Brother Kemal

Chapter 2

My office was on the second floor of a run-down sixties apartment building — or perhaps it had never run very far up — at the beginning of Gutleutstrasse near Frankfurt Central Station. Pinkish brown plaster was crumbling away from the façade, the bare brick wall showed through in many places, a number of windows had sheets hung over them, others had furniture blocking them, chains of Christmas lights winked on and off all year round on the third floor and on the fourth floor a Frankfurt Hooligan decal covered one pane. On the ground floor there was a second-hand clothes shop where you could buy used moon boots, polyester shirts and cracked leather belts. My friend Slibulsky called it the Third Armpit, on account of the smell that wafted out of the shop when the door was open. The front door at the entrance to the building had once been ribbed glass, until a drunk kicked it in three years ago and the owner had replaced the glass with a wooden board.

The stairwell, which was painted greyish yellow, smelled of cats and cleaning fluid. If you found the half-broken-off light switch and pressed it, a candle-shaped naked energy-saving bulb gave just enough dim light to show you the stairs. Some joker kept smearing some kind of sticky substance on the banisters: jam, honey, UHU glue. I was sure the perpetrator was the twelve-year-old son of a single father on the fourth floor, but I couldn’t prove it. I once cornered him on the subject, and his answer had been, ‘Something sticky? Are you sure it was on the bannisters? Did you wash your hands first?’ Little bastard.

A Croatian Mafia, trying to keep me from investigating their shady business, had blown up my previous office thirteen years before. The two-room apartment in Gutleutstrasse had been a quick, cheap, and — I thought at the time — temporary substitute. My fears that, with such an address, and the state of the building, the only clients I’d get would be people with a list of previous convictions or bad drug problems proved to be exaggerated. It’s true that with the passing trade that made its way up the gloomy stairs to the second floor merely because of the nameplate saying Kemal Kayankaya — Investigations and Personal Protection, I could hardly have earned the rent in those first years. But I had a pretty good reputation as a detective in the city, the word-of-mouth publicity worked well, and business was good. My wish for a classier office space faded. I got used to the area, the chestnut tree outside the window and the little Café Rosig on the corner, until the success of the Internet and computer technology made the location of my office superfluous. My clients got in touch by email or phone, my paper files would fit into a shoe box and I held business meetings in the Café Rosig. I could have given my private apartment as my business address. But then Deborah found an apartment in the West End district of the city — four rooms, kitchen and bathroom — and asked if I’d like to move in with her. We’d been at first an occasional, then more and more of an established, couple for more than six years, and I was happy to accept the offer. That meant I needed an office away from my home. If anyone else had designs on me with explosives or anything else, I didn’t want Deborah to be affected.

Since my website had gone online, exactly two people had come to Gutleutstrasse unannounced: a woman neighbour who wanted me to get her brother to confess over an inheritance dispute — ‘He’s a cowardly, soft little worm, you’d only have to squeeze him a bit’, and a sad man who had fallen for an anonymous girl in a porn film and wanted me to find her for him. When I explained how much such a search could cost him, and how high my advance was, he went away even sadder than before.

So on the morning when I came back from Valerie de Chavannes’s house to my office, I hardly took any notice of the woman leaning against a sunny bit of the wall, talking busily on an iPhone. She wore a blue, expensive-looking trouser suit, and had a short, modern hairstyle. In front of her stood a large leather handbag crammed with papers. An estate agent, I thought. There were constant rumours that the building was being sold to make way for another hotel or parking garage near the station.

I had just put my key into the front door lock and was about to shoulder my bike when I heard her calling behind me. ‘Excuse me …! Herr Kayankaya …?’

I lowered the bike and turned round. ‘Yes?’

She came towards me smiling, on high heels and with her full and obviously heavy handbag in one hand and her iPhone in the other. She had a broad, friendly face, and the closer she came the more clear it became how tall she was. She was almost a head taller than me; she’d still be half that extra height without her shoes on, and I’m not a short man. I liked to see such a tall woman wearing high heels — she obviously wasn’t setting out to do the short people of the world any favours. She let her bag drop to the ground, threw the iPhone into it and held out her hand to me. Her hand was large, too.

‘Katja Lipschitz, chief press officer of Maier Verlag.’

‘Kemal Kayankaya, but you know that already.’

‘I know you from a photo on the Internet, that’s how I recognised you. The man who saved Gregory …’

She was smiling again, perhaps a little too professionally, and there was a look of speculation behind the smile. Did the name Gregory shake me? Gregory’s real name was Gregor Dachstein, and years ago he had won a Big Brother TV show, followed by a CD of songs like ‘Here comes Santa with his prick, chasing every pretty chick’ and ‘She’s an old Cu-Cu-Custard Pie Baker.’ Since then he’d played the clubs in the discothèque world between Little You-Know-Who and Nether Whatsit. Gregory’s manager had hired me as his bodyguard for an appearance at the Hell discothèque in Dietzenbach, and the outcome was that I had to take Gregory to Accident and Emergency in Offenbach at four in the morning with about thirty vodka Red Bulls inside him. A yellow press reporter was waiting there with a camera, and for some time after I asked myself whether the manager had arranged with the reporter to be there before the concert, and had organised his protégé’s consumption of Red Bull accordingly, or whether the idea of offering a tabloid an exclusive story had occurred to him only when Gregory collapsed onstage. Anyway, two days later a photograph of me with Gregory and my jacket covered with his vomit was published, with a caption saying: Poison attack? Gregory in the arms of his bodyguard on the way to hospital. It was an appearance I could have done without.

I responded to Katja Lipschitz’s professional smile by asking, ‘Would you like an autograph?’

‘Later, maybe — as your signature to a contract. As to the reason for my visit to you here …’ — she cast a brief, disparaging look round the place: backyard, wood-boarded entrance, all the traffic on Gutleutstrasse — ‘would you like to hear it outside?’

‘That depends. Does Maier Verlag sell magazine subscriptions door-to-door? Your trouser suit doesn’t look as if a door-to-door salesman could afford it, but maybe that’s just because it suits you so well …’

She was brought up short, apparently baffled at least momentarily by the term door-to-door salesman. Perhaps she was a neighbour of Deborah and me; you didn’t meet door-to-door salesmen in the elegant West End. By way of contrast, three shabby, pale-faced guys had been haunting Gutleutstrasse in the last year alone: ‘Want a great deal? Gala, Bunte, Wochenecho? Lots of good reading there. Or hey, just give me ten euros anyway, I haven’t eaten for days.’ It’s easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a poor bastard to scrounge the few euros he needs to survive from a rich man.

She shook her head and said, amused, ‘No, no, don’t worry. We’re a highly regarded literary publishing house. Haven’t you ever heard of us? Mercedes García is on our list, and so are Hans Peter Stullberg, Renzo Kochmeister, and Daniela Mita …’

She was looking at me so expectantly that the possibility of my being unacquainted with her authors would have marked me out as a total idiot.

I knew the sixty-something Stullberg from newspaper interviews in which he called for young people to devote themselves to the old values. Reading his words, I thought how writers like to express themselves in metaphors: he was the old values, and the young person devoted to him wore close-fitting jeans and had nicely curved breasts. I’d once seen photos of Daniela Mita in Deborah’s Brigitte magazine, and it could be that the idea of the young person turning to old values had occurred to Stullberg at the sight of his colleague on the Maier Verlag list. I hadn’t read anything by either of them.

‘Sorry, of the two of us my wife is the one who reads books,’ I said, and couldn’t suppress a grin when I saw Katja Lipschitz’s slightly forced smile.

I looked at her with a twinkle in my eye and nodded towards the entrance to the building. ‘Come on up and I’ll make coffee. While I’m doing that you can look through my annotated edition of Proust.’

A quarter of an hour later Katja Lipschitz, now relaxed, was sitting in my wine-red velvet armchair stretching her long legs, sipping coffee and looking round her. There wasn’t much to see: an empty desk with only a laptop on it, a bookshelf full of reference works on criminal law, full and empty wine bottles, and a plastic Zinedine Zidane Tipp-Kick figurine from a table football game that Slibulsky had given me. Several watercolours painted by Deborah’s niece Hanna, who was now fourteen, hung on the walls, along with a large station clock with my little armoury hidden behind it. Two pistols, handcuffs, knock-out drops, pepper spray.

‘Do you have children?’ asked Katja Lipschitz, pointing to the watercolours.

‘A niece.’ I sat down with her in the other red-velvet guest armchair. The chairs were left over from Deborah’s past. She had worked for a couple of years at Mister Happy, a small, chic brothel on the banks of the Main run on fair lines by a former tart. When Deborah stopped working there ten years ago, she had been given the chairs as a leaving present.

‘Well, what can I do for you?’

Katja Lipschitz looked at me gravely and with a touch of concern. ‘My request is in strict confidence. If we don’t come to an agreement on it …’

‘Anything we discuss will be between us,’ I ended the sentence, guessing what was on her mind. ‘Forget Gregory. I’m not bothered about him. Gregory’s career is over; his manager just wanted to attract attention by hiring a bodyguard. They took me for a ride with that photo.’

‘I see.’ The words took me for a ride were obviously going through her head. The character I want to hire for a delicate job was taken for a ride by a third-class (at most) manager and a roughly twenty-second-class beer hall porno pop singer …

‘I had no idea who Gregory was,’ I said, trying to dispel her doubts. ‘The agreement came by fax, and it seemed like easy money.’

‘Right.’ She put her cup down, looked at one of Hanna’s pictures again and pulled herself together. ‘It’s about one of our authors. He’s Moroccan, and he’s written a book that’s created quite a stir in the Arab world. He’ll be coming to Frankfurt for the Book Fair, and he needs protection.’ She paused for a moment. ‘He’s in serious danger. There have been several assassination threats from various Islamic organisations, and even intellectuals are attacking the book and its author harshly.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Our publisher is taking quite a risk himself by bringing it out.’

‘What’s the book about?’

‘It’s a novel. It takes place in a police station in a fictional Arab setting, although it’s obviously modelled on one of the Maghreb countries. Well …’ Katja Lipschitz looked me in the eyes, as if hoping to read something there. Her look reminded me slightly of Valerie de Chavannes before she told me that the quarrel in which Abakay and Marieke got involved that evening had been about the caricatures of Muhammad.

I nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes?’

‘Well, during an investigation in the red light district the central character, a police detective, discovers that he has homosexual tendencies. He falls in love with a boy and they begin an affair, endangering his marriage and his job, in the end even his life. At the same time, of course, the book is really studying the relationship between Muslim society and homosexuality. There are passages in which the police detective — until then a devout Muslim — thinks about the Koran, God and love between people of the same sex, and in his despair and anger turns against his religion. Meanwhile the book also describes an abyss of drugs, sex, poverty and criminality — fundamentally afar from sacred society. Religion is only there to conceal the widespread misery and keep the people calm — do you understand?’

‘I do. And the author himself has’ — I couldn’t resist a slight imitation of Katja Lipschitz’s excessively cautious tone of voice — ‘homosexual inclinations?’

‘No, no, the story is pure fiction.’

‘How do you know?’

With the slightly exhausted look that comes into all women’s eyes when they are talking about crude, unwelcome advances from men, she said, ‘He was at our offices last year, and I accompanied him to several interviews.’

‘How big is he?’

‘As an author?’

‘No, as a man.’

She frowned. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

‘Well, none of the Moroccans I’ve met so far are giants, and I imagine that if a rather small man tries making up to such an imposing figure as you I can draw some conclusions about his character.’

‘So?’ For a moment she obviously thought I was round the bend. ‘In fact he is rather small. What conclusion do you draw from that?’ Her tone was stern, even a bit angry. Perhaps she didn’t like that ‘imposing figure’, although I had meant it as a compliment.

‘If he was seriously interested in you and outward features like size hardly mattered — none at all. But if he is the kind of man who simply tries to jump on anything female, never mind what his chances, from the perspective of twenty-four-hour personal protection that is not a completely irrelevant factor.’

She thought about it for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, of course you’re right. Hmm …’

Once again she thought it over. She disliked the subject, but not as much as she probably should have, given her position. She couldn’t hide a certain satisfaction in having to make her views clear because the situation demanded it.

‘He certainly doesn’t miss out on anything. Or rather, he’d like to think he doesn’t. His advances aren’t very successful. I spent two days travelling around with him, and he got nowhere with any of the women he made up to. Don’t misunderstand me: he’s good company, well educated, even good-looking, but …’

She stopped.

I said, ‘But he gets on your nerves.’

‘Maybe you could put it that way, yes. However, I’m sorry for him. You see, I think he simply doesn’t understand that it’s different between the sexes here, that communication is more along the lines of equal rights, that we …’

She stopped. The little word we echoed soundlessly in the air, as if Katja Lipschitz had farted and was hoping I’d put the sound down to the chair creaking. We, the civilised Europeans Lipschitz and Kayankaya, and he, the Moroccan Freddie the Flirt? Or more likely you two Orientals and I, the tall blonde …?

I tried to help her out. ‘You don’t have to explain your author to me. I’d just like to know what he does and can or can’t do. The reasons don’t matter to me.’

‘I just didn’t want you thinking that he …’

‘Pesters women?’

‘Well … no … yes, I definitely didn’t want that.’

‘Don’t worry. Besides, he’ll leave me in peace. What languages does he speak?’

‘Hmm …’ She wanted to say something else about her author, but then let it rest. ‘Arabic, of course, French and German. He studied in Berlin, and always spends several months a year there. And incidentally … he chose you.’

‘He chose me?’

‘Well, we showed him a list of all the Frankfurt agencies offering personal protection, and he thought it would help his public image if his bodyguard was a Muslim. You are Muslim, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, well.’ I gestured vaguely. ‘My parents were. I mean my birth parents. They died early on, and I was adopted by a German couple who raised me. I assume they were baptised, but religion didn’t play any part in our family.’

Katja Lipschitz hesitated.

‘But … forgive me for asking, presuming we’re to work together it might not be totally unimportant: how do you see yourself? I mean are you religious in any way?’

I shook my head. ‘No religion, no star sign, no belief in hot stones or lucky numbers. When I need something to lean on I have a beer.’

‘Oh.’ She looked confused and slightly repelled.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t offer you any faith. But that can hardly be of any importance to the public image of your author. My name is Kayankaya, and I look the way I look. I don’t know how Muslim I am under religious law, but ask any of my neighbours, I’m sure they could tell you.’

‘Do you mind if I pass that on to our author?’

‘Not in the least. So he chose me. Was it his idea to hire a bodyguard in the first place? Does the information that his book is causing an uproar in the Arab world come first and foremost from him?’

Katja Lipschitz’s glance lingered on my eyes for a moment. But she wasn’t seeing my eyes, rather something or other beyond them — her boss, a furious Freddie the Flirt, or the newspaper headline: Moroccan author invents role of victim to crank up sales of book.

‘That’s nonsense,’ she said at last, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

‘Glad to hear it. I’ve been rather suspicious ever since Gregory, as I’m sure you’ll understand. What’s your author’s name? Well, I can find that out anyway: Maier Verlag, Morocco, gay police detective — Google ought to provide enough hits. And then I can convince myself of the outrage in the Arab world.’

‘Malik Rashid. I’ll be happy to show you the threatening letters.’

‘In Arabic?’

‘We’ll get them translated, of course. In case we’re forced to publish them, or we have to turn to the police.’

‘If you hire me I really would like to see those letters.’

I looked at the time; it was just after noon. I’d determined to get Marieke home in time for lunch. On the one hand, the fastest possible performance of a job is of course part of the service; on the other hand, I liked the idea of impressing Valerie de Chavannes with my swift, uncomplicated help.

‘When does the Book Fair begin?’

‘Next Wednesday. Malik is arriving on Friday and staying until Monday.’

‘Is he staying at a hotel?’

‘The Harmonia in Niederrad.’

‘Not a very cheerful neighbourhood.’

‘We’re glad to get any hotel rooms at all. You may not know it, but Frankfurt is fully booked during the Fair.’

‘I’m only wondering what Rashid’s evenings look like. People don’t usually like going home to Niederrad early.’

‘He has engagements on all three evenings — dinner with the publisher, a reading and a panel discussion, and after those he’ll be exhausted and want to go to bed.’

‘Does he drink alcohol?’

‘He says not, for religious reasons, but to be honest … well, I’ve seen him at least once when his conduct made me think he was under the influence.’

‘Maybe he smokes weed?’

‘I … you’ll have to ask him that yourself. You see, I’ve tried to avoid personal subjects between us as much as possible because …’

‘Yes, I understand.’ I nodded to her. ‘Fine, Frau Lipschitz, I have enough information for now. I assume you’ll want to think it over. You can call me anytime.’ I took one of my business cards out of my shirt pocket and gave it to her. ‘My usual fee as a bodyguard is a hundred euros an hour plus taxes, but for round-the-clock standby duty, at least a thousand euros a day, plus taxes. If Rashid gets drunk or catches flu and spends all day in bed it will still cost you just under a thousand two hundred euros. However, I’m flexible about calculating working hours: for instance, if Rashid wants to go to the cinema or something like that, and I can go for a coffee in the meantime, I won’t sit outside the cinema and claim I was searching the street for Al-Qaeda for two hours on end.’

‘I’ll have to discuss it with the publisher.’

‘Do that. And if we come to an agreement, please let me know as soon as possible so that I can check out the hotel before Rashid arrives.’

She nodded. ‘And in that case I would also send you his daily schedules.’

‘Great. And the threatening letters.’

‘And the threatening letters.’

‘I’ll wait for your call.’

We rose from the armchairs and shook hands. Then I showed her to the door and out into the stairwell, and pressed the light switch. The energy-saving bulb shed its cool grey light.

‘So what is the title of Rashid’s novel?’

‘Journey to the End of Days.’

‘Ah. Does something like that sell well?’

‘The advance orders were enormous. With a subject like that … and although the book is only just out, everyone’s already talking about it. That’s why we’re so anxious in case anything happens during the Fair.’

We nodded to each other once more, exchanging friendly smiles, and then Katja Lipschitz made her way downstairs. I thought of warning her about the low ceiling on the last landing, but then let it be. She must have enough experience with low ceilings to notice, and judging by her reaction to my remark about her imposing figure she would rather do without further references to her size.

Back in my office, I typed ‘Malik Rashid: Journey to the End of Days’ into the Google search box. Among other links, I found the Maier Verlag website. The novel had appeared in Paris a year before, and the French critics quoted by the publishing house were of course over the moon about it. Even elsewhere on the Internet I found, almost exclusively, praise for the book. Apart from a comment in a blog from one Hammid, who hated it like poison. Or at least my tourist French was enough for me to get the drift of un roman de merde and sale pédé. But as far as I could tell there were no reactions at all from Morocco or any other Arab country. So the fact that, according to Katja Lipschitz, the novel had caused a great stir there was a pure publicity spin. That was fine by me. Easy money again.

I took the station clock off its hook, opened the safe behind it and put the pistol and the handcuffs in my pockets. They should at least make a bit of an impression on Abakay if necessary. Then I shouldered my bike and set off for Sachsenhausen.