Magic Hoffmann (7 page)

‘Birth is truth, and nothing is more cynical than the truth,' said one of the men at the table, as he looked round in a true and cynical manner.

Fred leaned on the windowsill, sipped at the vodka and observed how these people with their casual gestures talked about things of which he knew nothing. The Prince of Berlin...but how to conquer the kingdom? It would be better if he could see Annette first - prince or not. In any case he hadn't eaten anything since the bean soup in the dining carriage, and he would have liked to go with her to one of those crazy restaurants he had noticed on the way over here: pink walls, plaster statues, waiters in leather shirts, painted underpants behind glass - in Dieburg just one of these would have been grounds for a citizen's action committee.

Till then all he had was vodka. ‘Empty stomach makes you thinner - full glass, as good as dinner,' his father had always said. But he could also have done it with: ‘Lots to eat, hunger gone for sure,' and ended with, ‘gluttony's the cure.'

One of the women turned to look at Fred. ‘Who is standing at my back the whole time?'

Fred removed the bottle hastily from his mouth and vodka splashed onto the ground. Before he could answer the woman said: ‘Do you belong to Carlo?'

Fred shook his head, ‘No, I...'

‘Are you involved in the neo-nazi documentary evidence?' one of the men asked.

Fred shook his head again. ‘I...'

‘Or are you the cook for tomorrow's party? But wasn't that supposed to be a Thai?'

‘I know,' said another, ‘he's the driver for Sascha's night scene, the one about the Jewish models in front of Hitler's bunker, where they sing that forbidden song about hacked off and defiled children's heads - you know the one.'

‘Ah. That one.'

They stopped talking and looked at Fred.

‘I'm a friend of Annette.'

‘Is that so?' said one, and a second: ‘There's a lot of those about,' whereupon one of the women gave him a playful slap.

They continued to talk about the film, and so as not to stand at anyone's back, Fred retreated to the sink. The brief conversation had given him some encouragement for his start in Berlin, and he waited for a suitable moment to continue it. Besides, with each slug of vodka he was getting smarter. He was definitely going to find a way to get through to them soon. For example he could save them time and money by explaining to them that nobody would watch their film. He knew about the movies: Eddie Murphy, Clint Eastwood, Julia Roberts, Christopher Walken - no problem. And that's why he knew that these stories with the circle of wagons and half-breed Indians couldn't have conjured ten marks out of anyone's trouser pocket for at least the last fifty years.

The kitchen began to swim in front of Fred's eyes.

‘Hey you! What's your name?'

Fred looked up. Did they mean him? He wanted to reply, but something was preventing him. His lips suddenly became weirdly stuck together.

‘Your name,' repeated the man.

Fred passed his hand over his mouth. ‘F-F-Fred,' he tried to articulate.

‘Fine,' said the man giving a rubbery smile, ‘well Fred: we have a small problem here. I'd like to hear from you as an outsider your concept of German culture.'

Fred let the empty bottle drop in the sink, and while he waved his arms in the air in an attempt to keep his balance, he took two steps in the direction of the table. He was cross-eyed with alcohol, and it took him a moment to establish who was talking to him.

‘ 'fcourse.' Now even his tongue was letting him down. It was struggling to get out over the lower canine teeth. ‘German cu-ure,' he repeated, and he knew precisely that this was connected to a question.

‘Don't think too long,' said the man, ‘just come out with it.'

Fred nodded. Then he could feel a jolt in his chest, and it was as if his stomach were climbing. He noticed people staring at him. If only he could remember the question. He placed his hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and his lips formed the first letters of the request to repeat the question, when warmth suddenly filled his throat, and before he could close his mouth a colourful stream spewed over table, papers, and all present. As they leapt to their feet screaming, Fred closed his eyes, lurched forward and crashed unconscious into the chairs.

 

Fred was looking for his left arm. He found it under his stomach. He dragged it out and checked the time. Half six. Wake up time in prison. He raised his head gingerly. He was lying fully clothed on a bare mattress, and pale, grey morning light streamed through the window. An old, discarded bar counter ran right across the room, with fifties-style bar stools around it. Film posters hung on the walls alongside photos of some cove who looked like he was spoiling for a duel.

Fred had an evil taste in his mouth. As he sat up he saw half-digested, dried bits of beans stuck to his overalls. The Prince of Berlin. The prince didn't feel too good.

Fred stood up and padded along the dark hallway. Not a sound. Supporting himself on the walls, he arrived at the kitchen. Swabbed down and tidied, it lay bathed in morning light. Fred sighed. Quickly he turned to the fridge. He rummaged through the various compartments, but there was nothing edible other than mustard and some strange, rank roots. He took a bottle of orange juice, closed the door, turned round again, added a beer and went back to the room.

Seated at the counter, he emptied the bottle of orange juice and stared out of the window. Children with satchels and women with scarves and shopping bags filled the pavements. He watched a young man escorting two prettily dressed, laughing little girls over the street, and pensively scratched a bean from his overalls. Then he opened the bottle of beer on the edge of the counter and lay back down on the mattress. Soon he was asleep again.

 

‘A school friend from Nürnberg once visited me when I was living with Ralph. Man, was that embarrassing. In the evening we wanted to go to Fuck Off and what did she wear? Some kind of pink, body-hugging outfit with the slogan Enjoy Sex! I tell you, the people who knew me looked at me the whole evening as if they were saying goodbye. I had to phone around for three days to square the thing away.'

‘Fred has just spent four years in jail. It's perfectly normal that he should have one too many.'

‘All right Annette, one! And that haircut.'

Suppressed laughter.

Fred squeezed his eyes open and saw two blurred pairs of legs at the counter. The window was open, and a cool breeze blew through the room. He brought his eyes into focus and saw jeans and rectangular shoes. Slowly he turned his head around. Two women. One was broad and dark with a mass of jangling chains and amulets from her from neckline to her hip. The other was blond and plump. Two chubby round buttocks spilled over the bar stool, and warm oil seemed to flood through Fred's veins. His Annette. His plump little Annette.

‘Hey!' he wheezed. Annette turned round, and he stared at a deathly white face. Fred was shocked.

But when she leapt off the stool and threw herself on him, laughing, he quickly got over it. And when they lay in each other's arms and Fred touched those shoulders he had missed for so long and Annette said: ‘You stink like the doorway to a dosshouse.' He closed his eyes and he was happy.

 

‘I got your card, and actually I wanted to go straight to Dieburg, but then...'

She really wanted to, and she really was glad to see Fred again, although she knew it wouldn't be easy: her life had changed utterly over the last four years. Fred was Dieburg, and Dieburg was a long way away. Even the bank robbery - although it was the catalyst for the move to Berlin and gave her time to relax and plan the future - seldom came up in her thoughts, and when it did, it was as a foolish mistake which could have destroyed her life, and which it was better to forget. She was only dimly aware of the connection between this mistake and the money with which she had paid for board and lodging to this day. And now Fred! Whether he liked it or not, he had brought back the robbery, as if it had happened yesterday. And then there was his own peculiar manner. Annette was anything but sure that she would be able to cope with it these days. Previously he had been one of the most exciting guys in Dieburg, but there wasn't much competition for a start, and besides Fred's brutish charm was somewhat different at eighteen than it was today. Stuff like selling hash as expensive liquorice in the playground, or driving the greengrocer's Mercedes to Frankfurt at night without a license seemed at best boring now. If she wanted to, she could snort coke from morning till night and cruise round in her boyfriend's turquoise Chevrolet. But even that didn't interest her any more. What was important were films - and the people who made them. Fred had never been a luminary in that area, and was scarcely about to become one in the next four years.

Yes, she was pleased, but it was an exhausting pleasure, mixed up with the prospect of wasted time.

‘How could I know you would come straight to Berlin? I thought you'd call first.'

Fred heard the bell ring and the door close. His hands slid under Annette's T-shirt.

‘You didn't even have the address.'

‘I found it out,' mumbled Fred. He could feel her skin, her hips, her breasts. His brain felt scrambled. Four years and nineteen days. Any moment he would go crazy…

But Annette suddenly raised her head, smiled at him and rolled to one side. Fred felt he was falling into icy water.

‘I can't begin to know how to thank you.' She reached for a packet of cigarettes.

‘Well…' Fred grinned distracted, then he spread his arms clumsily, ‘I've got an idea.'

But Annette just laughed. ‘You won't believe how often I've thought about what you did for us. Nobody else would have been like that.' She plucked a cigarette from the packet and lit it. ‘And I couldn't even boast,' she blew smoke at the ceiling and gave a sly wink, ‘of having a true hero for a friend.'

‘Never mind the hero.' Fred looked up at her breasts, which were raised against the tight T-shirt. He reached for her arm and attempted to pull her back onto the mattress. But again Annette just laughed and stayed where she was. ‘I'm so happy that it's over, that you're out at last.'

‘Yes.' Fred scratched his head, then he remembered the vomit-stained overalls, and glancing down, he too had to laugh. ‘I understand. It looks really revolting'

‘I've brought you a change of clothes.' Annette pointed to the window seat, ‘How about you have a shower, and I'll rustle up a nice breakfast?'

‘With a nice bottle of champagne?'

‘If you want.'

‘I've got a lot to catch up on.'

They stood up, and while Fred removed the overalls, Annette put a towel on the mattress and went to the counter and took her purse. She asked over her shoulder: ‘Would you like anything in particular? Bacon, cornflakes, bread rolls?'

Fred came up behind her and wrapped his arms round her upper body, so that his hands landed on her breasts. In a tone that was meant to be comic, he said: ‘Peaches.'

This time Annette didn't laugh. Annoyed, she shrugged him off. Fred was shocked.

‘Hey, it's me, Fred - the one with the bad jokes.' Fred smiled cautiously. So bad they were good. Used to be his trademark.

‘I must have forgotten.' Annette smiled back, but it was clearly an effort.

‘Let me show you the bath. The water is sometimes fairly cold here…' and then conciliatory, ‘but a cold shower is supposed to be good for you every now and again.'

 

 

While Fred sprayed lukewarm water on his head, his mind was racing. Was Annette offended? He had certainly been a little shameless, but no more so than before. Had his smell put her off him? Or the guy in the photos… ? Somehow things weren't running to plan. Was he thinking wrong or was it going wrong? Or was he just going at a different pace? Probably. Annette simply needed time to come around. And when they'd had breakfast and talked a little bit… It was important to talk, everyone knew that.

He turned the water off, draped a towel round himself and went to a shelf containing countless bottles of aftershave and perfume. Normally he didn't use such things. Now and again he took scissors to his wispy beard, and perfume reminded him of dark-haired old women with dyed blonde hair. But today was a special day, and he had some ground to make up, as far as his odour was concerned.

He sniffed at various bottles and decided on something sweet and flowery, like pudding and roses - in for a penny. Unused to the dosage, he tipped almost half a bottle over himself. If this didn't make Annette crazy for him. And he added a quick splash between his legs.

He went back into the room with his towel round his hips. Annette was still out shopping. He put on the clothes she had left out for him: brown corduroy trousers and a brightly checked shirt. He had a quick look at his reflection in the windowpane and thought he looked like one of those prison psychologists who always addressed him with ‘Freddie, man'.

Then he sat down at the counter and lit a cigarette. Wait, he said to himself, wait and deal with it as it comes. What happened happened, and after that it was up to him.

 

 

Annette placed the shopping bags on the counter and turned around sniffing. ‘Did something die in here?
'

‘Not me,' thought Fred, but he didn't have the nerve for such comments at the moment.

‘I thought I'd freshen up a bit.'

‘A bit…? And anyway, that's women's perfume.'

‘Oh yes? To be quite honest it all smells the same to me.
Just a sweet smell
.'

Annette laughed and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

‘Why do you keep talking rubbish in English?'

‘Do I do that?' Fred seemed surprised. What really surprised him was the word rubbish. ‘Must have become part of me… I learned it in prison. All on my own, just with books. You can imagine why.'

‘Of course, foreign languages always come in handy.'

‘Of course.'

He wondered briefly whether he should start to talk about Canada, but then he decided to wait. Give it time, just don't rush into anything. Then he felt a slight pressure on his stomach, must have been hunger.

He watched as Annette leaned over the plastic bags and began to unpack. Croissants, ham, smoked salmon and all sorts of other things landed on the counter - a real banquet. Fred spoke of the food in prison and how it didn't taste at all bad, at least no worse than at Grandma Ranunkel's. Annette asked if he missed her, and Fred explained that prison had its advantages, because you couldn't see the void left behind, and it actually made very little difference if people outside lived or died. Annette looked at him, strangely concerned. Fred changed the subject.

‘What's happened to your face?'

‘What's meant to have happened?'

‘It's, ah, fairly pale.'

‘Powder.'

‘For spots?'

‘Are you mad?' Annette looked up from a packet of salmon, ‘That's my style.'

‘Is that right?' Thus far, Fred had only heard the word style in the context of painting. But Annette's face seemed somehow connected with that too. The hobby appeared to run in the family.

Annette went into the kitchen and returned with dishes and cutlery.

‘By the way I saw your mother.'

Annette gave him a brief look, then she arranged the salmon on a plate.

‘I know. My father called me.'

‘Ah…' Fred waited. Was that meant to happen? After a while he said: ‘She didn't look too healthy.'

Again Annette gave him a brief look, while she pushed the plate to one side and reached for the ham. Could she detect a note of mild triumph in his eyes? Her family had always been one of the most popular in Dieburg, unlike Fred's.

‘I can believe it.'

‘Well…' Fred hesitated, ‘…it was quite a shock.'

‘So.'

‘I mean, she always liked a drink, but…has something bad happened?'

Annette put the ham on a wooden board, then she placed her hands on the counter and looked Fred in the eye. ‘I don't want to talk about it, okay.'

Fred nodded. He could understand not wanting to talk about something inconvenient.

‘Sorry, I just wanted to say it.'

Annette laid the table. Her lips were pressed together, and Fred wondered how he could brighten up the mood again. Finally he said with a laugh: ‘But plasterhead was his old self.'

He couldn't go wrong with this subject. The harder he was on Mr Schöller, the more Annette liked it.

‘I can't quite remember, but at some point I must have done something really bad to him. Maybe he was standing behind me and I farted in his face.'

Cheerfully he shoved a slice of smoked salmon into his mouth, but to his surprise Annette's expression didn't change. He broke off from chewing, then slowly he swallowed the salmon and wiped his mouth. ‘Not about that either?'

‘Just listen here,' Annette wiped her fingers on her trousers and reached for cigarettes, ‘I don't know why you think this concerns you so much, but if you insist on talking about my parents, then you should at least bear in mind that my father can't have it easy at the moment.'

Fred stared at her open-mouthed. What was that all about?

‘But then he never did.'

‘Very funny! In any case, I've learned over the last few years what a fantastic person he is.'

What didn't plasterhead teach?

‘ You probably wouldn't understand this, but he holds the family together. It's thanks to him that we see each other at least two or three times a year.'