Magic Hoffmann

by Arjouni, Jakob

  But before he could say anything, Moni spoke so coldly, Fred was astonished: ‘But you’ve got the wrong address. The “piss artists” to whom we’re selling these “crap jackets” are to an amateur blackmailer like you what the Pope is to the cleaner of the church organ. I’ve got your number plate and your description, and if anything happens to my friend, you’ve had your last fare. Do you know what these “piss artists” do for their first warning?’

  The taxi driver’s eyelids began to tremble, and veins stood out on the back of the hand holding the mike.

  ‘Wait…’ he said.

  ‘Bullet in the head,’ Moni interrupted, ‘cause those who cause trouble don’t get warned, they are terminated right away. The warning is only for the others. Got it?’

  The taxi driver got it. Without a word, he dropped the microphone onto the passenger seat and engaged first gear. Moni and Fred climbed out with the three remaining jackets under their arms.

  ‘And don’t forget…’ Moni shouted through the window, then she added something in Russian that sounded like a mixture of singing and someone being strangled. Whether you understood Russian or not, it clearly wasn’t a pleasantry.

  The taxi driver accelerated off, and Moni tried to memorise the number plate. Fred stared at her like a film star. She had saved him - and how!

  ‘Was that all true?’

  Moni watched him thoughtfully, then turned towards the staircase. She sounded as exhausted now as she was animated previously. ‘If it is true, you’re better off not knowing anything about it.’ And ignoring Fred’s enquiring gaze: ‘Did you know about the picture in the paper?’

  Something in her tone of voice caused Fred to hesitate. ‘Hmhm.’

  ‘You should have told me. If the guys in the shops had seen the picture we’d have been out on our arses.’

  ‘But…’ Fred could picture the three shaven giants ‘…they couldn’t be afraid of me?’

  ‘Afraid! Of you!’ Moni stood and stared at him, as if that were the most fantastical thing she had ever heard.

  ‘The shops are their front, they don’t want any trouble there. And someone wanted by the police means trouble.’

  ‘If I knew what kind of businesses…’

  But Moni stumbled on and shoved the door open with her shoulder. And he hadn’t dared tell her about his little bit of bank robbery.

  The horse photos awaited them in the hall, as well as the smell of sulphuric acid. The counter was abandoned, and the door behind it was closed. After a few steps, Moni suddenly paused, closed her eyes and peeled off to one side. Fred could barely keep up.

  With Moni on one arm and the remaining jackets in the other, he climbed up four floors. When he lay her down on his bed, she opened her eyes briefly and mumbled: ‘Thank you, captain.’ Then she sniffled gently and fell asleep.

  Fred flopped down beside her. As he reflected on the unanticipated good fortune of having Moni in his bed, and began to contemplate if and how he might exploit the situation, his eyes also closed, and shortly thereafter he was snoring.

  It was dark when Fred woke up. There was an empty space beside him. In a daze he looked for the switch of the bedside lamp, and turned it on. His watch showed just after four.

  He got out of bed, dragged himself into the bathroom and turned on the cold tap. When the water was icy cold, he put his head into the basin. Five minutes later, he took it out and slapped his cheeks.

  He went back into the room and looked at the hollow in the bed where Moni had lain. He listened to the ceiling. Silence.

  He left the room and went up to the fifth floor. Nothing stirred when he knocked. He knocked again, then he pressed the door handle and entered. The bedside lamp illuminated a chaotic scene, comprising mountains of clothes, shoes and hats. Moni was not there. On the bedside table, Fred discovered a pile of decks of cards, still in their wrapping. Beside it lay red plastic chips, and a note on which was written a column of figures in the thousands with plus and minus signs beside them. Thousands! So that’s where the money went.

  Fred would have preferred to have waited for her. For a moment he thought of searching for her in the neighbouring casinos. He could picture her: playing a card, losing money, expressionless, blue-eyed, exciting…

  Back in his room he lay down on the bed, smoked cigarettes and listened out for steps on the stairs. His thoughts were in chaos. Nickel, Canada, his money, Moni…Only six days ago he was released from prison. As the sky gradually turned grey, and the roar of the awakening town rose above the rooftops and mingled with the birdsong, he fell asleep.

  15

  Half ten. Nickel’s lecture began at eleven. Fred stared at his watch and wondered if it could be fast. Eventually he staggered out of bed and reached for his clothes. He thought quickly about knocking at Moni’s and saying hello, then he let it lie.

  The usual coughing and sniffling was going on in the tube carriage. Fred did his best to hide his wanted poster eyes behind a raised hand and the hood which he’d pulled over his face. At Thielplatz station he leapt out of the carriage and ran up the stairs. This time there were no students in front of the Coca-Cola-coloured building and the banner announcing PROGRESS THROUGH INCOME had disappeared. Fred sprinted across the street and up one of the paved paths. The hall which had been so crowded the day before yesterday now lay abandoned. Fred attempted to get his bearings, opened doors to empty rooms, asked questions of passers-by, rushed along corridors, opened more doors, until half an hour later he had found the right one. Hastily he shoved it open and crashed into a lecture theatre, where about a hundred and fifty pairs of eyes were directed towards him. ‘ ’Scuse me,’ he muttered and looked for the nearest empty seat. The nearest empty seat happened to be at the opposite end of the room. Followed by looks from all sides, Fred made his way, sweating and panting and stumbling over rucksacks and legs, through the rows of tables.

  ‘Next time you’re late, I’d be grateful if you could make only half as much racket!’ said the professor following his entrance, and she turned to one of the tables at the back of the room. ‘Continue Mr Zimmer.’

  Fred turned round. Mr Zimmer - Nickel...! He searched excitedly among the faces and leaned to one side, but a mass of baseball caps and big hairdos cut off his view. Then he heard Nickel’s voice.

  ‘If the bookseller symbolises reproduction in the novel, and the ageing writer the nation, then the Yugoslav caretaker, with his alternately servile and coarse manner of courting the bookseller...’

  Still the same mildly offended, nasal I-listen-to-Andes-music-and-you-only-listen-to-pop voice. Fred craned his neck impatiently. Then at last he saw him! Nickel, Nick, Nick Nolte, his best friend!

  Nickel was bent over scraps of paper and open books, his hands folded in front of him on the table, with furrowed brow and earnest expression. The first thing that struck Fred was the absence of the beret. There had been times when Nickel hadn’t even removed it when he was swimming. Some of the shoulder-length hair had gone, and his forehead was on the way to joining the back of his head. By way of recompense, he now sported sideburns. Two prominent, black lines, that almost reached his mouth. He was wearing a light linen suit with large buttons, a discreet green shirt with an equally discreet pink collar, and very broad black shoes with thick soles like jeep tyres. Fred had never seen Nickel so sharply turned out and thought he looked fantastic.

  A young woman spoke up and complained that the term ‘Yugoslav’ was an insult to the Bosnian victims of Sarajevo.

  Nickel replied that the novel had been written prior to the Serbian attack, whereupon the woman posed the question of whether literature should not be corrected following such events.

  Fred shifted uneasily in his seat. Finally the professor intervened and demanded that all questions be withheld until Mr Zimmer had finished his paper.

  Nickel consulted his notes again. ‘In the second and central part of the novel the writer’s illegitimate son, who was long presumed dead, turns up unexpectedly. Their reunion
is not simple. The writer, who as I said is a clever, good-looking man with a sense of humour, but a failure in terms of life and its associated responsibilities, finds Moritz, who is by now twenty-three, to be a burden. Moritz, who senses this rejection, kills and burns the caretaker in a struggle for the attention and love of his father, which causes profound conflicts in the writer.’

  Fred beamed. Fabulous, how Nickel was talking. What he was saying was maybe a little arrogant, but the way he carried it off, just like old times. And in front of so many people!

  ‘In the end the bookseller, the writer and Moritz move into a house on the lake. The bookseller has a child that resembles both men equally. In the final paragraph all three are sitting on the terrace staring silently across the lake. As the sun goes down they begin to sing softly.’

  Nickel looked up from his notes and nodded to indicate that the paper was finished. Then he gave Fred a warm welcoming smile, and Fred was so excited he lost control of his facial muscles. His reciprocal smile turned into a hysterical grimace. Thinking of Nickel, and seeing him right there in the flesh were two completely different things. Fred had to get a grip of himself, so he didn’t simply leap up and climb over the tables.

  Nickel had known that Fred would be released around now. On his desk at home was the letter to Fred, in which he told him his new address, among other things. He just hadn’t sent it yet, because he had wanted to discuss with Annette beforehand the best way of welcoming Fred. Well, it was too late for that now - and that had to be all right by him. His wife, Lycka, was allergic to Annette, and every time they met Nickel was punished by lengthy debunking of his previous life. That apart, he hadn’t got on with Annette for some time either; since they had split up, she had become in his opinion even more decadent and superficial, with nothing but parties, clothes and films in her head. But how had Fred found him here? He must have sought him out - was he furious? He could explain everything to Fred. The lecture was over in half an hour. What a strange feeling to see him again after all these years. He seemed unchanged, as if it was only yesterday they were playing cards in Clash. Clearly prison couldn’t have affected him that much.

  Nickel shoved his notes together. Tired bodies were lounging around, shoe soles scraped on the ground and those asleep were being nudged. Fred broke the ensuing silence with a burst of applause. Again all eyes in the room turned towards him. Nickel looked up, irritated, then he blushed. The professor cleared her throat. ‘I’m glad you enjoyed the lecture.’

  Fred nodded enthusiastically. ‘Absolutely first rate!’

  ‘Ah...yes...But this isn’t really a theatre. So if you’re expecting something like an encore...’

  ‘Certainly not. Poor old Nickel.’ Fred half got up from his chair and waved. ‘Hey, Nickel! At last!’ All eyes in the room followed.

  Nickel froze. He forced himself to smile over the heads which had turned in his direction and made a calming gesture with his hand. ‘Hey, Fred!’

  ‘Very nice,’ said the professor, ‘but this happens to be a literature lecture here, and I must ask you to continue your little celebration either outside or after the lecture.’

  ‘No problem,’ said Fred, and he stood up and weaved his way through the rows of tables and chairs.

  Once he had reached the door, he turned round and signalled unobtrusively to Nickel that he should follow. The entire lecture theatre looked on spellbound.

  Nickel hesitated, then got up heavily from his chair, stuttered a few words at the professor, and slinked out.

  ‘Nickel, man!’ Fred grabbed him by the shoulders, shook him and beamed.

  ‘Yes, of course...’ replied Nickel, as he was buffeted around, ‘...but my paper... You know if I don’t participate in the discussion there is no...’

  ‘Ach, discussion!’ Fred looked Nickel up and down, then he grinned. ‘So that’s what a dad looks like.’ A dad with bad breath, he thought suddenly.

  Nickel was taken aback. ‘How do you...?’

  ‘I have my sources. We’d best go and raise a glass.’

  Nickel hesitated briefly. ‘OK, I’ll just go and get my rucksack.’

  They walked arm in arm to the university canteen, and Nickel excused himself for not having sent his address in time.

  ‘How on earth did you find me?’

  ‘Well,’ Fred touched his forehead, ‘Beverly Hills Cop!’

  Nickel laughed. Fred really did seem not to have changed.

  ‘Have you seen Annette yet?’

  Fred had prepared for the question. And more besides. He had learned something from the reunion with Annette: You had to come from somewhere for people to want you to be there. He didn’t hesitate. ‘Sure! I went to her as soon as I was released.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Super, as always! Big party, lots of vodka, interesting people...’ Fred thought for a moment. ‘However, she was expecting too much. I mean she wanted me to move in with her and work on the films. One of her friends was determined to give me the lead role in some action movie.’

  ‘Action movie? I had no idea they did such things. Then you must know that Annette and I scarcely see each other any more.’

  ‘I think...’ Fred stumbled over Nickel’s heel, ‘You don’t see each other?’

  ‘I still call her on her birthday. And we went for a coffee last Christmas in Dieburg.’

  ‘To be quite honest: she wasn’t very nice about you.’

  ‘I can imagine. She’s changed a lot. Did you meet the people with whom she’s living?’

  ‘You mean Terry and Marcel? Of course!’

  ‘Never mind that. The main thing is you’re free!’ Nickel embraced him. ‘I don’t know how to say this, but...’

  Fred shook his head. ‘No need. It’s done.’

  Ten minutes later the people in the canteen looked on in astonishment while a young man carried a tray full of beer bottles through the room to another young man, who stood up somewhat bewildered, smoothed down his suit, and helped place the groaning tray on the table.

  ‘Couldn’t we have done with a few less to begin with?’

  Fred removed the lighter from his pocket with a smile and opened two bottles.

  ‘We’re young yet. Now it’s time to celebrate. Cheers, Nickel!’

  Fred banged his bottle against Nickel’s, and a few students who were eating raw vegetables with their noses buried in files, turned their heads in a mixture of indignation and jealousy. Nickel took a quick look at the other tables to see if there was anyone there who knew him.

  ‘Cheers, Fred.’ Nickel took a slug and had to make an effort not to pull a face. When it came to beer-drinking, he had cultivated a precise ritual for some time now: at seven in the evening he went in to his cellar, took out four bottles of Ahornberger beer and drank the first alone in the garden. Too late for that today, even if the beer in the canteen wasn’t lukewarm piss.

  ‘The sideburns suit you.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Fred sat bowed over the table, his muscles tensed, his eyes overtired but still flickering with excitement. He was like a car with its wheels spinning at full acceleration. ‘Now tell me. Boy or girl?’

  ‘A boy.’

  ‘And what’s his name?’

  ‘Johann Wolfgang, after...’

  ‘My god! Is he supposed to become king?’ Fred laughed and banged the bottles together again. ‘I hardly let you out of my sight for a moment, and you’ve already got a family.’

  Nickel was at pains to laugh along. He had imagined the reunion differently: calmer, more dignified, more formal. Last month he had bought an expensive four-year-old bottle of red wine for this occasion. Lycka thought the symbolism was wonderful. In the meantime he was annoyed that he hadn’t posted the letter to Fred. If they had made an appointment, this graceless encounter could have been avoided.

  ‘And your wife?’

  ‘Lycktraffa.’

  ‘What?’ he asked, reverting to English.

  ‘That’s her name.’ Nickel wo
ndered what was with this idiotic English. Is that how they talked in prison?

  Fred raised his eyebrows. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Just say Lycka. It’s a Swedish name. Her father came up with it. He loves Sweden.’

  ‘But does he also love his daughter?’ Fred smirked. ‘And you’re really together with a kitchen and all that?’

  ‘Hm-hm.’

  Fred didn’t let his disappointment show. Whatever news Nickel came up with, he wouldn’t lose his cool.

  ‘And where do you live?’

  ‘In the East.’

  ‘I should have known. Do you remember the school strike, when you stood alone on the roof with the red flag and sang Wake up Goddam it, or whatever it’s called?’

  ‘It’s called something else, and I was young at the time.’

  ‘Well, I liked you.’

  ‘Anyway, we don’t live in the East for those reasons, but because of the price per square metre. We’ve bought a small house there.’

  ‘Is that right?’

  ‘Yes. With a family it’s simply cheaper in the long run.’

  ‘Of course.’

  Fred gulped his beer down and opened the next two bottles. House, family, kid, bad breath...

  Then he pumped Nickel for more news, had him describe the separation with Annette and how he had met Lycka, enquired after old Dieburg friends, asked his way through four years and ensured that the words never dried up around the table. As Fred sensed that his search for questions was becoming tiresome, and Nickel’s reluctant answers began to inflict the first damage on his enjoyment of the reunion, he suddenly began to talk about prison. The usual stories, how he had become table football champion, how much fun and how many friends he had had, and how swiftly a few years passed if you could just make yourself comfortable.

  Nickel listened carefully. Once he said: ‘For months after the robbery I thought about turning myself in. Of course it wouldn’t have done you any good, but...’ Another time: ‘I deliberately kept my postcards that dull to save you from further questioning.’