More Beer

3

I pushed the front door and turned on the light in the entrance hall. Almost instantly the greengrocer popped out of his ground-floor apartment. In his corduroy slippers, turned-up jeans, and green nylon pullover, he barred my way, his shiny blond hair combed severely to the right. He was waving an empty cigarette pack excitedly.

“What is this? Tell me, what is this?”

His head bounced forward and back, as if pummeled from behind by an invisible fist.

One more time. “What is this?”

I unlocked my mailbox.

“I have no idea.”

“It is an empty cigarette pack and I found it this morning, on the landing! Because I sweep my landing! Do you hear me? I sweep my landing! Here in Germany, we sweep our landings! We’re not in the Balkans here, and you better get used to it, or else go back there! You terrorize the whole building with your garbage … the whole building! He jabbed the pack with his index finger as if to punch holes in it. “All the other tenants have confirmed that this is the brand you smoke. Well, what do you have to say to that? Well?”

He raised his eyebrows and went on ranting.

“Ha! That strikes you dumb, doesn’t it! But let me tell you something-if ever again I find one of these on the landing, I’ll get the owner and show him the mess. Your mess! Then you’ll have to deal with him. Do you understand?”

I felt like pasting him.

“Come on, say something! You’re always such a smartass, how come you don’t know what to say?”

I took the mail out of my box, locked it again, and advanced. We were still two meters apart when he began to stammer.

“If you do anything to me … if you dare … I’ll, I’ll call the police … and they, they’ll arrest you, and there’ll be some peace in this building, at long last … They’ll put you in jail, and we’ll be rid of you!”

He fluttered his hands in front of me like a man shooing off pigeons.

“Now, now … I’m warning you … if you touch me, I’ll … I’ll call for help …”

He was out of breath. I pushed past him and climbed the stairs to my apartment. Once inside, I pulled off my damp clothes and took a hot shower. I had an unpleasant prickling sensation in my feet. Drying myself off, I thought about Carla Reedermann. Then I put on a pair of wool pants and two pullovers and a pair of hiking boots. The kitchen smelled of burnt onions. I poured myself a tumbler of Chivas and went to the phone. I dialed the number of my garage and listened to the phone ring for a while.

“Riebl Auto Repair.”

“Kayankaya. Is my car ready?”

“I’m just working on it.”

“It’s been three weeks since you told me you’d have it ready for me in a week.”

“Not to worry, I’ll have it fixed the day after tomorrow at the latest.”

“I’m not worried. I need a car today, and if you can’t do it, I’ll take your limo.”

He giggled. Riebl was one of those people who seem to be drunk all the time while never touching a drop of the stuff. He was just a little goofy.

“That’s no joke. I’ll be there in half an hour.”

He kept on giggling and mumbled something. I hung up.

“Be right there.”

Riebl was lying under the hood of my green Opel Kadett. The place smelled of gasoline and lubricant. A radio in a corner was screeching tunes of the German homeland. Then he surfaced.

“Oh, it’s you, Mr.…”

“Kayankaya.”

“Right.”

“What’s with my car?”

He scratched his neck and stared absently at the floor, as if he had just heard an immoral proposition.

“We-ell …”

“Well, what?”

“You know, it’s so easy to make a wrong estimate. At first it just seems to be the sparks, but then it turns out the whole engine is screwy. You know what I mean?”

“Give me the keys to your car. I’ll be back tonight, at half past seven.”

He shook his pinched head.

“Tch, tch, tch, I don’t know …”

“Come on.”

Hesitantly he produced a bunch of keys out of a pocket of his overalls.

“But really … I don’t …”

“See you tonight.”

I left him standing next to my Kadett. Twenty kilometers past Darmstadt, I took the Doppenburg exit.