‘No, my dear Self,’ he laughed. ‘In the end these difficult phases always turn out to be a blessing for us. But still there are things that worry us, long term and short term. It’s a short-term problem I wanted to see you about today and then put you together with Firner. You remember him?’
I remembered him well. A couple of years ago Firner had been made director, but for me he’d always remain Korten’s bright-eyed assistant. ‘Is he still wearing Harvard Business School ties?’
Korten didn’t respond. He looked reflective, as though considering whether to introduce a company tie. He took my arm. ‘Let’s go to the Blue Salon. It’s ready.’
The Blue Salon is the best the RCW has to offer its guests. An art-deco room, with table and chairs by van de Velde, a Mackintosh lamp, and on the wall an industrial landscape by Kokoschka. Two places were set. When we were seated a waiter brought a fresh salad.
‘I’ll stick to my Apollinaris. I’ve ordered a Chateau de Sannes for you. You like that, don’t you? And after the salad a
My favourite dish. How nice of Korten to think of it. The meat was tender, the horseradish sauce without a heavy roux, but rich with cream. Korten’s lunch ended with the crunchy salad. While I was eating, he got down to business.
‘I’m not going to get well acquainted with computers at this point. When I see the young people sent to us from university these days, who take no responsibility and are incapable of making decisions without consulting the oracle I think of the poem about the sorcerer’s apprentice. I was almost glad to hear the system was acting up. We have one of the best management and business information systems in the world. I’ve no idea who’d want to know, but you could find out on the terminal that we’re having
‘And how can I help you with this?’
‘Patience, my dear Self. We were promised one of the safest possible systems. That means passwords, entry codes, data locks, Doomsday effects, and what have you. All of this is supposed to ensure no one can tamper with our system. But what’s happened is just that.’
‘My dear Korten…’ Addressing each other by our surname, a habit from schooldays, is something we’d held on to, even as best friends. But ‘my dear Self ’ annoys me, and he knows it. ‘My dear Korten, as a boy even the abacus overwhelmed me. And now I’m supposed to tinker about with passwords, entry codes, and data what-do- you-call-them?’
‘No. All the computer business is sorted out. If I understand Firner correctly, there’s a list of people who could have created the mess in our system. Our sole concern is finding the right one. That’s exactly where you come into it. Investigate, observe, shadow, ask pertinent questions – the usual.’
I wanted to know more, but he fended me off.
‘I’m none the wiser myself. Firner will go into it with you. Let’s not spend all of lunch talking about this miserable situation – there’s been so little opportunity to meet since Klara’s death.’
So we talked about the old days: ‘Do you remember?’ I don’t like the old times, I’ve packed them away and put a lid on them. I should have sat up and paid attention when Korten was talking about the sacrifices we’d had to make and ask for. But it didn’t occur to me until much later.
So far as the current day went we had little to say to each other. I wasn’t surprised his son had become a member of parliament – he had always seemed precocious. Korten seemed to hold him in contempt but was all the prouder of his grandchildren. Marion had been accepted into the Student Foundation of the German People, Ulrich had won a ‘Young Research’ prize with an essay about the twinning of prime numbers. I could have told him about my tomcat, Turbo, but let it go.
I drained my mocha, and Korten officially ended the meal. The restaurant supervisor bid us farewell. We set off for the Works.
3 Like getting a medal
It was only a few steps away. The restaurant is opposite Gate 1, in the shadow of the main administrative building, a twentyfloor banality that doesn’t even dominate the skyline.
The directors’ elevator only has push-buttons for floors fifteen to twenty. The general director’s office is on the twentieth floor, and my ears popped on the way up. In the outer office Korten entrusted me to Frau Schlemihl, who announced my arrival to Firner. A handshake, my hand clasped in both of his, an ‘old friend’ instead of ‘my dear Self ’ – then he was gone. Frau Schlemihl, Korten’s secretary since the fifties, has paid for his success with an unlived life, has faded elegantly, eats cakes, wears a pair of unused spectacles round her neck on a thin gold chain. She was busy. I stood at the window and looked out over the jumble of towers, sheds and pipes to the trading port and to a hazy Mannheim. I like industrial landscapes and would be hard pressed to choose between the romance of industry and the forest idyll.
Frau Schlemihl interrupted my idle musings. ‘Doctor Self, may I introduce you to our Frau Buchendorff? She runs Director Firner’s office.’
I turned around. There stood a tall, slim woman of about thirty. She wore her dark-blonde hair up, which lent her youthful face with its rounded cheeks and full lips an air of experienced competence. Her silk blouse was missing the top button, and the one below was open. Frau Schlemihl looked on disapprovingly.
‘Hello, Doctor.’ Frau Buchendorff reached out her hand and looked at me squarely with her green eyes.
I liked her gaze. Women only become beautiful when they look me in the eye. There’s promise in such looks, even if it’s a promise not kept, nor even proffered.
‘May I take you through to Director Firner?’ She preceded me through the door, with a pretty swing to her hips and bottom. Delightful that tight skirts are back in fashion.
Firner’s office was on the nineteenth floor. At the elevator I said to her, ‘Let’s take the stairs.’
‘You don’t look like my idea of a private detective.’
I’d heard this often enough. In the meantime I know how people imagine private detectives. Not only younger. ‘You should see me in my trench coat.’
‘I meant it in a positive way. The guy in the trench coat would have his work cut out for him with the dossier Firner’s going to give you.’
Firner, she’d said. Was she involved with him?
‘You know what it’s all about, then?’
‘I’m one of the suspects even. In the last quarter the computer paid five hundred marks too much into my account each month. And via my terminal I do have access to the system.’
‘Have you had to pay the money back?’
‘I’m not the only one. Fifty-seven colleagues are affected and the firm is considering whether to ask for it back.’
In her office she pressed the intercom. ‘Director, Herr Self is here.’
Firner had put on weight. The tie was now from Yves Saint-Laurent. His walk and movements were still nimble, and his handshake hadn’t grown any firmer. On his desk lay a bulging folder.
‘Greetings, Herr Self. It’s good that you’re taking this on. We thought it best to prepare a dossier with the details. By now we’re certain we’re dealing with targeted acts of sabotage. We have managed to limit the material damage thus far. But we have to reckon with new surprises at any time and can’t rely on any information.’
I looked at him enquiringly.
‘Let’s start with the rhesus monkeys. Our long-distance correspondence, unless it’s urgent, is saved in the word-processing system and the fax is sent out when the cheaper night rate applies. That’s how we deal with our Indian orders, for example, and every half-year our research department requires around one hundred rhesus monkeys with an export licence from the Indian Ministry for Trade. Two weeks ago, instead of a hundred, an order went out for a hundred thousand monkeys. Luckily the Indians thought this odd and double-checked with us.’
I imagined 100,000 rhesus monkeys at large in the plant, and grinned.
