Brother Kemal kk-5

by Jakob Arjouni

  ‘What’s the book about?’

  ‘It’s a novel. It takes place in a police station in a fictional Arab setting, although it’s obviously modelled on one of the Maghreb countries. Well …’ Katja Lipschitz looked me in the eyes, as if hoping to read something there. Her look reminded me slightly of Valerie de Chavannes before she told me that the quarrel in which Abakay and Marieke got involved that evening had been about the caricatures of Muhammad.

  I nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, during an investigation in the red light district the central character, a police detective, discovers that he has homosexual tendencies. He falls in love with a boy and they begin an affair, endangering his marriage and his job, in the end even his life. At the same time, of course, the book is really studying the relationship between Muslim society and homosexuality. There are passages in which the police detective — until then a devout Muslim — thinks about the Koran, God and love between people of the same sex, and in his despair and anger turns against his religion. Meanwhile the book also describes an abyss of drugs, sex, poverty and criminality — fundamentally afar from sacred society. Religion is only there to conceal the widespread misery and keep the people calm — do you understand?’

  ‘I do. And the author himself has’ — I couldn’t resist a slight imitation of Katja Lipschitz’s excessively cautious tone of voice — ‘homosexual inclinations?’

  ‘No, no, the story is pure fiction.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  With the slightly exhausted look that comes into all women’s eyes when they are talking about crude, unwelcome advances from men, she said, ‘He was at our offices last year, and I accompanied him to several interviews.’

  ‘How big is he?’

  ‘As an author?’

  ‘No, as a man.’

  She frowned. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

  ‘Well, none of the Moroccans I’ve met so far are giants, and I imagine that if a rather small man tries making up to such an imposing figure as you I can draw some conclusions about his character.’

  ‘So?’ For a moment she obviously thought I was round the bend. ‘In fact he is rather small. What conclusion do you draw from that?’ Her tone was stern, even a bit angry. Perhaps she didn’t like that ‘imposing figure’, although I had meant it as a compliment.

  ‘If he was seriously interested in you and outward features like size hardly mattered — none at all. But if he is the kind of man who simply tries to jump on anything female, never mind what his chances, from the perspective of twenty-four-hour personal protection that is not a completely irrelevant factor.’

  She thought about it for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, of course you’re right. Hmm …’

  Once again she thought it over. She disliked the subject, but not as much as she probably should have, given her position. She couldn’t hide a certain satisfaction in having to make her views clear because the situation demanded it.

  ‘He certainly doesn’t miss out on anything. Or rather, he’d like to think he doesn’t. His advances aren’t very successful. I spent two days travelling around with him, and he got nowhere with any of the women he made up to. Don’t misunderstand me: he’s good company, well educated, even good-looking, but …’

  She stopped.

  I said, ‘But he gets on your nerves.’

  ‘Maybe you could put it that way, yes. However, I’m sorry for him. You see, I think he simply doesn’t understand that it’s different between the sexes here, that communication is more along the lines of equal rights, that we …’

  She stopped. The little word we echoed soundlessly in the air, as if Katja Lipschitz had farted and was hoping I’d put the sound down to the chair creaking. We, the civilised Europeans Lipschitz and Kayankaya, and he, the Moroccan Freddie the Flirt? Or more likely you two Orientals and I, the tall blonde …?

  I tried to help her out. ‘You don’t have to explain your author to me. I’d just like to know what he does and can or can’t do. The reasons don’t matter to me.’

  ‘I just didn’t want you thinking that he …’

  ‘Pesters women?’

  ‘Well … no … yes, I definitely didn’t want that.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Besides, he’ll leave me in peace. What languages does he speak?’

  ‘Hmm …’ She wanted to say something else about her author, but then let it rest. ‘Arabic, of course, French and German. He studied in Berlin, and always spends several months a year there. And incidentally … he chose you.’

  ‘He chose me?’

  ‘Well, we showed him a list of all the Frankfurt agencies offering personal protection, and he thought it would help his public image if his bodyguard was a Muslim. You are Muslim, aren’t you?’

  ‘Oh, well.’ I gestured vaguely. ‘My parents were. I mean my birth parents. They died early on, and I was adopted by a German couple who raised me. I assume they were baptised, but religion didn’t play any part in our family.’

  Katja Lipschitz hesitated.

  ‘But … forgive me for asking, presuming we’re to work together it might not be totally unimportant: how do you see yourself? I mean are you religious in any way?’

  I shook my head. ‘No religion, no star sign, no belief in hot stones or lucky numbers. When I need something to lean on I have a beer.’

  ‘Oh.’ She looked confused and slightly repelled.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t offer you any faith. But that can hardly be of any importance to the public image of your author. My name is Kayankaya, and I look the way I look. I don’t know how Muslim I am under religious law, but ask any of my neighbours, I’m sure they could tell you.’

  ‘Do you mind if I pass that on to our author?’

  ‘Not in the least. So he chose me. Was it his idea to hire a bodyguard in the first place? Does the information that his book is causing an uproar in the Arab world come first and foremost from him?’

  Katja Lipschitz’s glance lingered on my eyes for a moment. But she wasn’t seeing my eyes, rather something or other beyond them — her boss, a furious Freddie the Flirt, or the newspaper headline: Moroccan author invents role of victim to crank up sales of book.

  ‘That’s nonsense,’ she said at last, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

  ‘Glad to hear it. I’ve been rather suspicious ever since Gregory, as I’m sure you’ll understand. What’s your author’s name? Well, I can find that out anyway: Maier Verlag, Morocco, gay police detective — Google ought to provide enough hits. And then I can convince myself of the outrage in the Arab world.’

  ‘Malik Rashid. I’ll be happy to show you the threatening letters.’

  ‘In Arabic?’

  ‘We’ll get them translated, of course. In case we’re forced to publish them, or we have to turn to the police.’

  ‘If you hire me I really would like to see those letters.’

  I looked at the time; it was just after noon. I’d determined to get Marieke home in time for lunch. On the one hand, the fastest possible performance of a job is of course part of the service; on the other hand, I liked the idea of impressing Valerie de Chavannes with my swift, uncomplicated help.

  ‘When does the Book Fair begin?’

  ‘Next Wednesday. Malik is arriving on Friday and staying until Monday.’

  ‘Is he staying at a hotel?’

  ‘The Harmonia in Niederrad.’

  ‘Not a very cheerful neighbourhood.’

  ‘We’re glad to get any hotel rooms at all. You may not know it, but Frankfurt is fully booked during the Fair.’

  ‘I’m only wondering what Rashid’s evenings look like. People don’t usually like going home to Niederrad early.’

  ‘He has engagements on all three evenings — dinner with the publisher, a reading and a panel discussion, and after those he’ll be exhausted and want to go to bed.’

  ‘Does he drink alcohol?’

  ‘He says not, for religious reasons, but to be honest
… well, I’ve seen him at least once when his conduct made me think he was under the influence.’

  ‘Maybe he smokes weed?’

  ‘I … you’ll have to ask him that yourself. You see, I’ve tried to avoid personal subjects between us as much as possible because …’

  ‘Yes, I understand.’ I nodded to her. ‘Fine, Frau Lipschitz, I have enough information for now. I assume you’ll want to think it over. You can call me anytime.’ I took one of my business cards out of my shirt pocket and gave it to her. ‘My usual fee as a bodyguard is a hundred euros an hour plus taxes, but for round-the-clock standby duty, at least a thousand euros a day, plus taxes. If Rashid gets drunk or catches flu and spends all day in bed it will still cost you just under a thousand two hundred euros. However, I’m flexible about calculating working hours: for instance, if Rashid wants to go to the cinema or something like that, and I can go for a coffee in the meantime, I won’t sit outside the cinema and claim I was searching the street for Al-Qaeda for two hours on end.’

  ‘I’ll have to discuss it with the publisher.’

  ‘Do that. And if we come to an agreement, please let me know as soon as possible so that I can check out the hotel before Rashid arrives.’

  She nodded. ‘And in that case I would also send you his daily schedules.’

  ‘Great. And the threatening letters.’

  ‘And the threatening letters.’

  ‘I’ll wait for your call.’

  We rose from the armchairs and shook hands. Then I showed her to the door and out into the stairwell, and pressed the light switch. The energy-saving bulb shed its cool grey light.

  ‘So what is the title of Rashid’s novel?’

  ‘Journey to the End of Days.’

  ‘Ah. Does something like that sell well?’

  ‘The advance orders were enormous. With a subject like that … and although the book is only just out, everyone’s already talking about it. That’s why we’re so anxious in case anything happens during the Fair.’

  We nodded to each other once more, exchanging friendly smiles, and then Katja Lipschitz made her way downstairs. I thought of warning her about the low ceiling on the last landing, but then let it be. She must have enough experience with low ceilings to notice, and judging by her reaction to my remark about her imposing figure she would rather do without further references to her size.

  Back in my office, I typed ‘Malik Rashid: Journey to the End of Days’ into the Google search box. Among other links, I found the Maier Verlag website. The novel had appeared in Paris a year before, and the French critics quoted by the publishing house were of course over the moon about it. Even elsewhere on the Internet I found, almost exclusively, praise for the book. Apart from a comment in a blog from one Hammid, who hated it like poison. Or at least my tourist French was enough for me to get the drift of un roman de merde and sale pédé. But as far as I could tell there were no reactions at all from Morocco or any other Arab country. So the fact that, according to Katja Lipschitz, the novel had caused a great stir there was a pure publicity spin. That was fine by me. Easy money again.

  I took the station clock off its hook, opened the safe behind it and put the pistol and the handcuffs in my pockets. They should at least make a bit of an impression on Abakay if necessary. Then I shouldered my bike and set off for Sachsenhausen.

  Chapter 3

  The sun was shining on the terrace of the Café Klaudia, where people were sitting eating lunch or a late breakfast. Talk, laughter and the clink of crockery mingled to make an inviting cloud of sound. I padlocked my bike to a traffic sign and went to the front door of the building, which was next to the terrace. There was a smell of raw onions, and full glasses of cider shone golden and enticing on the tables. ‘The locals’ favourite drink is a laxative, Edgar would say.’ That had even annoyed me a little when Valerie de Chavannes shared it. What was the damn Dutchman thinking of?

  The front door of the building was not locked. I found Abakay’s name on the list beside the doorbells, went into the hall and climbed the stairs to the third floor as quietly as I could. But it was an old building, and the wooden steps creaked. When I reached the second floor, I thought I heard another creak from above me.

  I didn’t exactly know what I was planning to do. Listen at the door, ring the bell? ‘Good morning, Kayankaya here, city gasworks, you must have an old pipe in there somewhere that’s been supplied with gas by accident, may I take a quick look through the rooms?’ Or, ‘Hey, Abakay, old boy! Remember that night at the club the other day? You gave me your address, and here I am. It’s me, Ali!’ Or simply, ‘Hand over the girl or I’ll smash your face in!’ And suppose no one came to the door? Did I wait on the stairs or in Café Klaudia? Or stroll around and keep my eyes open for the pair of them?

  I didn’t have to know for certain. I didn’t have to know at all. On the third floor the door to Abakay’s apartment was open. On the floor on the other side of it, a fat, half-naked white man was lying on his back. He wore jeans and white sports socks, and his paunch bulged over the waistband of his jeans like a large flatbread dough. His head had fallen to one side, his face was turned to me, saliva was running out of his mouth and his eyes had a blind, staring look.

  I took my pistol out of my jacket pocket and got close enough to him to see what was wrong: a small stab wound to the heart with blood seeping from it. Next moment I heard a door close, and someone in the apartment called, ‘Okay, I’ve got the stuff, we’ll be ready soon.’ And after a short pause: ‘Herr Rönnthaler?’

  Another pause, and then footsteps approached. I got behind the doorframe, took the safety catch off my pistol, and peered into the front hall of the apartment. Abakay — shoulder-length hair, black, gleaming ringlets, little moustache as narrow as a pencil stroke, a white shirt unbuttoned to the waist, black waistcoat from a suit, thick gold rings on his fingers — bent over the body.

  ‘Rönnthaler …?!’

  I had no time to think about it. When Abakay raised his head and looked around I walked into the apartment, pistol pointed at him.

  ‘Damn it, what the …?’

  ‘Where’s the girl?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Tell me where she is or you’re next.’

  He put his hands up in a placatory gesture. ‘Hey, man, I’ve no idea what’s going on here!’

  ‘The girl!’ I was fingering the trigger.

  ‘Yes, yes, it’s all good! She’s in the room over there! Everything’s okay! Please don’t …’

  I hit him hard over the head with the pistol, his knees gave way, and he sank to the floor beside the other man’s body. I spent a moment listening for sounds in the stairwell. I’d thought I heard a step creaking again, but all was quiet. I took Abakay by the arm, dragged him over to a radiator and handcuffed him to the pipe. After that I quietly closed the door and quickly walked through the apartment.

  A long corridor, a lavatory, the living room where the TV set was on but muted, an open bottle of Aperol, an empty bottle of prosecco and three half-full glasses. Opposite the living room was a very tidy, spotlessly clean kitchen with a second door into the apartment between the china cupboard and the dishwasher. It was not shut, and it led to the back stairs. On the kitchen table lay a plastic bag containing five little balls of silver foil. I opened one of them and touched the white powder inside it with the tip of my tongue. I wrapped up the ball of silver foil again and hid the bag of heroin in a drawer under a stack of frying pans.

  The next room was furnished as an office: a desk with a computer and printer, a bookshelf full of coffee table books and several cameras, on the wall a large, framed black-and-white photo of a good-looking young couple drinking coffee in Paris, with the Eiffel Tower in the background. Abakay, the good old underground photographer!

  Next was a bathroom, with marble tiles, also spotlessly clean, and the corridor with more framed black-and-white photos to the right and left — trees, girls, cats, cloud formations — and finally a door with t
he key in the lock. I bent down to the keyhole and tried to see past the key and listen for sounds. It was an old door with a hefty lock, and there was a gap a millimetre wide round the key. All I could see through it was a white wall, and I couldn’t hear anything. On the other hand I could smell something. Something disgusting. All of a sudden I was panic-stricken. I imagined Marieke lying on the floor after an overdose, choked by her own vomit. I turned the key and pushed the door open.

  At first I was dazzled by the sun shining in through the window. Then I saw Marieke. She was sitting naked on a king-size bed covered with gleaming white satin sheets, leaning against the pillows with her arms round her knees and holding her legs close to her body, and covered from head to toe with vomit. Grated carrots, bits of tomato, half pieces of pasta. Because the window was closed, the sour smell rising from the bed was overpowering.

  Although she was obviously shaking with fright, she gave me a nasty, challenging, sick grin.

  ‘Another one?! I don’t believe it! Well, come on then! I’ve tidied myself up a bit for you. I hope the vomit doesn’t bother you. Want to lick it off me? Does that turn you on?’

  Her stomach was rising and falling fast, like a dog’s. The harsh, faraway look in her eyes said: I’ll kill you if there’s any way I can do it.

  ‘Listen, I’m not — ’

  ‘Here, have some pasta!’

  ‘I don’t want to do anything to you. I’ve come to get you out of here.’

  ‘Oh yes? And drag me off where, you bastard?’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m from the police. Paolo Magelli, special plainclothes unit. We’ve been after Abakay for some time. I’m sorry we came on the scene so late. Do you have any injuries?’

  Her glance was still hard, and she didn’t take her eyes off me for a second, but gradually the madness disappeared from them, making way for distrust. Her folded arms dropped, barely perceptibly, and the tension left her body.

  ‘Show me your ID.’

  ‘I’m sorry, we had to move fast and I left my jacket in the car. I’ll show you my ID when we’re down there.’