‘I thought I’d freshen up a bit.’
‘A bit…? And anyway, that’s women’s perfume.’
‘Oh yes? To be quite honest it all smells the same to me. Just a sweet smell.’
Annette laughed and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
‘Why do you keep talking rubbish in English?’
‘Do I do that?’ Fred seemed surprised. What really surprised him was the word rubbish. ‘Must have become part of me… I learned it in prison. All on my own, just with books. You can imagine why.’
‘Of course, foreign languages always come in handy.’
‘Of course.’
He wondered briefly whether he should start to talk about Canada, but then he decided to wait. Give it time, just don’t rush into anything. Then he felt a slight pressure on his stomach, must have been hunger.
He watched as Annette leaned over the plastic bags and began to unpack. Croissants, ham, smoked salmon and all sorts of other things landed on the counter - a real banquet. Fred spoke of the food in prison and how it didn’t taste at all bad, at least no worse than at Grandma Ranunkel’s. Annette asked if he missed her, and Fred explained that prison had its advantages, because you couldn’t see the void left behind, and it actually made very little difference if people outside lived or died. Annette looked at him, strangely concerned. Fred changed the subject.
‘What’s happened to your face?’
‘What’s meant to have happened?’
‘It’s, ah, fairly pale.’
‘Powder.’
‘For spots?’
‘Are you mad?’ Annette looked up from a packet of salmon, ‘That’s my style.’
‘Is that right?’ Thus far, Fred had only heard the word style in the context of painting. But Annette’s face seemed somehow connected with that too. The hobby appeared to run in the family.
Annette went into the kitchen and returned with dishes and cutlery.
‘By the way I saw your mother.’
Annette gave him a brief look, then she arranged the salmon on a plate.
‘I know. My father called me.’
‘Ah…’ Fred waited. Was that meant to happen? After a while he said: ‘She didn’t look too healthy.’
Again Annette gave him a brief look, while she pushed the plate to one side and reached for the ham. Could she detect a note of mild triumph in his eyes? Her family had always been one of the most popular in Dieburg, unlike Fred’s.
‘I can believe it.’
‘Well…’ Fred hesitated, ‘…it was quite a shock.’
‘So.’
‘I mean, she always liked a drink, but…has something bad happened?’
Annette put the ham on a wooden board, then she placed her hands on the counter and looked Fred in the eye. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, okay.’
Fred nodded. He could understand not wanting to talk about something inconvenient.
‘Sorry, I just wanted to say it.’
Annette laid the table. Her lips were pressed together, and Fred wondered how he could brighten up the mood again. Finally he said with a laugh: ‘But plasterhead was his old self.’
He couldn’t go wrong with this subject. The harder he was on Mr Schöller, the more Annette liked it.
‘I can’t quite remember, but at some point I must have done something really bad to him. Maybe he was standing behind me and I farted in his face.’
Cheerfully he shoved a slice of smoked salmon into his mouth, but to his surprise Annette’s expression didn’t change. He broke off from chewing, then slowly he swallowed the salmon and wiped his mouth. ‘Not about that either?’
‘Just listen here,’ Annette wiped her fingers on her trousers and reached for cigarettes, ‘I don’t know why you think this concerns you so much, but if you insist on talking about my parents, then you should at least bear in mind that my father can’t have it easy at the moment.’
Fred stared at her open-mouthed. What was that all about?
‘But then he never did.’
‘Very funny! In any case, I’ve learned over the last few years what a fantastic person he is.’
What didn’t plasterhead teach?
‘ You probably wouldn’t understand this, but he holds the family together. It’s thanks to him that we see each other at least two or three times a year.’
Fred really didn’t understand.
‘And what do you do on those occasions? Have a jar with your mother?’
Annette’s expression hardened briefly, then she reached resolutely into the bag and pulled out some oranges.
‘Let’s talk about something else.’
Half an hour later Annette had made coffee and fried the eggs, they were sitting at the counter, and Annette was explaining how Nickel had begun to get on her nerves shortly after they arrived in Berlin.
‘He would have liked us to have moved into the student hostel and spent our evenings over Peter Weiss by candlelight. And once a week some vile ratatouille with his fellow students.’
Fred stirred his coffee and ordered his thoughts. Thus far they had spoken neither about Canada nor about his money, and it didn’t look like they were going to hop into bed again either. When asked whether the guy in the photos was her boyfriend she had pretended the question was nonsense.
Nonetheless he was happy to sit with her, happier than he’d been for a long time. Almost as if it were a matter of indifference how Annette behaved, for he still had his Annette, the one he’d shared a cell with for four years, with whom he’d had an understanding for years, who was sitting waiting on packed suitcases and went to bed with him when he wanted.
He took a sip of coffee and watched her mouth moving. She still had a habit of closing her lips briefly after each sentence. Above all he didn’t want to get cheeky. And for the time being he would leave the topic of conversation to her.
In the meantime the people in shades put their heads round the door more and more often and gave Annette messages to call someone. Then she would disappear for ten minutes and return with an ever more nervous set to her mouth.
‘I’m sorry but we’re right in the middle of pre-production and I can’t take time off now.’
‘Of course.’ Fred nodded to her as she went past the counter to the shelf. When she was gone from the room he looked out the window or played with his food, when she returned he lit cigarettes and observed.
‘What are you working on?’
Annette picked up a file and began to leaf through it. ‘A film about identity and origins.’
‘Hmhm… sounds thrilling. And what’s it about?’
‘About a boy who has grown up in a foreign country, but has nonetheless retained his German roots. The people as a family. A philosophical film, but action-packed.’
‘Aha,’ Fred remembered vaguely hearing this story somewhere before, ‘seems to be a matter of life and death now. Even in prison a lot of them suddenly started talking about the people and ah… id-ent-ity. Very important - that’s what I thought.’
He took a drag on his cigarette and looked for a smart phrase, something to make Annette look up from her file, perhaps even with admiration. If the subject interested her.
‘Strange though that often the same ones couldn’t stand that section of the people represented by their cell neighbour. Isn’t that a bit illogical?’
‘Hm-hm,’ said Annette, withdrawing a few pages from the file.
‘But it’s probably somewhat different in prison,’ Fred continued. ‘They talk about stuff like that more out of boredom. Nation, homeland - you have to keep busy with something. If there had been women inside, I doubt if anyone would have given a toss about Germany.’
He expelled smoke noisily and glanced expectantly across to her. But Annette was still busy with the file.
‘In my view,’ he said in a thoughtful voice, ‘people is a precise concept, like fruit.’
And indeed: Annette did look up. ‘There are grapes in the kitchen if you would like.’
Ever more and ever different men and women looked in, spoke in strange abbreviations, issued requests and commands, hurried along, and soon Annette returned only to announce that she was needed, and that there were newspapers in the corner.
She suggested going for a kebab at lunch time. ‘Do you know what that is?’ she asked, and Fred shook his head: Of course she would want to show off a little as a recent Berliner. She could just as easily have asked him if he knew what a photo booth was.
While Annette spoke of the ‘Berlin style’ at a table in the snack bar, of the ‘interesting population mix’ and about her constantly recurring ‘feel for urban life as she bit into a kebab,’ Fred observed the pink strips of compressed meat and thought of fingernails. The consistency seemed to him barely different to that of a currywurst. Did Berlin have a single means of sustenance from which everyone nibbled what he wanted? The kebab meat around Frankfurt station certainly looked different. He chewed suspiciously.
‘When I was in Dieburg last Christmas I noticed for the first time how few foreigners there are. I really felt something was missing.’
The waiter, a young muscle-bound hulk wearing a cut-away T-shirt and an earring leaned over the counter and yelled: ‘Let me know when you want the take-aways, okay?’
Annette nodded smiling and the waiter withdrew to an armchair with his heavy metal magazine.
‘So nice,’ said Annette softly. And Fred, just as softly: ‘But strange that they still don’t speak proper German after all this time...’ whereupon Annette looked at him blankly.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Fred was astonished, and wondered whether he should explain the joke. If she didn’t like his bad jokes any more, no problem, they didn’t always work in Dieburg either- but not to get the good ones…?
‘I just wanted to say what goes down among foreigners.’
‘All right Fred.’ Annette gave him a fierce look. ‘Let me get this clear: no such jokes in my presence!’
Fred looked at her, baffled. ‘Such jokes? What kind of such?’
‘You know exactly what I mean. I can just imagine how they talk about it in prison.’
‘About what?’
‘Don’t act dumb. About foreigners of course.’
‘Well, how?’
‘You know. Turkish jokes and so on.’
‘But I meant something…’ Fred broke off. Confused, he avoided her gaze.
‘You must have heard what’s going on in Germany now - and not only in Germany. Jokes like that just aren’t correct. You’ll have to be a little more careful in future.’
Fred had the feeling he was being swamped by lunacy.
‘You didn’t understand me: I…’
‘Please,’ Annette leaned forward and hissed, ‘let’s not argue about it here of all places!’
Fred looked at her wide-eyed, then he gave a discrete nod and said barely audibly: ‘You’d get a dagger in your back real fast in this tent full of camel jockeys.’
This time Annette had to smile. She had only picked up dagger and camel jockeys, and despite - or precisely because of - her good intentions, these words charmed her as they had once done.
Now Fred understood nothing any more. Not to like the bad jokes or get the good ones was one thing, but to be amused by any old rubbish?
He wanted out, away from this snack bar.
‘Shall we get the bill?’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Annette, and Fred imagined she was afraid he might offer his disposable lighter in lieu of payment.
The waiter wrapped the kebabs in silver foil, said ‘Bye bye,’ and they set off back to the flat. The sky was grey, and isolated raindrops announced the arrival of rain. Annette asked Fred about prison. He invented tales of prison riots, hand made pistols and kidnapped social workers while remaining true to his motto: keep your dignity. His thoughts were elsewhere. Certain jokes were not intended to raise a laugh. They were his - what was it called in chemistry class - litmus paper. With Annette it had gone grey.
‘You must talk to Carlo about it. Prison and such matters interest him a great deal. Maybe he’ll turn it into a film,’ she said and nodded cheerfully at Fred.
Meanwhile Annette had made up her mind: she wasn’t going to allow Fred’s arrival to upset her routine. If he wanted to, he could spend a few days with her, take a look at Berlin, and in the evening she would show him a few dance clubs and bars. A few of her friends might even find him quite original for a while.
In the afternoon Fred sat on a barstool at the window, drank beer and looked through the rain-drenched window. Opera arias came from the next room. Annette was working. That evening, she had said, there was a party and she had to look after a few people, but she would have time for him in between.
Fred had decided to speak to her about Canada and his money before the party. But he was guarding against any false hopes.
He had learned in prison to pay no attention to premonitions. The same went for hopes, expectations and anything else of that nature. He had come a cropper too often in the early days for that reason. Good or bad, as long as something hadn’t been done, spoken in front of witnesses or signed, you didn’t need to give it a moment’s thought. Thus far, and providing no unequivocal statements to the contrary had been made, the deal was that Annette, Nickel and he would go to Canada together. If there was some hitch in the arrangement, he would deal with it when it could no longer be overlooked.
In order to pass the time he crouched next to the pile of papers in the corner and flicked through theatre and film magazines. A letter fell into his lap. He read the sender’s name, then he listened for a moment at the door and carefully removed the folded paper from the envelope.
My Darling Annette,
Mother feels better. Sometimes she sits in the garden again. We are both very proud of you and your film. It’s really a most interesting subject. And now to the question of your money: should you wish to put up a portion of the film’s costs, we would have to travel to Switzerland together some time during the summer, that’s the only way it will work. Think it over carefully - a film is always a risk, you know. See you soon.
Your loving father, who is eternally happy that we understand each other so well after difficult times.
PS Hoffmann is being released shortly. Beware!
Fred stared at the neat handwriting. Beware! The word seemed to rise up from the page and leap at him. Beware, beware…he could feel his chest constricting.
He stood up and went to the counter with the letter in his hand. He lit a cigarette and read it once more. ‘Damn.’ he said quietly. Happy Mr Schöller, Darling Annette… Now he understood the change in Annette. Plasterhead handled her money - that was the beginning of the friendship. How had plasterhead put it? He, Fred would drag Annette down. But putting the wages of sin in a Swiss bank account. And in a quiet, slightly bewildered voice, Fred said again: ‘Damn!’
He read the letter a third time, then he shoved it back in the envelope and put it in his trouser pocket. For a while he paced maniacally up and down the room and tried to come to terms with these new circumstances, without understanding exactly what they meant. Only one thing was clear: Annette was being warned off him by her father and was keeping quiet about it. And that wasn’t a premonition, it was a fact.
Fred remained at the window and looked out over umbrellas and hazy neon signs. The Schöller family suddenly looked to him like one big conspiracy, like traitors, enemies, the opposition. And his team…? His father came to mind.
‘Folk with a detached house, subscriptions to five newspapers and a local Greek restaurant - they’ve no pity. They hate me because I don’t know the name of our mayor and don’t give a damn about acid rain - all rain is lousy.’
Fred’s father had frequently been the cause of agitation among the Schöllers. Once he had yelled at Mrs Schöller in the supermarket, what did she think she was doing reading Kästner to Fred, after all, children were susceptible to books at that age, and he didn’t want s
ome stuck-up mummy’s boy for a son. Another time he sent them ten kilos of honey with a note: ‘For Fred, who is said to stop at your place often. If he wants to give you some that’s all right with me.’ Whereupon Mr Schöller declared his father an antisocial character, and antisocial was pretty much the worst swearword in the Schöller household.
‘Think nothing of it young fella, antisocial is just a word they use when they’re at their wit’s end.’
But Fred had thought something of it. His father’s opinion of Mrs Schöller had annoyed him the most. He had said she was the worst because she was smarter than she let on. You could expect better of intelligent people.
‘But society won’t allow that. Put your head above the parapet and you get shot down.’
Fred watched a car coming to a halt, then heard the horn. He wiped out the memories of his father and thought about how he should talk to Annette. He went to the counter and opened a beer. He noticed his hands trembling.
Suddenly the door opened slightly and Fred got a shock.
‘Sweetheart, can you come here a minute?’ called a male voice. Then the door opened further, and one of the shades put his head around. Fred sighed.
‘Nobody there?’ asked the young man, then he recognised Fred. ‘Ah…’ he grinned, ‘survived last night all right then?’
Fred shrugged. The man entered the room. He was around thirty and wore a light suit and brown brogues. His face was smooth and clean like a bathroom tile.
‘I thought it was funny,’ he said, ‘what was the name again?’
‘Fred.’
‘Hi Fred.’
‘Hi sweetheart.’
The man stopped short.
‘Are you Annette’s boyfriend or something?’
Fred didn’t reply. The man sucked in his lips and watched him with interest. Suddenly he seemed to have an inspiration. He leaned forward and pointed at Fred with a theatrical gesture.
‘Man! You’re just right for that sad neo nazi bastard. Of course.’ The man came up and circled him in his steel-tipped shoes. ‘Fabulous. You’ll play Roger.’
‘I’m not an actor.’
Magic Hoffmann Page 7