Brother Kemal (13 page)

‘Us,’ I said, helping her out.

‘Yes, us, and the rising birth rate among …’

‘Immigrant families.’

‘Thanks, it’ll go something like that. Sorry, not a subject I know very well, and I can’t find my notes about it at the moment.’

‘Do you remember what it said about Islam overwhelming us with excessive technology?’

‘Well, it was to do with the internet. I think Dr. Breitel is going to say that the internet is the real engine of destruction in our society because – oh, look, here are my notes and they say “it creates lonely, frustrated, dehumanised creatures who can no longer function in a society unable to defend itself.” And lower down: “Do we know how much Arab and Iranian oil money has gone into the World Wide Web? From a region where the majority of the population doesn’t own computers? Is the internet a drug with which the rulers and religious leaders of the East are swamping the Western world to make us a crowd of couch potatoes stuffed with useless knowledge and satiated with pornography? Is the internet perhaps nothing but an intelligent means of warfare? Just as the British weakened China in the nineteenth century from within with opium, then overthrew it by military means?” And so on … We’re looking forward to a controversial evening. Questions from the audience will be allowed at the end; we’re asking for them to be sent to our home page for security reasons. Driss Mararoufi, head chef at the Tunisian Medina restaurant in Sachsenhausen, will provide refreshments.’ Katja Lipschitz paused for a moment and then proclaimed, in rather too loud a voice, as if to drown out any possible doubts: ‘It will certainly be a very interesting evening.’

‘It certainly will. But what did you really want to tell me?’

‘Oh … yes. Well, as I said, we’re asking for questions in advance for security reasons. In fact, it’s not open to the general public, but we didn’t want to make that obvious. People are more likely to buy books at occasions where they couldn’t get tickets than at those they weren’t expected to
attend. The risk of letting in all and sundry was just too great. The mayor of Frankfurt is coming, maybe even the Hessian minister of the interior … well, anyway, in that connection I wanted to ask you to wear … well, suitable clothing.’

‘How do you mean? A turban?’

‘No, of course not.’ She gave a brief, nervous laugh. ‘If you have a suit, or at least a smart jacket … it will be a very exclusive evening, and in your own interest … I assume you wouldn’t like to be the only one in jeans and a corduroy jacket.’

‘Thanks for the helpful hint. Is a blue pin-striped suit okay?’ I thought of Slibulsky, who had once called blue pin-striped suits the monastic garb of all disreputable folk such as Turks. But obviously Katja Lipschitz wasn’t familiar with this association.

‘Wonderful,’ she said, pleased. Then her tone of voice suddenly became slightly troubled. ‘And I’d like to point out one more thing that can – well, can be surprising for people who don’t know him or the book trade. Er … Dr. Breitel likes to wear short trousers, even in the evening and anywhere, I mean …’

‘He does? Even in winter?’

‘With knee-high socks.’

‘Well, what a good thing you persuaded me not to wear my cord jacket. That would have been a real faux pas!’

‘Er, yes.’

‘Would you like me to wear short trousers as well?’

‘For heaven’s sake, no – that’s Dr. Breitel’s privilege, so to speak. His own signature style, if you see what I mean.’

‘I do. May one pay him compliments? On the fabric, the cut of the trousers, maybe on his legs?’

‘No, no, please don’t. Just try not to notice.’

‘Okay.’

‘Dr. Breitel is …’ I liked the way she obviously had to overcome her embarrassment ‘… very important. If you want
to sell books, I mean.’

‘I do indeed see what you mean, Frau Lipschitz. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to attract attention.’

‘Thank you very much, Herr Kayankaya. Sometimes it isn’t entirely easy …’ She was searching for words.

‘Exactly,’ I said.

‘Yes. Well, yes. Anyway, I’ll send you the schedule for those three days with the signed contract, and a pass to the Book Fair.’

‘And the threatening letters.’

‘Oh, yes, the threatening letters. Of course.’

‘I’ll see you on Friday next week, then.’

‘Friday next week, Herr Kayankaya, thanks.’

The advance payment came into my account at the end of the week, and by post I received the signed contract, Rashid’s schedule for his visit to Frankfurt, and a pass to the Book Fair. No threatening letters. Those were either a pure invention or a ridiculous insult, but in any case nothing that Katja Lipschitz could show me or wanted to show me. And fundamentally it made no difference. Rashid was getting a bodyguard for promotional purposes. A Gregory job. As long as Maier Verlag was paying.

On the Monday I visited the Harmonia Hotel. A typical middle-class dump with worn fitted carpets; cheap and brightly coloured sofas; little halogen lamps; a bar with beer, spirits and cheese crackers; and a collection of signed postcards on the wall from B-list celebrities who had once stayed at the Harmonia. I bought a bad espresso and got the waiter to show me the back door and the emergency exits. ‘Because of my father. He might be staying a couple of days here next month, and he’s terrified of fire.’

On Tuesday I made my official statement on the Abakay case to the police.

On Wednesday I had a call at the office from a man called
Methat who said he was Sheikh Hakim’s secretary. He began by speaking Turkish, until he gave me a moment to explain that I’d never learnt the language. After an incredulous pause, a Turkish curse – at least, it sounded Turkish – and a few contemptuous lip-smacking sounds, he finally went on in German with a strong Hessian accent, and I had to ask three times before I got his drift, which was that His Magnificence wanted to see me.

‘Who wants to see me?’

‘Is Nificence.’

‘Munificence?’

‘No, no! Nificence!’

‘Sorry, try again.’

‘Is Nificence! Like nificent view!’

‘Ah, I get it. His Magnificence.’

‘Don’t pretend you …!’

‘Er … who is His Magnificence?’

‘I ave said I am secretary of Sheisch Hakim!’

‘Okay. Then please tell Sheisch Hakim that if he wants to see me he’d better make an appointment by phone or email. He’ll find my address in the Yellow Pages. I’m travelling a lot just now and I’m only occasionally in my office.’

‘You must be crazshy!’

He was getting on my nerves. ‘I assure you I’m not,’ I said, in as heavy a Hessian dialect as I could manage. ‘But I’m bizshy! So tell him to make an appointment, saying what it’s about. As I said, I’m busy at the moment and I have to hang up.’

I cut the connection before he could call me any more names.

So it was only one day before Sheikh Hakim heard of my statement to the police. I decided that when I got the chance I would tell Octavian that not only did he ‘know a great many people who prefer to save their own skin over the punishment of a criminal’, he also had at least one officer at
police HQ who preferred a small fortune in cash, a bag of heroin, a free visit to a brothel or some other inducement within Hakim’s or Abakay’s reach to the punishment of the said criminals. I firmly believed that Octavian did not know who it was, or who they were, but someone was keeping Sheikh Hakim up to date. I didn’t believe quite so firmly that he would do anything to unmask the person or persons concerned. It probably depended on what height he or they had reached in the pyramid of police power. When Octavian took me to the door after I’d made my statement the day before, his quiet words of farewell had been, ‘You’re doing this at your own risk, I hope you realise that. When all this is over, we can see each other again, but until then I guess we’d better not. My promotion will be decided in the next few weeks.’

‘I tell you what, Octavian, maybe we’d better not see each other again, full stop.’

‘Oh, don’t come over like that! I’d get another thousand a month, and I have family to support in Romania.’

‘Don’t we all?’ I said.

‘You don’t,’ he said coolly.

‘I’ve seen the girls in Abakay’s catalogue. They’re my Romanian family.’

‘Don’t turn sentimental.’

‘Is it sentimental to feel ill when I think of thirteen-year-olds on sale for fucking? Is it sentimental to want to nail the man who’s offering them? You’ve been in the Vice Squad too long, Octavian, it’s bad for your morals.’ And with that we left each other without further goodbyes and went our separate ways.

On Thursday Valerie de Chavannes tried to reach me on my mobile. I was sitting in the wine bar with Deborah, eating tripe sausage, drinking red wine and reading the sports pages, and the first time the phone rang I ignored the call, the second time too. Then she sent a text message:
Please call back as soon as you can! Urgent! Danger!
I finished my sausage,
emptied my glass, went into the little courtyard behind the wine bar and called back.

Valerie de Chavannes answered at once.

‘Herr Kayankaya! At last!’ Her voice was shaking, and sounded nasal, as if she’d been shedding tears. Now and then I heard her breathing heavily again as she struggled for air.

‘What’s the matter, Frau de Chavannes?’

‘A man called Methat rang just now! Had I set a private detective on Abakay?’

‘And what did you say?’

‘What you told me to say – I said I didn’t know what he was talking about.’

‘Did he believe you?’

‘No idea. He threatened me!’ She struggled for air. ‘He said if I’d hired you then I must get you to withdraw your evidence against Abakay as quickly as possible or my daughter’s life would be in danger!’

Maybe it was because I imagined that sentence coming from Methat in his heavy Hessian dialect – life in danscher – but anyway, I didn’t take the threat as seriously as I probably should have done when talking to Valerie de Chavannes. I said, ‘Oh yes?’

‘What do you mean, oh yes? I told you Abakay would still be dangerous even in prison!’

‘Well, then you must decide: either you want him in prison or you don’t.’

‘You know exactly where I want him!’

She spoke from the heart, furious, resentful, implying: I told you that you ought to kill him!

‘Take it slowly. We’re talking on the phone, there could be someone listening in. And after all, I’m a witness in a murder case – so don’t say anything that might be misunderstood. Of course
I
know that you want to see him
in prison …
’

A pause, more heavy breathing.

I didn’t really think that the police were listening in on me
or Valerie de Chavannes, but the thought of a bugged phone –
you know exactly where I want him! –
made me feel queasy for a moment.

After a while, regaining some measure of control over herself, she said, ‘And now what? What do we do?’

‘Well, Frau de Chavannes,
we
don’t do anything. Remember? You hired me to bring your daughter home.’

‘Oh, and now you’re wriggling out of it like a coward!’

‘You’re welcome to ask me to take on another job for you – protecting your daughter, or you, or both of you. But I’m convinced that the best and also the cheapest thing I can do for you at the moment is not to show myself near you.’

‘That’s what you said last time!’

‘Because it was true last time. I suggest the following. You tell Marieke’s school that she’ll be absent, sick, for another week, and you stay at home with her. If Methat rings again, or the police, or anyone else, don’t let them persuade you to do anything. No one but you and I know about our connection. Even Marieke knows only a police officer called Magelli. If someone rings the doorbell, don’t open the door, and if that someone doesn’t go away, then call me. If you’re still being pestered in a week’s time, I’ll deal with it.’

Once again she drew a huge breath, as if a sack of plaster lay on her chest, before she cautiously asked, ‘Is that a promise?’

‘It is.’

‘Please, Herr Kayankaya … I really am so frightened, and I’m all on my own …’

‘I said I’ll deal with it. But you have to hold out for that week. I’m sure that at the moment Abakay’s people are just poking about at random. Presumably Abakay has drawn up a list of people to whom he’s done wrong in some way or another, and who he correctly assumes could have hired a private detective to kick his legs from under him. You were probably just one name among many. So again: deny ever
having heard of me and I bet that in a couple of days’ time they’ll leave you alone.’

She sighed. ‘My God, Herr Kayankaya, what a mess I’ve got myself into.’ And after a pause, ‘I’m sorry, I’m being a nuisance to you, aren’t I?’

‘Oh, never mind that.’

She stopped for a moment and then laughed quietly, in a familiar way, as if we were friends of many years’ standing and she was glad that I was still the same old roughneck I used to be.

‘May I ask you something?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you think …’ She hesitated. Or she pretended to be hesitating. Or both. Probably Valerie de Chavannes herself no longer knew what she did unintentionally and what was calculation or a trick. Anyway, her hesitation gave the question the clarity of which she then tried to deprive it – or made out she was trying to deprive it – by adopting a tone as objective as possible and slightly pert, adding a barely perceptible pinch of girlish flirtatiousness. ‘Do you think we’d ever have met without all this?’

This time I was the one to hesitate.

‘Before I answer that question, may I just tell you the name of the friend who will collect my fee from you in the next few days? He’s Ernst Slibulsky. You can open the door to him, please.’

‘Ernst Slibulsky, okay.’

‘Maybe we have in fact met before,’ I went on, pausing again and thinking that I sensed her holding her breath at the other end of the line. It was a shot in the dark, but since our first meeting I couldn’t shake off that thought. Not that I thought we had really got to know each other, but maybe we had been around in the same place at the same time.

‘You left home when you were sixteen, and there aren’t many places in Frankfurt where a young girl who’s run away
like that can get by somehow or other. How old are you now?’