Magic Hoffmann (8 page)

My Darling Annette,

Mother feels better. Sometimes she sits in the garden again. We are both very proud of you and your film. It's really a most interesting subject. And now to the question of your money: should you wish to put up a portion of the film's costs, we would have to travel to Switzerland together some time during the summer, that's the only way it will work. Think it over carefully - a film is always a risk, you know. See you soon.

Your loving father, who is eternally happy that we understand each other so well after difficult times.

PS Hoffmann is being released shortly. Beware!

Fred stared at the neat handwriting. Beware! The word seemed to rise up from the page and leap at him. Beware, beware…he could feel his chest constricting.

He stood up and went to the counter with the letter in his hand. He lit a cigarette and read it once more. ‘Damn.' he said quietly. Happy Mr Schöller, Darling Annette… Now he understood the change in Annette. Plasterhead handled her money - that was the beginning of the friendship. How had plasterhead put it? He, Fred would drag Annette down. But putting the wages of sin in a Swiss bank account. And in a quiet, slightly bewildered voice, Fred said again: ‘Damn!'

He read the letter a third time, then he shoved it back in the envelope and put it in his trouser pocket. For a while he paced maniacally up and down the room and tried to come to terms with these new circumstances, without understanding exactly what they meant. Only one thing was clear: Annette was being warned off him by her father and was keeping quiet about it. And that wasn't a premonition, it was a fact.

Fred remained at the window and looked out over umbrellas and hazy neon signs. The Schöller family suddenly looked to him like one big conspiracy, like traitors, enemies, the opposition. And his team…? His father came to mind.

‘Folk with a detached house, subscriptions to five newspapers and a local Greek restaurant - they've no pity. They hate me because I don't know the name of our mayor and don't give a damn about acid rain - all rain is lousy.'

Fred's father had frequently been the cause of agitation among the Schöllers. Once he had yelled at Mrs Schöller in the supermarket, what did she think she was doing reading Kästner to Fred, after all, children were susceptible to books at that age, and he didn't want some stuck-up mummy's boy for a son. Another time he sent them ten kilos of honey with a note: ‘For Fred, who is said to stop at your place often. If he wants to give you some that's all right with me.' Whereupon Mr Schöller declared his father an antisocial character, and antisocial was pretty much the worst swearword in the Schöller household.

‘Think nothing of it young fella, antisocial is just a word they use when they're at their wit's end.'

But Fred had thought something of it. His father's opinion of Mrs Schöller had annoyed him the most. He had said she was the worst because she was smarter than she let on. You could expect better of intelligent people.

‘But society won't allow that. Put your head above the parapet and you get shot down.'

Fred watched a car coming to a halt, then heard the horn. He wiped out the memories of his father and thought about how he should talk to Annette. He went to the counter and opened a beer. He noticed his hands trembling.

Suddenly the door opened slightly and Fred got a shock.

‘Sweetheart, can you come here a minute?' called a male voice. Then the door opened further, and one of the shades put his head around. Fred sighed.

‘Nobody there?' asked the young man, then he recognised Fred. ‘Ah…' he grinned, ‘survived last night all right then?'

Fred shrugged. The man entered the room. He was around thirty and wore a light suit and brown brogues. His face was smooth and clean like a bathroom tile.

‘I thought it was funny,' he said, ‘what was the name again?'

‘Fred.'

‘Hi Fred.'

‘Hi sweetheart.'

The man stopped short.

‘Are you Annette's boyfriend or something?'

Fred didn't reply. The man sucked in his lips and watched him with interest. Suddenly he seemed to have an inspiration. He leaned forward and pointed at Fred with a theatrical gesture.

‘Man! You're just right for that sad neo nazi bastard. Of course.' The man came up and circled him in his steel-tipped shoes. ‘Fabulous. You'll play Roger.'

‘I'm not an actor.'

‘Don't matter…' He stood in front of Fred, formed both hands into a rectangle and looked at Fred through the hole with one eye. ‘We'll manage. It's not so important with film.'

‘I mean I don't want to be one either,' said Fred and wondered what shades was playing at.

The man's hands sank to his sides, ‘What?' and although Fred could see no eyes behind the dark glasses, he could sense their disbelieving stare.

‘So you don't know how it works with film and you're a little nervous?'

‘Yes,' growled Fred, anxious to get this guy out of the room, ‘of catching aids!'

‘Say again.' Astonished, the man turned his head to one side, and Fred wondered if he would remove the glasses before a fist fight.

Instead the man said cheerfully: ‘Even better, you don't need to play Roger, you are Roger. Tell me about it: you can't stand queers, foreigners out - don't be embarrassed. You come from a small town. I can tell. You're an averagely gifted young man, you think mainly of yourself and your little life, you don't ask for a lot…Stop me if I'm getting it wrong.' He paused briefly, inviting an answer. Fred didn't move. Everyone seemed to want to talk to him about foreigners today.

‘Anyway, I'd be the last person not to understand. On the contrary: in most cases I find right wing attitudes absolutely natural, not to say inevitable. Left wing views are for rich arseholes who can afford them, who yell ‘let the foreigners in' because they don't know any foreigners apart from their Polish cleaning lady - am I right? I know what you're thinking: you think I want to lead you on to thin ice, that I'm some kind of lefty myself. Don't worry. I am nothing. I only observe and attempt to understand. All things human interest me. And what is more human than detesting a few new arrivals who are giving you grief?'

‘There's something in that' said Fred, ‘now how about you just clear off?'

The man pursed his lips, then, disappointed, he shook his head. ‘In your place I would think it over: maybe it's your big chance.'

Now Fred shook his head. ‘It's your chance - to clear off , I mean.'

Amused, the man half closed one eye. ‘You think you're pretty tough, eh?'

‘Tough enough for you.'

‘Now, now! We're not in the playground any more.'

‘Seems to me like we are. Are you a teacher?'

The young man lost his cool for the first time. ‘Why a teacher?'

‘Only teachers rabbit on like that.'

‘A teacher - rubbish.'

The man turned away from Fred just as quickly as he had collared him. ‘Teacher indeed.' He seemed genuinely wounded by the remark. He turned round again just before the door: ‘The part could have been yours. Tragic how little people want out of life!' and he stomped out.

So he is a teacher, thought Fred.

The door remained open and people with technical equipment or files came in at regular intervals. Scraps of conversation wafted into the room.

‘I'd love to make a film where nothing happens, but beautifully edited…', ‘…twenty at most, that's all the friends I have…', ‘…art and suffering go together…', ‘…I'm thinking of a fabulous story of a man - about my age - who works in films and falls in love with the assistant…', ‘…we'd be falling between two stools again…', ‘…like one big family…', ‘…nobody has grasped the tragedy of a six room apartment like Botho Strauss…', ‘…art and heroism belong together…', ‘…wasn't Auschwitz just rock and roll? Against the fathers, the rich, the powerful. And at the same time a search for warmth and shelter…', ‘I hate white socks, and all I asked was that he wear dark socks for the next take…'

Eventually Annette swept round the corner. Her hair hung over her face, and the sleeves of her blouse were rolled up.

‘Everything under control?' she asked as she rushed to the shelf and took down a book. ‘I'll be ready in a minute, then we'll go and have a drink with Carlo and the others, okay?'

Fred slid off the stool. He stretched his legs and walked hesitantly around the counter. He cleared his throat.

‘Listen Annette, I think we need to get a few things clear.'

She snapped the book shut and smiled. ‘I understand, it's not much fun for you, but then…'

‘No, I mean…' Fred stood still and placed his hands on the counter. His heart was thumping. ‘Tell me, do you still remember Canada?'

‘Canada?'

‘Yes, we had it planned…' Fred ran his tongue over his lips, ‘you know, before the robbery?'

‘Oh that…'

Suddenly Annette's eyes widened, and she was speechless for a moment. Then, without taking her eyes off Fred, she placed the book slowly back on the shelf.

‘You can't be serious.'

‘Well…at least that was what we had agreed.'

‘But Fred.' Annette shook her head as if trying to dispel a nightmare. ‘That was years ago.' She went to the window seat and plucked a cigarette from the pack.

‘Hmhm.' Fred looked at his hands. His face had gone pale. He tried desperately to grasp a passing thought. His brain was like marmalade. However much he had understood or thought he had understood in the past hour, the possibility of such a clear and unequivocal outcome had not crossed his mind.

‘How did you imagine that? I mean…what gave you the idea I would want to go to Canada? Can't you see how I'm living, how I'm working?' She clicked her lighter.

‘Yes, but,' Fred pressed his hands against the edge of the counter.

‘And I enjoy my work, it's what I have always wanted to do.'

Fred nodded without looking at her. Yes but, yes but rang through the marmalade. What could he say? That she still had to come? That he had believed in her and counted on her for four years? That he went to prison for her, and she should therefore give up her work for him? And how would that sound? Like Magic Hoffmann…?

 

 

‘Now, Hoffmann: you must understand that everyone in Dieburg knows who your mates were, and whether you keep your mouth shut or not makes no difference to the two of them - we'll get them anyway. But it makes a difference to you. Somewhere between two and three years.'

The police superintendent stood at the open window and pointed out into the street. The sun shone upon small businesses and pastry shops, on people in bright clothes and on a café terrace full of cheerful faces, lingering over beer and iced coffee.

‘Take a good look, Hoffmann . In prison you won't get to see that for a long time.'

Fred shrugged. ‘If it's only a question of not seeing the Dieburg pedestrian precinct, I'll gladly take another year.'

The superintendent shook his head, sighing. ‘You don't know what you're saying. How old are you? Twenty.'

He approached Fred and leaned down to him. ‘These are your best years that you're so determined to just chuck away. And for what? Because you've heard of the foolish notion of honour among thieves in some old movie. You'll shove that honour where the sun don't shine once you've spent a few months behind bars, and for twenty four hours a day, while your so-called mates sit in the sun somewhere, dishing out your share and laughing themselves silly about your foolish loyalty!'

‘I think it's you that's seen the old film, superintendent.'

‘You're ruining your life!'

‘You understand that then? How long have you been hanging around in Dieburg?'

The superintendent closed his eyes, then he turned away and began pacing up and down the room again.

‘I don't know why but I like you, Hoffmann . And I would find it a pity to see you spending four years making clothes pegs or some such trash… Just think what you could become.'

‘You mean a grass?'

The superintendent was raging. ‘I mean a young man who enjoys life. You'd be out in a year, a year and a half at most.'

 

 

‘Besides, you must have noticed yourself that we…have changed.'

‘Yes…' Fred looked up and smiled distractedly.

He had to pull himself together. Cursing and screaming didn't help, it only made things worse. He needed to show Annette who he was. And if everything fell apart, he would go to Canada!

He got a grip of himself and said, far too loud: ‘Okay. There's still my money.'

Annette looked for a minute as though she didn't know what he was talking about. At a stroke the distraction in Fred's eyes disappeared. Before Annette could answer he repeated: ‘My money!' in a tone which made her wince.

‘But you know that Nickel has it.'

‘How am I supposed to know that?'

‘I thought Nickel would have written and told you.'

Fred thought briefly of Nickel's how-are-you-I-am-very-well postcards.

‘He wanted to earn interest on it - you know Nickel. He will certainly have got the best deal for you, and he said he would do it in such a way that you could draw it at any time…' and with a forced smile and a gesture towards the ceiling, ‘Who knows, maybe you're already a millionaire!'