Magic Hoffmann (10 page)

His colleagues applauded. The only one who wasn't totally enthralled was the 
black waiter. And he was also the first person to interpret Fred's attempts to knockas a sign of surrender.

‘You'd better roll back down, or are you trying to kill him?'

‘It hasn't come to that yet.' The young man smirked and looked round the group in triumph, before moving off Fred's neck.

The waiter helped Fred to get up and twisted his arm behind his back. ‘We do things correctly round here.'

While Fred spat dust and ash from his lips, the waiter led him to the counter and asked for the telephone. Fred winced at the thought of what was to come. The barman looked at him and shook his head. People returned to their tables and their beer. The couple with the sea bags were discussing the charge with the Bolle works outing.

‘Yes, Café Budapest here, could you send a policeman round please…'

Another waiter put his tray of empty beer tankards on the counter and turned to the barman. Fred gauged the way to the nearest door. As the waiter put the receiver down and turned around, Fred made his move. The tankard hit the man on the chin and knocked him back into the shelf of schnapps bottles. Wood splintered, glass shattered, bottles rolled on the floor. Fred was at the exit in a flash.

‘I had nothing to do with the belt,' he shouted and slammed the door. He ran headlong into a melee of umbrellas and car headlights. Breaks squealed, passers by cursed, and three young soldiers on leave briefly took up the chase.

  

Was that what was so great about Berlin? That everything went down the tubes very fast. First of all you lost your girlfriend, and on the same evening a bunch of drunks did their damnedest to put you back in the nick.

Fred hobbled up the dark street. He had sprained his ankle leaping over a paving stone. Rain lashed into him, and he kept himself warm with the thought of how he would pound Rudi's face to a pulp next time they met.

He arrived at the hotel soaking wet. A trail of damp followed him up the stairs and across the linoleum to the reception. The grey-haired old man, whom Fred had seen the day before, was sitting behind the counter fiddling with the dial of a portable radio. Fred explained that he had slept elsewhere last night, but that he wanted to stay another night, and he asked if his suitcase was still in the room. The old man looked in a register, nodded and handed him the key. Fred bought some cigarettes and a six pack of beer, the old boy wished him good night and Fred dragged himself up the deathly silent staircase.

The same smell of mothballs and old upholstery awaited him in his room. When he turned on the light two fat flies started buzzing. Fred opened the window, then he cast off the damp clothes and rubbed himself dry with a towel.

The waiter and the girl would undoubtedly inform on him: description, distinguishing characteristics and so on. Fortunately he didn't speak a dialect, and he wouldn't have wanted to wear the clothes that Annette had given him again anyway. Then there was his face. He would get a haircut first thing in the morning. He would have to steer clear of Café Budapest and the surrounding area. And anyway: as soon as he had his hands on the money and had squared things away with Nickel he would steer clear of the whole city. And what a city. No wonder the sun never shone here!

Exhausted, he lay down on the bed with beer and cigarettes and gazed out into the dark courtyard. His ankle was throbbing. Slowly his head sank deeper into the pillow, and photographs from Canadian travel brochures appeared before his eyes. If only he could be there soon. He would send Annette a couple of pretty postcards: how it was all happening, and everyone was in a good mood…not a soul was interested in Berlin, and they also hadn't a clue about exciting Berlin movies… in fact all they knew about was idiots in sunglasses!

Fred closed his eyes. He'd show her. He'd show them all!

Eventually the can of beer slid out of his hand, and he went to sleep under the bright lights.

In the middle of the night he was awakened by a strange buzzing. It took a while for him to discover that it came from the room above him. He pulled the pillow over his head and slept on.

 

Fred was woken by loud laughter. The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the ceiling lamp with its pink shade. The bright light blinded him. He turned his head to the side and looked out of the window. Grey sky, grey apartment. The office windows opposite were open. The employees were peering from behind curtains into the courtyard below and killing themselves laughing.

Fred looked at his watch. Just after eleven. Slowly he sat up. Empty beer cans fell off the bed and rolled across the floor.

‘Not so loud, children!' resounded from up above, followed by a further burst of laughter. Fred burrowed his way out of bed, slid over to the window and leaned out, but a metal canopy blocked his view. He could hear rumbling and hammering, and an unpleasant stench assaulted his nostrils. It was clearly something serious. Without worrying about it any further he went for a shower.

Gradually yesterday's murky veil dispersed, and soon Fred was humming to himself almost contentedly. He was free, and that was after all the main thing. Absolutely crucial. Annette could just stay where she wanted. And he wasn't too bothered about the incident in Café Budapest either - a new haircut and forget about it. All that mattered for the moment was finding Nickel. Nickel and the money. Two hundred thousand. Or more!

On the staircase to reception, the stench became more rancid and more acute with every step. On the first floor it was almost unbearable. Fred's empty stomach revolted. With his T-shirt pulled over his nose he reached the entrance hall - or what remained of it. Eight to ten men and women were busy ripping up the linoleum floor, scraping the wallpaper, knocking the boards from the windows and putting other furniture into the courtyard. They were all wearing handkerchiefs and rags over their heads, leaving only their eyes visible. In the courtyard similarly masked figures were putting the stuff into giant rubbish bags. Nearby two women squatted on the floor and scrubbed off some graffiti with a turpentine solution. The noise was infernal. One of the men in the hall yelled through his handkerchief to ask Fred who he was looking for. Fred yelled back through his T-shirt: ‘The owner. I want to pay for last night and tonight.'

‘Come along tonight. Can't you see what's going on?'

‘What is happening then?'

‘Sulphuric acid!' shouted the man as he got back to work.

Fred made his way to the stairs and ran into the street. He stood still for a moment, breathing deeply. Sulphuric acid?

It was cool, and a damp wind whistled round the street corners. The few people Fred encountered wore buttoned up coats and expressions which suggested they were on their way to murder someone. Fred, on the other hand, felt better and better. Only once did he get a shock, when a builder on nearby scaffolding shouted: ‘Go to hell.' And he thought he heard the word ‘cell'.

He steered his way jauntily down the street, bought some rolls in a bakery and ate them on the way to the nearest phone booth. Yet again no one answered. Perhaps Nickel hadn't paid his phone bill! Fred took the map of the city from his pocket, searched for Nickel's address and ran his finger from Ku'damm to Wilmersdorfer Strasse. Four stations - five for Fred, because Zoo station was in the exclusion zone next to Café Budapest.

He ran across the Ku'damm to Wittenbergplatz, pausing in front of KaDeWe. He peered through the glass doors into the ritzy entrance hall of the famous department store. Warm golden light enveloped a host of people who were thronging past two beautiful shop assistants. Just wait till I have my money, thought Fred.

 

Twenty minutes later he climbed the steps at Wilmersdorfer Strasse station, and yet again he found himself confronted with a world of shopping, albeit a third world. A mish mash of T-shirts printed with monsters, rust-free gold chains, microwave raffles, pastry forks engraved with good luck symbols, shower heads to aid slimming, special offers for flip-flops, double-sided jeans belts and double-giant meat balls. Fred made his way through the grey mass of humanity, which pressed past the shops along the pedestrian precinct, and at the end he turned into an empty residential street. Number eighteen was a roughcast, brown old-style building with curtains in the windows and closed locks on the front door. Fred went through the names on the doorbells. Nikolas Zimmer was not among them. He pressed some buttons at random until a female voice rasped through the intercom: ‘Third floor on the right!' and the buzzer sounded.

The narrow, stairway with its yellow lighting smelled of cleaning material and pea soup. The sounds of TV jingles and vacuum cleaners emerged from behind doorways.

On the third floor a fat woman of around forty stood in the doorway, her hands plunged into the roll of fat around her hips, and eyed Fred suspiciously as he approached. Her face was puffed up and covered in burst blood vessels. She was wearing a black pullover with a sunrise of glittering golden threads knitted into the wool, pink and green striped jogging pants and canvas gym shoes that were far too small, causing her feet to spill out like pudding.

Before Fred could open his mouth, she moaned: ‘And not before time. We've been waiting since this morning already!'

‘But I…' began Fred, and was immediately interrupted.

‘Are you Polish?'

Fred shook his head.

‘Thank God for that! I asked especially, no Poles. Poles don't get near my drains. Afterwards the whole pipe will be missing, and in Warsaw they'll earn a fortune for it. That's how it is. These days wherever you ring up they only hire Poles: Poles, Poles, Poles! The only consolation is that we don't yet have to say ‘‘My drain is blocked'' in Polish. Just imagine, in Polish. Right here in Berlin! And my husband's unemployed, and I've got liver problems - psychosomatic says the doctor, with all that pain-, and now the drains! It would have to be now. When we've made life a little more comfortable for ourselves this last while: good food, nice drinking, sitting with friends - we're still human after all. And now the kitchen's full. And then the overflow from the dishwasher - you have to ask yourself if it's normal.'

And without waiting for a word from Fred, she turned round and disappeared into a narrow, wood-panelled hallway that smelled of ketchup, beer and dirty washing. When Fred stepped into the kitchen behind the woman, he said: ‘Excuse me, but in fact…'

‘You see!' she yelled, and spun around with her arms extended. The kitchen was large, but seemed narrow. The walls to left and right were lined with countless deep freezes, stoves, ovens, fridges, storage shelves and wall cabinets. Every surface was covered in piles of dirty dishes and empty beer and schnapps bottles. From the ceiling blinked a neon light, wreathed in grey, and flies circled round a half-eaten bacon rind.

‘You see,' repeated the woman, and she seemed almost content, ‘this is how we have to live!'

Fred nodded. ‘That's harsh. But I'm not who you think I am.'

‘Well, at least you're not a Pole. Here it is.' She pointed at the dishwasher.

‘I mean I'm not a plumber.'

The woman stopped short and looked at him confused. Then a male voice bellowed out from somewhere: ‘Hey, Twiggy, another beer!,' and Fred explained hastily: ‘I'm looking for someone called Nikolas Zimmer. He lives in this apartment, but his name isn't on the bell and I just wanted to ask…'

‘Wait.' The woman went to the fridge, took out a bottle of beer and disappeared for a while. When she returned, she said: ‘Poor old boy. Without the remote control he's only half a man, and we've only had the video recorder for three months. He has to use the old one to wind back - we're just born unlucky!'

Shaking her head she opened the deep freeze, took out two hamburgers and shoved them into the microwave. ‘I'm telling you young man, don't ever be unemployed, it's worse than…' she set the cooking time and turned round while scratching her backside: ‘On the TV I keep hearing Africa. Do you know what my husband says to that? Berlin! They say Africa, he says Berlin, and what does it change? Nothing. That's how it is.'

Sighing, she nodded in agreement with herself and absently picked a dried noodle from the stove.

Fred wondered if her husband was successful with women.

‘As I was saying, I'm looking for Nikolas Zimmer…'

‘The student?'

‘Yes, he has dark hair, fairly tall.'

‘He moved out four months ago.'

‘What…!'

So that's why no one answered. But why had Annette given her this address. Did she know nothing of the move?

The microwave buzzed, and the woman reached into one of the cupboards and pulled out a cardboard box full of dishes. The dishes were in their original shrink-wrapping.

‘So. Lunch time.'

‘Could you tell me where Mr Zimmer lived? Maybe the new tenants know his address.'

‘Back block, first floor right.' And ripping two plates from the packing: ‘I mean all those comparisons get you nowhere. You could just as easily say Goethe's in worse shape than us. Of course he's in worse shape, if you like, because he's dead. But does that make us any better off? …Exactly. And God knows Africa's something entirely different to Goethe - just from the point of view of the significance and all that.'

Fred agreed, said thanks and departed. He was happy to return to the staircase. Unemployment was worse than he thought, particularly with that stench. He ran down the steps across the courtyard and up to the first floor. But there was no name on Nickel's former flat, and when he knocked, there was silence.

At a post office he looked in a phone book: no Nikolas Zimmer there either. Should he call Annette to ask if she'd given him the old address by mistake? He would rather have her believe he was wildly celebrating his reunion with Nickel, and not for a second had he thought about getting in touch with her, as promised. Aside from a visit to the town hall, and the inevitable contact with the police, who might well be looking for a robber and thug answering to Fred's description, and an unthinkable call to Nickel's parents, there was only one possibility.

Fred set off for the nearest tube station.

At the ticket office he asked the way to the Free University. Without a word the official shoved a tube map under the partition. When Fred failed to find a university he turned back to the counter.

‘Can't you read,' yelled the official, ‘it's there, Thielplatz.'

Fred nodded: there it was. Thielplatz. Perfectly logical.

An announcement informed that the next train was delayed due to technical problems. Fred sat on a bench and lit a cigarette. Would he find Nickel at the university? If not, he would still have to ask Annette for help. She could go to the town hall for him, and anyway, she would certainly know some of Nickel's Berlin friends. At the moment there was no reason to worry. On the contrary: Nickel had only failed to meet him in Dieburg because he hadn't received his, Fred's postcard, on account of the fact that he had moved house. Of course. And because not even Annette knew his latest address, he couldn't have learned of Fred's release from anyone else.

Fred leaned back and enjoyed the cigarette. Anyway, this little search for Nickel gave him the opportunity to look around Berlin a bit. While he was here…After all Berlin wasn't just some dump, but… well, Berlin: history, war, East, air, bears, Kennedy…

The platform was filling up. Lunch break and the executive rush hour were approaching. Office workers with newspapers, umbrellas or shabby briefcases under their arms, most of them were silent, grey-faced, downtrodden, grim. A building full of stomach cancer, thought Fred cheerfully. They were all keeping their distance, as if afraid of catching Aids and cholera, as well as cancer. Only when the train arrived were such niceties abandoned, and they piled into the tightly packed carriages. Now the situation was reversed: if people had to stand in such close proximity to the rival germs, it seemed they wanted to respond with a full dose of their own - every cough, sneeze and sniffle imaginable was on display.

Fred changed trains at Wittenbergplatz and grabbed a window seat in an almost empty carriage. It smelled of plastic seats and damp shoes. The handful of passengers was either reading or dozing. In the corner sat a tramp, his forehead caked in dried blood, mumbling from time to time: ‘Better shit than red!'

Fred wondered how Nickel would look these days. Did he still have long hair and the beret? Shame he'd given up the snapping. Seemingly, according to Annette, because of poor prospects, whatever that meant. On the other hand German studies almost suited Nickel better. He'd always had a tendency to confuse talking with saying something. And boy could he talk! Nickel was capable of delivering entire lectures about subjects that would elicit from Fred a shrug at best. However these lectures often seemed fairly arbitrary to Fred. When it was possible to talk about something for hours, for him it was as if nothing at all was said. Once he had asked Nickel what kind of novel he should give Grandma Ranunkel for her birthday. Nickel named twenty.

‘I can't afford twenty. Name one you find especially good.'

‘You can't decide like that, it always depends.'

‘But there must be one you like better than the others.'

‘All have their advantages and disadvantages.'

‘Nickel, I want to give my Granny a book, not a tap.'

‘Then just give her an anthology.'

Nickel's father owned a small hardware store and had read little in his life apart from screw diameters and saw blade sizes. He was suspicious of anything that didn't have to do with building shelves or putting up hooks, and his head seemed to serve merely for putting pencils behind his ear. He thought with his stomach, and his stomach thought only one thing: I used to be slim, now I'm fat, and both are the fault of the lefties. His wife ran the household, was a member of the Rosicrucians - a Christian-vegetarian sect which met once a month to exchange articles of faith and recipes for Soya sausages - and reminded her husband on a daily basis not to be too generous, too gullible - which was about as necessary as insisting that someone with a club foot should limp.

At fourteen Nickel had begun to throw himself into everything that contradicted his parents desires for him to be a junior hardware store manager: Dieburg's tea and freedom circle, Che Guevara beret, pan pipes lessons, photographs of baton-wielding policemen, school strikes, rain forests, books by women for women (and for Nickel) and - meat! In the steakhouse he could hoover up three farmer's portions with bacon, and once at the school party he had shovelled down a whole tray of half cooked sausages. Sometimes Fred wondered if Nickel thought the more rotten the meat, the greater the protest against his mother.

Fred watched the tunnel lights flying past in the window. As a German scholar Nickel would be a real specialist in Canada and wouldn't have to worry about his ‘prospects' any more. If that wasn't the reason for pursuing these studies anyway, and if he was still studying at all and Fred didn't have to go and look for him elsewhere…

Four stations before Thielplatz three pretty girls with satchels got in, and Fred decided that a visit to the university was very definitely worthwhile.