‘No, he’s okay. His smarmy son.’
She flicked the cigarette out of the window and followed its trajectory.
Fred shrugged. ‘He was always rather pleasant to me.’
‘He probably doesn’t want to go to bed with you.’
‘No…probably not.’
‘How long are you staying?’
‘One , two days.’
‘Let me think.’ She looked at the bed, which was covered by a pile of colourful leather jackets. Red, green and blue checks with gleaming white collars, golden zips and silver dollars for buttons. Her fingers were counting and her lips were moving in silence. Finally she asked: ‘If I sew between six and nine tomorrow morning, will you be in a deep sleep or will you be out already?’
‘I’ll be in a deep sleep.’
‘That ought to work. Only don’t say anything to the boss.’
‘No. You can rely on me.’
She examined him carefully for a moment, then she said thanks.
Fred nodded goodbye, but stood there for some reason. After a while he pointed to the bed. ‘How many of these jackets do you have to sew?’
‘Two by tomorrow.’
She lit the next cigarette, and Fred watched how the tip glowed.
‘Pretty colourful then.’
‘It’s for Russians, they like that.’
‘Aha.’ Fred’s gaze wandered round the room until it came upon her feet, and a hole in her sock from which a big toe protruded.
‘Are you some kind of permanent resident here?’
‘At first I was the chambermaid, now I get a discount on the room rate.’
‘And that’s why you sew in the evenings?’
‘Do you know how much a jacket like that costs? Five hundred marks. I go to ballet school during the day, that’s why I sew.’
‘Five hundred!’
The woman caught Fred’s sceptical look at the jackets.
‘Well, blue overalls aren’t exactly the latest fashion either.’
Fred looked down instinctively. The blue overall, high fashion item in Dieburg.
‘I only wear it for sleeping. In fact when do you sleep?’
‘Any free moment I can get. I can sleep in a restaurant between ordering and the food arriving. Or now…’
Fred got the point. He turned round again. ‘But actually, if you like, you can keep working, I don’t have much on tomorrow, and…’
‘Another hour?’
Fred nodded. ‘No problem.’
Back in bed he heard the sewing machine and thought of the doll sitting behind it. In Dieburg there were three types of more or less attractive women: the school prefect types with pony tails and neat, tight-fitting pullovers, the moped riders with their nail varnish and extravagant cigarettes, and the farm girls with their flowery smocks, rosy cheeks and the ability to repair anything from a car engine to the heel of a shoe. Annette, for example, was a mixture of types one and two, with the behind of type three.
As far as Fred could see, the woman at the sewing machine didn’t belong to any of these categories. He didn’t even know if he found her particularly attractive. Was she beautiful? He had really only seen her eyes. Did she have beautiful eyes? He had only seen the blue. The blue? Yes, blue was right. Was she funny? No. Charming? No. Especially clever? Maybe - who could tell with especially clever people? He knew only one thing: he would gladly have stayed longer in her room.
13
Fred was wakened by a dull banging. He rubbed his gummed up eyes and turned his head to the side. Thick drops were pounding on the metal window frame. Beyond it, the office lights cast their white glow into the rainy mid-morning. Berlin seemed to have a real problem with the weather.
He stayed in bed and wondered what to do with the day. Hiding up the whole time in the hotel seemed in the meantime a little exaggerated. If he pulled a scarf over his chin and bought some dark glasses, he would have to be very unlucky to be recognised by anyone.
He listened to the ceiling. No buzzing nor sound of any kind.
Having showered and dressed in blue worker’s trousers, pullover, jacket with a hood and a scarf up to his nose, he left the room half an hour later. The blue overalls, so unflatteringly commented on by the patchwork doll had served to make the trousers.
He came to an abrupt halt on the last stair. Voices emerged from the reception area, and Fred heard words like ‘protection of property’ and ‘police’.
‘It’s quite simple: I say I am a sleeping partner in this hotel, my name is Cohn, I am Jewish, and we think that this is the reason for these attacks.’
‘But why should anyone know that you’re a sleeping partner, when I’ve just found out myself?’ came the voice of the hotel proprietor.
‘It’s all the same. Jewish is correct. Cohn is correct - the police can work out the rest for themselves.’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Do you want the joint protected or not?’
‘But your own hotel isn’t even protected.’
‘Because nobody knows I’m the owner. My business manager is called Krause, Hermann Krause! Picture him with a small moustache and you’ll get the idea. Why do you think I took him on? A little hotel in a dark side street, and if someone wants to speak to the owner they shout out for Mr Cohn - I ask you! I might as well open a kosher snack bar in Hellersdorf. Why don’t you put some blond Hermann on the reception desk too, instead of your father, who looks like a shepherd from a hundred metres away?’
‘Can’t afford to.’
‘You’re making a false economy. What’s all this with the police?’
‘I’ll think about it.’
‘Don’t get your hopes up: For you to get police protection half of Kreuzberg would have to bite the dust first, if not half of Istanbul - however agreeable I find your hotel.’
They laughed. What Fred could decipher from their remarkable dialogue was that he had to change hotels, if possible. He rushed to the reception and saw the owner of the hotel standing at the counter with a fat, bald man. Both were smoking and drinking tea out of glasses.
Fred bid them ‘Good morning,’ and while they both responded to his greeting with a silent nod, he placed his key on the counter. At that same moment he recognised the evening paper beside the proprietor’s elbow. He turned away quickly and hurried to the exit.
‘Has he seen a ghost?’ he heard the fat man ask behind him, and the boss replied: ‘Who can understand these peasants. Yesterday evening he asked me what sulphuric acid was used for, as if our washing machine was leaking by mistake.
The scarf firmly over his mouth and nose, Fred walked along the Ku’damm looking for a cheap pair of sunglasses. At a street traders he found a light blue frame with red polka dots and dark blue lenses in the shape of clouds. Even Fred was aware of how tasteless they were in the conventional sense, but he wanted to avoid any similarity with the glasses he had seen in Annette’s flat.
With the scarf drawn over his face like a gangster and a ridiculous carnival joke nose he caused more and more passers by to turn around, until Fred thought he could spot a plain clothes policeman under every umbrella. He began to run. He bought some pastries in a bakery and ran back to the hotel. No more risks. He would spend the rest of the day in his room.
As he entered the lobby a woman was making a phone call at the counter, and when Fred saw her face, he recognised, to his astonishment, the woman from last night. The rag doll had become Queen of Saturday night. Her strong, slender dancer’s legs were dressed in red, fluorescent tights, over which she wore a pair of gold nylon shorts and one of her colourful home-made leather jackets. Her hair had been balkanised into all kinds of plaits and braids by glittering ribbons, and her lips gleamed like red sports car paint. The only concession to Thursday morning and the rain was the coarse pair of olive green wellingtons.
‘And that’s why I’m paying all this money!’ She shouted into the receiver as she slammed it down. As she turned round she noticed Fred. ‘Hi,’ sh
e nodded to him, and before Fred could reply, she turned to the door that was ajar behind the counter: ‘Hey, Yalcin!’
Soon the proprietor came out with a curse on his lips, but paused on seeing Fred, pulling a face when he caught sight of his glasses. Then he looked from one to the other and said finally, while attempting to preserve a professional demeanour: ‘Can I be of assistance?’
Fred wondered whether his fat friend was still there, and whether they had called the police in the mean time.
‘How many rooms does your luxury hotel boast?’ asked the woman.
The hotel proprietor stopped short, then so did the professional demeanour. ‘I don’t think that’s the right tone to adopt, Miss Sergeyev.’
‘I didn’t think you realised my surname wasn’t darling!’
The owner’s face changed from yellowish-brown to dark orange. A thick vein appeared above his buttoned up collar.
Fred thought quickly, then placed the pastries on a chair, went to the counter and said: ‘The lady wishes to complain that she couldn’t get to sleep last night, because I was snoring so loudly in the room below her. She suggests it might be possible for me to get another room.’
Slowly, very slowly the owner turned his head, and his stare blazed into the blue clouds of Fred’s glasses.
‘How you mean?’
‘Like I say. I had been drinking yesterday, normally I don’t snore. If the lady has nothing against it, let’s try one more night, and we’ll spare you the…’
For a moment they were all staring at each other, until the woman shrugged and said cheekily: ‘And the lady has nothing against it.’ Then she took Fred by the arm and led him to the entrance. Shortly before it she turned round again. ‘Best wishes to your lady wife!’
They stood on the street under the hotel awning, and the woman said thank you. ‘My ballet lesson fell through. I was so furious, I could have talked myself out of a room.’
Fred could think of worse things. ‘Are there so few flats in Berlin?’
‘Firstly: I don’t know. Secondly: I guess so. Thirdly: I hate looking for flats, and fourthly I have no money for flats.’
Fred thought of the five hundred mark jackets and felt surprised.
‘That’s some sharp pair of sunglasses.’
Fred had totally forgotten them. ‘Oh, those…’ he removed them quickly, ‘I bought them for my little sister.’
‘Where did you find them?’
‘Do you really like them?’ Fred thought at first she wanted to make fun of him, but clearly she was serious. ‘Here…’ he held out the glasses to her, ‘…I’ll get another pair.’
The woman hesitated.
‘They were too small for me anyway.’
‘I thought they were for your sister?’
‘My sister has a broad head.’
‘Well then…’ She smiled, took the colourful glasses and put them on.
What are these glasses I have just bought, thought Fred.
‘Many thanks. Do you know what I found strange last night? You’re the first person of my age who has used the polite form of address to me.’
‘You too.’
‘Because you started it.’
‘Once you get familiar there’s no turning back.’
‘What the hell. My name is Moni.’
Fred looked into the dark blue cloud-shaped lenses and suddenly found the glasses mighty stylish. ‘Fred.’
‘Are you in Berlin on business or something?’
‘No. That is…I don’t know exactly.’
‘You don’t look like a tourist anyway. I mean, a tourist wouldn’t rent a room in the Luck. It’s more a place for reps and other small businessmen.’
She observed him curiously. Normally she could work men out pretty quickly, which was down to the fact that men normally told her a whole lot of wonderful stuff about themselves: what an interesting job they did, how intelligent they found this or that, in contrast to other people, how much money they earned and how little it meant to them, and what fun their cars, neckties or underwear were. Later, when they had drunk a few glasses, they boasted of their enchanting ex-girlfriends, their easy familiarity with sex and their weakness for Romanticism.
With Fred only one thing was clear to her: he was a liar, and not a particularly good one at that. Whether claiming to the hotel proprietor that her disturbed night was his fault, or maintaining the sunglasses were a present - his strangely protuberant eyes seemed to cry out at the same time: It’s all garbage, don’t believe a word of it! But in his clumsy way he was almost charming. He was definitely a country boy. Moni thought she could detect the smell of the hayloft. Nonetheless, he didn’t come across like one of those bandy-legged oafs on holiday, who tramped up and down the Ku’damm for a week with camera and map of the city.
Fred avoided those blue lenses. He had to give some kind of answer - but hadn’t he just decided not to take the slightest risk? Why should he tell the truth to some total stranger? Rep - that was it! Slot machine rep. That way, at least Rudi could be useful to him once.
Fred peered back into the blue lenses. ‘I’m looking for someone, and until I’ve found him I’m going to have to live here.’ He couldn’t help it, it just slipped out.
‘Aha.’ Moni watched him for a moment longer, then she leaned forward and stared at the sky. Suddenly she took off her glasses and smiled. ‘Shall we have breakfast together?’
Fred recalled the pastry that was still in the hotel lobby. ‘Gladly.’
‘Let’s go then.’
She set off.
‘Ah, yes. Just a moment! If we’re going into town, then…’
Fred hesitated.
‘I have a problem with my eyes. Could I have the glasses for as long as we’re on the street?’
‘Of course, here…even when it’s raining?’
‘Especially then. The dangerous rays are multiplied by the damp.’
‘Multiplied?’
‘Hmhm.’
Moni headed for the Ku’damm. Sticking to the walls of the buildings, she moved with a large, heavy stride. The boots slapped on the pavement, and Fred had the feeling he was following some kind of Disco-General. He was having trouble keeping up. He could barely see where he was going through the rain-spattered glasses, and he groped from one puddle to the next. His gym shoes were like sodden clods.
‘Is there often trouble with the hotel proprietor?’ shouted Fred in an attempt to slow the tempo.
‘So so. He’s not at all bad for a landlord. Only sometimes he behaves like some greaseball who has just crawled out of the worst night-club!’
‘He wants police protection for the hotel.’
She looked over her shoulder and slowed down. ‘Is that what he told you?’
‘No. But I did hear him talking to someone about it. Some fat slaphead.’
‘Cohn. That was my idea.’
‘What kind of idea?’
‘That the Luck belongs to a Jew. Jewish businesses are protected at the moment.’
They walked in silence to the next corner.
Why were Jewish businesses being protected? Once again Fred had the feeling that things were happening around him, that were only expressed in secret code. Jews…
He dodged a puddle and followed Moni into a small side street that led to Ku’damm.
Mrs Tanneberg, History, two hour period: Morning. I hope you’ve all rubbed the sand from your eyes. Well Fred, back again? Today we’re going to talk about the gassing of the Jews. Sylvia, please take that chewing gum out of your mouth and stop staring out the window. So: the gassing of the Jews. Do any of you know how many Jews were gassed in total? About six million, but just so that we’re agreed: one would have been too many. Isn’t that right, Sylvia…? The lesson’s in here. If I catch you staring out of the window once more, you’ll get a black mark! As I said, around six million, the figures vary somewhat. Could somebody please sum up what we’ve learned in the last hour, why Hitler was so strongly opposed to the Jews?�
��
‘We’d best run this bit.’
Moni stood under the awning of a clothing shop and was pointing through the rain in the direction of the half church.
‘Just a moment,’ Fred looked around, ‘where are we going?’
‘To Zwille.’
‘Is that anywhere near Café Budapest?’
‘Diagonally opposite.’
‘It won’t work.’
Moni looked at him, astonished. ‘What won’t work?’
‘I can’t go in there.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because…’ Fred shrugged. ‘Just because.’
Moni frowned. After a moment she pointed at the glasses and asked: ‘Are these dangerous rays particularly strong around the Budapest?’
Fred seemed shocked. Why, for God’s sake, could everyone see through him? He should have stayed in the hotel. He nodded weakly.
‘Doesn’t matter,’ said Moni, ‘we’ll go behind the church.’
The light turned green, and Moni ran into the rain. She crossed the Ku’damm with great ostrich like steps and stopped at the half church. Fred was struggling to follow. Only when he saw a police car out of the corner of his eye did he catch up with Moni.
The Zwille dance bar was on the second floor of a new building. From the window you could see the crossroads and the square around the half church. The streets were lined with wet neon signs for fast food joints, peep shows and souvenir shops. Cars and umbrellas moved beneath a grey veil. The sound of muted car horns penetrated the windows.
By day the dance bar was a normal café with breakfast, display of cakes and tinned food. Rectangular tables with yellow table cloths, each with four chairs, stood in orderly rows. At the centre of each table stood a mustard glass full of plastic flowers, a bottle of sauce and a card, promoting ‘today’s gourmet tip, chicken fricassee.’ Only when night fell did the dance bar reflect its name. The tables in the middle of the room were moved to one side and a dimly glittering stone floor was revealed. Candles were placed on the remaining tables, a row of colourful spotlights came on, a wine-red silk curtain was draped near the counter, and a festively garbed band of fifty-somethings struck up a tune. ‘Favourite Hits in German’: Here’s To You Mrs Robinson or Sailing. Gradually the room filled with couples and singles of the same vintage as the band. They drank pineapple punch, ate eggs in mustard, danced the fox trot and the cha-cha, and by eleven they were drunk. The bar closed at twelve on the dot.
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