The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

“Take this turning, please,” she says to the driver. “I just want to see what they’ve built here.”

  “But then we’ll be late.”

  “We’re not in any hurry,” she says softly.

  Which is why, half an hour later, she relishes Sensenbrink’s apology that her cappuccino is cold. “A fresh one, please. Pronto!”

  “Only if it’s not too much trouble!” Nadeche Hackenbusch says.

  Once again they’ve opted for the large conference room at the very top of the building. With a view of all of Hamburg. They meet in a hotel, the very best in town, rather than in one of those shabby studios in Cologne or Unterföhring in Munich, where square tables are shoved together beneath outdated designer lamps. She likes it like this. Place settings and those three-tier stands for nibbles, biscuits and cakes. The T.V. companies can boast all they like about their catering departments, but in the end you just get canteen coffee and supermarket biscuits. No, she wants linen serviettes, she wants attentive waiters all wearing the same outfit, she wants to see other people spending money on her. For a brief moment she thinks she ought to dictate this to the new girl at some point. Or to her successor.

  The cappuccino arrives soon after Sensenbrink has launched into his presentation; he’s going to have to start from the beginning, which is a good thing, she thinks, as not everyone was quiet first time around. Besides, she loves staring at the logo of her programme: “Nadeche Hackenbusch: An Angel in Adversity”. They added a cutesy doe with dungarees and slightly too large breasts. The doe looks like her, even though she’d never dream of wearing dungarees.

  “The ratings are epic,” Sensenbrink says, fading in some graphics, “and they’re still heading north. We’re getting the old codgers and the young ones. This topic is still our secret sauce and nobody else’s. Of course it helps that nobody believed in the format to begin with.”

  “Apart from me,” she insists. O.K., she didn’t have another offer at the time, but there’s no television show that isn’t better with her, and because of her.

  “It’s hard to believe nothing’s staged,” a blonde woman says. She’s met the blonde many a time, but can’t remember her name. The blonde is young, thirty at most, at the very most, and yet at the last meeting she said several things that made the others sit up and take notice. Kalkberger? Kalkbrenner? It sounded a bit like something you might find in a D.I.Y. store. She’ll make a note of the name next time. But Nadeche can’t tell for sure how the remark was meant. Was it sarcastic? Sceptical?

  “I suggest you check again,” she says harshly.

  “No, no, I don’t doubt it in the least,” the blonde says. “The authenticity is what makes the programme stand out. Some of those scenes, they practically stink through the T.V. screen. I’m sure I can speak for everybody in the room when I say we’re full of admiration.”

  They all rap their knuckles on the table in appreciation. She smiles and makes it look bashful. “I can assure you I want everything to stay authentic in future too. After all, the key point is that these people need our help.”

  “Yes, but I couldn’t do it.” These words come from a quiet, shy mouse of a woman at the far end of the table. “I get annoyed with myself for thinking this, but I couldn’t pull it off. Sometimes I think how cute these refugee kids look – but that episode from a couple of weeks back.”

  “Ow, exactly. The one with the teeth . . .”

  “Ugh, the teeth episode.”

  Nadeche sees Kärrner smiling. Kärrner rarely says a word, even though it’s his television company. He controls meetings with his face.

  “That’s how it is . . .” she says.

  “Sure, but the teeth of those kids were practically black!”

  “That was the one time I thought for a brief moment that you might be fiddling it,” the blonde says. “That you’d cherry-picked some especially bad cases. I honestly didn’t believe it could be as bad as that.”

  “Oh, but it is. You just need to take a look at the parents’ teeth. People like that, you really need to start from scratch.”

  “And then they give their kids handfuls of sugar cubes . . .” The mousy lady is beside herself. “I could have screamed at the telly.”

  “I know,” Nadeche says sympathetically. “Oral hygiene, it’s like, mad. And it’s not like they all lost their toothbrushes fleeing to Europe – they never had them in the first place. They think toothpaste is some kind of sealant. So we have to step in and help.”

  “Spot on,” Sensenbrink says. “That’s our reach-out. But the great thing is: we’ve hit a nerve. It’s not just the ratings that tell us this, it’s also the reactions on Facebook. So sometimes it’s ugly, but at the end of the day: it shocks. It leaves the viewers speechless. It’s no coincidence that the first thing people think of is the teeth episode.”

  “The dentist’s visit to the hostel . . .” This comes from an executive somebody or other who’s remained anonymous so far. Shaking his head, he puffs up his fat cheeks and slowly exhales. “The way he peered into their mouths, one after the other, and then grimaced – there’s no way you can act that . . .”

  “He didn’t need to act,” Nadeche Hackenbusch says. “What he found was terrible. Things happen that I’d never have believed possible. There are children younger than four whose mouths smell like a septic tank.”

  The bigwigs in the T.V. company exchange glances. They purse their lips and raise their eyebrows to acknowledge the gravity of the situation. She wonders whether this is the time to drop her fabulous phrase right into the middle of this silence. The phrase that always makes such a splash whenever she utters it to a newspaper or into a camera, and everyone is taken aback by how such a beautiful woman can be so thoughtful and have such a grasp of economic relations. But then the possibly critical blonde gets in before her and says:

  “And this in one of the richest countries on this earth.”

  She even says “this earth”, which always sounds more reproachful than “the earth”. What a bitch!

  “Frau Karstleiter is so on point,” Sensenbrink responds. “But this is what’s growing our business. These images may be hard to stomach, but they shock people in a way it’s almost impossible to do these days. It signposts us exactly the way to go: where it hurts.”

  “We’re there already,” she says energetically. “If you like I’ll show you my feet after a day’s filming.”

  There is warm and sympathetic laughter all around, including from Sensenbrink. “I think we’re all well aware of the A1 effort you’re putting in. You eat, drink and sleep ‘Angel in Adversity’. And it’s your baby – its success is totally dependent on Nadeche Hackenbusch. It thrives on your commitment, your authenticity, your willingness to get your hands dirty and your feet sore. But – and please forgive this play on words – despite the punishment those feet have already sustained, today we’d like to propose that you go one step further.”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” She tries to wrinkle a few lines of anger on her brow. If there’s one thing she hates, it’s people trying to control her. She knows how difficult it is to become independent and remain so. She knows best what’s good for her, and she knows that advertising people, management consultants and media people like to do the same things they’ve already done to others. But unless she goes her own way she won’t remain the one and only Nadeche Hackenbusch. She’s not risking much; her position right now is too good for someone to put the screws on her. All the same, a little frown ought to signal that Sensenbrink’s treading on thin ice. But then she realises that it’ll only make her look silly. You can’t have everything: wrinkles and Botox.

  “Of course. You won’t have heard anything about it yet, the idea’s fresh out of the wrapper,” Sensenbrink says hastily. “But don’t worry, you know we don’t decide anything here without running it up your flagpole first—”

  “I have the final word,” she says, somewhat too defiantly.

  “Yes, sure, you have the final word, period
. What would ‘Angel in Adversity’ be without the Nadeche Hackenbusch? Nonetheless I beg you to listen to the proposal. We believe we’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here . . .”

  Reassured by Sensenbrink’s tone and efforts to placate her, she smiles her priceless smile – which even the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung once described as “overwhelming” – and says, “O.K, then.”

  She sees Frau Karstleiter stand up, go to the front of the room and place her notes on the lectern. She shows slight signs of tension, not only because she’s talking to Nadeche Hackenbusch, clearly, but because the scope of the project is huge. A pretty good sign.

  “Not only has the second series of ‘Angel in Adversity’ been a huge success,” Karstleiter begins, “the programme also exhibits enormous potential for growth. Viewer surveys have shown that Nadeche Hackenbusch represents honest commitment. The public particularly likes the shift away from one-off features. Because we’re always filming in the same hostel, the viewers are able to see the overall improvement in the refugees’ situation. We ought to take advantage of this momentum and enthusiasm. And so, Frau Hackenbusch, with a third of the series yet to be broadcast, we’d like to finish with a special. Perhaps even a multi-part special.”

  Nadeche frowns as best she can. This just sounds like more. And, as she knows only too well, more is not always good. Once, for television, she shared an apartment with models. This was ramped up in pre-publicity, but it turned out to be appalling, downmarket television. Someone had wanted to plug the gap between series of “Germany’s Top Model” with model-related stuff. Although she was gone after the second episode, she remembers the ghastly award ceremony. Not the Lanxess Arena, not the Allianz Arena, not New York or Paris, but beside a pool at a four-star dump in Mallorca, with no audience at all. It was so miserable, they might as well have handed the winner her ugly prize at a bus stop. This is why Nadeche says sceptically, “To be honest, that sounds a bit cheap.”

  “Not as far as the budget’s concerned,” Karstleiter immediately assures her. “We’re making more money available than for the normal episodes. We’re taking this very seriously.”

  The comment about the budget works. More budget means more for her.

  “We want to strengthen our product rather than weaken it. We want Nadeche Hackenbusch to get to the heart of the matter. We want you to go where a lack of toothbrushes is the least of people’s problems. To the largest refugee camp in the world.”

  This catches her off guard.

  “Are you crazy?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you know like, what’s going on down there? People are being shot!”

  “People aren’t being shot,” Karstleiter says.

  “How do you know that?”

  “They wouldn’t be able to amass all those refugees if people were being shot.”

  “If people weren’t being shot there wouldn’t be any refugees. Take a look at the news!”

  “Frau Hackenbusch, Frau Hackenbusch, we don’t see any cause for concern,” Sensenbrink chips in, “the whole place is teeming with military and blue helmets and aid organisations!”

  “I don’t believe that. Where did you get that from?”

  “Well I can’t reel the programmes off the top of my head, but why else would all those refugees be ending up there? I think if you peel the onion—”

  “I don’t have the time to be glued to some news channel. Put me together a dossieux and I’ll have it checked out.”

  “Frau Hackenbusch,” Karstleiter says gently, like a broad-shouldered orderly holding out a straitjacket, “do you really think we’d send you somewhere dangerous? We’d be risking just as much as you.”

  “I see it a bit differently.”

  Sensenbrink looks at Kärrner, who pulls an unenthusiastic face. He clears his throat and then says firmly, “Perhaps we ought to look at the whole thing from a different dugout. Nobody here’s trying to deny that the risks are greater than for some studio filming in Ossendorf. And so the crucial question is whether it’s worth it.”

  “I can give you the answer right now: no way!”

  “Sure, the idea went down here like that too,” Sensenbrink says, now with incredible earnestness. “But just for a moment see us as the partner. Your partner.”

  No matter how much she baulks at this, no matter how reluctant she is to have anything taken out of her hands, Nadeche cannot stop Sensenbrink getting his foot in the door and forcing it open a crack.

  “First and foremost, of course, we’re thinking of our own interests, but we can’t deny that sometimes our interests and your interests are on the same hymn sheet. And just let me disambiguate: if we’re discussing these risks with you, it’s only because we see opportunities. For us – I’m not going to keep the kimono closed on that one – but for you too. Just think how you and we can synergise with this special. It’s the perfect storm. At a stroke you’re going to leave all those home-furnishing and renovation formats in the trolley park. The blind date and missing persons’ programmes—”

  “These days I don’t reckon anybody thinks the B-listers fronting those shows are in my league,” Nadeche says truculently.

  “We don’t need to make comparisons,” Sensenbrink says, coming to her defence. “But just incubate this for a moment: it will prove your seriousness to an extent never seen before. Nadeche Hackenbusch goes where others do not dare. Like Antonia Rados.”

  “Antonella who?”

  “Antonia Rados. The R.T.L. woman who always pops up in war zones.”

  “Never heard of her.”

  “It’s not important. Let’s just say it would put you in Günther Jauch territory,” Sensenbrink says patiently. “There’s been only one like him in Germany before. Do you remember Margarethe Schreinemakers?”

  Of course.

  Everyone using Botox remembers Schreinemakers. Best T.V. slot, three, four hours, advert breaks as long as an entire soap, no problem if it overran. That was the heyday of infotainment. And everyone would have loved to take home what Schreinemakers took home.

  She should have have paid tax on it all, or something like that. But this won’t happen to Nadeche; she always pays her taxes. Last time she just said, “Right, I want 2.5 million after tax and all that. You must have someone in your accounts department who can sort it.”

  They did.

  “You’d be the new Margarethe Schreinemakers. But with the radiance of Angelina Jolie,” that bloody Karstleiter now adds.

  Could Karstleiter tell from her face that the Schreinemakers comment had worked? She tries not to give anything away, ever; she’s not an amateur, after all. But Sensenbrink had hit a nerve and now this Margarethe Jolie, it takes root in her head straightaway. That and the fact that as Angelina Schreinemakers she’ll still be able to command screen presence when the day comes that she actually needs Botox. Because up till now it’s just been a precautionary measure. Pyrolactic.

  She doesn’t make any promises, of course. She handles this visit to the T.V. company with the confidence she’s renowned for. But when she’s back in the limousine, once more dictating a section of her life philosophy to the new girl, Nadeche is unusually lacking in concentration. She’s almost annoyed by this, and yet her mind keeps turning to the trailer for the show, as if it’s already in the can. The earthy voice that says:

  “And Nadeche Hackenbusch’s next guest this evening: His Holiness.”

  3

  The refugee is trying very hard to walk normally, which isn’t easy as it doesn’t feel normal. He can’t yet tell if his gait looks more natural. The others are staring and it’s making him nervous. He ducks his head slightly, but from the reaction this gets he realises it’s a mistake; he must look like a stork with a hunchback. So, a change of plan: chest out, head up and a broad grin.

  That’s better.

  He’s got be careful to not start waving graciously at everyone, like the old queen of England.

  Should he have done it earlier?
He couldn’t have. Not that he spent a long time thinking about it. And he isn’t even sure it’s right. But he can’t change it now.

  Then he begins to relax; the grin turns into a smile. He lets himself sink into his new role. They’re looking at him, of course. What else would they be doing? If every day is exactly the same as the previous, any slight variation is exciting. What’s interesting is that his air of self-confidence is eliciting other reactions: less giggling, more encouraging nods. Two children follow him, just like they sometimes run behind cars. More might have joined in, but then an actual car does arrive and the cloud of dust it throws up scatters the children.

  The refugee toys with the new situation. A girl catches his eye and he responds with a dance step. She laughs. It feels good. It was right. It was worth it. He should have done this earlier. Turning the corner, the refugee sees Mahmoud.

  Mahmoud is squatting on the floor, watching a group of girls. The refugee thrusts his hands into his trouser pockets and stands beside him. Mahmoud doesn’t move a muscle.

  “It’s pointless,” the refugee says to him.

  “You don’t know that,” Mahmoud says without looking up.

  “I do. You shouldn’t be staring like that.”

  “I’m staring like everyone else.”

  “Exactly,” he says. “Everyone stares at Nayla, everyone stares like you do. How’s she supposed to see that you’re special?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with Nayla.”

  “Who then? Elani?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “That would be even more stupid. Elani will think you’re staring at Nayla too. And then Elani will think you’re like everyone else.”

  Mahmoud looks up at the refugee. “Got a better idea?”

  “Why don’t you just go over, real cool, so Nayla starts thinking about how to get rid of you. And when she opens her mouth . . . then you turn to Elani.”

  Mahmoud looks at the girls again. After a moment he says, “That’s your routine. You’re a talker. I’m more of a watcher. My strength lies in my gaze. Where are those shoes from?”