It’s completely unreasonable.
Astrid von Roëll has to admit it looks sensational. But still, it’s completely unreasonable.
Video now too!
As if she were some kind of news manufacturer. Astrid is already writing this stupid blog until her fingers bleed. At least they feel like they’re bleeding, and that’s pretty much the same thing. One hundred lines a day, they said, and even that was madness. Ten weeks ago she had a week to produce one hundred lines, and what lines they were, bloody hell, it was verging on high literature. Her old head of copy would say, “Astrid, darling, I never have to make changes to your copy anymore. If everyone was like you I’d be able retire right now.”
Now she’s churning it out like the women in the factories in the Second World War. It’s no surprise they fought to get the vote and Mothers’ Day. And one hundred lines – what a joke! Of course it didn’t stop at one hundred either: there had to be captions for the photos too, a line or two each. So that’s about a hundred and twenty. Sometimes Astrid feels she’s close to burnout. She needs to pace herself, so she doesn’t even bother reading through the dross she regurgitates for the Internet. She bangs it out, then she’s done with the shit. These people on their mobiles on the underground or the train or on the motorway don’t read it properly anyway, so why should she bother writing it properly? She only makes a real effort for the print edition. It still has to be literary grade, and even though all this stress makes it hard for her, Astrid does have her pride. But she’s beginning to wonder how on earth she’s going to get on top of all the work. And for the last fortnight they’ve been demanding videos too.
“What more do you want from me?”
“This is just an experiment,” the deputy blockhead said.
“What do you mean, ‘experiment’?”
“We’ve got an advantage here, a priceless advantage, largely thanks to you. Gala magazine, Bunte, they’re doing all they can to play catch-up—”
“Just let them try! Who they are going to get to do it? Seelow?”
“Yes, I know, they lack the quality, but they’ll try to make up for that with volume. More photos, more copy—”
“And you’re asking me to compete with that on my own?”
“Come on, a short video clip, it’s not so much—”
“But I haven’t a clue how to do it!”
This just slipped out. It’s something women should never do – claim to be a dummy when it comes to technology. After all, there’s nothing women can’t do just as well as men. But it was the truth. And so immediately they sent Kay to help her out.
And Kay really is quite good. At what she does, in her own way. It’s not journalism, of course, but still. Kay has had herself strapped to the roof of the S.U.V. – now that’s pretty courageous. She’s sitting on the roof in cargo pants and a sand-coloured military blouse, over that a sleeveless jacket like those ones men usually wear, with plenty of little pockets for tools and accessories. She holds the camera even when they’re moving at top speed and zooms in on the pink zebra pick-up hurtling through the dusty desert beside them. Astrid can follow the footage on a monitor – that, at least, was a concession she wrested from the deputy blockhead.
Kay has Nadeche Hackenbusch in full focus. Nadeche is standing in the cargo area at the back of the pick-up, holding on tight to the driver’s cab. Her long hair is fluttering in the wind and she’s wearing a checked shirt tied in a knot at the waist. Nadeche flies past the endless stream of refugees, some of whom wave at her, and she waves back with a broad smile.
“Go!” she shouts, clenching her astonishingly strong-looking fist. “Go, go!”
Her eyes are hidden behind an unbelievably cool pair of desert sunglasses, while her face, neck and bare arms are a deep brown. Nadeche looks so confident, so infectiously full of enthusiasm, as if the German border were already in sight. To glimpse her, you couldn’t imagine that this march might end badly. Astrid hears Kay knock once on the roof; the S.U.V. accelerates and overtakes the pick-up. Now Kay is filming Nadeche from the front. The screen shows Nadeche in the wind, behind her a cloud of dust rises, a picture of freedom and courage. Joan of Arc can’t have looked any more captivating. Priceless, Astrid thinks, simply priceless. What a shame millions of people will only see this on their smartphones. This kind of thing’s made for the big screen.
Now Nadeche has spotted something. She hammers on the driver’s cab with a small clenched fist. Crazy. And not at all ladylike. Nadeche bends forwards, steadying herself on the wing mirror. Kay is filming all this. Nadeche yells something to the driver and it looks fantastic, like a captain in a storm with the water slapping his face, wind roaring, but it doesn’t bother him and he shouts to his helmsman . . . well, whatever they’d shout to each other in storms, because they’re real men. And this is exactly how Nadeche Hackenbusch looks just now. Then she straightens up, the pick-up slows down, veers off towards the convoy of refugees, and Kay captures the entire manoeuvre on film: Nadeche Hackenbusch to the rescue. The pick-up races at top speed towards the shoal of refugees like a helpful shark.
She stops beside a family, a couple with three children. Their large plastic bottle has a leak. Nadeche leaps from the cargo area, a construction worker, firefighter and top model all in one. She casually pushes her sunglasses onto her forehead, her warm-hearted eyes shine from her dust-covered face. She grabs two plastic water bottles from the cargo area and hands them to the family. This is where you notice the difference: a guy would have tossed the bottles at them while driving past.
“That reaches for today,” she says in her English. “Go, go!” She is about to climb back onto the pick-up when her mobile rings. She glances at the screen and gestures to Kay to press pause. Turning slightly to the side, she says, “Yes? . . . I can hear you fine . . . But I’m quite close to the T.V. car, so that may change if we drive off. How far away are you?”
When Astrid gets out the heat hits her like a hammer, but anything’s better than sitting inside. She circles the car to find some shade.
“Yes,” Nadeche says, “Yes. Aha. Yes, yes. Yes, yes, yes, you’re doing that already. But the question is: what’s the thing called!”
Kay clambers down from the roof and comes round to where Astrid is standing. She sits on the ground, but leaps up because the sand is so hot. She fetches a small mat from the car and sits on that instead. She taps Astrid’s leg, but Astrid wants to stay on her feet.
“Listen, don’t get angry with me, but like, what kind of a shit name is that?”
Astrid peers over the roof at Nadeche, Nadeche looks at her and rolls her eyes. Astrid makes a “what to do?” gesture. She doesn’t know what it’s about, but it’s clear Nadeche needs her support.
“You might be able to use it for a cancer story, but just listen: The Hackenbusch Foundation. It sounds like it’s for ill people.”
Nadeche grasps her head and looks at Astrid.
“I know it’s all about suffering and that, but it shouldn’t sound ill and miserable. The people here might be poor, but they’re not sick. Or at least not so sick that it’s contagious. You can absolutely touch them, it’s not like cancer at all.”
Now Nadeche makes an “I’m right, aren’t I?” face, and Astrid’s expression suggests she is right, but she makes a mental note to google it later.
“No, it can sound serious without sounding shit. End of discussion. What else have you got? Children for the Future. Hmm. Hang on. Children for the Future?”
Astrid is unsure. Should she say something or not? Children for the Future doesn’t sound wrong, but who knows if she . . .
“Oh, right. Interesting. But now you see the mistake straightaway. You always have to say who’s behind it. I wouldn’t have known that about Steffi Graf either if you hadn’t told me . . . You see?”
It’s crazy, all the things you have to take into consideration, Astrid thinks. She probably allowed herself to be fobbed off far too quickly when it came to the video thing. Yes, it’s great that her name will be in the credits. But she could have got more out of it.
“Yes, yes, I know, Menschen für Menschen, but that’s logical. That Böhm guy, if I were in his shoes I wouldn’t give a toss. Nobody knows who he is these days. I mean, when did he last make a film, anyway?”
Astrid rapidly waves her fingers back and forth across her throat – she knows the Sissi films very well – but Nadeche puts her hand over the phone and hisses. “Are you mad, Assi? This is like, important. It’s gonna take time.”
Astrid tries other hand gestures to calm her down, but Nadeche has turned away in disgust. It’s hard to tell who’s pissing her off most at the moment.
Kay takes two bottles of water and hands one to Astrid. She guzzles half of hers and pours the rest over her head. Astrid is just about to take a sip when she hears the frantic snapping of fingers.
“Ah, that sounds quite different. Do you know what that reminds me of? It sounds like the Bill Gates thing.”
Nadeche holds out her free hand and frantically grabs at nothing. Astrid hastily passes her the bottle of water.
“Thanks. No. Why Hackenbusch Foundation? That could be anybody . . . Anybody called Hackenbusch . . . Nadeche Hackenbusch Foundation. Write it down! Got it? Now, what else? . . . Wait, did you think that was it? It needs something else!”
She holds her hand over the phone again. “Now I’m going to get the less-is-more spiel again,” she says with a smile. Astrid smiles back.
“Well of course there’s something missing. I don’t want to have to stand there next time I’m in New York with everyone saying, ‘Aha, interesting, Nadeche Hackenbusch Foundation,’ but in fact everyone’s totally like, ‘A Foundation, but what’s it for?’ Do I really have to think of everything myself?”
Nadeche takes a sip, then drips some water over her wrists and into the crooks of her arms.
“And don’t give me that ‘Menschen’ stuff again, it sounds too much like ‘Problem Child’ – all 1960s lentils and kaftans, ugh! No, we need that thing, what’s it called? . . . Astrid, what’s that thing called when everyone chips in?”
“Crowdfunding?” Astrid guesses.
“That’s it, krautfunding. But we’ve got to make it clear that it’s not any old kraut funding it, but me . . . People? Dunno. Nadeche Hackenbusch Foundation for People . . . sounds O.K., but something’s not quite right. Shouldn’t it be ‘for the people’? . . . What do you mean, North Korea?”
This time Astrid holds her tongue. Nadeche takes a large slug of water then nonchalantly hands the bottle to Astrid so she can put the top back on.
“Humanity? No, not that. Why do you lot always have to go one step too far, always another thing and then something else until it sounds really shit? Humanity is too much. I mean, who do you think I am? Yes, I’m Nadeche Hackenbusch, but the whole of humanity? . . . I can only help individuals
. . . Yes, humans. Well, sometimes a few more, but the whole of humanity is five billion people! No, we’re going to stick with the Nadeche Hackenbusch Foundation for the Humans. That’s what’s going out – end of. Tell Madeleine to get going with it this afternoon. Strahlemann & Bullwinkel can design another pretty logo, by tomorrow, and then it’ll be up and running. We haven’t got for ever. And I want offices in Berlin, Hamburg and Düsseldorf. No skimping, either. You have to spend money if you want it to come in. Over and out!”
She slips the mobile into the back pocket of her trousers and smiles broadly. Astrid raises her eyebrows.
“I’ve decided to set up this foundation after all. For donations. So people see that it’s serious and that. We’ll have them like, howling at their telly screens! You heard our conversation. Now we’ve got the name at least – and it’s great, isn’t it? What about you? Have you got your footage? Because now I’ve got to go and save a few people!”
Nadeche climbs back onto the pick-up with astonishing agility. She pulls down her dusty shades, bends round to the driver, raps twice on the metal and says, “Let’s roll.”