The Snowman

by Jorg Fauser

  “But not well done, medium rare,” he said almost pleadingly. The steward muttered something and moved away. “Doesn’t taste so good well done,” added the man, as if he had to justify himself.

  “Why not have the Pichelsteiner?”

  “I had a Pichelsteiner only on Friday,” said the man, opening his book. Not until they had eaten – the Mozart Toast was overdone, of course, and the Pichelsteiner delicious – did they fall into conversation again. Blum would have talked to anyone, even a deaf mute. Anything was better than constantly looking at the door through which a man with a machine gun might appear any moment – but that was just in the movies. In real life the syndicate was sitting there at the table, pushing away his plate with the remains of the steak. He took a Lord Extra out of its packet and said, “I wonder if you’d mind doing me a favour.”

  Here we go, thought Blum.

  “It’s like this, you see – I didn’t quite meet my quota yesterday evening.”

  What was all this? The confessions of an overworked killer? The man lit his cigarette and rubbed his thumb over the spine of the book. “Reptiles. I had a pet slow-worm as a boy, maybe that’s what made me think of it as a subject.”

  Blum relaxed. At the worst this character might be with Intelligence. He was quite red in the face now.

  “Do you have an exam ahead?”

  “No, no, I’m a vacuum cleaner engineer. But these days I specialize in quiz shows. Repairing vacuum cleaners all your life – well, that’s kind of monotonous. Haven’t you seen me on TV?”

  “I get to see relatively little TV,” said Blum. “What do you do on television?”

  “Oh, I appear on quiz shows. Maybe you’ve seen me after all – I mean, people don’t always watch very closely. The After Nine Quiz Show, Who’s the Brainbox?, The Big Question? No? We get high ratings, though. I made my debut in Movie Buffs. But you can only win the top prize on a show once, so if you’re a pro you have to be versatile.”

  Blum agreed. He leaned back. “Do you do it full time?”

  “What’s the alternative? Learning by heart is a fulltime job. Of course my good memory comes in useful. History was my strong point at school – I could remember all the dates. Try me out – ask me a question!”

  “What about?”

  “A historical event!”

  “What kind of historical event?”

  “Oh, come on, you must know a historical event!”

  The man was getting annoyed. The classic agent type, decided Blum. Didn’t seem to be interested in coke, but mad keen on the past.

  “Or just tell me your phone number and I’ll tell you what happened in the year matching it. That’s it, give me your phone number!”

  Hm. Only a beginner could be that obvious. “Okay. 44 34 59.”

  The man leaned back, frowning. “That’s really your phone number? Rather a tricky one.”

  “I thought you said you could come up with a historical event for any set of figures.”

  “I can. Right, here we go: forty-four, of course, we have 44 BC, assassination of Caesar. Thirty-four . . . that’s trickier. Oh, I know: the murder of Wallenstein, 1634. And fifty-nine, let’s say 1759, battle of Kunersdorf.”

  “Oh yes? And what happened then?”

  “What do you mean, what happened?”

  “In this battle – what was it about?”

  “Oh, that’s not interesting. But you do see I can’t go on repairing vacuum cleaners, not with a memory like that, can I?”

  “Yes, I see. So now?”

  “I need to go over the crocodiles again. Page 128.”

  The large tome was Volume 6 of Grzimek’s Animal Encyclopedia. Blum opened it. A crocodile blinked out at him. Not really, of course, but that was what it looked like. The crocodile was lying in the sun by a river, its jaws were wide open, and it seemed to be very much at ease.

  “Go on, then,” said Blum, lighting an HB.

  “The crocodile is a member of the subclass of large saurians. We distinguish between three families that are still extant, the alligator family, the true crocodile family, and the gavial family. Among alligators, we distinguish between the alligator genus, the spectacled caiman genus . . .”

  The man had learned his quota all right. Blum wondered what this farce was in aid of. Of course, human life would be intolerable without such fooling around. Crocodiles had lived on earth 18 million years longer than mankind, and there was a pretty good chance they would still be around when humanity’s fooling around had finished it off.

  By the time they reached Würzburg they were through with the work quota. The quiz expert rewarded himself with a third Apollinaris, and Blum ordered his seventh Pils. The pressure on his bladder was frightful, but he didn’t move from the spot. This man was capable of anything.

  “So how long have you been doing quizzes?”

  “Almost four years. Of course it takes a while before you feel happy on TV. Stage fright, you know. I can tell you, when there’s 20 million people out there waiting for you to have no idea of the date of the battle of Aboukir, or the name of the film where Marlon Brando played a Japanese, or the number of genuses of pythons in existence – well, you may be good, but you suddenly get the feeling you’re sitting in the middle of space with nothing underneath you, know what I mean?”

  “I’m not unfamiliar with the feeling,” said Blum.

  “And what’s your line, if I may ask?”

  “I’m in the construction industry.”

  “Ah, well, of course that’s quite something. With the economic fluctuations . . .”

  “You can say that again. And again,” said Blum, and told him tales of the building industry. He had once worked on a building site in the summer holidays, and it still came in useful. At Aschaffenburg the TV quiz man rose, took his large tome and said goodbye.

  “I’m going to have a bit of a lie-down before we reach Wiesbaden. Watch the show on April the fifth! No, no, don’t get up – and thanks a lot!”

  Blum asked for his bill. He felt a pressing need to shut himself in the toilet or pull the emergency brake, but he stayed where he was, drank another coffee, and watched as the train rolled on into the chemicals-producing area, where the sky was green as grass.

  14

  No one met Blum, no one had laid on a stormy reception for him, no one took any interest in him at all except for a foreign gentleman in a turban and a voluminous white robe who held a city street map under his nose, and was greatly disappointed when Blum told him, “I’m a stranger here myself.” And Frankfurt was indeed strange to him, although he had once known the city very well. At eye level there were still places he remembered, but everything over ten feet high seemed to be new. Banks, boutiques, brothels, and two pharmacies on every corner – anyone who didn’t make money here, thought Blum, didn’t need it.

  He left his sample case and travelling bag in a left-luggage locker on level B under the central police station. It was now five-thirty. He didn’t look for a hotel – if all went smoothly he might be able to spend the night at the airport and catch the first flight to Miami in the morning. Or to Maracaibo. Or Macao. He went to the toilet and hid the key to the left-luggage locker in his left boot (luckily he usually bought his footwear half a size too large), and then he called the dealer. It took him some time to find a working phone, and the fuggy atmosphere was beginning to get to him by the time he finally reached the man on the other end of the line. He sounded nervous and suspicious, and wouldn’t let Blum say anything.

  “Know your way around Frankfurt?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then we’ll meet at the Iron Bridge in half an hour.”

  The gulls were screaming above the river Main. Pleasure boats bobbed up and down by the bank. The river was high, and oily water slapped against the planks of their hulls. Old women stood in the public gardens and on the bridge feeding pigeons and gulls, and Turkish children were playing counting-out games or Ayatollah. Blum admired the skyline. Say what you l
ike, they knew what they were doing in Frankfurt, and even if the scene in general made you want to puke, at least they showed you how to puke profitably here.

  At 18.06 hours precisely Blum heard someone cough behind him: the man who was big in the trade was a tall, thin youth of twenty-two at the most, who obviously shaved only twice a week. He had carefully styled fairish hair and an arrogant set to his mouth. His eyes were constantly moving, and he took his hands out of the pockets of his white raincoat only if he absolutely had to. He wore an unobtrusively expensive cashmere scarf around his neck. He examined Blum for a moment, then nodded gloomily and jerked his head in the direction of the bridge.

  “We can talk better up there.”

  Up on the bridge an unpleasantly cold wind was blowing through the rust-corroded iron arches. The dealer kept his hands in his raincoat pockets, and watched Blum freezing in his silk shirt and blazer with the elegant cravat.

  “I know it’s cold,” he said, “but we won’t be overheard up here. How much high C do you have?”

  Good Lord, thought Blum, you’re pretty advanced for your age.

  “Five pounds,” he said. “Five pounds of Peruvian flake, 96 per cent, straight from the producer. So strong it’d eat your nose away. But the brunette will have told you that.”

  The tall man smiled down at Blum. It was a rather frosty smile.

  “Quite right, no names. And how much do you want for it?”

  “A hundred and fifty grand, in cash.”

  By now they had walked over the bridge once. Layabouts were lounging around at the far end, passing a bottle from hand to hand. They turned. The dealer stopped now and then and acted as if he were pointing out the city landmarks to Blum.

  “That’s crazy,” he said. “And over there you see the cathedral. I can get five kilos for 150 grand. If you want to make that kind of money you’ll have to sell it on the street. The East Harbour is over there.”

  “I could make half a million on the street,” said Blum, trying to light a cigarette. “A hundred and fifty grand is a realistic price. Once you’ve cut it you’ll make twice that out of my stuff, and hey presto, there’s your five kilos. I told you, Peruvian flake. The best.”

  “I really prefer Bolivian,” said the tall man. “It’s got more subtlety.”

  “I thought you were going to flog it.”

  “All gone,” an old woman called to the gulls that had been snapping her breadcrusts out of the air. “All gone! Nothing left!” She stuffed the empty plastic bag in her shopping carrier. Blum had finally lit his HB and responded to her mad grin as best he could.

  “They’ve all got cancer,” said the dealer. “And the latest skyscraper – yes, look over there – that’s the Deutsche Bank.” Then, lowering his voice: “We might start talking at 80,000.”

  They had reached the end of the bridge again, and turned.

  “Who’s got cancer? The old women or the seagulls?”

  “The women, the gulls, all of them. Don’t you have cancer too?”

  “No,” said Blum.

  “You just don’t know it yet.”

  “Do you?”

  “Well, no, but I’ve already had four stomach ulcers.”

  “Is dealing so stressful?”

  “My work is stressful. I deal in coke on the side just to make up for it.” He looked gloomily at Blum. “I expect you thought I was around twenty. As a matter of fact I’m twenty-six. Been in advertising for seven years.”

  “Amazing,” said Blum, “but all the same I want 150.”

  It had grown too cold for the layabouts, and they had moved on to Sachsenhausen. The dealer turned again. Blum was beginning to puff and pant. He wasn’t used to this kind of fitness training.

  “If your C is really that good – and I’m always sceptical about Peruvian – we might be able to agree on ninety. I’ll have to try it first, of course.”

  Blum threw his cigarette away. A gull snapped it up.

  “Then let’s go. I have some with me.”

  The tall man looked at him distrustfully. “You mean now? Why are you in such a hurry?”

  “What do you mean, a hurry? I need the money.”

  “I believe you. But a deal over five pounds of snow isn’t done that quickly. I’d have to see it all first and choose what I test for myself. You might give me your Peruvian flake now, and then the rest turns out to be washing powder. Nothing doing.”

  I ought to push you into the Main, thought Blum, that’s where you belong, down in its murky waters. He stopped. The other man held on to his hairstyle.

  “No wonder you have stomach ulcers. You’re over-suspicious, that’s what it is.”

  “Anyone can see you’re new to the trade. I don’t really do business with novices, but if your stuff is really so great . . . I tell you what: where can I reach you?”

  They were back on the Frankfurt side of the river again, and the tall man was getting restless.

  “Nowhere,” said Blum. “I’ll ring you.”

  That seemed to make sense to this character. “Give me the sample, then. But not so’s the whole of Frankfurt can see you.”

  Once again, Blum had no choice – holding his breath, he gave the man the little bag he had prepared.

  “Call me tomorrow morning and we’ll see what we can do.”

  “Not likely,” said Blum, quite loud. “You’ll have a nice evening with my stuff and I’ll be left high and dry. Do your test now, and I’ll call you at eight and we’ll get everything in the clear.”

  “Can’t be done,” said the tall man, straightening his cashmere scarf. “I have a meeting at eight. Try around midnight, but I can’t promise anything.”

  A white Mercedes drew up by the kerb, with a redhaired woman at the wheel. The dealer drove off in the car. A Turkish boy pointed a broomstick at Blum, crooking his little finger. “You dead!” he said, and laughed. When he saw Blum’s face he ran away.

  15

  Blum was sitting in a café, seeing ghosts. Hadn’t Rossi pressed close to him as he walked along a dark side street on his way to the central police station? There was a car parked outside the café with a woman and two men in it – Renée, her husband and his gay friend? And now he came to think of it, he’d known several of the people in the café ever since Tangiers, where he once dealt briefly in stolen passports. Wherever he went they were sitting there already, staring at him through their dark glasses, and he stared back at them through his own dark glasses, but there were always more of them and they could stare for longer. Oh, hell, said Blum to himself, ordering another cognac, you just don’t have any luck. You’ve finally dumped yourself right in it with that five pounds of charlie. Keeping your nose clean for forty years – that business with the European Community butter was perfectly legal, and after all, he’d never actually claimed that the Titian was genuine – and any high-class supermarket sells porn magazines these days – and now he had go and get mixed up with the drugs trade. Ten years behind bars was the best he could expect. And that would mean the end of his life as such. He remembered the horror of it back in Istanbul, and he’d been entirely innocent. But if he hadn’t happened to have a few banknotes of large denominations he’d still be in that dump today. He shuddered, and with trembling hands reached for the glass the waitress put down in front of him. To her, thought Blum, I’m still just your average type with cirrhosis of the liver, or Blum of the textiles industry who went bust yesterday and is going to shoot himself after the next cognac.

  And now another flesh-and-blood ghost came through the door, making itself out to be a Pakistani by the name of Hassan Abdul Haq. In fact four versions of the ghost came in at once; three of them looked rather like Mr Haq, and one of them was exactly like him, down to every greasy strand of hair and every fibre in his green artificial silk suit. The ghost saw Blum, came over to him, smiling, and showed him Mr Haq’s two gold teeth.

  “Mr Blum! What a surprise!”

  It was indeed Mr Haq. He whispered to his countrymen, dire
cted them to an empty table, and came back to Blum.

  “May I sit down here a moment?”

  “By all means, Mr Haq. I must say it’s a surprise for me to see you here too.”

  “Ah, but I told you I had to visit Germany because of Jeddah, remember?”

  “You didn’t mention Frankfurt.”

  “But Frankfurt is in Germany, right, Mr Blum? Surely one could say it was in Germany!”

  “All the same, I didn’t expect to see you here. Anyone else, but not you. Can I order you something?”

  It proved unnecessary. Mr Haq seemed to be known in this café – the waitress was already bringing him a pot of tea. Curiously enough, here in Frankfurt a determination that Blum had not noticed in Malta emanated from the little Pakistani. This time he was wearing a narrow black tie with the white shirt that Blum had seen on a hanger in Valletta. How familiar someone seemed when you’d seen his shirt on a hanger, and the remains of shampoo in his wash-basin with the hairs still in them. Blum ordered a double mocha.

  “Won’t you invite your fellow countrymen over to our table, Mr Haq?”

  “My fellow countrymen can stay put. They don’t speak our language, if you see what I mean.”

  Blum piled sugar into his coffee.

  “You shouldn’t take so much sugar, Mr Blum,” said the Pakistani. “Sugar is very bad for you.”

  “An unusual opinion for an Oriental, Mr Haq, if I may say so.”

  “If we ate less sugar we might have solved our problems as well as you have. That, of course, was a joke, Mr Blum.”

  “Of course.”

  “But there’s a grain of truth in every joke, don’t you think?”

  “Mm. But since you mentioned speaking the same language, Mr Haq, do you remember the evening you came to my hotel?”

  “Yes, of course. It was only three days ago.”

  “Really? How time flies . . .”

  Blum described the robbery in Republic Street. Mr Haq looked shocked.

  “You surely don’t think that I—?”

  “No, I don’t. I admit I suspected you briefly, but the magazines weren’t realistic enough for you.”