The under-secretary cannot decide. Granite, they said, is the toughest material out there. Or what about artificial stone? Not that he’s particularly fussed – as under-secretary he has other things on his mind – but Tommy has made it quite clear that he doesn’t want to make all the decisions alone. Which is why the under-secretary, coffee in hand, is now poring over a pile of catalogues and comparing materials. Natural stone? Laminate?
“Laminate for the work surface?” the under-secretary said. “Isn’t that for floors?”
“We’ll get to the floor.”
“So what’s the advantage? Can’t we just have wood?”
“Just wood!” Tommy snorted as if the under-secretary had suggested climbing Mount Everest in flip flops. He was standing in the hallway in his shorts, the “Hello Kitty” rucksack across his shoulders. But not even the cat’s ghastly head could mar the flawless arse below. Then the flawless arse turned and gleaming white shorts approached on two slim, tanned legs with a spectacular fuzz of blond hair. As Tommy sauntered past he picked up something, which looked like an extremely thick and extremely boring magazine, and let it slap down on the table like an enormous paper steak. “Have a read of this,” he said, “and see what normal people have to deal with. I can’t keep spelling it out for you. I’ve got to go now, and by the way the wallpaper won’t choose itself.”
“But . . .”
“Be happy that I’ve already narrowed down the choice. We’ll make the final decision on Saturday morning, half ten, at the wallpaper shop. It’s in the diary.”
“Outlook or Calendar?”
“Both. Gotta go now. Happy governing! And say hi to Volker!”
The under-secretary certainly won’t be saying hi to Volker. And again he curses the moment he agreed to move in with Tommy. They’d had a wonderfully practical arrangement – him in Berlin, Tommy in Hamburg, happily reunited every fortnight. He was able to meet who he liked in the evenings, have backroom conversations until all hours, hook up with someone (though that was seldom, to be honest) or bring people home and chew over a few strategies until half past three in the morning. That wouldn’t have to change, Tommy insists, and perhaps he’s right. You could easily bring five politicians home without waking your partner if you’ve got enough space to put the bedroom a fair distance away. And now they’re going to have a fabulous two hundred and fifty square metres, plus roof terrace. Throw in a jacuzzi and Tommy can spend more time doing what he does best.
Which certainly isn’t cooking.
Granite is superb, the under-secretary reads in the paper-steak, but natural stone stains easily. And absorbs liquids. Granite is also hard blah, blah, blah . . . Weighed down by his catalogue misery, the under-secretary glances at his mobile, hoping to be saved by a message. But there are none. He taps on the calendar: two meetings, two interviews. No emergencies. He thinks of Tommy’s bottom in the white shorts and the phrase “summer recess” springs to mind. There’s nothing going on, and he ought to be glad about that. It wasn’t always thus.
That summer and autumn when the stupid cow opened Germany’s doors to refugees. The events on New Year’s Eve in Cologne. The hiding they took for the Turkey deal. And then another hiding after the putsch. One crisis meeting after another, seemingly with no break in between. He can’t remember whether it was September or October when he came home and Tommy said, “The way you stink makes me wonder who’s still keen to negotiate with you.” He didn’t change his clothes for four or five days at a time, but now that the uproar has more or less subsided, the refugee numbers have dropped, and they’re mentoring or reducing or upskilling this new stock – or all of these together – he can cut back on the overtime and finally pick up a decent book.
But instead of that he’s reading kitchen catalogues.
“Wood is a living material,” it says. Exactly. Good old wood. The disadvantages: vulnerable to moisture, fruit and vegetable juice, blood. You simply have to be careful not to cut yourself, he thinks, before realising that they’re not referring to the cook’s blood here.
There’s been so little to do recently that he was even able to chair a transport meeting. The summer break is looming; he can already sense the election campaign in the air. Little more is going to happen. If governments do anything at all, it’s straight after taking office; they need to show their voters that the election has achieved something. But after two or three years all the nice, simple tasks are complete. What’s left is arduous and risky.
Laminate. Not good for hot pans. How clever, a work surface that can’t cope with hot pans – who thinks these things up? But what should they have instead? What copes well with heat? Steel? Glass?
My kingdom for a national crisis.
It would be far simpler if Tommy decided. At the moment, however, they’re not just discussing a domestic cooker, but a domestic crisis too. Fortunately it’s quite specific and hasn’t affected other sectors, but still, they have to ensure it doesn’t spread. The domestic crisis is called “The under-secretary is so brilliant at delegating” and it means he needs to involve himself a little more in household affairs. Recently Tommy let him know that he regarded himself as the under-secretary’s life companion, not just another ministerial tart. Then Tommy wanted to know whether the two of them could agree that he, Tommy, wasn’t just a ministerial tart, otherwise, Tommy said – and he was saying this in the nicest possible way – otherwise they could end this here and now.
And that means everything is going to get a bit trickier. He had thought that the new kitchen would simply involve getting more chipboard from the D.I.Y. store. He even enjoys the occasional visit to the D.I.Y. store. The subtle aroma of wood and solvent, the neatly ordered shelves. All those tins of paint. Screws. Brackets. Screwdriver sets. Spanner sets. Not that he’s especially handy, but if you’ve got a spanner set, one of each size, and a screwdriver set, one of each size, doesn’t that give you the feeling of satisfaction, of being prepared for every screw life can throw at you?
Dekton. The miracle substance. You can slaughter a pig on it and detonate an atom bomb, and then, in fifty thousand years’ time, when the earth has been re-inhabited by mutants, those mutants will clear away the rubble and say, “Hey! A Dekton work surface. Almost as good as new!” This is an exaggeration, of course; Chernobyl has shown that you can re-inhabit nuclear areas far more quickly and without such rapid mutation. As far as he’s concerned, this phasing out of nuclear power is not entirely crazy; he’s chatted to a few people from Vattenfall who seem to have their heads screwed on. But he doesn’t want to know about the environmental impact. Of this Dekton stuff. Environmental impact is a big deal for Tommy: “After all, we’re leaving this to our children.”
“We’re gay.”
“You need to get out of your bubble. That bloody party of yours is making you incredibly narrow minded, it really is!”
His mobile rings. Finally. The driver.
“I’ll be down in a sec.”
He needs to be quick now. He’s often noticed that he finds it easier to think when he’s under pressure. He doesn’t have a clue about kitchens. Tommy has very precise ideas and wants to have a kitchen that looks impressive should the minister happen to come around. And if one day the under-secretary happens to become a minister himself, who knows who might be paying them a visit? That cute prime minister from Sweden?
Mmm.
Briefly the under-secretary pictures Svensson in a pair of boxers. Then he snaps out of it and becomes the professional politician once again. He picks up his smartphone, compares prices, then chooses the most expensive. Tommy will say “typical” and complain that he’s a show-off (ten minutes), that you can get it better and cheaper (two minutes), then he’ll suggest his own and go on about the choice of colour (thirty to forty-five minutes), and the under-secretary will just have to make a bit of a fuss (five minutes, ideally fifteen) before giving in.
No doubt it could all be done quicker. But sometimes you have to embark on these kinds of detours, and in this respect dealing with Tommy is no different from dealing with his ministerial tarts.
But he can’t tell Tommy this, of course.