by Jorg Fauser
“Are you getting hold of new magazines now?”
“No. I have something else on the go.” Blum stubbed out his cigarette and looked the Pakistani in the eye. “Remember you said you could use a man like me?”
“Why, yes, Mr Blum. In Jeddah.”
“Well, Mr Haq, this evening I’m saying it’s possible I could use someone like you.”
Mr Haq cautiously sipped his tea and gave Blum a look that was older than Pakistan, as old as any deal done between human beings.
“I’m honoured, of course, Mr Blum,” he said. “But what exactly could I do for you?”
Blum looked round for anyone observing him. The whole café was full of observers. Even Mr Haq’s countrymen were staring openly at them.
“Let’s go somewhere else, Mr Haq. I’m inviting you to dinner. Somewhere we won’t be disturbed.”
Mr Haq looked concerned, and glanced at his watch, which gleamed gold.
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible, Mr Blum. As you can see, my countrymen . . . well, we have something to discuss this evening. And unfortunately it’s already late! But why not come to my hotel tomorrow, and then we can talk at leisure.”
Blum noted down the address on a paper napkin.
“Of course I can’t be sure you’ll find me there, Mr Blum, I have so much to do at the moment . . . but do try, say around mid-day, perhaps for lunch? Good evening, Mr Blum, it’s been such a pleasure to see you again!”
Then they disappeared into the night, Mr Haq and his three companions, and Blum left too. The car with the woman and two men in it had gone. He called the dealer from a telephone kiosk. The answering machine replied. “There is no one available to take your call at the moment,” said a sexless voice. “Please leave a message and we will call you back.”
“A hundred and twenty grand,” said Blum, hanging up. He retrieved his travelling bag from the left-luggage locker and found a hotel on the outskirts of the station district. He ate a shashlik with potato salad in the snack bar opposite, and then lay down with a small bottle of Cutty Sark and his Bahamas handbook on the bed in the narrow room, with its wallpaper the colour of pea soup, its dripping tap, its blue bedside lamp, its yellow coconut-fibre carpet, the Merian engraving above the desk, and the groaning and squealing of the bedstead next door. He took a bath and got out of the tub feeling exhausted. He rang again. The dealer wasn’t there. He left the number of the hotel. Then he stuck the locker key under the wardrobe with sticky tape. He poured himself another whisky, using the tooth-glass. Everything smelled of Odol. Sirens were howling. He switched the radio on. It was playing Bert Kaempfert, “Spanish Eyes”.
16
Blum waited all Tuesday for the dealer to call back. No call came. In the afternoon he bought several paperbacks and a large bottle of Cutty Sark. After dinner he tried to read in his room, but after a while he fell asleep over his book. Later, a collision down in the street at the junction woke him: two cars, a hollow crashing sound, metal, glass, police cars, the ambulance was sent off, onlookers soon dispersed. He drank a whisky. No call. Without a return phone call it would be no use for him to visit Mr Haq either. He wanted a woman, and found himself counting his money. Could he afford the 100 marks for a tart? He had just under DM 1,700. And of course his sample case in the locker. It would have to stay there another night. Was the locker secure enough? He went over to the central police station. A few uniformed officers were around, but they were taking no notice of anyone but the shady characters being brought in. He fed more money into the slot of the locker. Blum no longer felt fear, only a sense of paralysis that made every movement difficult, as if he were suffering from consumption.
He went back to the hotel, stuck the locker key to the inside of the lavatory cistern, stared at his money. He was going to be forty next week, and here he was in this room in a run-down hotel, unable to turn five pounds of cocaine into ready cash. And if he did, then what? He saw himself at forty-three, at forty-seven, at fifty-two, in other rooms, but all of them alike, with a shirt drying on a hanger, a fly buzzing against the lamp, a radio playing “Spanish Eyes”, sirens howling, the level of whisky in the bottle going down, his heartbeats coming faster, and a telephone that didn’t ring. He went downstairs again and crossed the street for a shashlik and a beer. A drunk had laid his head on the bar and was sobbing. Two elderly tarts with fat legs under their gaudy miniskirts were dancing together. An American was feeding the fruit machine, and when he won he bought an Underberg and put it in front of the drunk, who raised his head and assured everyone, in tears, that he hadn’t done his old lady in but he’d ruined his stomach with Underberg. Then he drank the Underberg and put his head down on the bar again. The tarts stationed themselves in front of Blum, wiggling their hips, and he bought them a couple of vodkas, went to the all-night pharmacy, purchased a number of bromine tablets and went back to the hotel to sleep.
The phone call came next morning when Blum was sitting in the breakfast room with a throbbing head, drinking the weak coffee and reading a newspaper report about asylum seekers getting their teeth fixed at the taxpayers’ expense.
“Sorry, I had to go to Milan yesterday, didn’t get back until one in the morning. I suggest we have lunch.”
They met at a clip-joint near the hotel. The dealer lunched on four Alka Seltzers, a sesame seed roll with steak tartare, and a Bloody Mary, extra strong. Blum had the full menu at DM 29.90. The leg of veal was just enough for three forkfuls. The dealer was wearing a yellow linen double-breasted suit, a pink tie and white shoes with black toecaps. He seemed to have done a lot of shopping in Milan.
“Mightn’t we be overheard in here?” asked Blum, sipping his Budweiser.
The dealer stroked back his hair and looked at Blum with amusement. He seemed to be in a good mood.
“This place belongs to us,” he said.
“Us?”
“A couple of friends and me.”
“Ah, then you won’t have any trouble with our little transaction.”
“That depends entirely on you. Your high C is good stuff all right – always supposing the whole five pounds are like what I tested – but even 120 grand isn’t a realistic basis for negotiation. You surely must see that.”
“I think it is,” said Blum, spreading butter on a slice of rye bread. The butter, of course, was chilled hard, and the bread crumbled.
“You’re not seeing this the right way, I’m afraid,” said the dealer, looking with distaste at the wrecked slice of bread. “There’s a glut here right now, and the market isn’t big enough yet to absorb everything.”
“First, I don’t believe it, and second, I’m not interested. My price is 120 grand, and I’m not going below that.”
The dealer ordered another Bloody Mary. Blum pushed his plate aside, looked round in vain for a toothpick, and finally used a match. The dealer stared at him for a while and then lit a cigarillo. The conversation had reached deadlock. The dealer would go no higher than 85,000, otherwise, he said, he saw no profit worth mentioning. Blum was not giving way. He felt that he mustn’t. When you’ve been thinking in terms of 480 grand you can’t go below 100. After all, you had your reputation to think of, and even if you didn’t have much of a reputation you still had your self-respect.
“Well now, Herr Blum . . .”
“How come you suddenly know my name?”
“The name Blum is quite well known in Munich. But you’re right, let’s leave names out of this. If you’d rather risk selling it on the street . . . well, I suggest you open a little stall. You’ll see how long you live that way.”
Blum didn’t like it, but there was no point in stonewalling any longer. The tall man was his only contact. It was time to close the deal.
“All right, I’ll go halfway to meet you. Let’s agree on a round figure. A hundred thousand marks.”
“Done,” said the dealer. “We’ll meet here tomorrow evening at six-thirty and drive over to Oberrad. I have an apartment there. It’ll be safe.”
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br /> Oh yes, so you’ll be taking me for a ride, thought Blum. You think it won’t be difficult. While the tall man was paying the bill he went out. The weather had changed; there was a cold wind with showers of rain.
“I’m not too keen on that idea,” said Blum, when the other man joined him in the street. “I’ve been thinking. I’d be on your home ground. That’s not secure enough for me.”
The tall man frowned. It made him look twenty-three.
“A little trust is part of the deal.”
“Yes, but not on my side.”
“Listen, after all I have a business to run . . .”
“That never stopped anyone cutting a few corners too.”
“You’re an odd fish, I must say. Right, then, think up something else. But we meet here at six-thirty. Do you have a car?”
“I’ll get hold of one.” Blum had one more question. “Tell me, why do you do this? I mean, with your advertising agency, your restaurant – why risk so long in jail for your high C? Are you so fond of money?”
The tall man climbed into his Mercedes, and then looked at Blum once more. He was smiling. Now he looked only seventeen. “It’s fun,” he said, and closed the car door.
17
“A nice room, Mr Blum – by comparison with Valletta.”
The Pakistani pushed the chair with its worn upholstery over to Blum, and sat on the bed himself.
“Very nice, Mr Haq. May I ask what you’re paying for this delightful spot?”
The delightful spot was a dark room on the fourth floor of a mid-nineteenth-century building with a view of a large filling station. The ground, third and fourth floors belonged to the Pension Waldfrieden – the Woodland Peace Boarding House, although there was no sign of any woodland. The name probably dated as far back as the furniture. Mr Haq at least seemed to feel at ease with the German oak cabinet and wardrobe and the wash-stand with its flowered enamel bowl. The one modern piece was an electric hotplate, on which Mr Haq was cooking a meal.
“You were invited yesterday, Mr Blum, but of course you’re very welcome today too. I hope you like curry. I’m afraid I can’t offer you any of the iced drinks you’re used to, but perhaps they’ll have cooled off in the fresh air.”
He went to the window, opened it, and brought in a bottle of beer and an open bottle of Coca-Cola.
“There, you see – the cold weather has its uses. I’m not paying much more here than in the Cumberland, and I have a bathroom. Beer or cola, Mr Blum?”
“If you had a tea . . .”
“Oh, you’d like tea? I always have tea around, Mr Blum.”
He poured Blum a glass of tea. It was even hot.
“Thank you, Mr Haq. Didn’t you have a bathroom at the Cumberland, then?”
“In theory, Mr Blum, purely in theory. The bathroom was being renovated.”
“I see.”
“Do you like your curry medium or hot, Mr Blum?”
“I’ve already eaten, thank you.”
“Hot, then.”
The Pakistani added more ingredients to the pan. The aroma was like that of the Pegasus Bar on Thursdays, only considerably stronger. Mr Haq had his suit on again, but with a sports shirt under it and slippers on his feet. He had made himself comfortable.
“It won’t taste as good as my wife’s, Mr Blum, but I hope it will be edible.”
“You’re married?”
“I’m not a young man any more, Mr Blum.” He discreetly spared Blum the same question. “You really must visit me in Lahore some time. Lahore, as of course you know, is the most important city in Central Asia. You can eat at my home and get your drinks in the Punjab Club. It’s the most fashionable club in all Pakistan, they say. Do you play billiards? Yes, of course you do. The best billiards of all are played in the Punjab Club.”
The easterner had an inexhaustible talent for elaborate conversation. It was some time before he allowed Blum to come to the point. Blum kept it short, and confined himself to hints.
“But what could I do for you in this matter, Mr Blum? As I told you in the café, my opportunities here are very limited.”
Blum reminded him of the loss of his porn magazines. “You’ll understand that I’ve been rather nervous since then . . .”
The Pakistani forced a polite smile.
“And you think my humble self could keep a robber at bay?”
“No, this is something quite different, Mr Haq. We’re dealing with absolutely straight people. But it would just be better if I turned up with company to complete this transaction.”
“I see. There must be a considerable sum involved?”
“The amount isn’t so important. It’s more a matter of – of honour.”
“Ah. A contingency not unknown to me. But tell me one thing, Mr Blum – don’t you have friends in this city?”
“It’s not my home town.”
“Remarkable. I’d have thought a man like you had friends everywhere. I mean, this is your own country.”
“You’re forgetting how long I’ve been away.”
“Only a year, Mr Blum. A year – and you have no friends left! No family either? Everyone has family . . .”
Blum felt the conversation slipping out of his grasp.
“Of course I’d reimburse you for your trouble.”
“Oh, please, Mr Blum! We’re friends in a way, we speak the same language. Now let’s eat.”
He fetched plates from the wall cupboard. They were heavy stoneware, chipped all round the edges. Mr Haq served the curry.
“Say if it’s too hot for you.”
“It’s excellent. My compliments.”
“Oh, that’s nothing, Mr Blum. Of course I could have taken you to a restaurant, but I’m afraid we wouldn’t have got a really good curry. Now in Lahore . . .”
After they had eaten, Mr Haq returned to the subject.
“You see, I’d like to oblige you, Mr Blum, particularly in an affair of honour, but on the other hand I wouldn’t like to break the laws of the country where I am a guest . . .”
“Mr Haq, if you’re at all afraid of breaking laws . . . you’d be risking far less than in your beloved Saudi Arabia.”
Saudi Arabia was the cue Mr Haq had been waiting for. Once again Blum had to listen to him describing the ease of making money there. Money practically grew on the trees, he said, or rather, as no trees grew there it spurted up from the sand . . .
“I thought,” said Blum, “you had a nice little earner of some kind over here.”
“Oh, that’s only peanuts, as the Americans say, Mr Blum. One is glad to help if one can. ‘What you give is given for the sake of your souls,’ says the Prophet. But how can one give if one doesn’t have enough oneself? No, my countrymen must change their way of thinking. They must realize that they’ll be better off in Saudi Arabia than here. Because, Mr Blum, the competition is just too great in this country of yours. Don’t you agree?”
“Possibly,” said Blum. Finally they got around to discussing the fee. For DM 2,000 Mr Haq was prepared to break a few harmless laws of the country in which he was at present residing in order to help his friend Blum, for the sake of appearances, in a transaction which principally if not entirely concerned a point of honour. Blum would pay an advance of DM 500. Mr Haq was not to be moved on that point.
On the stairs Blum encountered a whole troop of Orientals. Many of them wore turbans, and they all greeted him with deference. So this was the important business friend of the eminent Mr Hassan Abdul Haq of Lahore! A great dealer in Western artworks. I must be out of my mind, thought Blum. I should have gone to Hackensack. Crazy, these easterners. But was Hackensack a practicable alternative? Chemicals and information, Mr Blum. Oh, sure, Mr Hackensack. The curry had been good.
18
Time seemed to have stood still in the jazz cellar. Blum had last been there twelve years ago, but except for the seating and the prices nothing had changed. The same faces, the same conversations, the same music. The trombonist had become world-fam
ous, but he was still a middle-aged man making music for other middle-aged men, melancholy and fed up.
These people seemed to have everything they needed, and if not, then they didn’t let it show. At least, Charlie Parker had died far away from here. Jazz and coke, they were still around, but not for these people. They’d papered over the cracks with mortgage contracts, electoral action groups, grants and wedding rings – the cracks through which, perhaps, they had once seen what was really out there. Well, what was that to him? He’d be away from here tomorrow evening, he just had to get through tonight and tomorrow, and then he might be thinking about a mortgage in Bombay himself, or playing a game of billiards in the Punjab Club. Mr Haq had mentioned a daughter. Or was it two daughters?
He watched a blonde making her way from table to table, apparently in search of someone. Or no, perhaps she was after something else. People reacted with annoyance. Didn’t want their subdued drone of conversation to be disturbed. Good figure, thought Blum, almost voluptuous, and a mouth reminiscent of Bardot, but a Bardot gone to seed. She wore a fake fur coat open in front, and under it a black overshirt, old jeans, boots with silver lacquer flaking off them, and a shoulder-bag. At one point she looked in his direction. He sketched a smile. She turned away and talked to a man at the bar. Then she disappeared. Fair enough. He ordered another vodka and tonic. Once he’d flogged the coke he could afford something rather more chic. Gradually the customers dispersed, and the blonde suddenly reappeared. She clearly hadn’t found whatever she was looking for. When she glanced at him this time, those full lips formed into a smile which he returned. The hair too, he thought, that’s almost like BB. She actually came over to him. My God, this is ridiculous, a youthful dream.
“Can I sit here for a moment? I wanted to ask you something.”
Blum pulled out the chair for her. At close quarters the fake fur seemed a little moth-eaten, and she didn’t look quite so good herself, but what you could see of her, and perhaps even more what you couldn’t, suggested a heated, lively temperament. Blum cleared his throat, but she was already going on.