Fred was looking for his left arm. He found it under his stomach. He dragged it out and checked the time. Half six. Wake up time in prison. He raised his head gingerly. He was lying fully clothed on a bare mattress, and pale, grey morning light streamed through the window. An old, discarded bar counter ran right across the room, with fifties-style bar stools around it. Film posters hung on the walls alongside photos of some cove who looked like he was spoiling for a duel.
Fred had an evil taste in his mouth. As he sat up he saw half-digested, dried bits of beans stuck to his overalls. The Prince of Berlin. The prince didn’t feel too good.
Fred stood up and padded along the dark hallway. Not a sound. Supporting himself on the walls, he arrived at the kitchen. Swabbed down and tidied, it lay bathed in morning light. Fred sighed. Quickly he turned to the fridge. He rummaged through the various compartments, but there was nothing edible other than mustard and some strange, rank roots. He took a bottle of orange juice, closed the door, turned round again, added a beer and went back to the room.
Seated at the counter, he emptied the bottle of orange juice and stared out of the window. Children with satchels and women with scarves and shopping bags filled the pavements. He watched a young man escorting two prettily dressed, laughing little girls over the street, and pensively scratched a bean from his overalls. Then he opened the bottle of beer on the edge of the counter and lay back down on the mattress. Soon he was asleep again.
‘A school friend from Nürnberg once visited me when I was living with Ralph. Man, was that embarrassing. In the evening we wanted to go to Fuck Off and what did she wear? Some kind of pink, body-hugging outfit with the slogan Enjoy Sex! I tell you, the people who knew me looked at me the whole evening as if they were saying goodbye. I had to phone around for three days to square the thing away.’
‘Fred has just spent four years in jail. It’s perfectly normal that he should have one too many.’
‘All right Annette, one! And that haircut.’
Suppressed laughter.
Fred squeezed his eyes open and saw two blurred pairs of legs at the counter. The window was open, and a cool breeze blew through the room. He brought his eyes into focus and saw jeans and rectangular shoes. Slowly he turned his head around. Two women. One was broad and dark with a mass of jangling chains and amulets from her from neckline to her hip. The other was blond and plump. Two chubby round buttocks spilled over the bar stool, and warm oil seemed to flood through Fred’s veins. His Annette. His plump little Annette.
‘Hey!’ he wheezed. Annette turned round, and he stared at a deathly white face. Fred was shocked.
But when she leapt off the stool and threw herself on him, laughing, he quickly got over it. And when they lay in each other’s arms and Fred touched those shoulders he had missed for so long and Annette said: ‘You stink like the doorway to a dosshouse.’ He closed his eyes and he was happy.
‘I got your card, and actually I wanted to go straight to Dieburg, but then...’
She really wanted to, and she really was glad to see Fred again, although she knew it wouldn’t be easy: her life had changed utterly over the last four years. Fred was Dieburg, and Dieburg was a long way away. Even the bank robbery - although it was the catalyst for the move to Berlin and gave her time to relax and plan the future - seldom came up in her thoughts, and when it did, it was as a foolish mistake which could have destroyed her life, and which it was better to forget. She was only dimly aware of the connection between this mistake and the money with which she had paid for board and lodging to this day. And now Fred! Whether he liked it or not, he had brought back the robbery, as if it had happened yesterday. And then there was his own peculiar manner. Annette was anything but sure that she would be able to cope with it these days. Previously he had been one of the most exciting guys in Dieburg, but there wasn’t much competition for a start, and besides Fred’s brutish charm was somewhat different at eighteen than it was today. Stuff like selling hash as expensive liquorice in the playground, or driving the greengrocer’s Mercedes to Frankfurt at night without a license seemed at best boring now. If she wanted to, she could snort coke from morning till night and cruise round in her boyfriend’s turquoise Chevrolet. But even that didn’t interest her any more. What was important were films - and the people who made them. Fred had never been a luminary in that area, and was scarcely about to become one in the next four years.
Yes, she was pleased, but it was an exhausting pleasure, mixed up with the prospect of wasted time.
‘How could I know you would come straight to Berlin? I thought you’d call first.’
Fred heard the bell ring and the door close. His hands slid under Annette’s T-shirt.
‘You didn’t even have the address.’
‘I found it out,’ mumbled Fred. He could feel her skin, her hips, her breasts. His brain felt scrambled. Four years and nineteen days. Any moment he would go crazy…
But Annette suddenly raised her head, smiled at him and rolled to one side. Fred felt he was falling into icy water.
‘I can’t begin to know how to thank you.’ She reached for a packet of cigarettes.
‘Well…’ Fred grinned distracted, then he spread his arms clumsily, ‘I’ve got an idea.’
But Annette just laughed. ‘You won’t believe how often I’ve thought about what you did for us. Nobody else would have been like that.’ She plucked a cigarette from the packet and lit it. ‘And I couldn’t even boast,’ she blew smoke at the ceiling and gave a sly wink, ‘of having a true hero for a friend.’
‘Never mind the hero.’ Fred looked up at her breasts, which were raised against the tight T-shirt. He reached for her arm and attempted to pull her back onto the mattress. But again Annette just laughed and stayed where she was. ‘I’m so happy that it’s over, that you’re out at last.’
‘Yes.’ Fred scratched his head, then he remembered the vomit-stained overalls, and glancing down, he too had to laugh. ‘I understand. It looks really revolting’
‘I’ve brought you a change of clothes.’ Annette pointed to the window seat, ‘How about you have a shower, and I’ll rustle up a nice breakfast?’
‘With a nice bottle of champagne?’
‘If you want.’
‘I’ve got a lot to catch up on.’
They stood up, and while Fred removed the overalls, Annette put a towel on the mattress and went to the counter and took her purse. She asked over her shoulder: ‘Would you like anything in particular? Bacon, cornflakes, bread rolls?’
Fred came up behind her and wrapped his arms round her upper body, so that his hands landed on her breasts. In a tone that was meant to be comic, he said: ‘Peaches.’
This time Annette didn’t laugh. Annoyed, she shrugged him off. Fred was shocked.
‘Hey, it’s me, Fred - the one with the bad jokes.’ Fred smiled cautiously. So bad they were good. Used to be his trademark.
‘I must have forgotten.’ Annette smiled back, but it was clearly an effort.
‘Let me show you the bath. The water is sometimes fairly cold here…’ and then conciliatory, ‘but a cold shower is supposed to be good for you every now and again.’
While Fred sprayed lukewarm water on his head, his mind was racing. Was Annette offended? He had certainly been a little shameless, but no more so than before. Had his smell put her off him? Or the guy in the photos… ? Somehow things weren’t running to plan. Was he thinking wrong or was it going wrong? Or was he just going at a different pace? Probably. Annette simply needed time to come around. And when they’d had breakfast and talked a little bit… It was important to talk, everyone knew that.
He turned the water off, draped a towel round himself and went to a shelf containing countless bottles of aftershave and perfume. Normally he didn’t use such things. Now and again he took scissors to his wispy beard, and perfume reminded him of dark-haired old women with dyed blonde hair. But today was a special day, and he had some ground to make up, as far as his odour was concerned.
He sniffed at various bottles and decided on something sweet and flowery, like pudding and roses - in for a penny. Unused to the dosage, he tipped almost half a bottle over himself. If this didn’t make Annette crazy for him. And he added a quick splash between his legs.
He went back into the room with his towel round his hips. Annette was still out shopping. He put on the clothes she had left out for him: brown corduroy trousers and a brightly checked shirt. He had a quick look at his reflection in the windowpane and thought he looked like one of those prison psychologists who always addressed him with ‘Freddie, man’.
Then he sat down at the counter and lit a cigarette. Wait, he said to himself, wait and deal with it as it comes. What happened happened, and after that it was up to him.
Annette placed the shopping bags on the counter and turned around sniffing. ‘Did something die in here?’
‘Not me,’ thought Fred, but he didn’t have the nerve for such comments at the moment.
‘I thought I’d freshen up a bit.’
‘A bit…? And anyway, that’s women’s perfume.’
‘Oh yes? To be quite honest it all smells the same to me. Just a sweet smell.’
Annette laughed and gave him a kiss on the forehead.
‘Why do you keep talking rubbish in English?’
‘Do I do that?’ Fred seemed surprised. What really surprised him was the word rubbish. ‘Must have become part of me… I learned it in prison. All on my own, just with books. You can imagine why.’
‘Of course, foreign languages always come in handy.’
‘Of course.’
He wondered briefly whether he should start to talk about Canada, but then he decided to wait. Give it time, just don’t rush into anything. Then he felt a slight pressure on his stomach, must have been hunger.
He watched as Annette leaned over the plastic bags and began to unpack. Croissants, ham, smoked salmon and all sorts of other things landed on the counter - a real banquet. Fred spoke of the food in prison and how it didn’t taste at all bad, at least no worse than at Grandma Ranunkel’s. Annette asked if he missed her, and Fred explained that prison had its advantages, because you couldn’t see the void left behind, and it actually made very little difference if people outside lived or died. Annette looked at him, strangely concerned. Fred changed the subject.
‘What’s happened to your face?’
‘What’s meant to have happened?’
‘It’s, ah, fairly pale.’
‘Powder.’
‘For spots?’
‘Are you mad?’ Annette looked up from a packet of salmon, ‘That’s my style.’
‘Is that right?’ Thus far, Fred had only heard the word style in the context of painting. But Annette’s face seemed somehow connected with that too. The hobby appeared to run in the family.
Annette went into the kitchen and returned with dishes and cutlery.
‘By the way I saw your mother.’
Annette gave him a brief look, then she arranged the salmon on a plate.
‘I know. My father called me.’
‘Ah…’ Fred waited. Was that meant to happen? After a while he said: ‘She didn’t look too healthy.’
Again Annette gave him a brief look, while she pushed the plate to one side and reached for the ham. Could she detect a note of mild triumph in his eyes? Her family had always been one of the most popular in Dieburg, unlike Fred’s.
‘I can believe it.’
‘Well…’ Fred hesitated, ‘…it was quite a shock.’
‘So.’
‘I mean, she always liked a drink, but…has something bad happened?’
Annette put the ham on a wooden board, then she placed her hands on the counter and looked Fred in the eye. ‘I don’t want to talk about it, okay.’
Fred nodded. He could understand not wanting to talk about something inconvenient.
‘Sorry, I just wanted to say it.’
Annette laid the table. Her lips were pressed together, and Fred wondered how he could brighten up the mood again. Finally he said with a laugh: ‘But plasterhead was his old self.’
He couldn’t go wrong with this subject. The harder he was on Mr Schöller, the more Annette liked it.
‘I can’t quite remember, but at some point I must have done something really bad to him. Maybe he was standing behind me and I farted in his face.’
Cheerfully he shoved a slice of smoked salmon into his mouth, but to his surprise Annette’s expression didn’t change. He broke off from chewing, then slowly he swallowed the salmon and wiped his mouth. ‘Not about that either?’
‘Just listen here,’ Annette wiped her fingers on her trousers and reached for cigarettes, ‘I don’t know why you think this concerns you so much, but if you insist on talking about my parents, then you should at least bear in mind that my father can’t have it easy at the moment.’
Fred stared at her open-mouthed. What was that all about?
‘But then he never did.’
‘Very funny! In any case, I’ve learned over the last few years what a fantastic person he is.’
What didn’t plasterhead teach?
‘ You probably wouldn’t understand this, but he holds the family together. It’s thanks to him that we see each other at least two or three times a year.’
Fred really didn’t understand.
‘And what do you do on those occasions? Have a jar with your mother?’
Annette’s expression hardened briefly, then she reached resolutely into the bag and pulled out some oranges.
‘Let’s talk about something else.’
Half an hour later Annette had made coffee and fried the eggs, they were sitting at the counter, and Annette was explaining how Nickel had begun to get on her nerves shortly after they arrived in Berlin.
‘He would have liked us to have moved into the student hostel and spent our evenings over Peter Weiss by candlelight. And once a week some vile ratatouille with his fellow students.’
Fred stirred his coffee and ordered his thoughts. Thus far they had spoken neither about Canada nor about his money, and it didn’t look like they were going to hop into bed again either. When asked whether the guy in the photos was her boyfriend she had pretended the question was nonsense.
Nonetheless he was happy to sit with her, happier than he’d been for a long time. Almost as if it were a matter of indifference how Annette behaved, for he still had his Annette, the one he’d shared a cell with for four years, with whom he’d had an understanding for years, who was sitting waiting on packed suitcases and went to bed with him when he wanted.
He took a sip of coffee and watched her mouth moving. She still had a habit of closing her lips briefly after each sentence. Above all he didn’t want to get cheeky. And for the time being he would leave the topic of conversation to her.
In the meantime the people in shades put their heads round the door more and more often and gave Annette messages to call someone. Then she would disappear for ten minutes and return with an ever more nervous set to her mouth.
‘I’m sorry but we’re right in the middle of pre-production and I can’t take time off now.’
‘Of course.’ Fred nodded to her as she went past the counter to the shelf. When she was gone from the room he looked out the window or played with his food, when she returned he lit cigarettes and observed.
‘What are you working on?’
Annette picked up a file and began to leaf through it. ‘A film about identity and origins.’
‘Hmhm… sounds thrilling. And what’s it about?’
‘About a boy who has grown up in a foreign country, but has nonetheless retained his German roots. The people as a family. A philosophical film, but action-packed.’
‘Aha,’ Fred remembered vaguely hearing this story somewhere before, ‘seems to be a matter of life and death now. Even in prison a lot of them suddenly started talking about the people and ah… id-ent-ity. Very important - that’s what I thought.’
He took a drag on his cigarette and looked for a smart phrase, something to make Annette look up from her file, perhaps even with admiration. If the subject interested her.
‘Strange though that often the same ones couldn’t stand that section of the people represented by their cell neighbour. Isn’t that a bit illogical?’
‘Hm-hm,’ said Annette, withdrawing a few pages from the file.
‘But it’s probably somewhat different in prison,’ Fred continued. ‘They talk about stuff like that more out of boredom. Nation, homeland - you have to keep busy with something. If there had been women inside, I doubt if anyone would have given a toss about Germany.’
He expelled smoke noisily and glanced expectantly across to her. But Annette was still busy with the file.
‘In my view,’ he said in a thoughtful voice, ‘people is a precise concept, like fruit.’
And indeed: Annette did look up. ‘There are grapes in the kitchen if you would like.’
Ever more and ever different men and women looked in, spoke in strange abbreviations, issued requests and commands, hurried along, and soon Annette returned only to announce that she was needed, and that there were newspapers in the corner.
She suggested going for a kebab at lunch time. ‘Do you know what that is?’ she asked, and Fred shook his head: Of course she would want to show off a little as a recent Berliner. She could just as easily have asked him if he knew what a photo booth was.
While Annette spoke of the ‘Berlin style’ at a table in the snack bar, of the ‘interesting population mix’ and about her constantly recurring ‘feel for urban life as she bit into a kebab,’ Fred observed the pink strips of compressed meat and thought of fingernails. The consistency seemed to him barely different to that of a currywurst. Did Berlin have a single means of sustenance from which everyone nibbled what he wanted? The kebab meat around Frankfurt station certainly looked different. He chewed suspiciously.
‘When I was in Dieburg last Christmas I noticed for the first time how few foreigners there are. I really felt something was missing.’
The waiter, a young muscle-bound hulk wearing a cut-away T-shirt and an earring leaned over the counter and yelled: ‘Let me know when you want the take-aways, okay?’
Annette nodded smiling and the waiter withdrew to an armchair with his heavy metal magazine.
‘So nice,’ said Annette softly. And Fred, just as softly: ‘But strange that they still don’t speak proper German after all this time...’ whereupon Annette looked at him blankly.
There was an uncomfortable pause. Fred was astonished, and wondered whether he should explain the joke. If she didn’t like his bad jokes any more, no problem, they didn’t always work in Dieburg either- but not to get the good ones…?
‘I just wanted to say what goes down among foreigners.’
‘All right Fred.’ Annette gave him a fierce look. ‘Let me get this clear: no such jokes in my presence!’
Fred looked at her, baffled. ‘Such jokes? What kind of such?’
‘You know exactly what I mean. I can just imagine how they talk about it in prison.’
‘About what?’
‘Don’t act dumb. About foreigners of course.’
‘Well, how?’
‘You know. Turkish jokes and so on.’
‘But I meant something…’ Fred broke off. Confused, he avoided her gaze.
‘You must have heard what’s going on in Germany now - and not only in Germany. Jokes like that just aren’t correct. You’ll have to be a little more careful in future.’
Fred had the feeling he was being swamped by lunacy.
‘You didn’t understand me: I…’
‘Please,’ Annette leaned forward and hissed, ‘let’s not argue about it here of all places!’
Fred looked at her wide-eyed, then he gave a discrete nod and said barely audibly: ‘You’d get a dagger in your back real fast in this tent full of camel jockeys.’
This time Annette had to smile. She had only picked up dagger and camel jockeys, and despite - or precisely because of - her good intentions, these words charmed her as they had once done.
Now Fred understood nothing any more. Not to like the bad jokes or get the good ones was one thing, but to be amused by any old rubbish?
He wanted out, away from this snack bar.
‘Shall we get the bill?’
‘I’ll get it,’ said Annette, and Fred imagined she was afraid he might offer his disposable lighter in lieu of payment.
The waiter wrapped the kebabs in silver foil, said ‘Bye bye,’ and they set off back to the flat. The sky was grey, and isolated raindrops announced the arrival of rain. Annette asked Fred about prison. He invented tales of prison riots, hand made pistols and kidnapped social workers while remaining true to his motto: keep your dignity. His thoughts were elsewhere. Certain jokes were not intended to raise a laugh. They were his - what was it called in chemistry class - litmus paper. With Annette it had gone grey.
‘You must talk to Carlo about it. Prison and such matters interest him a great deal. Maybe he’ll turn it into a film,’ she said and nodded cheerfully at Fred.
Meanwhile Annette had made up her mind: she wasn’t going to allow Fred’s arrival to upset her routine. If he wanted to, he could spend a few days with her, take a look at Berlin, and in the evening she would show him a few dance clubs and bars. A few of her friends might even find him quite original for a while.
In the afternoon Fred sat on a barstool at the window, drank beer and looked through the rain-drenched window. Opera arias came from the next room. Annette was working. That evening, she had said, there was a party and she had to look after a few people, but she would have time for him in between.
Fred had decided to speak to her about Canada and his money before the party. But he was guarding against any false hopes.
He had learned in prison to pay no attention to premonitions. The same went for hopes, expectations and anything else of that nature. He had come a cropper too often in the early days for that reason. Good or bad, as long as something hadn’t been done, spoken in front of witnesses or signed, you didn’t need to give it a moment’s thought. Thus far, and providing no unequivocal statements to the contrary had been made, the deal was that Annette, Nickel and he would go to Canada together. If there was some hitch in the arrangement, he would deal with it when it could no longer be overlooked.
In order to pass the time he crouched next to the pile of papers in the corner and flicked through theatre and film magazines. A letter fell into his lap. He read the sender’s name, then he listened for a moment at the door and carefully removed the folded paper from the envelope.
My Darling Annette,
Mother feels better. Sometimes she sits in the garden again. We are both very proud of you and your film. It’s really a most interesting subject. And now to the question of your money: should you wish to put up a portion of the film’s costs, we would have to travel to Switzerland together some time during the summer, that’s the only way it will work. Think it over carefully - a film is always a risk, you know. See you soon.
Your loving father, who is eternally happy that we understand each other so well after difficult times.
PS Hoffmann is being released shortly. Beware!
Fred stared at the neat handwriting. Beware! The word seemed to rise up from the page and leap at him. Beware, beware…he could feel his chest constricting.
He stood up and went to the counter with the letter in his hand. He lit a cigarette and read it once more. ‘Damn.’ he said quietly. Happy Mr Schöller, Darling Annette… Now he understood the change in Annette. Plasterhead handled her money - that was the beginning of the friendship. How had plasterhead put it? He, Fred would drag Annette down. But putting the wages of sin in a Swiss bank account. And in a quiet, slightly bewildered voice, Fred said again: ‘Damn!’
He read the letter a third time, then he shoved it back in the envelope and put it in his trouser pocket. For a while he paced maniacally up and down the room and tried to come to terms with these new circumstances, without understanding exactly what they meant. Only one thing was clear: Annette was being warned off him by her father and was keeping quiet about it. And that wasn’t a premonition, it was a fact.
Fred remained at the window and looked out over umbrellas and hazy neon signs. The Schöller family suddenly looked to him like one big conspiracy, like traitors, enemies, the opposition. And his team…? His father came to mind.
‘Folk with a detached house, subscriptions to five newspapers and a local Greek restaurant - they’ve no pity. They hate me because I don’t know the name of our mayor and don’t give a damn about acid rain - all rain is lousy.’
Fred’s father had frequently been the cause of agitation among the Schöllers. Once he had yelled at Mrs Schöller in the supermarket, what did she think she was doing reading Kästner to Fred, after all, children were susceptible to books at that age, and he didn’t want some stuck-up mummy’s boy for a son. Another time he sent them ten kilos of honey with a note: ‘For Fred, who is said to stop at your place often. If he wants to give you some that’s all right with me.’ Whereupon Mr Schöller declared his father an antisocial character, and antisocial was pretty much the worst swearword in the Schöller household.
‘Think nothing of it young fella, antisocial is just a word they use when they’re at their wit’s end.’
But Fred had thought something of it. His father’s opinion of Mrs Schöller had annoyed him the most. He had said she was the worst because she was smarter than she let on. You could expect better of intelligent people.
‘But society won’t allow that. Put your head above the parapet and you get shot down.’
Fred watched a car coming to a halt, then heard the horn. He wiped out the memories of his father and thought about how he should talk to Annette. He went to the counter and opened a beer. He noticed his hands trembling.
Suddenly the door opened slightly and Fred got a shock.
‘Sweetheart, can you come here a minute?’ called a male voice. Then the door opened further, and one of the shades put his head around. Fred sighed.
‘Nobody there?’ asked the young man, then he recognised Fred. ‘Ah…’ he grinned, ‘survived last night all right then?’
Fred shrugged. The man entered the room. He was around thirty and wore a light suit and brown brogues. His face was smooth and clean like a bathroom tile.
‘I thought it was funny,’ he said, ‘what was the name again?’
‘Fred.’
‘Hi Fred.’
‘Hi sweetheart.’
The man stopped short.
‘Are you Annette’s boyfriend or something?’
Fred didn’t reply. The man sucked in his lips and watched him with interest. Suddenly he seemed to have an inspiration. He leaned forward and pointed at Fred with a theatrical gesture.
‘Man! You’re just right for that sad neo nazi bastard. Of course.’ The man came up and circled him in his steel-tipped shoes. ‘Fabulous. You’ll play Roger.’
‘I’m not an actor.’
‘Don’t matter…’ He stood in front of Fred, formed both hands into a rectangle and looked at Fred through the hole with one eye. ‘We’ll manage. It’s not so important with film.’
‘I mean I don’t want to be one either,’ said Fred and wondered what shades was playing at.
The man’s hands sank to his sides, ‘What?’ and although Fred could see no eyes behind the dark glasses, he could sense their disbelieving stare.
‘So you don’t know how it works with film and you’re a little nervous?’
‘Yes,’ growled Fred, anxious to get this guy out of the room, ‘of catching aids!’
‘Say again.’ Astonished, the man turned his head to one side, and Fred wondered if he would remove the glasses before a fist fight.
Instead the man said cheerfully: ‘Even better, you don’t need to play Roger, you are Roger. Tell me about it: you can’t stand queers, foreigners out - don’t be embarrassed. You come from a small town. I can tell. You’re an averagely gifted young man, you think mainly of yourself and your little life, you don’t ask for a lot…Stop me if I’m getting it wrong.’ He paused briefly, inviting an answer. Fred didn’t move. Everyone seemed to want to talk to him about foreigners today.
‘Anyway, I’d be the last person not to understand. On the contrary: in most cases I find right wing attitudes absolutely natural, not to say inevitable. Left wing views are for rich arseholes who can afford them, who yell ‘let the foreigners in’ because they don’t know any foreigners apart from their Polish cleaning lady - am I right? I know what you’re thinking: you think I want to lead you on to thin ice, that I’m some kind of lefty myself. Don’t worry. I am nothing. I only observe and attempt to understand. All things human interest me. And what is more human than detesting a few new arrivals who are giving you grief?’
‘There’s something in that’ said Fred, ‘now how about you just clear off?’
The man pursed his lips, then, disappointed, he shook his head. ‘In your place I would think it over: maybe it’s your big chance.’
Now Fred shook his head. ‘It’s your chance - to clear off , I mean.’
Amused, the man half closed one eye. ‘You think you’re pretty tough, eh?’
‘Tough enough for you.’
‘Now, now! We’re not in the playground any more.’
‘Seems to me like we are. Are you a teacher?’
The young man lost his cool for the first time. ‘Why a teacher?’
‘Only teachers rabbit on like that.’
‘A teacher - rubbish.’
The man turned away from Fred just as quickly as he had collared him. ‘Teacher indeed.’ He seemed genuinely wounded by the remark. He turned round again just before the door: ‘The part could have been yours. Tragic how little people want out of life!’ and he stomped out.
So he is a teacher, thought Fred.
The door remained open and people with technical equipment or files came in at regular intervals. Scraps of conversation wafted into the room.
‘I’d love to make a film where nothing happens, but beautifully edited…’, ‘…twenty at most, that’s all the friends I have…’, ‘…art and suffering go together…’, ‘…I’m thinking of a fabulous story of a man - about my age - who works in films and falls in love with the assistant…’, ‘…we’d be falling between two stools again…’, ‘…like one big family…’, ‘…nobody has grasped the tragedy of a six room apartment like Botho Strauss…’, ‘…art and heroism belong together…’, ‘…wasn’t Auschwitz just rock and roll? Against the fathers, the rich, the powerful. And at the same time a search for warmth and shelter…’, ‘I hate white socks, and all I asked was that he wear dark socks for the next take…’
Eventually Annette swept round the corner. Her hair hung over her face, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up.
‘Everything under control?’ she asked as she rushed to the shelf and took down a book. ‘I’ll be ready in a minute, then we’ll go and have a drink with Carlo and the others, okay?’
Fred slid off the stool. He stretched his legs and walked hesitantly around the counter. He cleared his throat.
‘Listen Annette, I think we need to get a few things clear.’
She snapped the book shut and smiled. ‘I understand, it’s not much fun for you, but then…’
‘No, I mean…’ Fred stood still and placed his hands on the counter. His heart was thumping. ‘Tell me, do you still remember Canada?’
‘Canada?’
‘Yes, we had it planned…’ Fred ran his tongue over his lips, ‘you know, before the robbery?’
‘Oh that…’
Suddenly Annette’s eyes widened, and she was speechless for a moment. Then, without taking her eyes off Fred, she placed the book slowly back on the shelf.
‘You can’t be serious.’
‘Well…at least that was what we had agreed.’
‘But Fred.’ Annette shook her head as if trying to dispel a nightmare. ‘That was years ago.’ She went to the window seat and plucked a cigarette from the pack.
‘Hmhm.’ Fred looked at his hands. His face had gone pale. He tried desperately to grasp a passing thought. His brain was like marmalade. However much he had understood or thought he had understood in the past hour, the possibility of such a clear and unequivocal outcome had not crossed his mind.
‘How did you imagine that? I mean…what gave you the idea I would want to go to Canada? Can’t you see how I’m living, how I’m working?’ She clicked her lighter.
‘Yes, but,’ Fred pressed his hands against the edge of the counter.
‘And I enjoy my work, it’s what I have always wanted to do.’
Fred nodded without looking at her. Yes but, yes but rang through the marmalade. What could he say? That she still had to come? That he had believed in her and counted on her for four years? That he went to prison for her, and she should therefore give up her work for him? And how would that sound? Like Magic Hoffmann…?
‘Now, Hoffmann: you must understand that everyone in Dieburg knows who your mates were, and whether you keep your mouth shut or not makes no difference to the two of them - we’ll get them anyway. But it makes a difference to you. Somewhere between two and three years.’
The police superintendent stood at the open window and pointed out into the street. The sun shone upon small businesses and pastry shops, on people in bright clothes and on a café terrace full of cheerful faces, lingering over beer and iced coffee.
‘Take a good look, Hoffmann . In prison you won’t get to see that for a long time.’
Fred shrugged. ‘If it’s only a question of not seeing the Dieburg pedestrian precinct, I’ll gladly take another year.’
The superintendent shook his head, sighing. ‘You don’t know what you’re saying. How old are you? Twenty.’
He approached Fred and leaned down to him. ‘These are your best years that you’re so determined to just chuck away. And for what? Because you’ve heard of the foolish notion of honour among thieves in some old movie. You’ll shove that honour where the sun don’t shine once you’ve spent a few months behind bars, and for twenty four hours a day, while your so-called mates sit in the sun somewhere, dishing out your share and laughing themselves silly about your foolish loyalty!’
‘I think it’s you that’s seen the old film, superintendent.’
‘You’re ruining your life!’
‘You understand that then? How long have you been hanging around in Dieburg?’
The superintendent closed his eyes, then he turned away and began pacing up and down the room again.
‘I don’t know why but I like you, Hoffmann . And I would find it a pity to see you spending four years making clothes pegs or some such trash… Just think what you could become.’
‘You mean a grass?’
The superintendent was raging. ‘I mean a young man who enjoys life. You’d be out in a year, a year and a half at most.’
‘Besides, you must have noticed yourself that we…have changed.’
‘Yes…’ Fred looked up and smiled distractedly.
He had to pull himself together. Cursing and screaming didn’t help, it only made things worse. He needed to show Annette who he was. And if everything fell apart, he would go to Canada!
He got a grip of himself and said, far too loud: ‘Okay. There’s still my money.’
Annette looked for a minute as though she didn’t know what he was talking about. At a stroke the distraction in Fred’s eyes disappeared. Before Annette could answer he repeated: ‘My money!’ in a tone which made her wince.
‘But you know that Nickel has it.’
‘How am I supposed to know that?’
‘I thought Nickel would have written and told you.’
Fred thought briefly of Nickel’s how-are-you-I-am-very-well postcards.
‘He wanted to earn interest on it - you know Nickel. He will certainly have got the best deal for you, and he said he would do it in such a way that you could draw it at any time…’ and with a forced smile and a gesture towards the ceiling, ‘Who knows, maybe you’re already a millionaire!’
Fred opened his mouth as if he wanted to get something off his chest, but he remained silent. He stared grimly at Annette, and for a while they stood opposite each other in silence at different ends of the counter.
‘All right,’ he said finally, ‘that’s that then. Where does Nickel live?’
Annette watched him, still incredulous. Slowly she detached herself from the counter, went to the desk, stubbed out her cigarette with a sigh and picked up a pencil. While she was writing down Nickel’s address and phone number, Fred went to the bed and rolled up his vomit-stained overalls.
‘Don’t you even want to stay for our party this evening?’
‘No time.’
‘But Fred. We haven’t really seen each other properly and…’ she paused.
‘You can come and visit me in Canada. Now I must rush.’ Fred took the piece of paper with Nickel’s address from her hand, pocketed it and pulled at his shirt. ‘I’ll bring the clothes back before I leave.’
As he turned for the door, Annette held onto his arm. Fred resisted his first impulse to shake off her hand. Her look was now almost tender, and at the same time, sad. Clearly she didn’t want just to let Fred go - or at least she didn’t want it to seem as if she would simply let him go. Fred let her hold his arm like a piece of wood.
‘Why did you never write anything about Canada,’ she asked.
‘That was agreed as well: not a word about our plans.’
‘But for four whole years!’
‘I didn’t ask for that number.’
Annette didn’t let go of his arm. Fred knew all about that from social workers and small-time dealers. When they knew they couldn’t get any further, they would grab hold of you. Annette’s expression was becoming ever more sensitive. She’s probably wondering what she should wear this evening, thought Fred.
‘And do you really mean that, about Canada?
‘For sure.’
And what are you going to do there?’
‘We’ll see. To begin with I have money, and later… Maybe I’ll buy an orchard and make apple wine. I don’t think it’s particularly well known in Canada.’
‘Apple wine?’ Annette stared at him open-mouthed, ‘You want to go to Canada to make apple wine?’
‘Is there any law against it?’
‘But Fred…apple wine! And especially now! I mean when there’s so much going on here?’
‘Where is something going on?’ Fred pulled his arm away.
‘But everything is new: the country, the people, the politics - everything is in flux. Don’t you want to experience any of that? Germany is the centre of the world!’
She was off again.
‘Who for?’ Asked Fred.
‘Well, for…for many people - for us any way.’
Fred did not reply. Annette gave a motherly smile. Then she shook her head. ‘Really: apple wine in Canada. That’s a mad idea! Half of Hessen makes apple wine. It’s a regional speciality. You might as well stay in Dieburg.’
‘That’s precisely why I can’t. But you wouldn’t understand,’ Fred turned away, ‘well then…’
On the way to the front door two Asians bearing huge pots and ladles pushed past them. From the rear of the apartment the rattle of dishes mingled with country music: Texas is my baby, and if you don’t like her I’ll shoot you - maybe… Annette remained in the doorway, while more Asians with cooking and cleaning equipment went by.
‘Call me later when you’re at Nickel’s.’
‘I will,’ said Fred.
They bid each other goodbye with a kiss on the cheek, then Fred turned round abruptly and walked past the colourful nameplates and down the stairs. Two men dressed in golfing gear came towards him, their sunglasses pushed back on their foreheads. Their perfume stayed with him till the ground floor.
Rain splattered the pavement in front of the main entrance. The juddering of the fridge motor still came from the bar with the dirty portholes, but the sound of an air raid siren now blended in. DANCE MACHINE hung in neon letters above a metal door.
Fred looked up once more at the light in Annette’s window. He could feel tears coming. He stepped quickly out into the rain and hurried to the underground.