Magic Hoffmann (19 page)

 

Fred watched the entrance and the door to the toilets. Nickel had vanished behind it five minutes ago, and since then no-one suspicious had shown up. Fred came out from behind the shelving and weaved his way through shoppers and sales staff. He looked around once more, saw the usual department store hustle and bustle, then pressed the door handle. As he entered the toilet, he saw a row of doors to his right, urinals and hand basins to his left - no Nickel. Fred thought he had already fallen into the trap and wanted to run, when he heard a fart behind one of the doors.

‘Nickel?'

Shortly afterwards Nickel emerged wearing a beige linen suit, and carrying a black suitcase under his arm. He stared grimly at Fred. There were dark shadows under his eyes, and his eyelids were seized now and again by a nervous twitch. His last week had consisted of a journey to Luxembourg, several discussions with his bank about different lines of credit and endless arguments with Lycka, who reproached him with his youth and particularly that part of it he had spent with Fred. ‘You wasted your time on a prole like that! I was ashamed in front of Heike. And why do you let him browbeat you? If I were you I'd arrange to meet him, then seduce him into travelling without a ticket. He couldn't blame you for that, and his probation would be ... up the spout. He'd be nicely squared away for the next couple of years, then let's see if he wouldn't be content with a monthly payment!'

His Lycka, his little lawyer.

‘Hello Nickel,' said Fred and was met by silence. Nickel stepped forward and handed him the suitcase.

‘I've deducted what you have drawn from my account. I hope you didn't buy a car this morning.'

Fred looked into Nickel's cold eyes. He could feel that the suitcase was made of plastic.

‘Don't you want to check it,' asked Nickel, as if checking it would be embarrassing.

Fred didn't answer. How would Nickel deal with someone if he was really being mucked about, and hadn't done the mucking about himself, as was the case here?

Fred opened the suitcase and gazed at a layer of thousand mark notes. He was wide-eyed. A shudder ran through him. He suppressed the urge to punch his fist in the air and let out a yell. With trembling hands he closed the suitcase and gave back the credit card. Nickel cast a wary eye over it before pocketing it.

Fred ran his tongue over his dry lips. He would have liked to go and have a drink with Nickel now, to celebrate and say: let bygones be bygones. But the look in Nickel's eyes made him think better of it.

‘I don't know what's going through your head, but that was the deal, I've taken nothing from you. We can still talk to each other.'

‘To each his own,' answered Nickel, and before Fred could reply, he continued: ‘And I don't want to talk to a hoodlum. As you can imagine, I've been doing some thinking these last few days. Such as how you lured me into this robbery. Look at you gawping! And only to get tangled up in your madness. We meant nothing to you. Then you went to jail and played the big hero. You should have betrayed us! That would have put an end to all this strutting about. And now you come back, and I offer to share what's taken me four years to build up, and again, all you can think of is yourself: Canada! Instead of being accommodating and accepting developments, that perhaps don't quite correspond to what you had imagined, but which have actually happened. Your dream, your Canada, that's all that counts - what we dream, where we live, you don't give a damn!'

Fred stared at him open-mouthed. Had Nickel learned that off by heart? Had he too been involved in films in the meantime? Did they teach you stuff like that at university, or had Lulla prompted him?

Fred cleared his throat uneasily. ‘I don't know what your concept of 
“
hoodlum
”
 is, and what you mean by 
“
we
”
, but if it's that I want my money, and you would prefer to have kept it, then 
“
hoodlum
”
 is fine by me.'

‘You really don't get it. We means Annette and I. I phoned her yesterday, and she told me how you behaved at her place. But that kind of thing is probably normal for you.'

How he had behaved at Annette's? Fred couldn't get over his astonishment. Did Nickel mean the puking in the kitchen? Or that he hadn't wanted to take part in the film? And why were they phoning, when they had both told him that they couldn't abide each other? ‘We' seemed to mean not so much ‘we' here as ‘not you'.

‘How did I behave then?'

‘Like someone who has no respect for other people's way of life.'

‘And my way of life?'

‘You don't mind how you live, as long as other people suffer as a result.' As he spoke, Nickel managed, despite being of equal stature, to look down on Fred like looking on dirt. ‘Nonetheless I wish you all the best. I think you're going to need it, because what goes around comes around - both good and bad.' Before he reached the door, he turned round again. ‘By the way: the police came by. They didn't tell me why they are looking for you, and nor am I interested: it'll be some piece of lunacy. I wonder if you'll ever understand that the rules and laws of living in society apply to you as well. In any case I said I didn't know where you were staying, and that I had nothing more to do with you - the latter being the truth from here on in.'

Some time after Nickel had gone, Fred was still leaning against the wash basin, trying to make sense of Nickel's dressing down. All this moralising because he'd had to close his account in Luxembourg? A few days ago Fred would have been bowled over by that. Now...

Then he locked himself in one of the cubicles and did what he had been waiting four years for: he counted the spoils. Note for note, bundle for bundle. Nickel had counted correctly. There were a hundred and ninety seven thousand and two hundred marks in the suitcase.

Fred shoved twenty five thousand in his trouser pocket and slammed the door behind him. Several customers turned to stare and a firm jaw came towards them:
Magic Hoffmann was back
!

 

Fred called Moni's suggested contact for the forged papers from the nearest phone booth. He said the code word, and they agreed a meeting place and a price. Fred had to turn up that evening with photos and money at an address in Kreuzberg. The word ‘passport' didn't occur once during the conversation.

Afterwards he went to the station, avoiding the Café Budapest, and put the suitcase in a left luggage locker. He scarcely noticed the policemen, who were prowling through the concourse. The money made him feel invincible. Next, he fixed himself up with a new haircut. He explained to the hairdresser that he had to visit his aunt next week and wanted to look as neat and pleasant as possible. He departed with short hair and a mild quiff. Then he bought a dark blue pinstripe suit, black shoes, white shirts, a tie and a pair of spectacles with plain glass. He kept the clothes on and went back to the station to have some passport photos taken in the booth.

By the time he had done all this, it was shortly after seven. His appointment in Kreuzberg was at nine. Time to tell Moni the news and to celebrate with a bottle. He took a taxi back to the hotel and gave the driver a princely tip.

When Fred entered the hotel lobby and made to go past the reception desk with a brief greeting, the boss of the hotel called him: ‘Hey, where are you going?'

Fred stopped and removed the glasses. ‘But it's me, number thirty-one.'

The manager leaned across the counter so he could look Fred up and down.

‘My God! Have you won the lottery?'

A satisfied grin spread across Fred's face, and he nodded. ‘Yeah. The jackpot!'

Fred ran up the stairs, knocked on Moni's door and went into the room. But she wasn't there. He wrote her a note to say she need have no more worries about her debts and that he would be back around eleven.

 

The taxi came to a halt in a dark street in front of a dilapidated row of houses. On the other side was wasteland. The Wall had once stood there. Now strips of sand alternated with grass, rusty car wrecks lay around and broken iron bars rose up out of the ground. The sky was dark and hazy, but there was no rain. All the street lamps had been vandalised, and illumination was provided by the handful of windows where lights burned. The squeal of a table-saw emerged from one of the entrances.

The taxi driver named his price and took the money.

‘Are you sure you're in the right place?'

‘Why?'

‘It's just...you don't often get suits like that around here.'

Fred shrugged and got out. When the tail-lights had disappeared round the next corner, he went down the street, looking for number twenty-one. He stood in front of a facade that was peppered with holes. The door was open. He looked around briefly, then he entered the dismal hallway, that was lit by a filthy bare light bulb. The contact had described the way to the loft. There he was to ask for Mustermann. Fred climbed the creaky stairs till he could go no further, turned into a corridor at the end of which he came upon a second staircase, climbed some more stairs and arrived at a large dark loft full of junk. He flicked his lighter. Through the middle of the loft ran a wall, in which there was a door which was ajar. A general din mixed with the sound of voices emerged from behind it.

Fred knocked. When no-one answered, he went in. In the second part of the loft, oil lamps revealed a bunch of torn, discarded car seats, which lay around with the beer crates and wooden cases between them serving as tables. In the corner two vast speakers reached for the ceiling, and a half naked young man was thrashing about on an electric guitar. He moved as if was plugged into the mains. Scattered among the chairs were young men and women with leather jackets, iron chains and various wildly colourful hairdos. With their heavy leather boots planted on the cases and their beer bottles in their hands, they eyed Fred mistrustfully. Fred wondered if Moni's contact wanted to play a joke on him.

One of the leather boys stood up heavily and sidled across to Fred. As they approached, Fred recognised that it was a she. Her head was half shaven, and orange dreads hung from the other half. Metal spikes protruded from her nose and lips. Her chin provocatively thrust forward, she stood before him and cast a long look at Fred's clothing.

‘What do you think this is, a cocktail party?' she said in her Swabian dialect.

‘Good evening,' replied Fred cheerily, ‘I'm looking for Mr Mustermann.'

As if she hadn't heard, and as if she felt her remark to be fairly valuable, she repeated: ‘a cocktail party'.

Fred thought the moment she opened her mouth, her haircut seemed like a set of curlers. ‘I understand. Sorry about the suit. If you could please tell me...'

‘He should chop wood!' was spat venomously from one of the seats, and after a pause: ‘We all chop wood.'

Fred looked around uncertainly for the speaker.

‘Or do you think you're too grand to chop wood? Let me tell you something, you rich creep: I'm proud to chop wood!'

Unanimous murmurs: ‘me too... me too...' The guitar howled.

Fred nodded carefully. ‘Of course, chopping wood is a great thing, but...'

‘Two hours every day. And you?'

‘Well, I...'

‘You should have to chop for five hours. Good hard wood. It's good for here...' He tapped his head, then he yelled: ‘password?'

‘Pardon?' Fred didn't think anyone here would be in a state to forge anything more than beer labels.

‘Nobody gets in here without a password. This is war!'

Suddenly, a pale young man with hair like chives leaned towards Fred from out of the gloom and shouted in amazement: ‘But this is Fred!'

Fred was startled.

‘Of course. Fred Hoffmann.'

Then Fred recognised little Schmitti. He had been two classes below him. Fred had barely had anything to do with him. One of those kids with ironed shirts, trousers at half mast, a wisp of down on their upper lip and spots, who were only noticed in school when their digital watches went off in class. And him here of all places...?

‘Schmitti, man, what a surprise.'

Schmitti hauled himself up out of the car seat, knocking over bottles, and approached Fred on shaky legs. He too was wearing enormous leather boots that looked as if they'd been borrowed from his big brother, skin-tight jeans, and a T shirt, bearing the legend ‘Let Germany perish!' With his long thin body, he resembled a stork that had climbed into two stove pipes.

‘Fred! I almost didn't recognise you. What's this funny gear you're wearing?' Then he shouted over his shoulder: ‘He's all right. Robbed a bank!'

‘So he could buy a silk suit?' came the complaint from the gloom.

‘Well,' Fred fumbled with his tie, ‘it's a long story. How about bringing me to Mustermann. I'll explain everything on the way.'

‘OK, old mate!'

Old mate. Fred sighed silently. He would have to depend on someone like Schmitti.

Schmitti whistled, and a large black dog padded out from behind the chairs. ‘Antifa, to heel!'

The door closed, and the guitar gradually became quieter. With the dog in the lead, they made their way through the junk and down the stairs.

‘When did you get out?'

‘Couple of weeks ago.'

‘You've changed quite a bit.'

‘Me...?' Fred looked at Schmitti from the side. ‘Maybe. What's all this with the password?'

‘It's necessary,' said Schmitti before he slipped in his boots and clattered down two steps at once. ‘The enemy is all around us.'

‘What enemy?'

‘Those who want to destroy us. Speculators, cops, fascists, bourgeois - the whole crew.' Schmitti stood on the step and declaimed with fiery eyes: ‘Where dreams cease, reaction begins!'

‘Well...' Fred nodded and tried to smile reassuringly.

‘You should know best how this fiendish system works. They locked you up like a dog!'

Now Fred remembered: Schmitti had had a thing about zoology, kept turning up at school with amphibians and toads.

‘Believe me, I didn't forget you. Whenever I was in Dieburg I always asked after you. It was a great thing, the bank robbery.'

‘Yes...'

‘What do you want from Mustermann?'

‘Is that really his name?'

‘Of course not,' Schmitti tried to look important, ‘but I can't reveal his real name.'

‘I need a passport.'

‘Honestly?' Schmitti's eyes lit up. ‘Are you planning something else?'

‘No.'

‘Then why...'

‘Because.'

‘Hey, you trust me, don't you?'

‘Of course, Schmitti, but I'm not planning anything right now.'

‘But the passport...?'

‘Does this Mustermann do forged papers then?'

‘Actually, I'm not at liberty... But why else would you be here?'

‘Schmitti, how would it be if you left the whole thing to Mustermann and me?'

‘OK, OK. I only wanted to say that you can depend on me one hundred per cent.'

They went out of the door on the ground floor and crossed a courtyard crammed with small vans, bikes and broken furniture to a narrow concealed external staircase, which led down to the cellar. Schmitti lit their way along a dark corridor with a torch, until they reached a small empty room and Schmitti pressed the light switch. Sooty brick walls and heating pipes covered in cobwebs could be seen by the light of the bulb. Fred only noticed the door when Schmitti leaned against it. It was a wooden board with a layer of stones stuck to it.

The door opened ponderously, and bright neon light shone out. For a moment Fred saw a printing press, then a bundle of hair intervened. The man could have been anything between thirty and sixty. Through the dirty-blond hair of his head and his beard, which hung in clotted locks over his chest, one could see only his eyes and sense his lips, from which a roll-up dangled. He was wearing jeans, clogs and a greasy orange T-shirt.

‘Are you the passport man?' he asked Fred.

Fred nodded.

‘You're late.'

‘Your contact sent me to the loft, and then...'

‘Do you have the photos?'

Fred handed them over.

‘The money?'

‘Yes.'

The man made a gesture in Schmitti's direction, and Schmitti and the dog returned to the dark corridor.

‘Show me,' said the man.

Fred hesitated for a moment, then he reached into his breast pocket and took out ten thousand marks. He fanned out the notes, and the man nodded.

‘Fine. You can collect it in half an hour.'

‘What sort of name will I get?'

‘We'll see. Whatever I have available. I'll tell you right now, you'll barely get through a police check point with it.'

‘I want to sign on a ship.'

‘It'll be good enough for that.'

The man disappeared and the door closed again. Fred lit a cigarette and was about to sit down on a box in the corner, when Schmitti returned.

‘Hey, you don't want to wait around here the whole time. Let's go to my place, and I'll make us some tea.'

‘You know, maybe he'll need to ask me something else...'

‘Rubbish, it's all fixed! Let's go, it'll be much more comfortable.'