Fame

by Daniel Kehlmann

  “Traveling: hell,” I said to the neighboring nerd along the way. “And for what! We could do everything from home by V.IP! I’d see you, you’d see me, everything easy-peasy, no stress.” But the nerd just stared and then slid away along the seat.

  At Reception, I demanded instant Internet. The woman looked at me like an obelisk. “Internet! Hello, Internet!”

  Her: “not working right now.”

  “Pardon, what, how, huh?”

  Her: yes, so sorry, service interrupted at the moment, usually the rooms have wi-fi, but not for now.

  Me: just stared. Couldn’t get it.

  “It’ll be fixed next week.”

  Me: Fanbloodytastic. Really helps me. What’s the prob?

  Stared at me blank. Sarcasm: new territory for her. So shocked felt faint. Hotel parked in booniest boondocks. No village, no Internet café, so either someone lent me his HSDPA card, or situation pitch-black. And come on, nobody lends you their Internet card, everyone’s afraid you’ll download movies at company expense. So: catastrophe. Catacombs. Night night.

  Dinner. No need to describe it to you, you know it: food-fight at buffet, pushing, shoving. Everything good already gone when you want some. Then at table: to my right, a bearded type from T-Mobile talking about his new wooden floor, to my left a female skeleton from Vodaphone has a cousin of her brother-in-law’s who’s scored an Opel at rock-bottom price. Me: radio silence. Never say anything in front of strangers. Can’t, won’t, no app. Went back to buffet instead, then again, then I would toss, then out into parking lot, nicotine fix. Not allowed to smoke inside, not allowed to smoke anywhere. Telling you, no worse under the Nazis.

  Rain, a whole load. Under porch roof, man with a cigarette. Almost dark by now, so at first only saw his outline and luminous red dot. Asked for a light, and while he groped nervously, recognized him.

  “Leo Richter!”

  Jumped. Looked at me. It was him!

  Okay. So I’m asking you: What would you have done? Pre-amble: been a fan of his for years, totally crazy. That one book, don’t remember title, Lara Gaspard teaching in Paris meets these totally wasted types and then in the last story goes down to the Underworld. Read it, totally crazy, couldn’t believe it, mega-trip. The style, the wit, smokin’ good, but most of all, the woman. Have to add have never been winner with opposite sex, all that roundabout stuff and blablah and then always “Leave me alone, you’re a nice guy but not that way, now go!” and so on, all the bullshit you guys know, and on FindyourLove, even if it was all A-1 to begin with, the moment I put my photo online, blackout. Contact gone? But Lara, for sure, wouldn’t have happened that way with her. She’s not superficial. And though she looks crazy-good, she’s also so smart she doesn’t care about a man’s outsides. And she thinks like me! And me like her. Know you’re not supposed to read books that way, but sometimes … well, seem crazy to you?

  I mean, I know she’s a made-up person. And that—of course I googled as soon as I’d read it—Leo Richter wrote it when he was in Paris himself and then when his wife gave him the boot came the three stories where Lara leaves her husband, The Moon and Freedom, Herr Müller and Eternity, forget the title of the third. So, the shit that happens to him then happens to her, what he does, she does later, and whoever meets him can surface in story. In the Literaturehouse chat room, somebody called this autobiographical narcissism, but I flamed him and he won’t ever chat again about stuff he doesn’t get, dumpster dog. Only story I didn’t like was the one about the old lady going to Switzerland to throw the poison down, he wasn’t in it anywhere, and the ending made no sense, no idea who could see through it, not me for sure.

  “Your book! Where d’you think I read it?”

  Hiccups. Logical: the excitement. Hard to talk to strangers, don’t normally do it. But I was crazy-excited. “Between Munich and Brussels! Dining car! Finished it as we pulled into the station.”

  He looked at me. Turned away, then back to me. Strange moves, sort of angular and nervous.

  “Exactly the right length! You leave Munich, you start. You reach Brussels, you’re done. Wicked! I was going to a seminar on UMTS.”

  “Remarkable,” he said.

  (Hey, not making this up. Wrote his words down as soon as I got to my room. Why? Logical—for this forum.)

  Me: Where do you get your ideas?

  He turned away, looked down at the gravel, then up at the porch roof. “In the bathtub.”

  “Really? Chill! Fact?”

  “Promise.”

  “Chiller than chill. Eat my socks! Bathtub.”

  Then both of us silent for a time. He smoked, I smoked, the rain did its raining thing.

  Then me: “And are you writing right now? What’s Lara doing, what’s in the plan? Can I stop being formal with you?”

  He threw his cigarette away. “I have to go back in.”

  “What are you doing here? Of all the gin joints?”

  “Lecture.”

  “Hey?”

  “A bank’s giving a seminar and they contacted my agent to book me. I thought why not, a few days in the green. But it doesn’t ever stop raining.” Looked at me, as if it was my fault, and again, “Ever!” Turned around and back into the house. Me: Stood there, smoked one more, chilled, and tried to figure out what had just gone on. My God. Wow. Then went up to my room.

  I admit, my head was cross-wired and scramble-brained. Too much colliding: the fight with mother and being so stupid as to give out my IP. And worry about tomorrow: okay, a pro like me can make a presentation, but I hadn’t netsurfed for nine and a half hours, no longer up to speed with anything! Not a spark about how lordoftheflakes, icu_lop, ruebendaddy, and pray4us had responded to my postings. Made my stomach heave just to think of it. Potatoed in front of the TV, but nothing but world-level shit, and then I see there was no shower, only a tub, so narrow you couldn’t fit in it. So today would be hygienically challenged too.

  A few minutes on the laptop. PowerPoint, not easy to use. Typed a little, moved some windows around, couldn’t get it to work. Well, it would have to work tomorrow morning. So bed, lights out, clutch pillow. The dream Olympics, as mother always says.

  But couldn’t sleep. One floor down, sounds of whole choir of drunken nerds. Constant thundering of feet in the corridor. Always like that with Congresses, the desk jockeys can’t handle it and down the booze like drains. Funny ideas in my head. Holy Ninjas: being in the same house as Leo Richter, who made up Lara Gaspard. The guy who decided what she saw and did. Shaking his hand was almost like shaking hers—you pierce my meaning?

  And then, at that moment, in the darkness of my room, I had an A-1 flash. If you’re surfing the net as much as I am, then you know—how to say it? Well, you know that reality isn’t everything. That there are spaces you don’t enter with your body. Only in your thoughts, but definitely there. Meeting Lara Gaspard. It was possible! In a story, of course.

  Leo used stuff he saw? Guys he met? Events that happened? Yes, he could even use me. Nothing against it! Appearing in a story—really no different from being in a chat room. Transformation! Transport yourself into some other place. In a story I’d be someone else, but also me. In the same world as Lara.

  You on my page? I crazy-worship this man, and I wanted to get into a story. He had to get to know me. I had to make him notice me! Either become his buddy or—main thing, had to notice me. My whole shit life, the nonstop fights with Mama, my dog boss, and that huge porker Lobenmeier: I felt suddenly there was a deliverance. As I went to sleep, I was happier than I’d been for long time. And you know what else? I felt light.

  Next morning: wake-up. Still no luck with the bathtub, far too narrow. Went down to breakfast room. Made mistake of three plates, one in the left hand, one in the right, and one balanced in the middle, and of course preciselyexactly that one fell: scrambled eggs on the floor, bacon stuff, two rolls, everything garbage fodder. Leo was sitting far back against the wall, alone. Approached him, naturally, and “Slept well, hom
bre?”

  He stared. Funny way of watching. Eyes wide, mouth twitching nonstop. Relaxed, believe me, he’s not.

  “Didn’t get the chance to talk yesterday!” Began to eat. Blob of scrambled egg fell down, paid no attention. “Do you want to know something about me?”

  “Pardon?”

  Said my name and where I work and gave him a brief outline of what my department in the company preciselyexactly does. Also said something about my mother and what it’s like to share your office with a pig.

  “Have to go,” he said.

  “Your breakfast? You didn’t finish yet!”

  Already gone: exit, door, out. Nervous guy, writer, what d’you want. Ate the two pieces of toast he’d smeared with marmalade, would have been a waste, then went to Reception and demanded Internet. What d’you think? Dungheap. Catacombs. And then: Conference room.

  Don’t worry, not going to rigidify you with the details. A conference, right. Flipcharts, tables, lots of handshakes around the place, but none with me. Just one guy wanting to know about our department but what are you supposed to say? Looked at him silently till he went away. Then finally lunch break: rolled ham, mayo, eggs, quiche, it went, have had worse. Coming back with my third plate, okay, it was admittedly a little bit full up, a guy got in my way, and “Are you taking precautionary measures against a crisis?” Me, rocketing right back: “Fuck you, pigshit filthsow die!” And he just vanished. Sometimes just flip my lid. Not good, I know, regret it afterward, but can’t help it.

  A few minutes left in the break. So back to Reception. “Need to have quick conversation with Leo Richter, please.”

  She typed on her keyboard, then picked up the receiver, Leo on the line. Must have been asleep. “Who?”

  Give my name again.

  “Who?”

  Unbelievable. He’d forgotten me again already. “Thought we’d grab a bite together? Lots to tell you. Unbelievable stories, you can really use them. I’ve had quite a life.”

  But then, a sharp noise and a click, connection interrupted. Crap hotel. Immediately dialed again. “Me again, so what about lunch?”

  He coughed. Sounded influenza’d to the max. “Can’t.”

  “Later?”

  Silence.

  “You still there?”

  Silence.

  “You coming to my presentation?”

  “Difficult. I’ve got a lot …”

  “European versus national frequency norms. Interesting for you too!”

  He cleared his throat.

  “Look, a phone uses something called ISM Codes, for identification purposes. Example: You want to issue an order and you’re not on your home network. If you—”

  Click and the engaged signal. That was no accident, I’m not brain-dead, he hung up on me! Artists: shy, you have no idea.

  And me: heart-bangingly nervous, and how. Crystal-clear, logicwise of course: the presentation. Right after the break, so now, no exit, no time, close my eyes and go.

  Everyone already in the room. Someone gave me hand, then another, than another, didn’t know any of them, and up front at the microphone some type in tie announcing unfortunately my boss not here, but me in his place, then applause. Me, up on platform. Three steps, quite steep, once up there, totally out of breath and sweating. Open laptop, plug in network cable, my PowerPoint started right up on the screen, the technical stuff really A-1 here, you’d have liked it, and off we went, the complete enchilada.

  To begin with, it was aces. Everything clear, the flipcharts flipped, and I talked New Approach and the national security protocols for UMTS, pros and cons, glitches and possibilities, everything clockwork. Then I see Leo.

  Or maybe not. You know, darkened room, two spotlights on my face, and no chance to see if the Darth Vader–black shape right at the back was him or not. My invitation, after all. His size, the nervous twitching were right, and he kept rubbing his head. But his face? I leaned forward, useless, saw nothing. From then on, it was curtains for me.

  Stuttered. And how. The whole nine yards. Words disappeared in the middle of sentences, then the laptop went on the fritz and blocked the graphics. And my hand so wet, couldn’t work the mouse. Felt everyone looking at me, burning. Wouldn’t wish it on any of you (no, not true: lordoftheflakes). And then a thought: Leo could really use this! A good guy, knows his stuff, but goes to pieces big-time during lecture. Chill story? You can bet on it. And suddenly was seeing myself from the outside as if it wasn’t me; result more stuttering, and result more stuttering still.

  Hands sweating even more, mouse fell down, clattered on the floor, and bending over impossible, what to do? Stood there gaping, clueless. Then somebody out there in the middle laughed. Then somebody else at the back. Then three women in the first row, then everybody. Asked myself if I was dreaming. Had had dreams like that, so have you, so has everyone. But this was for real, one to one, Life Reality, the full program. Managed another few sentences, then thought flash: “What if that’s it?” And that’s what happened, I heard myself not hearing myself any longer because my voice was gone and I saw myself standing there looking at myself standing there looking at myself. Hell. And meantime they were laughing. I still managed to get it together to say into the microphone that I wasn’t feeling well, then that I was faintingfitsick, gross-out, then back down the three steps, luckily without landing flat. A tie-guy asked if I needed doctor, but I told him to mind his own business, and out of there.

  Absolutely flatass. Sweating like a sauna. Dizzy, boneless. Every part soaked. Had to cool down somehow, come down, be chill again. Looked around lobby. And right then I spotted guy getting up from table, direction restroom, laptop abandoned—and it had a WiFi stick! Snuck up closer. And closer. Then down into the chair, typed furiously, foot on the gas. First stop Movieforum, and yes, in response to my totally factual posting, bugclap had flamed me so fiercely it took my breath away—what is it with you guys, don’t you have a life? Replied express, had to.

  Flashback the lecture again. When shit finds fan, flies in bucketloads. Hands trembling: Quick into chat room, where I told pray4us what needed telling since forever, dumb as pigshit, die. Then into my mailbox. No messages—thought again about having given out my IP. Was someone already after me? Because the bigshots are ruthless. They do whatever they want, and I’d insulted everyone from the President on down. Then went into TheeveningNews and said today’s lead article was all bullshit. Hadn’t read a word of it, but so what, they’d take it down anyway, and it helped, feeling calmer already. At that moment, from beside me “Hey what’s going on?”

  Me: huh, what, what d’you? I’d already forgotten. Head pretty cross-wired, believe me.

  “You, that’s my computer!”

  What big retort is there in a case like that? So me: Apologies, sorry, error, the whole shitload. Stood up, went through the lobby. Just then, saw people coming out of one of the other conference rooms: tie-guys and women in silk stuff, but in the middle: guess who!

  I was speed itself. Heard someone say, “Do you know where I read it? In the plane from Hamburg to Madrid.” Leo nodded. He looked peculiar.

  Another one: “Where do you get your ideas?”

  Leo twitched, turned around, swayed a little. The whole nervousness deal. “Have to go work now!”

  “What a won-der-ful lecture!” A woman. Glasses, a real wrinklie, upswept hair. “You have made us think!”

  And another: “You’ll stay to have dinner with us?”

  In your dreams. I manipulate his shoulder and “Out of discussion, we have an appointment!” Stressissime for me, crazy to madness, sweating saunas, but didn’t let it show. “No boringness, we’re going for a drink Misterman Leo the Writer, we’re off.”

  But he pulled himself away and ran to Reception and “Room 305, key.” I can tell you this exactly because I heard it with fine ears and know the vitalness of exactitude online and precise info and datastuff as soon as you have something. Have thought about it often since, but supercertain
, no doubt, 305, I heard it!

  Then Leo to the elevator, so fast I couldn’t follow him: I’m not so lightfoot. Next to me, the woman says to the tie-guys “What a pity. It was really mah-vell-ous.” To which one of them “Okay, but he really isn’t very appealing.” And the third: “I thought it was so-so.” And the woman again, to me “And who are you?”

  Didn’t want to talk to them. So button lip and leave, head for bar, order whisky. Then another. Charged to the company of course. And another. Tie-types went by, turned their heads toward me, laughed. You know, those people who at a certain point grab a gun-thing and then it’s blood by the square yard, I can understand them. It’s just I’m not that type. I don’t know artillery, wouldn’t know where to get it, unfortunately.

  One whisky doesn’t do much for me, I need several before I feel anything. After the fourth however, downhill slalom. Vertigo, thick tongue, eyes frozen, the whole effectsofalcohol program, you know it all, don’t have to explain. But suddenly I was so sad. And didn’t know what to do anymore.

  Lara Gaspard. Now or never. So I got up (ethylo-alcoholic impediments notwithstanding), took elevator to the third floor. 305.

  Knocked. Nothing.

  Knocked louder.

  Nothing.

  Banged with fist.

  Chambermaid suddenly next to me. Of course total panic and sorry and my mistake and started to go when she: “Did you lock yourself out?”

  And me right away: “Exactly!” Because when in need, I can cogitate like lightning, Spock’s a koala compared to me. So she does the card thing into the slit, beep, door opens, I’m in. Switched on the light. Everything empty, bed untouched, no Leo.

  Sweat event. I had thought that was over, but you know what? With sweat, there’s always more. Leo Richter’s room, I thought. Looked around, opened drawers, cupboards—Lara Gaspard’s room. Somehow hers as well. My God.