Magic Hoffmann

by Arjouni, Jakob

  Gradually Fred noticed a nervous habit of Nickel’s. At irregular intervals his head jerked to one side or the other, his pupils narrowed and his face took on the calculating expression of a used car dealer, trying to gauge whether the customer was worthy of his car. After a while this habit made Fred nervous, and he followed Nickel’s gaze, but he could see nothing other than women entering or leaving. Eventually Fred paused and asked: ‘Have you had that a long time?’

  Nickel’s eyes left a pleated skirt and looked up in astonishment. ‘What?’

  ‘That twitch.’

  ‘Twitch?’

  ‘Like this...’ Fred imitated him. ‘I have read that you often don’t notice such things yourself. Hasn’t Lulla ever said anything to you?’

  Nickel’s expression was incredulous.

  ‘To be quite honest, it looks pretty nasty.’ Fred raised his hands as a sign that he couldn’t help it. He didn’t like the way Nickel was looking at him.

  There was a pause, and they both turned to their beer. Fred wondered if the twitch was maybe Nickel’s sore point. But previously they’d cracked the best jokes about their sore points.

  ‘Well...’ said Nickel, gently smoothing down his sideburns, ‘and have you seen anything good in Berlin?’

  Fred, who was about to light a cigarette, let the match burn for a moment, then held it to the tobacco and flicked it on the ground.

  ‘How’s it looking with Canada?’ he asked in response, and when Nickel answered without hesitation, he thought the whole secret of getting along with people maybe consisted in not listening.

  ‘Lycka and I were there for three weeks last year - fabulous!’

  The secret clearly consisted not only in failing to listen.

  Fred put on his friendliest smile. ‘I meant our Canada. You know...’

  Naturally, Nickel knew right away which Canada Fred was referring to, but for the moment he had hoped to skirt around that topic. Like Fred, and totally unlike Annette, Nickel felt that agreements should be kept. But that was impossible - not because he didn’t want to, but because he couldn’t any more. In some hidden corner of his head, the dream of the internationally renowned photographer based in Vancouver lived on, but wife and child, the house with garden and the prospect of a professor’s salary had comprehensively blocked the way in the mean time. Nickel’s bad conscience about this applied almost more to himself than to Fred. It made the subject doubly unpleasant for him.

  ‘Of course I know...’ said Nickel in a tone of voice that was meant to indicate how thoughtless the question was: As if he hadn’t suffered four years under the weight of that promise, and as if the decision to break it hadn’t taken all his strength. He considered his evasion of the subject to be the best proof of how hard it had been for him. Nickel would gladly have spoken of pressures and fears, but Fred’s smile deprived the situation of the necessary seriousness. Why was he smiling like that? Was he making fun of him?

  Then Nickel thought he understood: Fred had got together with Annette and had a go at him. Of course. Annette had probably said something like: With Nickel to Canada? Don’t make me laugh! That old bourgeois. Never out of his slippers! And now Fred was watching him. Did Fred himself still want to go to Canada?

  ‘I thought about it constantly, especially the first two years. I signed up specially for English, and I enquired if I could continue my studies in Canada. Please Fred, don’t be angry, but at some point I realised that I wasn’t interested in Canada at all. When I said previously that Canada was fabulous, I really meant our holiday...’

  Fred didn’t stop smiling. Nickel wondered if he was even listening.

  He continued nervously: ‘You know, when we were over there, I saw how boring it must be in the long run. Apart from woods and a few anonymous, ugly cities, there’s nothing there. I mean compared to Europe. Maybe Canada is something for later, when you want your peace, a little house on the lake...’ Assuming Fred to be in agreement, Nickel gave him a definitely-not-our-scene look, that was a mixture of amusement and disdain. ‘...a fire, plant some lettuce, in any case it’s no use if you have any plans to do some living.’

  ‘Hm-hm,’ mumbled Fred and stopped smiling. Calmly, he opened a beer, placed the bottle top carefully to one side and took a long slug. Nickel didn’t quite know what to make of Fred’s sudden mood swing. He smiled vacantly a couple of times to cover the gap in the conversation, but the longer Fred said nothing and plainly wanted to hear nothing, the more reserved Nickel became.

  Fred put the bottle down, carefully lit a cigarette and took two drags, then he suddenly said with surprising waspishness: ‘That’s as may be. As you wish. I still want to go.’

  Nickel hesitated. ‘Yes.’

  He had become convinced that Fred had only mentioned Canada so as to share a laugh at the foolish notions of their youth, or to make fun of him, Nickel, who wanted to go to Canada, but wasn’t in a position to. He was annoyed that he had summed up the situation incorrectly.

  Fred observed the glowing tip of his cigarette. He felt as if he were enclosed in iron. As he had secretly feared, but not expected, his last hope was gone. All that remained was to carry on regardless. To waste no time.

  He sat up. ‘And quickly too. Annette told me you have my money.’

  Nickel’s response was prompt. ‘Not only do I have it, I have even increased it!’

  At last Nickel felt he was on safe ground. His handling of Fred’s money had been in his opinion somewhere between impeccable and admirable. And as with a magnificent birthday present, where the effect was guaranteed, Nickel wanted to delay the unveiling.

  He said with a wink: ‘I could have been a bookkeeper with the Mafia,’ and after glancing at the next table, ‘but I’d best explain it at home.’

  Fred couldn’t make head nor tale of Nickel’s talk. He felt his money wasn’t a cause for speculation. His money was exciting enough in itself.

  ‘What is there to explain?’

  ‘You’ll see. But as I said...’ Nickel nodded towards the room. The visible deterioration in Fred’s mood didn’t bother him, as he was counting so heavily on his subsequent joy.

  ‘OK. We’ll go to your place.’

  ‘Now? That’s not on. I’ve got a lecture in half an hour.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘Hold on, Fred. We’ve got time. I thought I might cook tomorrow, you can come to supper and we’ll do it calmly. That way you’ll also get to meet Lycka, and you can see our little bundle of joy. How about it?’

  ‘Bundle of what?’

  ‘Johann.’

  ‘Why not tonight?’

  ‘Unfortunately we already have an appointment. Lycka’s boss has invited us to dinner. Well?’

  Fred reached for his beer. He suddenly felt tired, and Nickel’s cheery matter-of-factness, combined with his bad breath, depressed him. Outside, the sky had become so gloomy that the neon lights in the café were coming on. A winter evening mood settled over the tables. Nickel smiled expectantly at him and began to jiggle his knee. Out of nervousness? Or anticipation? The knee tapped gently against the table leg, and the bottles on the table clinked softly. Fred had often observed that: but only with men, only with fools. Did they know what their knee was doing? And how it looked? As macho as peeing in your pants, thought Fred.

  ‘OK,’ he said, ‘till tomorrow then. But you’ll have to sub me something. I’m broke.’

  ‘But of course. Is a hundred enough? I don’t have more on me.’

  Fred took the note, was assured again that he would be a rich man tomorrow evening, and was given a visiting card and some directions.

  ‘Hönow tube station is the end of the line. When you get out, you simply go in the opposite direction to the tower blocks.’

  ‘Tower blocks?’

  ‘Ossi-baroque,’ explained Nickel, and he laughed.

  Thus far Fred had only heard the word ‘Ossi’ from politicians on TV, and it always reminded him of old men saying ‘wicked evening’ or some s
uch, to make themselves seem a few decades younger.

  On the way to the door he asked if the word ‘Ossi’ was some kind of joke.

  ‘Not at all. Everyone says it. It’s not in the least discriminatory. The Ossis call themselves that.’

  ‘It’s their own fault.’

  ‘I just find it relaxed: Ossi! Not such serious talk as you normally get in Germany.’

  ‘I’ve no idea what kind of talk you get.’

  Just as Fred’s mood sank below rock bottom, so Nickel’s seemed to lift. He walked cheerily at his side, taking large strides.

  ‘Why is there no phone number on your card?’

  ‘Well,’ Nickel grinned, ‘that’s how it is in the East. We ordered one three months ago, and still we don’t have a line. But quite honestly, I don’t find it so bad. You have some peace.’

  ‘How lovely,’ muttered Fred.

  ‘It really is.’ Nickel held the door open for Fred. ‘And say hello to Annette from me. By the way you can stay with us if it’s too loud for you there in the flat. But it couldn’t get too loud for you, eh? Old mate! Man, I’m so glad to see you. I still can’t believe you’re out.’

  At the exit he unnerved Fred with a clumsy embrace and a clap on the back like a gangster boss or a used car salesman.

  ‘Till tomorrow, my friend’

  Then he waved and disappeared into one of the corridors.

  16

  CLOSED ON ACCOUNT OF HAVING A GOOD TIME ELSEWHERE.

  The note was stuck in the window. Slowly, Fred turned away from Ringo’s bar and wandered aimlessly down the street. The city seemed to him bleaker than ever. The sky and the houses formed a single grey mass. When he heard laughter somewhere, he thought they were laughing at him.

  He stopped in front of a travel agency and looked in the window at photos of palm beaches and gentle green hills with sheep and fruit trees. There was even a prospectus for Canada on display. Canada... All of a sudden the thought left a stale taste. It no longer had anything to do with victory and thumbing his nose at all those who had written him off in the course of those four years. Canada was easy now... Just some country he had read about. Previously it had been the best option out of many. Now it almost looked as if he had no other choice. What was he doing here? Or in Dieburg? Or anywhere else? And hadn’t he announced to anyone who would listen that he was going to Canada? … Oh yes, I go to Canada! How foolish that suddenly sounded.

  The problem was not that Annette and Nickel weren’t coming along, but how they weren’t coming. Just as they didn’t really stay. If he were to go away to Canada, he would no longer know what he was going away from. In prison everything was clear, where from, where to, why.

  He bought a cake in a pastry shop and sat down on a bench. Tomorrow he would get his money, and then... He definitely wanted to take Moni out for a fancy meal and then perhaps... But she’d have a lot of people helping her carry jackets: someone who drank a bottle of vodka in the afternoon and then sent blackmailers packing. And him with his stupid sailor stories. Anyway, he would definitely travel at some point. First to Dieburg, sell the house, then get the ticket, then to Frankfurt airport...

  And if he were to call Annette again? Provided he didn’t talk to her about family and films, didn’t try to get into bed with her, or off to Canada, he could still tell her about Nickel. And what a lot there was to tell. How Nickel talked, how he dressed, stroked his sideburns, had baptised his son, and how he drank beer, as if it were beneath his dignity! How he had changed utterly. Or would Annette also say: but we were young then? As if getting older were some kind of illness for which there was no cure. Would Annette think he was mad yet again? Was he? Were the social workers and prison guards right when they had told him how difficult it would be to get by on the outside after four years? Admittedly there was a lot that was going on around him he didn’t understand. One point for Canada: if he understood nothing there, it wouldn’t mean anything - at least for a while.

  He shoved the last bit of cake into his mouth, stood up and looked around for a phone booth. This time he’d come without expectations or plans. He would just ask Annette to explain a few things to him. How she saw things. And he would take the trouble to understand. No more throwing up on the table and cursing people who had never done him any harm for being teachers. A new Fred, open-minded, ready to learn, aware of his own insignificance...

  A man answered: ‘Megastars Film and TV Production’.

  ‘Fred Hoffmann, I’d like to speak to Annette.’

  Fred attempted to impart a cheery tone to his voice.

  ‘Ah, the dosser who puked all over our kitchen!’

  ‘Hm...yes.’

  ‘Annette is not here.’

  ‘Could you possibly tell me where she is?’

  ‘No idea.’

  ‘And when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Annette’s off with the team. She’ll probably be in le Parisien later on.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘What’s that?’ Amused clearing of throat.

  ‘Well...’ not so easy this being open-minded, ‘...it sounds French.’

  ‘You don’t miss a thing! It’s one of those places where you sit at tables with food, drink, cutlery and all that - heard of them?’

  ‘You mean a restaurant?’

  ‘Bull’s eye.’

  ‘Lovely. Might you possibly give me the address of the restaurant?’

  You didn’t go to le Parisien to eat. At least not in the first instance, and certainly not at five in the afternoon. Afternoon was recovery time. People read, spoke in hushed tones, and dozed on leather sofas. The few guests sat beneath modern paintings and sculpture at empty tables made of exotic woods, drank light wine and hoped their stomachs would have digested the entrecote and lobster by evening so they could stuff them full all over again in good company. Film directors, gallery owners, film producers, publishers, architects, lawyers, actors. In le Parisien you ate to meet people. But in the afternoon you needed your peace, so you paid twenty marks for a glass of wine.

  So the noise was even louder when the tray slammed down on the counter. The guests looked up. The waiter, in an impeccable suit with a brilliant white apron and a black bow tie shook his head indignantly. ‘Spaghetti!’ escaped his lips, as if he were being forced to say something obscene. He ran his fingertips across his forehead in a state of high agitation.

  The equally impeccably dressed barman behind him was flicking through a fashion magazine. He glanced at Fred’s table and muttered: ‘Spaghetti is off.’

  ‘Oh no.’ The waiter threw his hands in the air. ‘Why me? Why this table again? Now he’ll probably order spuds, or rice, or...’ sharp intake of breath, ‘...Cornflakes!’

  Fred was the only one to miss the excitement. His gaze wandered through the room, and his eyes gleamed as if he were under a Christmas tree. For a moment he forgot his anger. He observed each object carefully: the counter of dark, polished wood with gleaming brass fittings and silver taps, the semi-circular glass lamps on the walls, which bathed everything in soft yellow light, the silver ashtrays and candlesticks, the dark red leather chairs, the antique sign for the toilet, the silk curtains... And a whiff of cognac pervaded the entire scene. He had never been in a restaurant like this. Shame I can’t read the menu, he thought. ‘Brie’, ‘Bourguignon’, ‘Canard’... Those must be wonderful things, but if he was out of luck they’d be tripe.

  At the table next to Fred sat a young man in a suit, who drank mineral water and was learning by heart the different varieties of grappa from a gourmet guide open in front of him. Next to him a couple discussed their fears for the future of German poetry.

  The assistant chef clapped his palm against his forehead. ‘Are you out of your mind? Spaghetti with tomato sauce!’

  ‘Chuck him out,’ yelled the waiter, ‘he looks like a construction worker - he’s just waiting to smash up the joint.’

  The assistant chef averted his gaze. Then he whistled for the apprentice to
come over. ‘Run to the pizzeria round the corner and get a portion of spaghetti.’ And to the waiter: ‘With the chef’s recommendation, and only twenty-nine fifty!’

  Ten minutes later the swing doors to the counter opened and the waiter hurried through the room with a bottle of wine and a glass. Without a word he poured for Fred to taste. Fred looked from the drop in the bottom of the glass to the waiter, then back to the glass, then back and forth again, until the waiter whispered: ‘Goûtez, s’il vous plait!’

  Apart from merci and Yves Saint-Laurent, they were just about the only French words he knew. He had never been to France and loathed French guests, because they often asked questions, frequently expected a recommendation - as if everything wasn’t on the menu in black and white - and even found fault with the cooking every now and again. Admittedly he would never eat monkfish a la whatever himself, couldn’t stand his colleagues and felt he was underpaid, but he would have liked to show the door to strangers who presumed to criticise. In fact only the French name of the restaurant appealed to him. He also had nothing against spaghetti - he enjoyed them himself - but he despised everything he believed he had a right to despise. Had he been employed in a fast food joint, he would have hated anyone wearing a new coat, or insisting on a clean napkin.

  Fred pointed helplessly at the glass. ‘What’s supposed to happen now?’

  Whereupon the waiter put down the bottle and dashed off without a word. Fred noticed how the young man at the next table was staring at him openly. He rapidly filled the glass, took a big swig, smacked his lips appreciatively and nodded to the young man. ‘Delicious.’

  Shortly afterwards an enormous white plate landed in front of Fred, half covered in some red concoction. With a thin smile the waiter wished him ‘Bon Appetit.’

  As Fred bent over the plate a shudder ran through him. The noodles smelled exactly the same as in the pizzeria in Dieburg. They might just as well have served him cabbage rolls with a splash of Grandma Ranunkel’s cologne. As if he were suddenly sitting with Annette and Nickel in the little room with football photos and strings of garlic on the wall, doing their homework over pizza bread and Chianti. Mietta on the juke box, the owner giving them coffee on the house, the smell of tomatoes cooking...