Astrid von Roëll is sitting in Africa, freezing. With the temperature outside at thirty-nine degrees, the Evangeline reporter tries unobtrusively to stretch the three-quarter sleeves of her cardigan to four-fifths sleeves. The air conditioning inside the off-road vehicle is switched to fifteen, and she’s struggling against both the temperature and her stinginess: the cardigan was slightly too expensive – even slightly way too expensive – and she doesn’t want the delicate sleeves to go baggy. She wouldn’t care so much were she not sitting opposite Nadeche Hackenbusch, whose expression shows not the slightest hint of discomfort. And Astrid von Roëll doesn’t want to come across as someone who didn’t know that African off-roaders have air conditioning too. So she’s trying to sit there casually, as if her favourite thing about foreign travel is this marvellous difference in temperatures.
As she watches Nadeche Hackenbusch tap something into her smartphone, Astrid endeavours to work out her secret. After all, Nadeche is wearing only a shortish denim skirt, an elegant yet simple top beneath a denim jacket, and canvas plimsolls. It all seems very down-to-earth, apart from the rhinestones, which are trashy, but Astrid has seen one of the labels and she knows you wouldn’t get change out of four thousand euros for the outfit, not if you include the shoes and other bits and bobs. But despite the price, this get-up doesn’t have an in-built heating system. How is it possible? How can she stand it? Is she wearing invisible thermal underwear?
What an extraordinary woman.
Astrid von Roëll has been monitoring Nadeche Hackenbusch’s career from the outset. Her beginnings in that talent show, the embarrassing slip-ups – of course they sneered at first, in the planning meetings. Such naivety. She remembers that at her goddaughter’s school, girls would insult each other with the words, “You’re such a Nadeche!” or “You total Nadeche!” She went out in the fourth round, of course, having survived the third only because she’d got such brilliant ratings; the YouTube videos were cult viewing and the T.V. execs needed to sell advertising, after all. Her looks and her refreshing genuineness were tailor made for this. Legs that practically went up to her ears, almost too long, in fact, meaning she was always slightly gauche, not completely uncoordinated but often on the verge of crumpling like a very young calf. A most versatile bosom which, depending on the situation, could be thrillingly exaggerated or discreetly hidden beneath clothes, as now. That sensational face, which even back then was breathtakingly beautiful, and yet as normal as that of the assistant at the bakery next door. A smile like a sunrise, a large mouth that was never at rest and spouted an unbelievable amount of rubbish, albeit with an implicit honesty. How could anyone think that giving Nadeche her own programme might be a good idea? Surely they could see she couldn’t deliver lines to camera. Even now she still can’t: she’s got no idea what it’s supposed to sound like. You can play her clips of hundreds of presenters, but she can’t hear the difference. Which is why she sounded ever more distorted with every desperate attempt. More uncertain and less like herself. This went down badly; the viewers noticed too. At first the ratings were middling, then dreadful.
The media industry can be cruel to women. And Astrid von Roëll knows this better than anyone. She’s been with Evangeline for sixteen years now, but she never fails to be shocked. What happened to Esther Schweins from “R.T.L. Saturday Night”? Or Tanja Schumann? They used to be so funny, but now? All the guys from the programme have found other homes, but what about the women? Schumann had to resort to “I’m a Celebrity . . .”, as if there hadn’t been enough misery in her life. Nadeche had definitely made a better fist of it.
Astrid von Roëll can’t recall Nadeche ever having disappeared from the television screen altogether. That’s down to her extraordinarily eventful life. Her marriage to the national hockey player, her first child (a boy called Scheel), her divorce, her unfortunate singing career at the same time as her affair with YouTuber LeBretzel (“stress on the final syllable, please”), her separation after that rape and the second pregnancy that was the result, almost like the perfect punch-line, and the discussion about abortion alongside the trial that ended in a dubious settlement. Then came the happy birth of her second son, Bonno, named Beckham-style after where he was conceived, and the book on motherhood, which Astrid worked on as an advisor, although sadly uncredited. Only when the book flopped was Nadeche ripe for “I’m a Celebrity . . .” But just at that moment came “Angel in Adversity”.
The car has leather seats, which take an unbelievably long time to warm up. Good for the connective tissue, at least, Astrid consoles herself. With a sleek movement Nadeche slips her mobile into her Louis Vuitton bag. In the past there were women who looked the height of elegance with a cigarette holder – the smartphone is Nadeche Hackenbusch’s cigarette holder.
“What have you brought along for the filming?” she asks, leaning towards Astrid.
“Quite a lot of H&M. They’re doing loads of adverts at the moment. Some Hallhuber, and then a couple of suitcases of Doris zu Wagenbach.”
“Oh my God!”
“You know how it works with us.”
“Doris zu Wagenbach!” She emphasises her contempt to perfection. “Chuck a quilt and a clown into a shredder and there’s your evening dress. I have no idea why you’re so obsessed with her.”
“The editorial office sees her as the up-and-coming fashion—”
“—the up-and-coming fashion talent? Wagenbach? I like your editorial office, but you know how they traipse about. Has your deputy editor worked out how to do up his shirt yet? Every time I see him he’s got a button open. And we’re lucky it’s only the shirt we’re talking about. For God’s sake, the man works for Evangeline! Can’t someone tell him?”
Astrid von Roëll tries to stop her teeth from chattering. “We only have to take a couple of pieces from the collection, the rest can go back to where they came from. And we’ve got plenty of Hallhuber too.”
“Hallhuber. Jesus. Oh well, better than nothing.” Nadeche slumps back in her seat and breathes out audibly. She stares out of the window. Beyond the tinted glass, a local vanishes into the blue-yellow-grey dust. They can’t see much. Their car is the third in the convoy, and the two in front have stirred up clouds of dust. “But I’m relying on you. I don’t want it to sound like I’d wear this crap myself.”
“Sure,” Astrid assures her. “It’s just for the filming.”
“Yes, but it’s awful, isn’t it? I mean, like, these are poor people, really poor. They don’t have a roof over their heads, they don’t have anything to eat. And we come along from one of the richest countries on this earth and what do we bring them? H&M and Doris zu Wagenbach! These people must feel like the lowest of the low.”
“It’s not as if they usually wear Dior,” Astrid tries to appease her.
“Precisely. They usually wear shite and now they can wear crap too.”
“But H&M isn’t—”
“That’s exactly why this planet will, like, never be at peace. There’s just no sensitivity for the poorest of the poor!”
“We’ve got Hallhuber too . . .” Astrid reiterates helplessly. She feels a slight retching in her throat. It’s bloody cold in this fucking car, she’s been on her feet for twenty-seven hours and she’s really tried her damndest. She knows that Nadeche Hackenbusch hates Doris zu Wagenbach, because of the shop@Home thing. Because Wagenbach got Nadeche’s slot after sales of HackenPush-ups fell. It was nobody’s fault, large breasts were simply no longer in such demand, but Nadeche thinks that a Wagenbach plot lay behind it. And because she, Astrid, knew this, she made an extra effort to get something nice from Hallhuber. It wasn’t easy at all. She had to ring the brainless intern on the fashion desk three or four times until she had it wrapped up – and now this angry outburst. She’s not normally like this, but for a moment she thinks she might cry. Then Nadeche says, “It’s just like this fucking car.”
Oh, right.
So she’s not to blame for the bad mood, but the car.
At moments like this it really pays off that Astrid has been up close to Nadeche Hackenbusch throughout her career. She would even go as far as to say that Nadeche is her discovery. Ever since she was given her first show on Kabel Eins or Vox or R.T.L.2: “Balderdeche”, which became a fiasco. Today Astrid knows everything there is to know about Nadeche. In interviews and features she’s documented this wonderful Cinderella story so often, this incomparable rise to stardom, that she feels as if she’s gone through all that muck together with Nadeche, the entire length of that stony path, the difficult years after school, the tiny shared flat in Hamburg, the worries about not being able to pay the rent. For may it never be forgotten: Nadeche Hackenbusch, star and role model to hundreds of thousands of girls and young women, comes from a very modest background. And all this time she, Astrid von Roëll, has been at her side. Even during the rape case, a really vile affair with an extremely difficult burden of proof, as with all rape cases. Once again it was very evident how quickly the victim can become the perpetrator. The poor status a woman has in court and in public. Just because in the middle of the trial it transpired that she had been away filming at the time the crime allegedly took place, which led to many in the media doubting her story.
As if you’re able to check the date in the middle of being raped.
“Judges in Germany are still living in the 1950s,” Astrid von Roëll wrote in a piece at the time. Also: “In a year that has 365 days, the law cannot possibly depend on the coincidence of a correct date.” Her piece elicited many readers’ letters and comments on the website, and a very large number of women offered their thanks.
“What’s wrong with the car?”
Astrid is toying with the idea of winding down a window to let in some African heat, but there’s just too much dust. And she doesn’t want to give the game away, even if her lips have turned blue. How does Nadeche manage it? “I think it might be new. I’m not so sure about the others, but this one . . . it even smells brand new.”
“There’s a spray what makes it like that. They always try to pull a fast one on you. But I was expecting that.”
“So what’s wrong with it?”
“Er, hell-o? The colour?”
“They were like, you’re going to be the new Schreinemakers. So I was like, I want a car with a zebra pattern. Like on ‘Daktari’.”
“It’s a great idea, I thought so the moment I saw it.”
“It’s great when it’s in black and white. But black and pink?”
“I thought it had to be like that because it’s your show and pink is—”
“Would Schreinemakers drive around in a pink zebra car?”
“I—”
“I may be a bimbo, but I’ve got eyes in my head. And I can see what non-bimbos drive around in. Daktari saves animals. He spends the whole day thinking of nothing but animals and people, and that’s why he drives around in a black-and-white zebra car like everyone else in Africa. Meanwhile I’m like, stuck in a pink box, as if the colour is the most important bit.”
These are the moments that really thrill Astrid von Roëll. It’s at moments like this that she’s a true Nadeche Hackenbusch fan. The fact that Nadeche spots those little details which she’d never have spotted herself. At moments like this she feels that a star isn’t a star purely by chance, but because they notice things that pass others by.
“So what are you going to do?”
“They’ve got to change it. And fast. The production manager’s going to have to get hold of a different car, right away.”
“Is that even possible?”
“There’s no such thing as impossible. And I want to see the final cut. I swear, if that Cindy von Marzahn slut is on the screen for even a second the shit’s really going to hit the fan. ProSieben has already been talking to my agent. They’re desperate to have me. But don’t write that.”
Astrid gives a professional nod. This is the kind of stuff Evangeline readers love. Women who are striking-looking and yet not stupid, but assertive. Hard as nails, yet sensitive, as men ought to be more often, whereas in real life only women ever are. A few are, at least. And that’s why she’s perfect for “Angel in Adversity”. Because she gets stuck in, because she’s experienced life from the very bottom, because she’s a role model for the weakest, because she fights for the little people, for women, for children and, at the end of the first series, for that little dog too. Because she sees what it’s like inside the hostel and says straightaway, “There’s no such thing as impossible.”
They should say that in editorial meetings now and then.
She herself can say it in editorial meetings soon, since they’re discussing her promotion to the chief editorial team. At the moment her business card says “Editor at Large”, like in the big U.S. publishing houses, but soon that could be “Chief Editorial Member”, very soon, in fact. Or, even better, “Chief Editorial Member at Large”. It’s high time too: she’s good at leadership, she’s an excellent decision maker. She even styled her corner office herself and everyone thinks it’s great.
And of course it’s no coincidence that Astrid is responsible for Nadeche Hackenbusch. For she and Nadeche are kindred spirits, of sorts. Astrid can be as hard as nails too, and journalists are capable of virtually anything because they see and hear so much. With that kind of experience you can become a Politician at Large, or a Manager at Large. She might not be quite as stunning as Nadeche Hackenbusch, but she’s superb at expressing things in words and that’s why Nadeche respects her. She doesn’t articulate this all the time, but Astrid is aware of it all the same. And that’s why she, exclusively she, is sitting here in the car with the star presenter. After all, Nadeche reads what’s written about her and she remembers who is fair and who is mean, like the people at Gloria, or that spiteful lot from G-Style with their sneaky snaps of celebs without make-up. If you provide a refreshing contrast to that rabble, a good rapport develops naturally. And yet you have to watch out.
For her colleagues are also keen to piggyback on someone like Nadeche Hackenbusch. Every few weeks someone comes to the editorial meeting proposing a Hackenbusch story, most likely a load of rubbish. And Astrid immediately says so: “That can’t be true, Nadeche would have told me.” She says the name as casually as that, “Nadeche”, so everybody knows how close the two of them are and how impossible it would be for a Hackenbusch story to happen without her getting wind of it. The editor-in-chief then tasks her, of course, with checking the story, and she discovers it’s utter garbage. Or at least completely different. Like the one about the second pregnancy which her colleague Grant was desperate to hog for himself: “Nadeche Hackenbusch at nine weeks”. Bullshit.
It was ten weeks.
“Lou” Grant permanently whining, “But she is pregnant, she is pregnant,” because of course he wants to be in the byline. “You can’t just leave me out! That’s not possible!”
“There’s no such thing as impossible.” She’d say it just like that. And let him talk it through with a Chief Editorial Member at Large. “Lou” Grant with information worth the square root of nothing.
The square root of minus nothing!
Astrid’s anger has almost warmed her up, but it’s more that she can no longer feel her frozen toes. She’d love to slip off her shoes and put her feet up on the seat, but she’s had these shoes on for twenty-eight hours now, and who knows . . .
“Look!” Nadeche exclaims. “Greenhouses!”
This is why it’s a good thing they’re not doing a live programme with her. What at first glance look like greenhouses are in fact white tents in the shape of half barrels. U.N.H.C.R. is marked on them clearly, in large blue letters. In fact it’s hard to miss.
“Bingo!” she says. “U.N.I.C.E.F. We should be there soon.”
But soon doesn’t come. Tents stand in endless rows in this nothingness. They never stop, even though the convoy of vehicles is by no means dawdling. You wouldn’t be allowed to drive this fast in a built-up area in Germany and yet the tents refuse to come to an end. They don’t get any wider or taller. In a place like this you expect to find something like a centre, a church, a castle, a bridge over a river. But here there’s nothing. There wasn’t anything here before either, and that’s why everything’s the same, just a dense layer of tents on the dusty, dried-up, scorched land. The view extends across the tent roofs and into the endless distance, a ruffled sea of white canvas with dark figures moving between the waves, hundreds and hundreds of them, with groups of small children breaking away from them, running to accompany the convoy for a while, as schools of dolphins might a ship.
Astrid looks at Nadeche, who is glued to the tinted window in astonishment, transfixed by the immense, overwhelming size of the camp, its limitless expanse making immediately clear that this isn’t just a bigger version of the refugee hostel; it’s something else altogether, a tent city for a population the size of Berlin or Paris. The most dreadful thing, Astrid thinks, is that despite the enormity it’s going to be hard to find seven or eight passable locations for fashion shoots with refugee women. Or even one, for that matter.
Eventually the car comes to a stop. The sliding door opens. Astrid closes her eyes. Her mouth opens as if redeemed and she abandons herself to the wonderfully warm air that floods into the car. She wants to launch herself into it, frozen stiff as she is, she wants to sink into it, into this divine, sunny warmth. Swiftly she packs her bag, ready to get out as soon as Nadeche has left this ice palace on wheels. A hand floats inside the car, a white hand, and from the watch on its wrist Astrid recognises the location production manager trying to help Nadeche out, and Nadeche takes it for granted that there is a hand to grab. She wouldn’t be surprised if someone laid their coat on the dusty ground before her. She stands up lithely, like a polar bear she must be immune to the cold. You come across them sometimes, people with a particular metabolism or whatever, not often but it does happen, like that Icelandic fisherman in the film who survived for hours in the sea. And Nadeche Hackenbusch must be one of those rare, adaptable human beings, Astrid thinks, just as Nadeche vents her complaint:
“Why didn’t you warn me it was going to be such a long drive? Your silly heated seat almost like, melted my arse.”