The Hungry and the Fat

by Timur Vermes

  Pelé nods fervently.

  “Can I rely on you, Pelé? Will you do your job? Will you protect the herd with your life?”

  Pelé nods again. He tries to get up. One hand grabs onto the front tyre of the truck whose keys he’s just handed to one of the new guys.

  “Stay as you are,” Mojo says soothingly. “Stay just as you are. You’re all to stay just as you are. You’re gonna stay here till the trucks are gone. When Bandele comes tomorrow I want him to see you. And if you’re still alive, then anyone who helped you is gonna die.”

  Pelé begins rolling to the side. Mojo puts a hand into his trouser pocket.

  “This is modern management, you know? You give everyone the task you’re confident they can do.”

  Mojo counts banknotes. He goes over to Pelé and kicks him in the shoulder until slowly he opens his eyes.

  “It’s an important job and that’s why it’s well paid. Three thousand bucks for each of you.” Mojo pushes the notes between Pelé’s bloody fingers. “This’ll allow you to buy some help.”

  Mojo bends down and hands over the next wad of cash.

  “I expect Bandele to find you here tomorrow. He’s gonna tell me that he saw you lyin’ there with your dough. Then I’ll know that all these cowboys here have learned that I’m the only one who pays them.”

  Nobody speaks. Mojo takes the next two bundles and tosses them at the men who are panting, sweating, and gurgling softly.

  “Questions?”

  Mojo looks at each of them in turn. Bandele puts up his hand.

  “What about him?” He points at the fifth new man.

  On this occasion someone might have been able to detect the movement, but now Mojo uses the other hand. There’s no discernible difference, although it almost looks as if he’s a touch quicker with this hand. A fat man collapses, his eyes full of such complete astonishment that one might almost think him innocent. If something like innocence existed in this life.

  “Did you check out your colleagues?” Mojo asks.

  The corners of the man’s mouth edge outwards and he shakes his head barely discernably. It looks as if he’s about to cry. Mojo puts his hand over his mouth. He takes another bundle of cash from his pocket and puts it in the fat guy’s lap. Then he points to the other drivers one by one.

  “You’re gonna teach them by tomorrow morning.”

  25

  “O.K.,” the under-secretary says. “Can someone please tell me, in plain language, why this nightmare’s not over yet?”

  It’s six o’clock in the morning and with him around the table are men who’d rather be in bed. Schneider’s there, Dr Berthold, the B. (police), E. (Europe and international) and M. (migration) departments, and two gentlemen whose faces are new to him. One is from the foreign ministry and he gives the impression that it’s a particular imposition to be here, probably because the foreign ministry – so they say – regards Nadeche Hackenbusch as an internal matter.

  “Are they off their heads? Could you get more foreign than this?”

  “That shouldn’t bother us,” Leubl told him. “Just let me know if you think they’re actively putting the brakes on. We’d be better off taking charge of this business ourselves, before they come on board as reluctant partners.”

  “You’ve got a point.”

  “Of course, it mustn’t look as if we’re trying to shut the ministry of foreign affairs out. Just keep inviting them to take work off our hands whenever they fancy and they’ll leave the whole thing to us.”

  The expression on the face of the man from the foreign ministry is just what the doctor ordered. The man next to him, on the other hand, appears overwrought and tense. His suit is crumpled, he probably hasn’t been home in a while. His hands tremble as they reach for the coffee thermos, and he downs the first cup like others might a cold beer on a summer’s evening. He even puts the cup down on the saucer as if it’s a beermat. When the saucer shatters, he shakes his head, sweeps the shards to one side and looks for a replacement. Unable to find one he puts the cup on a napkin and helps himself to more coffee. He might be exhausted and his movements jittery, but he doesn’t look listless. He wants to explain why he’s had so little sleep. He’s from the intelligence service.

  “Where shall I begin?” he says, rubbing his eyes.

  “How about with your name, if it’s not a secret?” Dr Berthold says crabbily.

  The under-secretary shoots Berthold a withering look, then tries to relieve the tension. “We’re all tired, so let me just make some brief introductions. The not-particularly-friendly gentleman is Dr Berthold, public security. Herr Gödeke, federal police; Herr Kaspers, crisis management; Dr Kalb, migration; Herr Gondorff, international affairs. From the foreign ministry we have Herr . . .”

  The under-secretary leafs through a slim pile of printed e-mails, but can’t find what he’s looking for. He rustles the papers ill-temperedly, but he lacks the nerve to try to weasel his way out of this one. “Sorry, I can’t . . . would you mind awfully . . . ?”

  “Zeitz.”

  “O.K., Herr Seitz, and . . .”

  “With a Z! Zeitz.”

  “My apologies, Zeitz from the foreign ministry. And you are Herr . . . ?”

  “Echler, foreign intelligence. Regional analysis and procurement.”

  “Excellent. It’s good to have you here. God knows we could do with some regional analysis right now. So tell us, what’s going on down there? I mean, how on earth are they still on the move?”

  “I don’t understand either,” Gondorff adds unnecessarily. “If it’s that simple, why hasn’t everyone set off on foot before?”

  “To put it bluntly: why aren’t they all popping their clogs?” This is Berthold. If the under-secretary were asked whether Berthold means to be quite so callous, he’d say he’s about 75 per cent sure the answer’s yes. Rapping on the table several times, the under-secretary gets the attention of those present, then motions to Echler to speak. Echler sits up in his chair and smooths his tie, only to realise he’s not wearing one.

  “The answer is . . . well, there are a number of reasons. But basically the explanation is simpler than you’d think. Do forgive me, I’ve only just been briefed, it’s been quite a long night and I’m afraid I don’t have a fancy presentation for you, so I’ll just begin wherever . . .”

  The under-secretary gives him a nod of encouragement.

  “Right, we don’t know who’s the brains behind it all. But the question raised by Herr . . . Gandorf? . . . the question isn’t an unreasonable one. We’re also surprised nobody’s done it before. I mean, you don’t have to be Einstein to come up with a plan like that.”

  Echler switches on the overhead projector beside him. “Like I said, I don’t have a fancy presentation. And rather than have all the image files arranged in the wrong order, I’m going to do it the old-fashioned way, by hand. So, here are two aerial shots of the trek. What you’re seeing here is a never-ending column of people. But this is only the first step.”

  “What? Them walking in a column?”

  “Yes, I mean, they wouldn’t necessarily have to do it that way. But when you compare the two images, you see the really clever thing. The dark worm is the column itself, and I’m sure that’s obvious to everyone here. On the left you’ve got a picture from the middle of the column, while on the right is a picture of the front. Any of you notice anything?”

  “There are big dark maggots in the column.”

  “Exactly, those are tankers carrying water. You can see . . .”

  “. . . that the gaps between them are identical,” the under-secretary prompts.

  “Right. This isn’t a coincidence.”

  “Because the lorries are driving alongside the procession,” Zeitz assumes.

  “Actually, no,” Echler says. “You can’t see it but these lorries aren’t moving. They’re stationary. The people are walking past them. Now please look at the photo of the front.”

  The under-secretary screws up h
is eyes. He’d love to be the first to solve the puzzle, but he’s too shattered. He sees the dark worm with the tankers at regular intervals. It makes him think of beans in a pod. Only that here some of the beans are outside the pod.

  “They’ve obviously got too many lorries,” Dr Kalb concludes.

  “You mean the right amount. These lorries don’t just supply the trek, they also give it its structure. The lorries park up ahead, at regular intervals. This means the people can’t get lost because they walk past the trucks as if they were markers. Do you understand? The lorries provide water, and they also show the way.” Echler almost looks excited now, and he’s talking quickly. He’s clearly impressed by what he’s discovered.

  “It’s an astonishing logistical achievement. Provision for one hundred and fifty thousand inside a camp is a manageable undertaking. People live in their areas, you give them a toilet, a water point, you organise the whole thing as you would a campsite and it’s job done. But one hundred and fifty thousand people on the move? You’re staring at chaos. But they’ve got it under control.”

  “Do they have help? Military? Do they have any governmental support?”

  “Not so far as we know. It’s just all been thought through systematically. They must have worked out how many people can be supplied by one water tanker, how much space they need, then they calculated the distances between lorries. The result: one tanker supplies three thousand people, so they need to be one thousand metres apart.”

  “Are you trying to tell us that one of those refugees figured this all out?” Dr Berthold scoffs. The under-secretary adjusts his estimate to 85 per cent.

  “Why not?” Echler retorts. “You could do it with a slide rule. You’d need a certain degree of efficiency too, of course. You need every lorry in duplicate.”

  “As reserves,” Gödeke says.

  “No. Because you can’t drive away, fetch the water and get back all in a day. So two lorries take it in turns. One stays where it is while the other fetches water for the next day. But what’s really smart is that they don’t just swap places. Every day, the replacement lorries wait along the stretch yet to be walked. Those are the lorries that are ahead of the column. And now look at this!”

  He swaps the pictures for two close-ups that have presumably been taken by a drone. On two trucks are marked large numbers: “3” on one, “16” on another.

  “They’ve numbered the trucks. Are they worried one’s going to go missing?”

  “Oh, it’s better than that,” Echler beams, as if he’d dreamed up the idea himself. “They’re a bit like house numbers. Think about it, these people come from a camp. They’re used to having their individual areas or zones numbered. The lorries work in precisely the same way. Those who spent last night at truck 16 will spend tonight at truck 16 too. They live permanently at truck 16, so to speak.”

  “What’s so clever about that?”

  “It prevents chaos. Just imagine. It’s early in the morning, you’re right at the front and want to get moving. Now, the situation could easily be that you’ve no idea where you’re going, nor how far you have to walk. And whatever you decide, you have to let the other one hundred and fifty thousand people know. But no. The guys at the front wake up beside lorry number one. Up ahead of them lorries are already parked at intervals of one kilometre. These lorries are numbered 15, 14, all the way down to one. And so those at the front keep going until they’re back at lorry 1, when they’re done for the day. Everyone knows that when they arrive at the number they were beside the previous day, their leg is over for the day.”

  The under-secretary is unsure how to interpret this admiration, but it doesn’t appear to be a good sign, and the rest of them around the table seem to be of a similar opinion. But Echler won’t slow down. “It’s foolproof,” he says with relish, “and it also gives them a uniform daily march. They don’t walk seven kilometres today and twenty tomorrow. They walk fifteen kilometres every day, no more, no less.”

  “I’m impressed,” the under-secretary says. “But there are borders.”

  “There aren’t, actually,” Echler says with confidence.

  “Country borders,” the under-secretary specifies crossly.

  “Sorry, I misunderstood. The border thing is quite simple: bribery. They must have someone who knows who to bribe.”

  “Hold on a moment,” Gödeke protests, “nobody just lets one hundred and fifty thousand people into their country.”

  “Well, first that depends on the sum of money you’re talking about, of course,” Echler says calmly, “but also on the people. I agree with you: nobody would let one hundred and fifty thousand soldiers into their country, or one hundred and fifty thousand armed people. But these guys are not making that error, at most they’re carrying a penknife. The next point is that the person taking the bribe doesn’t want any trouble. So you’ve got to be able to reassure them of a few things.”

  “That you’re only passing through,” the under-secretary suggests with a sigh.

  “That sort of thing.” Echler smiles at him like a teacher happy to see the class joining in. “And that you’re not going to starve in their country, that they’re not going to have to feed you. And if all this is understood, if these people come and then leave again, if these people bring their own food, water and accommodation, why wouldn’t you allow them passage in return for a heap of money?”

  “Because it’s illegal?” Zeitz says. “Has that crossed your mind?” They haven’t exactly sent their brightest spark, the under-secretary thinks.

  “Let’s get this straight. One hundred and fifty thousand defenceless people are on the march through regions full of terrorists, Islamists, criminals. Those very same regions they’re all clearing out of. Am I completely wrong, or could this go tits up?” Dr Berthold says, as if nobody need worry.

  “Who says they’re defenceless?” Echler beams, as if he’d organised the trek himself.

  “You were the one who said they were unarmed. You said they had to be unarmed or no-one would let them into their country.”

  “But not defenceless. They’re being protected. They’re paying one of the local criminal gangs. Where the state isn’t reliable, organised crime is all the more so. The advantage is obvious. The military don’t have to get involved because these are the very homegrown criminals they lack the means to combat on a day-to-day basis. So the threat is no greater than usual.

  “It might work right now,” Dr Kalb says, “but this is just a snapshot in time, isn’t it? For how much longer will it all be tickety-boo? Four weeks? I mean, they’re approaching another border, aren’t they?”

  “If you want my honest opinion, so long as they can find the right people to bribe, I can’t see how the strategy is going to fail any time soon given how ramshackle these countries are,” Echler purrs. “I imagine in the next country that border official is eagerly awaiting their arrival so he can hold out his hand.”

  “And if they’ve got two different countries to choose from, they can pick the cheaper one.” Kaspers is furious.

  “Anything else?” Gödeke huffs. “A free-market competition for the cheapest route?”

  “I suspect so,” Echler says soberly. “Not that they need it.”

  “O.K., hopefully this means we can now move onto the key question,” Dr Berthold says. “Who’s paying for all this crap?”

  “Oh, yes,” Echler says, hyped now. “You’re going to love this. At least the socialists among you will – are there any here, in fact?”

  “We’re still a people’s party,” Dr Kalb says, slightly miffed. “But I can’t for the life of me imagine what I should love about this arrangement.”

  “It’s a bit like the cooperative model,” Echler grins.

  “It’s what?”

  “Our colleagues from the N.S.A. gave us a bit of help here. Everyone on the march pays five dollars per day. It works via their smartphones, there’s no particular software. People get a confirmation on their mobiles and they ca
n show the trucks they’ve paid for the day, so they’re given water and something to eat. You can do the sum in your heads. They’ve got 750,000 dollars at their disposal. Per day. At least.”

  “At least?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re not making far more for extras. You’ve got to bear in mind that everything’s dirt cheap for them.”

  “Five dollars a day adds up.”

  “Say they walk for two years – that means they’ve spent roughly 3,500 dollars. Back in 2016 a study showed that the average cost for a migrant trying to get to Europe was seven thousand euros. They had to spend years saving for that. But now they’re able to pay in instalments. If they make it as far as here, they’ll be bringing money with them, I tell you!”

  “It’s just a question of time, then,” Dr Berthold says, leaning back. “If there’s so much money flying around they’ll soon be killing each other.”

  “Is that true?” Zeitz asks cheerfully.

  Echler shakes his head. “There’s no money flying around. The money is transferred via smartphone. No-one’s got any cash on them. The largest amount is on this Mr Lionel’s device around lunchtime. From there, tranches go to various accounts, presumably the suppliers . . . protection money, bribes . . .”

  “Seven hundred and fifty thousand dollars,” Kasper muses. “That’s a hell of a lot of money down there.”

  “Per day,” Echler adds cheerily.

  “And this Lionel,” the under-secretary chimes in. “What sort of a chap is he?”

  “We’ve got very little on him,” Echler says, pulling out a piece of paper. “We don’t know his real name yet. He probably lied about his date of birth, and it’s also possible that the camp’s records were incomplete or there was a faulty entry. But two sources say that for a time he did small jobs for people smugglers.”

  “Aha!” Gödeke says, “He is a smuggler then.”

  “Not in any serious sense. He was a sidekick. And when people smugglers got so expensive that nobody could afford them anymore, he was no longer needed. But he’s still got his contacts and that’s how the organisation works when they’re on the move. Checking whether everyone’s paid, distributing food and water – of course you can’t organise that with all those kids from the camp. He’s got mates to do it, mates from his time as a smuggler.”