corner of the planet, and so she’d quickly decided to accept.

Not long afterward an air ticket arrived in the mail. The accompanying letter, in broken English, had a gold seal on it representing a flying bird or a sunrise or maybe a man wearing a hat. Then she had to go to the embassy—three rooms in a rental building on the outskirts—where a man in uniform wordlessly stamped a visa into her passport.

Her hair was already soaked with perspiration. She looked at her reflection in the dirty glass front of the terminal: a small plump woman in her mid-forties, looking absolutely exhausted. She had always been a person with a developed sense of curiosity, but tiredness undid her. Her favorite thing was to be at home, sitting in her cool study with the garden visible from the window and a cup of tea beside her. That’s when she got her ideas, that’s when she could concentrate, that’s when she was in the right frame of mind to work out the tangled secrets that her melancholy detective, Commissioner Regler, had to solve. Her detective books sold well, she got fan mail from her readers. She loved her husband and her husband loved her. Her life was in order. Did she really have to burden herself with such trips?

A hand came down on her shoulder, and she spun around, startled. There was a man standing next to her in a stained suit. He was holding a piece of cardboard with her name written on it in clumsy letters.

“Yes, it’s me!”

He indicated that she should follow him. She wanted to give him her suitcase, but he’d already set off and she had to run after him. They crossed the street, people yelled, cars
honked, and when she got to the other side her skirt was splattered with mud. The car was parked across two spaces in the parking lot, the hood was dented, and it was filled with boxes. The trunk was jammed full of them, as was the backseat, and there was even one in front of the passenger seat, so that she had to lift her feet and hold her purse in her lap. She wondered what the man could be transporting. When she moved to fasten her seatbelt, he shook his head and swore; obviously he considered it an insult to his capabilities. She gave in.

He talked to himself softly the whole way. Once he braked sharply, rolled down the window, and spat onto the street. “You business,” he said. “Kill why?”

She smiled to show she didn’t understand.

“Everything,” said the man. “Foam. Lorry?”

She shrugged.

“Hobble,” said the man. “Hobble grease. Why?”

She smiled awkwardly.

“Why?” The man banged on the window. “Grease, the hobble why!”

She lifted her hands and shook her head, but that only made him angrier. He pointed first in one direction, then in another, hit the dashboard, yelled, and seemed to have lost any awareness of the traffic. Finally he braked in front of a building. A guard was leaning against the glass door, a flag flapping above him in the wind. The hotel. They got out.

Cranes towered up against a milky sky. The ground was littered with tin cans, twisted pieces of wire, and shards of glass. The guard yanked open the door and she went in.

The front hall was made of marble, with a fountain in the middle with the water turned down to a trickle. The woman at the reception desk spoke no English. After the driver had harangued her for awhile, she wordlessly handed over a key.