Brother Kemal

Chapter 10

On Friday I met Malik Rashid and Katja Lipschitz in the midst of a dreary dance of colour. The lounge of the Harmonia Hotel had yellow and pink chessboard pattern carpeting, Rashid was sitting on a lime-green sofa, and Katja Lipschitz in a faded blue wing chair. In front of them stood a table with a black top and a metal frame, and on it were orange half-litre mugs with milky white foam rising from them.

Katja Lipschitz, legs crossed and arms folded, sat leaning back, with her head almost horizontally to one side, as if to disguise the difference in size between herself and Rashid like that. Or maybe she was just dozing off.

Rashid, upright, legs apart, was talking to her and gesticulating wildly. He was wearing bright white trainers, jeans and a beige T-shirt bearing the legend The old words are the best, and short words are the best of all. He had a thin face with fine features, lively eyes always moving around and an amused expression, as if to say: Yes, my dear, what a crazy, confused world, what luck there are fellows like me around to keep on top of it.

Rashid didn’t look up until I stopped a couple of metres in front of him, and his expression of amusement instantly turned to a certain reluctance. Perhaps he thought I was a member of the hotel staff.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello, my name is Kayankaya.’

‘Oh,’ said Katja Lipschitz, raising her head. Now she clearly towered above Rashid. ‘I didn’t see you coming.’

And Rashid cried, ‘Aha!’ and switched instantly to an expression of radiance. He rose from the sofa, spreading his arms wide in a theatrical manner. ‘My protector! Greetings!’

Katja Lipschitz didn’t seem to know whether to stand up too. On the one hand there was civility to me, on the other she was probably thinking of Rashid’s feelings. I noticed at once that she was wearing flat-heeled shoes, but if she stood right beside him Rashid was still going to look like a gnome. Or she was going to look like a giant — perhaps it was that more than anything that she wanted to avoid.

‘Don’t get up,’ I said to Katja Lipschitz, offering Rashid my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Herr Rashid.’

‘Oh!’ He lowered his arms and ironically mimed disappointment. ‘So formal, my friend! How are we to spend three days cheek by jowl like that?’

I glanced at Katja Lipschitz, who was smiling as if her boss had just put a farting cushion on her chair.

I left my hand in midair. ‘Cheek by jowl.’

‘Or bristle by bristle.’ He grinned, glad of his little coup. ‘Because, aren’t we all little pigs somewhere deep down inside? Or sometimes big pigs. Maybe that’s why we don’t eat them, it would be a kind of cannibalism.’ He grinned a little more cheerfully, before turning apologetically to Katja Lipschitz. ‘Excuse me, Katja, by we I meant us Orientals. I’ve no objection to eating pork, but I don’t eat it. And that’s nothing to do with religion. The Jews — and Jews are Orientals too, right? A fraternal people. And what are the bloodiest wars?’ He pointed his index finger questioningly at me. I withdrew my proffered hand and put it in my trouser pocket.

‘Wars between brothers! Anyway — the Jews don’t eat pork either. Nor do Christians in the Orient — and many of my best friends are Christians,’ he added, laughing. ‘At least, they’ve never served me ham hock!’

Katja Lipschitz joined in his laughter, whether out of professionalism or because she really thought it funny I couldn’t tell.

I said, ‘Herr Rashid, I am to be your bodyguard for three days. We shall probably be sitting in the same restaurant several times, maybe at the same table. Please let me know whether it will bother you if I order sausage.’

For a moment his eyes rested on me as if he were wondering whether it had really been a good idea to pick me as his bodyguard.

Then he shook himself, his mouth stretched in a smile, and all at once he was my new best friend again, beaming radiantly. ‘I’ve already heard that you have your own opinions and’ — he nodded approvingly — ‘defend them in your own original way.’

Once again I glanced at Katja Lipschitz. This time she was smiling as if her boss had put a board studded with nails on her chair.

‘Well, Herr Rashid, if eating sausage is an opinion — yes, I have opinions. Shall we discuss the rest of your day? I assume you’ll have to turn up at the Fair to meet your fans and carry out your engagements.’

He laughed ironically, clearing his throat. ‘Ah, my fans! I’m only a little scribbler. Now Hans Peter Stullberg has fans — so does Mercedes García …’ And in a tone of casual interest, glancing at Katja Lipschitz across the multicoloured seating and the chessboard pattern of the carpet, ‘I wonder, what hotel are they staying in?’

For a moment Katja Lipschitz seemed to be in danger of blushing. She caught herself just in time, assumed a kindly smile and explained, ‘Her Spanish publisher is looking after Mercedes García. I believe she’s staying in a guestroom at the Instituto Cervantes. And luckily we were able to get a room at the Frankfurter Hof at the last moment for Hans Peter Stullberg. Rohlauf Verlag kindly let us have one of their quota. On account of his age and his back trouble, Hans Peter Stullberg can’t walk long distances these days.’

‘Oh, the poor man.’ Rashid twisted his face into an expression of sympathy.

‘Yes, he really doesn’t have an easy time. In addition,’ Katja went on, with what I thought was a tiny, cunning flash in her eyes, ‘the Frankfurter Hof would have been out of the question for you, for reasons of security. Thousands of people are going in and out of the hotel every evening and every night during the Book Fair.’ And she explained, for my benefit, ‘The bar of the Frankfurter Hof could be described as the unofficial centre of the air after ten in the evening. Everyone meets there: authors, publishers, journalists, agents, editors.’

‘Apart from which,’ said Rashid, also turning to me, ‘the Frankfurter Hof is, of course, greatly overestimated as a hotel. Last time I stayed there during the Book Fair — ’ He suddenly stopped. Perhaps he sensed Katja Lipschitz suddenly looking at the floor, rather exhausted. ‘Well, never mind. Average food, unfriendly service — that’s what you usually get at the so-called best hotels in the city. They don’t need to go to any trouble. Why don’t we sit down, my friend?’

‘Let’s do that,’ I agreed.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ asked Katja Lipschitz.

‘Mineral water, please.’

As she signalled to the barman, Rashid returned to his subject. ‘Of course there are exceptions. At the Literature Festival in New York last year — ’

‘Herr Rashid,’ I interrupted him, ‘it’s twelve thirty, and at one thirty, according to your schedule, you have your first engagement at the Fair. I’d like to discuss a couple of details with you first.’

‘I understand.’ He laughed. ‘My good German Kemal — work is work, and schnapps is schnapps!’ He laughed again. In fact, he seemed glad that I’d stopped him talking about hotels.

I said, ‘First and foremost it’s about the technicalities when we’re together. For instance, when we’re moving through the halls of the Fair, I’d like to decide, depending on the situation and the number of people present, whether I go behind you or ahead of you. If there are cameras turned on you, of course I’ll keep in the background.’

Perhaps it was the idea of clicking cameras, perhaps the memory that I had not been hired by the publishing house for my social skills but to protect him from any deranged fanatics — anyway, his facial expression suddenly turned positively solicitous. He nodded, and said, ‘Of course, you must do everything that you think right.’

Katja Lipschitz backed this up. ‘Herr Kayankaya is our security chief for the next three days, and we all ought to follow his instructions.’

Rashid nodded again. He liked the sound of that: security chief. I was convinced, however, that Katja Lipschitz did not think any greater dangers lay in wait for Rashid than a destitute colleague who might be infuriated by the sight of what went on in luxury hotels to the point of throwing a glass of beer in Rashid’s face, or a lady sitting beside him at dinner who struck his hand away from her thigh.

All the same, Maier Verlag should get an author to be taken seriously for the money it was laying out.

I went on. ‘In any critical situations, please don’t be alarmed. I carry a gun, and will bring it out if necessary. If I have to throw you to the floor or get you into cover in any other way, I’ll try to hurt you as little as possible.’

‘I see.’ He frowned. Either he thought, as I did, that this was a good excuse if the fancy took me to push him into the nearest broom cupboard, or he really did feel a little queasy.

‘When you’re giving interviews, or you’re in contact with your readers, I’ll be as inconspicuous as possible, although I must insist that if I feel suspicious — and often that’s pure intuition — I shall have the person concerned subjected to a quick search for weapons or explosives. Unless, of course, he or she is well known to you or Frau Lipschitz.’

‘Okay …’ he said hesitantly.

Perhaps he hadn’t imagined my job in such concrete terms, with so much opportunity for hand-to-hand scuffling. Presumably there had been practical, objective reasons for the decision to hire a bodyguard: genuine concern for his safety and the endeavour to make sure he appeared at the Fair to the best possible advantage. However, his image of the bodyguard himself and the nature of his job had probably been more poetic than anything. A mixture of a cheerful companion, Prince Valiant and some Hollywood hero leaping out of a helicopter.

After the barman had brought me my mineral water, Katja Lipschitz asked, ‘What line do we take during demonstrations?’

‘Demonstrations?’

‘Well, there have been indications that there might be protests by Muslim groups at the publishing house’s stand.’

‘Was that in the threatening letters?’ I asked mildly.

‘We’ve had some anonymous phone calls.’

‘Well …’ I sipped my water. ‘Either it’s possible to talk to such people, or Herr Rashid and I go off to eat a beef sausage and wait for the demonstration to be over. Are these anonymous phone calls recorded on your answering machine?’

‘My secretary took them.’

‘You know, there’s quite a lot of time between an anonymous phone call and a face-to-face appearance with a possible police confrontation — time for the caller to consider the tempting idea of staying at home on Day X and lying comfortably on the sofa, putting the next DVD into the slot. Anonymous phone calls aren’t often followed up by action.’

‘How about cases of explosives?’ asked Rashid.

‘I assume that visitors to the Book Fair are checked as they come in.’

‘Well …’ Katja Lipschitz made a vague gesture. ‘The checks aren’t particularly rigorous.’

‘That’s a pity. Then we’ll have to look out for all bags standing around unattended. And if we’ — I gave them a good-humoured smile — ‘happen to overlook the one vital bag, then at least we acted in the cause of literature and enlightenment.’

‘Yes, well, very nicely put,’ said Rashid, while Katja Lipschitz made a face as if I had cracked a joke about blondes.

‘But don’t worry,’ I went on. ‘What was it I read the other day? In Europe, the risk of dying in an attack involving explosives is a hundred times less than the risk of choking on a mini-mozzarella. So watch out for the cold buffets over the next few days.’

Rashid tried to make eye contact with Katja Lipschitz. The glance he gave her when she finally looked his way said something like: Can you please get this conversation back on sensible lines at once! Then he took his half-litre cup of coffee and disappeared behind the still-towering foam mountain. Maybe they fixed it with hairspray. If your coffee didn’t come with a mountain of foam, Deborah had told me recently, it hardly stood a chance in the coffee trade today. Milky coffee foam had clearly surpassed beer foam as Germany’s number one foam. I was wondering if I would think it funny to warn Rashid of the dangers of overfoamed milk when Katja Lipschitz finally brought the pause to an end.

‘Herr Kayankaya, I understand that, based on your work and your experience, you take such a situation less seriously than we do. But please don’t forget: Malik is a writer, his world is his desk. The fact that a literary text — and one in which Malik openly pleads for greater tolerance and opposes any form of exclusion or oppression — that such a text, one that sets out to make the world a better and more peaceful place, has led to Malik’s having to fear for his physical safety if not, indeed, his life, is a shock that has affected all of us at Maier Verlag, but of course affects Malik in particular and will do so for a long time to come. We would be grateful if you would be a bit more sensitive.’

Before I could nod and say, ‘Sorry,’ or something of that nature, there was an angry interjection from behind the mound of foam. ‘That’s nonsense, Katja! I don’t want to make the world a better place, if anything I only want to make literature better! You might as well say I wanted to change the world! And there’s your nice little UNESCO scribbler! Off I go into the paperback African Narratives series!’

Katja Lipschitz froze. I scratched my chin and tried to think of something as sensitive as possible to say. Rashid lowered his cup and shot angry, scornful glances at me. ‘As for you, you’d better read my book! Here you are, working for me, and you haven’t a clue about it! My novel has nothing to do with your self-indulgent world of mini-mozzarellas!’

‘I’m glad to hear that, Herr Rashid. Just now I was afraid, for a moment … well, since you know your way about first-class hotels so well, and if I remember correctly your central character is, well, sexually indeterminate — for a moment I wondered whether the story in your novel is set in the world of flight attendants or interior decorating … if you see what I mean? Something along those lines. But you know,’ I went on fast, before he could throw his coffee cup at me, ‘I’m just a bodyguard. I never studied at university and I must confess, to my shame, that my reading matter has been confined to the daily TV programmes for far too long. So I’m glad you’ve given me such a personal incentive to make up for that. I’ll read your book as soon as I can, and I really look forward to it. However …’

I stopped. They were both staring at me with their mouths slightly open, as if they were watching acrobatics in a circus. Was I about to break my neck? Would they break it for me?

‘Well, since I’ll be close to you most of the time over the next few days, I’m wondering whether you wouldn’t be uncomfortable if I carried your book around with me? I mean, it’s possible that people might get the idea that as your bodyguard I was, so to speak …’ I gave a short laugh, ‘forced to read it. So, I can simply read it at night. I can get through it by Sunday, and then I’d be delighted to talk to you about it. When does one get the chance to discuss an author’s work with the author himself?’

Rashid stared at me for a moment, baffled, then he looked at the black plastic table in front of him and said, in a tone suggesting that he was overcome by exhaustion, ‘I have to go to the toilet, and then I think it would be best if we went to the Fair.’

‘There’s one more thing I’d like to get clear, Herr Rashid.’

Rashid got up from the sofa and asked, turning away from me, ‘And that is?’

I noticed Katja Lipschitz’s fingers digging into the arms of her chair.

‘I appreciate the fact that you address me as a friend, indeed I take it as a great compliment. But over many years I’ve found that excessive familiarity with the person I am protecting can lead to moments of carelessness in my work. So let’s keep it formal until the end of our contract.’

Rashid cast me a quick, expressionless glance over his shoulder. ‘Whatever works for you.’ And he went off slowly, almost dragging his feet, in the direction of the toilets.

I wondered whether I ought to accompany him, but then decided that my work didn’t begin until we were at the Book Fair. I thought it most unlikely that Rashid would run into any danger in the toilet.

I sipped some water and turned to Katja Lipschitz. She was still sitting in her chair all tensed up, fingers digging into its arms, eyes turned on the floor.

‘Was that sensitive enough?’

She looked up and scrutinised me as if she were asking herself — in as many words, unusual as they might be in her mouth but surely satisfying — what damn whore had brought me into the world? Then she said, ‘You know very well that you’d be fired if there was any chance of finding a replacement for you in the next half an hour. What possessed you to speak to our author like that?’

‘And what possessed your author to treat me like a fool? “My protector!” ’

‘It was a sign that he liked you!’

‘He doesn’t know me at all. Why would he like me? For my origin?’

She took a deep breath. ‘Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough at our last meeting: Malik Rashid is a great, a fantastic, a very special author, recognised and celebrated all over the world. If at first his behaviour or his style is not easy for you to comprehend, then it may be because you seldom mix with artists and intellectuals.’

I remembered what Valerie de Chavannes had said about her husband: ‘Well, maybe your job doesn’t allow you much experience with people whose approach to life doesn’t conform to the usual standards.’ Obviously I didn’t exactly strike the ladies of upper-class Frankfurt society as a man of the world.

Katja Lipschitz went on: ‘The thought processes of creative minds are often more convoluted and their conduct in public clumsier than ours. Because they think too much!’

God knows no one could say that of you, she said with her eyes.

‘Because they try to understand things in all their complexity! And sometimes make them more complicated than they really are. I am sure Malik thought seriously about the way to meet you. Do you know what he said to me on the phone two days ago?’

Being unable to think of anything sensitive, I didn’t reply.

‘He said how uncomfortable the situation was for him! Giving a grown man instructions about his most intimate affairs. For instance that he’d have to be accompanied to the toilet. Or the other way around, taking instructions from you. The idea that he couldn’t go anywhere or do anything he liked. He probably thought it all over carefully — whether a formal or informal approach would relax the situation more.’

‘You ought to have suggested that formality is best between adults at the start.’

‘Don’t be so uppity!’

‘You mean that as an Oriental I …’

‘Argh!’

‘Oh!’

She leaned forward angrily, picked up her coffee, and disappeared, like Rashid, behind a mountain of milky foam.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think with that everything’s cleared up now.’

Katja Lipschitz was still hidden behind the foam.

‘All that remains is for me to wish us all a happy working relationship.’ I raised my glass of water. ‘Here’s to three relatively calm days as uneventful as possible.’

She lowered her cup far enough for us to look into each other’s eyes. ‘Please just do your work as well as you can. The situation is what it is, and Malik Rashid is Malik Rashid. I’m sure you’re professional enough to accept that going forward. If there are any more disagreements or supposed problems, or anything else, please turn straight to me. I’ll be the person you talk to for the next three days — and no one else. Malik needs his strength for the fair, and don’t even think of approaching members of our staff …’

She was searching for the right word. I helped her out. ‘To pester them?’

She took a sip of her coffee. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll be as invisible as possible.’

‘Good, Herr Kayankaya, I’m glad to hear it.’

She put down her mug of cappuccino and said, ‘Excuse me, it’s the Book Fair and I have things to do.’ Then she tapped a text message into her iPhone and checked her emails. Time passed, and Rashid did not come back. I wondered if he suffered from diarrhoea, and imagined the two of us having to go to the toilet together every half an hour for the next few days.

When he finally did come back his temper had greatly improved.

‘Right, Herr Kayankaya,’ he said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Let’s do it whatever way you think is right.’

Katja Lipschitz looked relieved.

On the way to the Fair, the mood in our taxi was suddenly really good. Rashid asked Katja Lipschitz who else was coming, maybe Lutz Whosit or ‘witty Bodo’, how many interviews he was giving, where we could get a quick bite to eat before the evening’s event, and he seemed as happy as a child, even if he groaned now and then, ‘My God, what a strain this is going to be!’

And to me, he said, ‘You wait and see, the Book Fair is hell!’ But he was beaming all over his face.