Kismet

Chapter 6

‘When was the car reported stolen?’ I asked.

Hottges’s heavy breathing mingled with the noise of traffic. He was ringing from a phone box. Paper rustled, then he said, ‘Yesterday. But the owner said he’d been away for the last four days, so it could have been stolen as long ago as last Monday.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Dr Michael Ahrens.’

I made a note of it. Coughing and hawking sounds were coming from my bathroom.

‘Addresses: work, private…’

He gave me street names and phone numbers. As I wrote them down under the man’s name, the noises from the bathroom grew louder, more full-bodied, and merged at increasing speed, until you might have thought a herd of elephants had sought out my bathtub especially to throw up in it.

‘OK. What about new Mafia gangs in the station district?’

‘None. Just the usual Albanians and Turks.’

‘How about Roder? Has he gone?’

Roder was the boss of the German gang, and of course he hadn’t gone. But while every Russian pickpocket was instantly regarded as evidence of organised criminality, many people still thought of German gangs which had tight leadership as nothing but a bunch of cartoon burglars in big peaked caps with sacks full of candlesticks slung over their shoulders. Even a pro like Hottges, who should have known better, avoided linking the terms Mafia and Germans in any but a mutually hostile connection.

‘No. Roder’s still around.’

‘Albanians, Turks and Germans, then.’

Hottges did not reply. Instead I heard the flushing of the toilet from the bathroom, accompanied by something that sounded like a stuttering foghorn.

‘You’ve never heard of an outfit calling itself the Army of Reason?’

‘No. Like I said, only the usual.’

‘OK. Thanks very much. And I have a small request. An acquaintance of mine would like to get German citizenship.’

I briefly explained what he needed to know, made an appointment for Romario, and the phone call finished. The shower was turned on in the bathroom. My shower. My soap. My back-brush. I wondered if it wouldn’t have been a better idea to ask Hottges to cancel Romario’s residence permit today, once and for all. A single poncy black hair in the plughole of my bathtub, and Romario would be sorry! Just as I was thinking that, he began singing in the shower. That well-known folksong No Fairer Land. What the hell was his idea? Rehearsing for a thank-you performance when he’d been given his citizenship papers? Or was this simply the stuff he usually warbled under the shower anyway? Perhaps he sang the national anthem while he was washing up, perhaps as a future German citizen he was planning to vote CDU? I imagined him standing outside his new restaurant the Germania in a year’s time and, when asked what he liked best about Germany, saying, ‘The clean streets.’ And perhaps just then I’d come staggering out of one of the bars opposite and drop an empty cigarette packet on the pavement, and he’d point at me and explain: now there’s an example of unwillingness to integrate, and I think a man who’s lived the life I’ve lived has the right to say we’re not putting up with this kind of thing.

I stood up and marched to the bathroom door.

‘Romario!’

‘Yoo-hoo!’ the happy echo came back. ‘Shut up!’

The splashing died down a bit. ‘What?’

‘Stop singing! Shut up!’

‘Yes, up with singing! I always sing under the shower! When I came to Frankfurt I went to evening classes on German songs, did you know? We like German music a lot in Brazil, and I just love singing.’

I stared at my bathroom door.

‘It gives quite a different feel to the start of the day!’

‘Romario!’

‘Yoo-hoo!’

‘I don’t want you giving quite a different feel to the start of the day here.’

A short pause. ‘Didn’t quite catch that!’

‘Stop singing like that!’

‘Oh, too loud, is it? No problem!’

The volume, I thought as I went back into the kitchen, that’s all our CDU voter understands!

I made a fresh pot of coffee, listened in case any more of the heritage of German song was coming out of the bathroom along with the splashing of the water, finally closed the door so that I wouldn’t have to hear the water either, lit myself a cigarette and sat down at the table with a cup of coffee. I picked up the racketeer’s mobile and pressed the redial button for the umpteenth time. It was almost a shock when someone actually answered.

‘The Adria Grill, good morning,’ announced a friendly male voice.

‘Good morning… er… did you say the Adria Grill?’

‘Yes, how can I help you?’

‘Er… a friend of mine recommended your restaurant, but he didn’t know the address, and.’

‘Are you applying to join?’

‘To join? Well, perhaps. I was thinking of it. I mean, it all depends on.’

‘To find out details you’ll need to come Tuesday to Thursday about nine.’

‘About nine. Wonderful. If you could give me the address now…’

He gave it to me. A street in Offenbach.

‘Are you open today?’

‘Every day from six in the evening, except Mondays. But like I said: no more recruitment until next Tuesday.’

‘I see. Tell me, what kind of thing can I apply to do if I join?’

‘Depends on your abilities. We’ve had trained tank drivers and even pilots, but normally you’d be assigned to one of the ground troops.’

‘Aha. Sounds good.’

‘Yes, great stuff. And so important.’

‘So reasonable, too.’

‘You said it.’

‘Right, see you next Tuesday, then.’

‘We’ll be glad to meet you.’

I thanked him and flipped the mobile shut. Obviously the term Army didn’t just arise from megalomania.

There followed half an hour when Romario kept coming into the kitchen, asking in short order for shaving gear, aftershave, and clean underclothes. I handed all that over in the hope that then he’d feel spruce and well enough to go out into the wide world and find himself another place to sleep.

‘Do you know a restaurant in Offenbach called the Adria Grill?’

The bathroom door was open. I’ve no idea what he was doing in front of the mirror, but when he answered his voice sounded kind of squeezed.

‘Yup, I know it.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Yugoslavian — or whatever that’s called now. Anyway, it used to have a sign saying Yugoslavian and International Specialities. I think then it was Croatian and International Specialities for a while, and when I last drove by it just said International Specialities. It depended on how the war was going and where people’s sympathies were.’

‘What takes you to Offenbach so often?’

‘A girlfriend of mine lives two blocks past the restaurant.’

‘Ah. Does she have a large flat?’

He didn’t answer at once. Only when he came into the kitchen, his face plastered with scraps of loo paper drenched in blood, did he say, ‘She’s married. I can only get to see her for an hour or so in the afternoon sometimes.’ And when he saw my expression of slight distaste, he remarked, ‘I’ve nothing against your razor blades, but I might as well try shaving with a chisel.’

‘Hm. Sorry about that.’ I smiled at him. ‘But luckily all this will soon be over. From tomorrow you’ll have the best razor blades you could wish for, you’ll be able to sing under the shower as loud as you like and get yourself some breakfast.’ I shrugged apologetically. ‘Afraid I don’t even have any more coffee today. I’ve already drunk the last of it.’

He stopped, his mouth opened, and for a moment I was afraid something awkward was coming. But then he just nodded, turned, and went into the living room.

I heard him tidy up the sofa, folding his bedclothes — with one hand, as he did not forget to remind me by dint of theatrical groaning and the whispered words, clearly audible in the kitchen, ‘Damn thumbs!’. The hell with him.

Ten minutes later I gave him the spare key to my flat, and said that if he really couldn’t find anywhere else to stay he could stay another night — if it was a real emergency. Looking injured, he replied that he didn’t want to accept my offer, but next moment, and with a much less injured look, he was enumerating circumstances that might force him to accept it after all. The hell with me! I picked up my jacket and left the flat.