Leubl is in his usual seat in Café Theresia, waiting for a coffee and a croissant. The seat is concealed by the loaded coat rack, in the spot where waiters used to sneak a quick smoke when it was still allowed in cafés and restaurants. Even now this table isn’t really for guests; the waiting staff still have a coffee here, perhaps a little cognac or a digestive bitters. An exception is always made for the minister of the interior, however, for old times’ sake. When Leubl first ordered a tea in the Theresia, the Beatles were still playing concerts.
Leubl opens the daily paper. He already knows most of the national news, but sometimes he likes to read the local section. Old Rebach’s columns, though they’re getting worse and worse. But when you’re as old as Leubl you’re grateful for anyone who doesn’t consider “the past” to be just the last twenty-five years. He could do with a coffee now. A coffee and a croissant. But it’s slow in coming. The under-secretary will be here in a quarter of an hour, and by then he’d like to have eaten his croissant in peace and brushed all the crumbs off. Leubl doesn’t like people watching him eat, telling him “It looks delicious!” Leubl has learned to come to terms with much in life, but not with people who talk at him while he’s eating.
Not to mention those who want a taste.
Leubl checks the time and feels himself becoming irritated. In the mirror he catches sight of the under-secretary approaching his table. He sits down just as Anna serves the coffee and croissant.
“Punctual to the minute,” Leubl says with a certain degree of regret.
“But I thought . . .”
“It’s fine.” Leubl pushes the croissant to one side.
“Don’t you want it? It looks delicious.”
Leubl takes a deep breath. “I’ll have it as a take-away.” The under-secretary waves subtly and gestures to Anna that he’d like the same order. She confirms this with a nod.
“You were great yesterday,” the under-secretary then says.
“Do you think so?”
“Very convincing.”
“Did you see the viewing figures?”
“No, why?”
“I had them sent to me: 65 per cent higher than normal,” Leubl says.
The under-secretary whistles through his teeth.
“Let’s tot up the Pegida figures too, and I don’t just mean the loonies in Dresden. It’s happening all over Germany. They’re making a comeback. Big time.”
“But like you said, the refugees won’t actually be able to get here.”
“I’m afraid that’s irrelevant.”
“Ever seen Jaws?”
“Spielberg? Yes, but years ago.”
“Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun,” Leubl hums. “Remember the music?”
“I think so. Creepy.”
“Before the viewers see the shark, before they see its fin, they hear the strings: dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun. Softly at first, then increasingly louder as the shark gets closer. Why does the director do this?”
“Because it’s scary,” the under-secretary says.
“Precisely! Because it’s scary when something unstoppable approaches slowly.”
The under-secretary considers this briefly. “One hundred and fifty thousand refugees on prime-time telly every evening.”
“Dun-dun-dun-dun-dun-dun,” Leubl hums, twisting his hand to imitate a shark. The hand twists its way back to Leubl, then slaps the back of his other hand on the table in front of him. “Dead certain. It always works.”
“But how many people think they’re a threat? I mean, the refugees have got plenty of fans too.”
“Those fans are just as much of a problem. The refugees have popstars behind them, and that Internet saleswoman. And the more momentum that’s built up, the greater the number of people who begin to worry.”
“But what I thought was absolutely superb was that thing about the Bosphorus. The Suez Canal,” the under-secretary says.
“But it’s not going to help us.”
“What? All of them coming to a standstill at the Suez Canal? How much more clearly can you say it? It’s obvious. Theirs is a hopeless cause.”
“Yes, but it’ll be another year at least before they even get to the Suez Canal.” And what do you imagine this country is going to look like after a year of watching the shark get closer and closer?”
The under-secretary tries to imagine. He nods and kneads his cheeks. “And it won’t stop there. They’re not stupid, are they?”
“Not at all.” Leubl refills his cup.
Anna arrives with the under-secretary’s order. “Well, then. We need a quick solution,” he says. “But we can’t drive one hundred and fifty thousand people to the Suez Canal just so that they can see what would happen.”
“Thank God, that’s the last thing we’d want,” Leubl insists. “It’s not a good image: one hundred and fifty thousand at the Suez Canal, one hundred and fifty thousand at some mountain pass. Those kinds of pictures would just escalate the situation. We can do without escalation. Escalation requires decisions to be taken. And we’ve nothing to gain from taking decisions. What we need is well-cultivated boredom.”
By now the under-secretary has scoffed his croissant. He dunked it in his coffee and polished it off without dropping a single crumb. There aren’t even any floating in his cup. Leubel wonders whether these homosexuals might not possess special abilities after all.
“Isn’t this going to become the foreign ministry’s business?” the under-secretary suggests. “Surely they can’t just keep walking through all these countries?”
Leubl shrugs. “What do you intend to do? These countries are trying to play for time. They fob us off for as long as it takes the procession to pass through. They’ve no interest in fast solutions.”
“Which means we’re running out of possible solutions.”
Leubl doesn’t respond.
“Or have I missed something?”
Leubl sips his coffee.
“O.K., let’s put it another way: what do we need? We need a fast, boring solution. For example, the refugees all turn around one by one and . . . No, they can’t be that daft. But
. . . they get lost in the desert . . .”
Leubl holds his lower lip between his thumb and index finger and listens.
“. . . they disperse,” the under-secretary adds, still thinking aloud. “O.K., that sounds really boring. They disperse because . . . because nothing’s working anymore.”
“Why not?”
“Back luck. Fate.”
Leubl scowls. “That would be a tragedy.”
“O.K., sure,” the under-secretary ponders. “We don’t want tragedies. Not bad luck, not fate, but—”
“—their own stupidity,” Leubl says.
“Their own stupidity,” the under-secretary repeats thoughtfully. “That’s it! They have only themselves to blame. They botch it. Sounds good.” With the tip of his index finger he picks up a flake of croissant from his plate and pushes it between his lips. “Let’s see . . . they can’t get lost. And most of them can’t do much wrong overall. If something is susceptible, then perhaps it’s the organisation.”
Leubl looks out over the room. More or less incidentally he says, “We’ll just have to see what sort of people that lot have got themselves involved with.”
“Well, they’re criminals . . . businesspeople . . . Mafiosi . . .”
“That’s who they get their food and directions from,” Leubl says from the corner of his mouth. He leans forwards, picks up his cup and empties it. “And water.”
“And water.” The under-secretary allows the thought to take effect. “But that would escalate pretty quickly too. The cameras are a permanent fixture there . . . People dying of thirst in the desert is just as potent an image as a great white shark . . .”
“That depends. My favourite film goes like this: somewhere, in the vague vicinity of a largish settlement, the water runs out.”
“They stay in the settlement, of course, without any water they have to stay there,” the under-secretary keeps the thread going. “One week, two weeks, three—”
“But they don’t get any further,” Leubl says. “So what do the people living there say?”
“The inhabitants become anxious, the government has to do something about it . . .”
Leubl looks at him over the top of his glasses.
“The government has to . . . do something about it,” the under-secretary repeats, and then it clicks. “All of a sudden they have to do something about it.”
Leubl gestures to Anna for the bill.
“. . . and the hitherto smooth passage of people, which has been a profitable enterprise, becomes a problem case they’re left with.”
Anna arrives. Leubl glances at the bill. It’s unbelievable what you can charge for two coffees and two croissants these days. He’ll pay for it, without getting a receipt. He can’t bring himself to foist these prices onto the taxpayer.
“And if that’s the scenario, would they let people like that into the country again?” he asks the under-secretary as he puts the change into his wallet.
“I would see to it that whoever’s responsible for having dumped these people in my country has the smile wiped off their face,” the under-secretary says, getting up. “But first of all I’d seize the money they’ve earned for it. And anything else they’ve got. They won’t do it again.”
“Let’s hope so,” Leubl says, putting on his overcoat. They wait for Anna to bring the take-away croissant to the table in a paper bag. Leubl takes it, now with a certain relish after all. He’ll have it in the office, on the sofa. On his own.