Magic Hoffmann

by Arjouni, Jakob

  ‘Evening,’ one of them said wearily and tipped his cap, ‘all OK here?’

  The porter nodded in surprisingly lively fashion. ‘All fine, chief!’ while his eyes swiftly took in the bottle in Fred’s hand. ‘This young man just asked me the way.’

  ‘Is that right?’ The policeman cast a bored look across the lobby, then he tipped his cap again and mumbled: ‘Right then.’ His colleague suppressed a yawn.

  They were already on their way to the door, when one of them suddenly stopped, turned and asked Fred: ‘Where do you want to go?’

  ‘Me? To the tube station.’

  ‘Aha. Is there a problem with your eyes?’

  ‘With my eyes? No. I mean not that I know of.’

  Fred’s hand began to sweat on the bottle.

  ‘Maybe there is. You should get them tested. The tube sign is just outside. Even a blind man couldn’t miss it.’

  ‘I probably came from the wrong side.’

  ‘You mean with your back to the sign? Then you would have come from the direction of the tube.’ The policeman was scratching his head under his cap. ‘Doesn’t seem logical to me.’

  His colleague suppressed a yawn again. ‘If you ask me, the young man seems to be a bit of a mess.’

  ‘Hm-hm.’ Number one nodded and turned to Fred again. ‘No offence, but this is a small suburb, and we take a different view of things here. We simply aren’t used to total strangers, who ask the way in the middle of the night.’ He cleared his throat. ‘If I might see your papers please? Only routine...’

  Blood roared in Fred’s ears. His thoughts were scrambled. He took a step towards them and noticed that his legs were trembling. Forcing himself to be calm, he took his identity card from his pocket. Policeman one grabbed it, then took an interest in the hand that was holding the bottle.

  ‘You’re sweating. If you continue to hold it so hard, it’s going to slip out of your hand.’

  He passed the identity card on, and number two spoke Fred’s name and dates into a walkie-talkie. While they were waiting for a response, they watched Fred calmly.

  ‘Are you famous by any chance? I know your face from somewhere. Don’t take offence, but your eyes are somewhat unusual.’

  Before Fred could respond, the answer came from the walkie-talkie: previous conviction for armed robbery, released a week ago, etc, etc.

  Policeman one managed to say ‘Now I know why your eyes are familiar’ before Fred leapt past them with a side-step and jumped feet first into the sliding door, that was opening rather slowly. Glass shattered, and Fred fell and slid across the tiled floor until he could scramble to his feet and run.

  The policemen made no effort to follow him, on the contrary. They looked at each other and shrugged.

  ‘Tell them the guy who caused the incident in the Café Budapest is called Fred Hoffmann, that we’ve got his identity card, and that he’s probably trying to get back into town by tube. They should send a few people to Alexanderplatz station. Then let’s get home at last.’

  Fred cowered behind a rubbish bin at the end of the platform. It was deserted, the only light coming from the guard’s hut. Sometimes a shadow would pass on the grey curtains.

  Fred didn’t get it. He had become dizzy just from shaking his head. It wasn’t simply bad luck any more, it bordered on conspiracy. It would have to be this evening, this abandoned hotel. Now things looked really grim: one and a half years for parole violation. No more Moni, no more Canada, and maybe even no chance to spend his money. In a year and a half the statute of limitations would apply and Nickel wouldn’t give a damn about his demands.

  Fred shook his head again. Just don’t go crazy. He still had Nickel’s credit card, and no one wanted to see his pass in the Hotel Luck. Of course he’d signed the register Fred Hoffmann, but there must be many Fred Hoffmanns. Would the police search every Berlin hotel for him? Hard to imagine. Or did that kind of thing take five minutes with a computer these days? The only person who could help him now was Moni. She would have to find out how dangerous it would be to stay at the Luck. And she would have to find someone who could forge papers. He wasn’t going back to prison. Not now that he knew what prison was all about, quite apart from prison itself. What could keep him going this time?

  The train arrived at last. Fred waited until all the passengers had left the platform, then he stood up slowly, waited for the announcement to board the train and jumped into an empty carriage at the last minute. The train left the station, and Fred threw himself on one of the seats.

  At the next station he moved close to the door and observed the platform. A young couple got in two carriages down, then the train set off. Fred looked at the tube map above his head. There was no possibility of changing trains until Alexanderplatz. Were the police waiting for him there? Was it so important that they would send a couple of officers especially? The city was so big, there was so much to do - a proper manhunt just because of him? And if he got out beforehand... But should he risk being picked up again in some place he didn’t know? At Alexanderplatz he only had to board the overground train, then he’d be back at Moni’s ten minutes later. Moni, who was from Berlin and knew every hiding place in the city and at least ten document forgers... Definitely!

  Fred’s carriage began to fill up: two old men with brown briefcases, who squatted in the corner and stared dumbly ahead, a bunch of giggling girls all dolled up for dancing, a mother, who clutched two small children to herself, and lastly three pock-marked types in imitation leather jackets, who alternately sucked their teeth loudly, as if they had something stuck in them, and shook their fake Rolexes into full view.

  Fred sat at the window next to the door, prepared himself to leap out at each station, and as the train entered the station and stopped, he looked desperately from one end of the platform to the other.

  At the station before Alexanderplatz four shaven-headed drunks in boots staggered into the carriage. A shock went through the passengers. The initial impulse to leave the carriage was followed by several seconds of reflection - after all people didn’t want to make themselves seem foolish by taking to their heels because of a few youths - until it was too late. The doors closed and the train set off again. Baseball bats protruded from the skinhead’s bomber jackets. They propped each other up so as not to fall over, and for a while they indulged in a swaying ballet. They were laughing, and one of them kept trying to strike up a song. Until they slumped onto a bench, roaring with laughter.

  Not one of the other passengers moved. Some looked at the floor, some respectfully at the men in boots. The mother was keeping her startled childrens’ mouths closed. Fred was the only one who paid scarcely any attention to the skinheads. He was wondering if the money in Nickel’s account would be enough for a false passport.

  ‘Heil Hitler!’ Yelled one of the skins, stretching out his right arm.

  One of the two old men had grabbed his briefcase and lowered his eyelids. Beneath them his pupils were darting back and forth: doors, window, passengers...

  The skins looked around contentedly. Slowly their glazed eyes settled on the old man.

  ‘Look here... an immigration problem!’

  Relaxed grins all round.

  The man raised his eyelids and looked at those around him. Fred leaned forward curiously.

  ‘Then we’d better solve it!’ shouted one and slapped his hand on his knee. ‘Look at his slanted eyes and you’ll see the crimes he wants to commit in our beautiful country. Eh...!’ He turned to the other passengers. ‘Did he give you any bother? Try to flog you cigarettes? Has he damaged Germany’s economy?’

  The four of them stood up with difficulty and tried to steady themselves on the grips along the carriage roof. Hand over hand, they worked their way to the old man. With their free hands they removed the baseball bats.

  One of them suddenly stopped and cast a humorous glance around. ‘If anyone’s lost their bottle, then keep thinking: we’re poor bastards who’ve had a bad deal and can’t handle s
ociety! No ping pong, no mother and all that, at least not a decent one.’

  And another yelled with a grin; ‘And we’ve got nothing against wogs, but we don’t want any here, otherwise the Nazi scum will get stronger, you get it...?’

  Enthusiastic roars.

  Then they worked their way further down the carriage. The old man was breaking out in a sweat. The group of girls had huddled together nervously. The second old man now followed the proceedings unmoved. The mother seemed relieved. The leather jackets were exchanging glances, while they reached for something on their belts. Fred longed for Alexanderplatz. He figured Nazi thugs could be useful to him if there was a police presence.

  Suddenly the old boy leapt up with astonishing speed for his age, and fled to the corner where the leather jackets were sitting. The skins looked on with anticipation.

  ‘That’s foreign infiltration. The suffering people have risen up to illustrate the problem.’

  The leather jackets were stony-faced. The old man gasped.

  ‘I can’t wait. Go ahead!’

  One of the leather jackets closed his eyes as a sign of boredom, then he turned his head towards the leader of the skins and murmured: ‘Piss off arsehole!’

  For a moment not a sound could be heard apart from the rattle of the train. The skins were gawping, as if Hitler had banned beer.

  Perfect thought Fred. Now tear up the carriage, boys.

  But as the skins raised their baseball bats and were about to cut loose, the leather jackets stood up as at a command, and three knives sprang out of their fists with a sharp metallic click. They didn’t say a word, but then they didn’t need to. The skins stopped. For a few seconds they stared and sized each other up.

  Then one of the leather jackets hissed as he casually hefted the knife: ‘Look after yourselves, mummy’s boys! So you’ve no work, no Opel Corsa? Tragic. And no balls. What I cut off won’t be enough to nail on the wall! And that’s the problem with folk like you: you’ve not learnt shagging because it’s not done in a gang, you’ve got to do it yourself, and now you think it’s just slamming heads against the wall. I could explain, but I think you’ve got the basics. One more step and I’ll get my hands dirty!’

  For the first time Fred found the Berlin dialect really stylish. On the other hand he would have preferred the knife fighters not to have won quite so conclusively. The skins had visibly lost their nerve.

  As they were listening to the lecture, the train arrived at the next station. The rear doors opened, and the other passengers rushed out. Even the old man was able to slip away from the skins unnoticed. Only Fred remained at the door. He had spotted five uniforms at the station exit. So he’d got it wrong: Fred Hoffmann was worth the manhunt. Did they really have nothing better to do in this godawful town? The police approached slowly, inspecting the oncoming passengers and searching the carriages. Fred turned round to look at the adversaries. They still stood silently opposed. Nobody wanted to be the first to leave. The police were now only a carriage away. Fred had to do something, anything...!

  Quickly he went up behind one of the skins, ripped the baseball bat from his hand and shouted: ‘Are you going to do something or what? Or are we just here for a cuddle?’

  The skins turned round, and all seven looked at Fred in astonishment. Fred could hear the footsteps of the policeman behind him. My God these boys were slow. He took a short swing and cracked the bat against the nearest head. While the victim staggered through the carriage, the other skins screamed and finally went on the attack. At that moment the police rushed through the door with batons drawn and hurled themselves between the rival gangs. During the ensuing fight Fred succeeded in crawling past the skins and through to the door. The exits to the station were empty. He ran down the platform without looking back.

  20

  Fred had lain on the bed that night and almost the entire day, waiting for Moni’s steps on the stairs. He had forced himself to go up and knock in vain at her door only once every two hours, and he had had to restrain himself from going looking for her in the neighbouring gambling clubs. He had bought beer and cigarettes at the reception and used them to stave off hunger.

  Moni came up the stairs at about seven in the evening. Fred was already waiting in the doorway. He was pale, with gleaming eyes and a hunted expression.

  ‘What in God’s name is going on?’ asked Moni, while Fred closed the door behind her.

  ‘Where were you?’

  ‘At training.’ And suddenly Moni thought she understood. ‘Hey. We’re not married or anything like that.’

  Fred shook his head. ‘No, no, it’s only because...’ He didn’t know where to begin. Nervously he lit a cigarette. ‘Beer?’

  Moni nodded and sat on the bed. Fred cracked open a can.

  ‘Excuse me, but you look dreadful. Now tell me what happened.’

  ‘It’s like this...’ Fred paced up and down the room. ‘To cut a long story short: the police have my identity card, they know I’m the person from the Café Budapest, and I’ve still a year and a half of probation to run.’

  ‘Oh my God!’ Moni put down her bag and unbuttoned her sports jacket. ‘How? I mean, how did it happen?’

  Fred began to tell the story. Gradually he became calmer, and finally he said with renewed composure: ‘The only thing that can help me is a false passport.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Then I’ll really become a sailor and sign on a ship that’s heading for Canada. I reckon its easier to pass off a false passport on a ship than on a plane.’

  ‘And where do you propose to get hold of one?’

  ‘Well, I thought... maybe you could help me?’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘If one were to ask the Russians for example...’

  ‘The Russians!’ Moni shook her head. ‘Far too dangerous. And besides I’d lose my reputation as a good little seamstress. Do you know how much a false passport costs?’

  ‘Ten to fifteen thousand, I thought. But I can only pay it when I’ve got my money from Nickel.’

  ‘And you’ll get it?’

  Fred didn’t answer. He’d asked himself the question often enough in the past twenty hours.

  ‘I’ll work something out. I think I know who I could ask,’ she opened her bag and took out a purse, ‘but first I’ll get us something to eat. And then I’ll ask Yalcin if he can remove your name from the register. Just in case the police come by.’

  Fred watched as Moni stood up and went to the door.

  ‘Wait a second,’ he said suddenly, ‘if you don’t want to, I mean you don’t have to help me.’ And as Moni turned round, ‘normally I’m absolutely not the kind of guy who has problems - on the contrary... Just at the moment, I don’t know, it’s like I’m jinxed.’

  Moni smiled. ‘How’s about you get the cabin into shape, capt’n, so we can sit down to eat at the table. I, for one, am starving.’

  While Moni was out, Fred smoked two cigarettes at the window. Was his good luck laced with bad? Or his bad with good?

  He set about tidying the room and tried to imagine himself arriving in Canada with Moni and a false passport. Images of a glorious future were, after all, his speciality. But at the moment even that didn’t seem to work: the Canadian sky was grey, the customs officer spotted the forgery, and Moni took off with another man.

  For the next few days Fred stayed mostly in bed and waited. For Nickel’s call, for Moni in the evening, for the address of a forger. As soon as Moni arrived he forgot his troubles. They laughed, ate, drank and slept together. Fred tried stubbornly to convince her that a ballet education in Canada was just as good as one in Berlin, and Moni was at pains to explain to him - and to herself a little - why she was attached to this city.

  ‘It’s not a matter of whether it’s beautiful or ugly, or if the people are friendly or ghastly - I know myself that Berlin isn’t going to win any prizes for anything positive. But maybe it’s precisely that: in Berlin if you feel uplifted by a person or a street or only be
cause of a pleasant shop assistant, it comes out of such an overall context of garbage, that it’s five times as powerful as in a city where everything’s beautiful.’

  This was less than clear to Fred. He wanted everything to be beautiful - particularly at the moment.

  The fact that Moni never talked about other men - or people she knew or had known - and that she never told him she loved him or anything of the kind, barely disturbed Fred. She always seemed to him to have drifted through the window by chance, and he was grateful for every moment with her. Quite apart from the fact that it wasn’t the time for arrangements, plans or earnest promises. Everything was vague, shaky and uncertain. Fred could be arrested any day, each evening could be their last. Once Fred wondered if that might be precisely why Moni spent time with him. After all, compared to all the exciting gamblers, Mafiosi and prima ballerinas - whatever they were - he must have seemed to her just a peasant. And one who was dogged by bad luck at that. He couldn’t quite believe that Moni was simply pleased to see him, to listen to his tales of Dieburg, and to sleep with him. Didn’t you say you were in love under those circumstances?

  ‘In Dieburg that’s what you say anyway,’ said Fred in an attempt to entice her.

  ‘So that’s where it comes from.’

  Moni never said she was in love. In her experience men started to get too many ideas too quickly, and besides she considered the phrase ‘I am in love’ to be superfluous, if you were doing the things you do anyway when you’re in love.

  During the days, Fred developed into an almost perfect househusband. He had installed a cooking area and a shelf for provisions, he used the washbasin for cooling drinks and washed his clothes under the shower. With the money Moni removed from the machine every day on Nickel’s card, Fred paid the room bill, which was now double the price as it was being used as a hideout, and the hire charges levied by the hotel chef for the electric rings and the coffee machine. They clearly had experience of guests who wanted to avoid being in the register.