“And what is your interest in this?”
“I am looking for a woman who accepted such an offer.”
“Her name?”
“Erika Mustermann.”
Out of the corner of my eye I watched Inspector Klaase.
He looked amused. Hottges remained poker-faced. “Very funny.”
“No funnier than your question.”
“There is no gang like that.”
“You mean you have no idea?”
He closed his mouth firmly enough to indicate he wouldn’t open it again until it was time to go home. He contemplated his hands, folded in front of him on the desk. His thumbs were tapping against each other.
“No, that’s not what I meant.”
“All right, then. But perhaps you’ve noticed a recent increase in forged papers-or received information about some place or workshop where non-Germans congregate, regularly and for no obvious reason? The general public is pretty good at noticing such things.”
Hottges did not reply, and for a while the only sound was the tapping of a typewriter next door. Just as I had decided to call it a day, the young Inspector cleared his throat and said, quite cautiously: “There was that thing in Gellersheim-”
Hottges’s stare struck him like a lightning bolt. Still looking at him, Hottges raised his hands, put one on the armrest of his chair and used the other to tweak an ear lobe. I was amazed by the menace with which he charged that simple gesture.
“Don’t you have anything better to do, Klaase?”
“But boss, I-”
“Superintendent, if you please.”
The Inspector’s mouth fell open for a moment. Then he sighed, reached for a file, and sank deeper into his chair.
“As for you, Mr.-”
“Kayankaya.”
“Your visit is over.”
I nodded. “I get it.”
Inspector Klaase empathized with a quick glance across the top of his file. I winked at him, took two business cards out of my pocket and stuck one each on their desk lamps. “Just in case you happen to be in a better mood one day and say to yourself, that nice young man who showed up this morning, we really should-”
“Out!”
6
It was raining again, and as I drove up I saw how the rain was falling right into my apartment. It seemed that I had forgotten to close my windows when I left that morning. I parked the car and rushed across the street and through the front door. As usual, the greengrocer emerged from his apartment at that very moment. To avoid the usual bickering about my radio being too loud, my careless disposal of garbage, or my habit of showering after ten in the evening, I sped toward the staircase. But before I reached the safety of the first landing, he came charging round the corner behind me and for the first time in our shared history of pain and suffering shouted a friendly “Good morning, Mr. Kayankaya!” I almost fell on my face. I turned slowly and gave him a skeptical look.
“Not feeling quite yourself today?”
“Quite the contrary …” He came up the stairs with quick little steps, fussing with his hands. “I just wanted to ask you for a little favor.”
I kept wondering if someone had put something in his coffee.
“Come on, friend. You’re not supposed to know words like that.”
“But Mr. Kayankaya …” A conciliatory smile. “Let’s just forget all that old stuff.”
“Let’s not. And besides, my apartment is flooding.”
“Just one moment, please!”
He moved up one step so that we stood face to face and I could smell the gravy and applesauce of his dinner.
“Let me tell you what this is about. Several tenants, myself included, would like to put up a billboard on the front of the building, but we need the landlord’s permission. And so, to convince Mr. Kunze of the worth of our endeavor, we’ve been collecting signatures for a petition-and yours would be particularly important.”
“A billboard?” I gaped at him. “To advertise cigarettes or margarine or-?”
“No, but one proclaiming … shared goals and values which we would like to make known to the public, or in this case, our street.”
“What kinds of values?”
“Political and social ones, but philosophical ones as well, concerning humanity as such.”
“Have you gone nuts? What is it you want up there on the wall?”
“Well, you see … I hope you won’t be prejudiced … To cut a long story short, we are members of the district association of the Republikaner Party, and we would like to provide the party with some thought-provoking publicity.”
I breathed out slowly. Then I asked: “Who’s ‘we’?”
“My wife and I. The theme of the first series of billboards will be: Germany-so great-,” he beamed at me, “that there’s room even for our guests.”
“Who has signed your petition?”
“Until now, everyone I’ve asked. People like the theme. Mrs. Augstein on the fourth floor, Mr. Walser, and that young couple, Knapp and Kretschmann.”
The faces attached to those names appeared to my mind’s eye.
“An alcoholic lady, a senile guy, and two idiots-quite a team. What about the Benmessous, or Mr. Karagiannidis?” He retreated three or four steps. “Or the Metins, who buy at least half of your miserable vegetables? Have you asked them, too?”
“Yes, but-” He put more steps between us; I followed, and slowly we progressed back down to the ground floor.
“-but it looks like they haven’t managed to shut you up. Or maybe they felt sorry for a pitiful asshole like you.”
He stumbled around the end of the banister and looked at me through the black iron railing. The corners of his eyes twitched.
“Here one tries to be open-minded-”
I came at him, and he turned and ran to his apartment door. Half hidden by the doorframe, he wagged his index finger at me and shouted: “So now we’re being threatened in our own building! But just you wait! When we get to run the show.…” The door slammed. Silence.
I stood there for a while. It occurred to me that if this was an example of the courage and intelligence with which Republikaners pursued their goals, their party wasn’t long for this world. On the other hand, I had always regarded even that old souse Mrs. Augstein as slightly off the beam but nevertheless capable of making distinctions.
Since I was sure my bed would be soaked by now, I walked back to the mailbox and pulled out a bundle of bills and junk mail. I did not notice the handwritten note.
In my apartment I tossed the mail on the bed and closed the windows: Then I went to the kitchen, checked the freezer, and picked the beef goulash. I unwrapped the package and tossed the frozen brick into a saucepan. Just as the stovetop began to make sizzling noises, the phone rang. On the way to my chair I picked up a fresh pack of cigarettes and opened a beer. I made myself comfortable and picked up the phone. “Kayankaya.”
