It was a filthy day. Black clouds had swept down from northern Germany and plastered the Hessen region. Giessen under a cloud is a very flat place.
The elderly man patted his brown mac dry as the taxi from Marburg disappeared round a corner in a yellow streak of drizzle. The younger, taller man shook his suit trousers and wiped the mud from his conservative black shoes. He smiled at the older man. The glint in his eye suggested things could be worse. The old man’s blue eyes shone back. The young man gathered up a small suitcase. It clanked as he raised it; the old man frowned.
‘I know. I shall wrap it up again as soon as I can.’
‘It’s never good to rush.’
‘It’s never good to have to rush.’
The old man looked sad for a moment.
They turned into a wide, wet boulevard. On the left was a grey sports centre with an outdoor basketball park, pocked with puddles. To the right, lines of flat, uniform barracks: a NATO army base. The men hurried across the boulevard. Rain splashed over their green canvas fishing hats.
At the corner, opposite the base entrance to the base, a policeman sat in his green-and-white BMW, reporting in to his station. Through a side mirror, he observed two foreigners approaching.
The old man’s long, unkempt beard reminded him of a picture he’d seen of Bhagwan Shree Rajneesh, the late sharp-eyed guru with the limousine collection. The Bhagwan had been banned from entering Germany lest he influence youthful minds with his orange robes and cultish philosophy, so the policeman never knew whether the guru was a good thing or a bad thing. But he knew he was foreign.
He rubbed his forefinger and thumb, eyeing the men as they approached. No, the man was not Indian. Perhaps Italian… Spanish? Maybe an Arab.
The younger man discreetly tapped his elder’s arm, alerting him to the police car. Seizing the moment, he hurried to the car and rapped on the window. People did not normally approach German policemen for directions.
He cleared the raindrops from his little moustache and in flawless German asked the policeman the way to the hospital, explaining he was a specialist and that his brother worked at Giessen’s Krankenhaus.
‘Looking for a job?’
‘There is a great need for specialists.’
‘Who’s your friend?’
‘My father. Visiting from Turkey.’
Ah! That was it! The man at the window was a Gastarbeiter, an immigrant worker, from Turkey. The policeman was not used to seeing Turks in suits, but now Turkey was negotiating to join the EU, he knew he’d have to get used to it. In the back of his mind was a recent pep talk on how policemen should deal with Turks experiencing racist abuse.
‘I would take you to the hospital, Herr Doktor, but my orders are to stay here. Security.’
‘I understand, Officer.’
‘You’re very close to the hospital. Turn left down Lessingstrasse at the end of the boulevard, then left again into Am Dünkelsloh. Hospital’s behind the sports hall.’
‘Thank you, Officer. Good day.’
‘Good day, Herr Doctor.’
The policeman watched the two men walk stoically on through the downpour. He squinted, wriggled his nose, and thought for a few seconds. ‘Hey, you! Hold it!’
Seizing his companion’s thin arm, the young man turned. ‘Sir?’
‘Come back here!’
The man splashed his way back through the puddles as the policeman got out of the car and opened the rear door. The young man caught sight of the pistol by the policeman’s side, then stared into the hollow of the back seat as if it were the mouth of hell. The policeman bent inside, his back vulnerable. The young man looked to his friend. The old man shook his head.
The policeman lifted an umbrella off the floor and handed it over with a smile. ‘My wife’s spare. She won’t miss it.’
Grappling with the tartan umbrella, the men hurried on, soon lost in the greyness.