Magic Hoffmann (17 page)

 

The nursery was on the first floor.

Fred looked up from the little sleeping head in the cot and nodded. ‘OK, sweet. And now to my money.'

Nickel shook his head, smiling. ‘Just wait till you've got one yourself. Now all you can see is a baby, but then...!'

He ushered Fred out of the nursery and took him next door, into a room with a desk and bookcases. He bent down and removed a small metal box from behind a pile of newspapers.

‘Now,' he said, as he put it on the table and rubbed his hands, ‘the treasure has been raised.'

Fred had a sinking feeling at the sight of the box.

‘You should know,' Nickel explained, ‘that in the first couple of years detectives from the bank kept appearing at my place and Annette's, looking for the money. They are probably surveying us to this day, and it wouldn't surprise me if someone had been following you since your release.'

Fred responded to Nickel's enquiring look with a shrug of his shoulders. He had been stuck in there for four years, and his instinct had long since told him that this had made him the rightful owner of the money. The idea that the bank might take a different view was almost a new one on him.

‘Well, maybe they've written it off in the mean time. Either way, I've taken all possible precautions. Not one pfennig of the money has surfaced. For example, Lycka's father paid for the house.' He lowered his voice. ‘That's why he keeps having free holidays in Sweden - you get it?'

Fred didn't answer. Where was his share?

‘But you don't need to worry about that. The most important thing is,' Nickel beamed as he knocked on the metal box, ‘in here is a monthly income of two thousand five hundred marks for the rest of your days, with no tax or other deductions, money from Luxembourg, ready to blow.'

Fred stared at the box, then he raised his eyes and stared at Nickel. Slowly, he put his hands in his trouser pockets and felt for his cigarettes.

‘What does this mean?'

‘What does it mean? It means you'll never have to worry about money again.' Nickel made haste to open the box and withdraw various papers.

‘Here... all at top rates of interest. If you don't touch the capital, you'll be able to cash it in one thousand years from now.'

‘A thousand years...'

‘Just a figure of speech. Of course it would be even better if you could leave the interest in the account. Then you'll be a rich man soon.'

Fred lit a cigarette and took a couple of puffs in silence. After a while he said, without looking at Nickel: ‘I want it in cash.'

‘Pardon?'

‘Cash: notes, readies! And I want it soon. Close these accounts and get it for me.'

‘But Fred!' Nickel's mouth was wide open. ‘That... that can't be done, and anyway... are you mad? What would you do with all that money?'

‘Travel to Canada.'

‘But you can. You simply have it sent over to you monthly. It's even better, you don't run the risk of the German tax authorities getting on your case one day.'

Fred shook his head. ‘I want cash. That was the deal, and that's what we'll do.'

Nickel stared at him in amazement. Then he looked ahead at the desk, gathered the papers up slowly and put them back in the box. His expression changed to one of cold concern. ‘Well,' he sighed, ‘I can't do it. My money is bound up with yours, and I have no desire to go broke just because you want to chuck yours out of the window. That is a carefully calculated investment system, and you can't simply break off in the middle.'

Fred raised his eyebrows. ‘So...?'

And suddenly he had to laugh. It all seemed so pitiful to him. He reflected briefly that he was wanted by the police, though he didn't think that Nickel would know, and he said: ‘We'll have to see. As far as I know the statute of limitations doesn't yet apply. If you don't free up the money within a week, I'm turning you in.'

‘What...?' Nickel paused, his hands on the box. Then he attempted to laugh. ‘You can't be serious!'

‘And until I have the money, you can give me your credit cards. The faster you move, the less you'll find missing from your account afterwards.'

‘But Fred. This is crazy! That way you'll ... you'll destroy my life. If I close the accounts I won't be able to pay off the house, and I'll have to stop my studies, and Lycka and Johann and... Please Fred, don't do this.'

Fred went to the window, opened it and flicked out the cigarette. Then he zipped up his hooded jacket and turned round. ‘I mean it Nickel. A few years in the joint would certainly upset your life a little more.'

‘You don't know what you're saying.'

‘I've never known better.' Fred went back to the desk. ‘Your credit cards and the PIN number.'

‘Hold it a minute, Fred. We can discuss the whole thing!'

‘No. And certainly not that. There's a policeman near the hotel at the front, who can be here in five minutes. Four years, Nickel. It's a long time. Your son will be going to school, and Lulla... well, maybe she'll stand by you.'

Nickel's eyelids began to twitch, and his chin projected forward. He was on the point of losing control. His fingers clenched the sharp edges of the metal box.

Fred, who had gained a feeling for such moments in prison, took a step back. ‘Calm down, Nickel. My heart bleeds. Everything other than giving me my money, as agreed, is going to bring you to a place where people fuck you and shit on you by turns. In your case, more shit. You can't even play table football. Nothing that counts in there. Nothing to gain you that little bit of respect, so you're left in peace. Or do you think they're big into telling the plots of books? Do you know what saved me? That I was totally indifferent to the joint, the people in it, the four years, everything. Because I knew why I was doing it, and that in the end I would get what I wanted. So I was wrong, but that's how I survived the four years. And you? All you'll think about is everything you're losing, and in six months at the latest you'll be finished.' Fred reached out his hand. ‘Give me the card.' Silent and without looking at Fred, Nickel took out his wallet and dropped the credit card on the table. Fred pocketed it and asked for the PIN number. Nickel mumbled the four digits, Fred noted them down on a piece of paper.

‘I'm living in the Hotel Luck. Call me when you have the money.'

He went to the door. ‘Oh yes...' he turned around, his hand on the door handle, ‘I'd like it in a black leather suitcase. You know: the three of us just off the plane in Canada, each with a suitcase in their hand. And in my view, something has to happen as we had planned it.'

Fred came down the stairs into the living room, waved at the two women in passing, and left the house.

 

Fred's footsteps crunched through the gravel. Most house lights had been switched off, and the TV heroes were silent. Steel buildings glowed in the distance.

Fred reached Teerstrasse and stopped at the Hotel Tradition. He needed a schnapps. The lunacy lay in the detail. Nickel's ‘welcome dinner,' the metal box, the crumpled, shabby investment documents. The fact that Nickel had offered him an unskilled worker's wages was no longer the deciding factor, in retrospect.

How had Annette put it? ‘He would have preferred for us to have moved into the student hostel. And once a week some vile ratatouille with his fellow students…' In Dieburg, when Nickel repeatedly cooked ratatouille with meatballs for them and insisted that this was the essence of the southern peasant lifestyle, even though neither Annette nor he could stomach the chewy cubes of aubergine, it was charming proof of Nickel's steadfastness and loyalty to things he believed in. Five years later he was still cooking aubergines, this time with rice. But now it was just cheap, practical, uncomplicated and shabby. From belief in yourself to a home of your own.

Fred felt no qualms at the thought of squealing on Nickel. He almost thought it would serve him right. Either way, things had become clear: Annette and Nickel had finally taken their leave, and Fred knew again who he could count on: himself. It was no fun at the moment, but maybe after a couple of schnapps. And there was still Moni...

After he had briefly assured himself that the police car had gone, he stepped into the glass entrance, that was lit up in pink like the rest of the establishment and resembled raspberry syrup. Fred went through a noisy sliding door into a world of bright plastic: chairs, tables, lamps, the reception, the floor, the flowers.

Against this garish hotchpotch, the porter behind the counter looked like a sack of cabbages. Grey and lifeless, he stared at a small TV screen. He was in his late forties, wore an ill-fitting brown suit, and endless sausages and beer had left thick bulges beneath his eyes. The television emitted a bored drone.

‘It's all vacant,' he said, turning down the volume and trying to smooth his few hairs into place.

‘Thank you, but I don't want a room. Do you have a bar or something?'

‘At this time? It's almost eleven.'

Fred was taken aback. ‘Does that mean you don't have anything to drink after eleven?

‘Could it mean anything else?'

‘Then give me one of those minibar bottles. I need it. I've eaten too much.'

Fred placed his last twenty marks on the counter.

The porter looked at the green note. ‘Well. It's not strictly permitted. But I happen to have a half bottle of coffee liqueur... If I were to make you a present of it, and you made me a present of that... Then we wouldn't be making a sale after ten at night.'

‘Couldn't you give me another present?'

‘You probably want one of those American mixtures - I'm sorry.'

Fred took the bottle and asked after a cigarette machine.

‘We don't have one. Not worth it. They all buy at the Vietnamese place.'

‘Where can I find it?'

‘What?'

‘The Vietnamese.'

‘Don't get funny.'

Fred frowned.

‘Have a good evening then.'

He wanted to make off, when he saw in the Coca Cola mirror behind the counter two green uniforms approaching the sliding door. Then the door opened and two policemen entered the hotel lobby. Two short rotund ones, who carried a smell of stale fat with them.

‘Evening,' one of them said wearily and tipped his cap, ‘all OK here?'

The porter nodded in surprisingly lively fashion. ‘All fine, chief!' while his eyes swiftly took in the bottle in Fred's hand. ‘This young man just asked me the way.'

‘Is that right?' The policeman cast a bored look across the lobby, then he tipped his cap again and mumbled: ‘Right then.' His colleague suppressed a yawn.

They were already on their way to the door, when one of them suddenly stopped, turned and asked Fred: ‘Where do you want to go?'

‘Me? To the tube station.'

‘Aha. Is there a problem with your eyes?'

‘With my eyes? No. I mean not that I know of.'

Fred's hand began to sweat on the bottle.

‘Maybe there is. You should get them tested. The tube sign is just outside. Even a blind man couldn't miss it.'

‘I probably came from the wrong side.'

‘You mean with your back to the sign? Then you would have come from the direction of the tube.' The policeman was scratching his head under his cap. ‘Doesn't seem logical to me.'

His colleague suppressed a yawn again. ‘If you ask me, the young man seems to be a bit of a mess.'

‘Hm-hm.' Number one nodded and turned to Fred again. ‘No offence, but this is a small suburb, and we take a different view of things here. We simply aren't used to total strangers, who ask the way in the middle of the night.' He cleared his throat. ‘If I might see your papers please? Only routine...'

Blood roared in Fred's ears. His thoughts were scrambled. He took a step towards them and noticed that his legs were trembling. Forcing himself to be calm, he took his identity card from his pocket. Policeman one grabbed it, then took an interest in the hand that was holding the bottle.

‘You're sweating. If you continue to hold it so hard, it's going to slip out of your hand.'

He passed the identity card on, and number two spoke Fred's name and dates into a walkie-talkie. While they were waiting for a response, they watched Fred calmly.

‘Are you famous by any chance? I know your face from somewhere. Don't take offence, but your eyes are somewhat unusual.'

Before Fred could respond, the answer came from the walkie-talkie: previous conviction for armed robbery, released a week ago, etc, etc.

Policeman one managed to say ‘Now I know why your eyes are familiar' before Fred leapt past them with a side-step and jumped feet first into the sliding door, that was opening rather slowly. Glass shattered, and Fred fell and slid across the tiled floor until he could scramble to his feet and run.

The policemen made no effort to follow him, on the contrary. They looked at each other and shrugged.

‘Tell them the guy who caused the incident in the Café Budapest is called Fred Hoffmann, that we've got his identity card, and that he's probably trying to get back into town by tube. They should send a few people to Alexanderplatz station. Then let's get home at last.'

Fred cowered behind a rubbish bin at the end of the platform. It was deserted, the only light coming from the guard's hut. Sometimes a shadow would pass on the grey curtains.

Fred didn't get it. He had become dizzy just from shaking his head. It wasn't simply bad luck any more, it bordered on conspiracy. It would have to be this evening, this abandoned hotel. Now things looked really grim: one and a half years for parole violation. No more Moni, no more Canada, and maybe even no chance to spend his money. In a year and a half the statute of limitations would apply and Nickel wouldn't give a damn about his demands.

Fred shook his head again. Just don't go crazy. He still had Nickel's credit card, and no one wanted to see his pass in the Hotel Luck. Of course he'd signed the register Fred Hoffmann, but there must be many Fred Hoffmanns. Would the police search every Berlin hotel for him? Hard to imagine. Or did that kind of thing take five minutes with a computer these days? The only person who could help him now was Moni. She would have to find out how dangerous it would be to stay at the Luck. And she would have to find someone who could forge papers. He wasn't going back to prison. Not now that he knew what prison was all about, quite apart from prison itself. What could keep him going this time?

The train arrived at last. Fred waited until all the passengers had left the platform, then he stood up slowly, waited for the announcement to board the train and jumped into an empty carriage at the last minute. The train left the station, and Fred threw himself on one of the seats.

At the next station he moved close to the door and observed the platform. A young couple got in two carriages down, then the train set off. Fred looked at the tube map above his head. There was no possibility of changing trains until Alexanderplatz. Were the police waiting for him there? Was it so important that they would send a couple of officers especially? The city was so big, there was so much to do - a proper manhunt just because of him? And if he got out beforehand... But should he risk being picked up again in some place he didn't know? At Alexanderplatz he only had to board the overground train, then he'd be back at Moni's ten minutes later. Moni, who was from Berlin and knew every hiding place in the city and at least ten document forgers... Definitely!

Fred's carriage began to fill up: two old men with brown briefcases, who squatted in the corner and stared dumbly ahead, a bunch of giggling girls all dolled up for dancing, a mother, who clutched two small children to herself, and lastly three pock-marked types in imitation leather jackets, who alternately sucked their teeth loudly, as if they had something stuck in them, and shook their fake Rolexes into full view.

Fred sat at the window next to the door, prepared himself to leap out at each station, and as the train entered the station and stopped, he looked desperately from one end of the platform to the other.

At the station before Alexanderplatz four shaven-headed drunks in boots staggered into the carriage. A shock went through the passengers. The initial impulse to leave the carriage was followed by several seconds of reflection - after all people didn't want to make themselves seem foolish by taking to their heels because of a few youths - until it was too late. The doors closed and the train set off again. Baseball bats protruded from the skinhead's bomber jackets. They propped each other up so as not to fall over, and for a while they indulged in a swaying ballet. They were laughing, and one of them kept trying to strike up a song. Until they slumped onto a bench, roaring with laughter.

Not one of the other passengers moved. Some looked at the floor, some respectfully at the men in boots. The mother was keeping her startled childrens' mouths closed. Fred was the only one who paid scarcely any attention to the skinheads. He was wondering if the money in Nickel's account would be enough for a false passport.

‘Heil Hitler!' Yelled one of the skins, stretching out his right arm.

One of the two old men had grabbed his briefcase and lowered his eyelids. Beneath them his pupils were darting back and forth: doors, window, passengers...

The skins looked around contentedly. Slowly their glazed eyes settled on the old man.

‘Look here... an immigration problem!'

Relaxed grins all round.

The man raised his eyelids and looked at those around him. Fred leaned forward curiously.

‘Then we'd better solve it!' shouted one and slapped his hand on his knee. ‘Look at his slanted eyes and you'll see the crimes he wants to commit in our beautiful country. Eh...!' He turned to the other passengers. ‘Did he give you any bother? Try to flog you cigarettes? Has he damaged Germany's economy?'

The four of them stood up with difficulty and tried to steady themselves on the grips along the carriage roof. Hand over hand, they worked their way to the old man. With their free hands they removed the baseball bats.

One of them suddenly stopped and cast a humorous glance around. ‘If anyone's lost their bottle, then keep thinking: we're poor bastards who've had a bad deal and can't handle society! No ping pong, no mother and all that, at least not a decent one.'

And another yelled with a grin; ‘And we've got nothing against wogs, but we don't want any here, otherwise the Nazi scum will get stronger, you get it...?'

Enthusiastic roars.

Then they worked their way further down the carriage. The old man was breaking out in a sweat. The group of girls had huddled together nervously. The second old man now followed the proceedings unmoved. The mother seemed relieved. The leather jackets were exchanging glances, while they reached for something on their belts. Fred longed for Alexanderplatz. He figured Nazi thugs could be useful to him if there was a police presence.

Suddenly the old boy leapt up with astonishing speed for his age, and fled to the corner where the leather jackets were sitting. The skins looked on with anticipation.

‘That's foreign infiltration. The suffering people have risen up to illustrate the problem.'

The leather jackets were stony-faced. The old man gasped.

‘I can't wait. Go ahead!'

One of the leather jackets closed his eyes as a sign of boredom, then he turned his head towards the leader of the skins and murmured: ‘Piss off arsehole!'

For a moment not a sound could be heard apart from the rattle of the train. The skins were gawping, as if Hitler had banned beer.

Perfect thought Fred. Now tear up the carriage, boys.

But as the skins raised their baseball bats and were about to cut loose, the leather jackets stood up as at a command, and three knives sprang out of their fists with a sharp metallic click. They didn't say a word, but then they didn't need to. The skins stopped. For a few seconds they stared and sized each other up.

Then one of the leather jackets hissed as he casually hefted the knife: ‘Look after yourselves, mummy's boys! So you've no work, no Opel Corsa? Tragic. And no balls. What I cut off won't be enough to nail on the wall! And that's the problem with folk like you: you've not learnt shagging because it's not done in a gang, you've got to do it yourself, and now you think it's just slamming heads against the wall. I could explain, but I think you've got the basics. One more step and I'll get my hands dirty!'

For the first time Fred found the Berlin dialect really stylish. On the other hand he would have preferred the knife fighters not to have won quite so conclusively. The skins had visibly lost their nerve.