Jakob Arjouni - Brother Kemal

Here we go, I thought, picking up the two cases. Twenty-four bottles of Foulards Rouges, Frida — my favourite wine, and not just mine; it was excellent. I had learnt a lot from Deborah about wine, and other things too. But I also still knew: beer with a chaser of spirits and Whitney Houston on the jukebox could be a lot of fun.

On Friday I met Malik Rashid and Katja Lipschitz in the midst of a dreary dance of colour. The lounge of the Harmonia Hotel had yellow and pink chessboard pattern carpeting, Rashid was sitting on a lime-green sofa, and Katja Lipschitz in a faded blue wing chair. In front of them stood a table with a black top and a metal frame, and on it were orange half-litre mugs with milky white foam rising from them.

Katja Lipschitz, legs crossed and arms folded, sat leaning back, with her head almost horizontally to one side, as if to disguise the difference in size between herself and Rashid like that. Or maybe she was just dozing off.

Rashid, upright, legs apart, was talking to her and gesticulating wildly. He was wearing bright white trainers, jeans and a beige T-shirt bearing the legend The old words are the best, and short words are the best of all . He had a thin face with fine features, lively eyes always moving around and an amused expression, as if to say: Yes, my dear, what a crazy, confused world, what luck there are fellows like me around to keep on top of it.

Rashid didn’t look up until I stopped a couple of metres in front of him, and his expression of amusement instantly turned to a certain reluctance. Perhaps he thought I was a member of the hotel staff.

‘Yes?’

‘Hello, my name is Kayankaya.’

‘Oh,’ said Katja Lipschitz, raising her head. Now she clearly towered above Rashid. ‘I didn’t see you coming.’

And Rashid cried, ‘Aha!’ and switched instantly to an expression of radiance. He rose from the sofa, spreading his arms wide in a theatrical manner. ‘My protector! Greetings!’

Katja Lipschitz didn’t seem to know whether to stand up too. On the one hand there was civility to me, on the other she was probably thinking of Rashid’s feelings. I noticed at once that she was wearing flat-heeled shoes, but if she stood right beside him Rashid was still going to look like a gnome. Or she was going to look like a giant — perhaps it was that more than anything that she wanted to avoid.

‘Don’t get up,’ I said to Katja Lipschitz, offering Rashid my hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, Herr Rashid.’

‘Oh!’ He lowered his arms and ironically mimed disappointment. ‘So formal, my friend! How are we to spend three days cheek by jowl like that?’

I glanced at Katja Lipschitz, who was smiling as if her boss had just put a farting cushion on her chair.

I left my hand in midair. ‘Cheek by jowl.’

‘Or bristle by bristle.’ He grinned, glad of his little coup. ‘Because, aren’t we all little pigs somewhere deep down inside? Or sometimes big pigs. Maybe that’s why we don’t eat them, it would be a kind of cannibalism.’ He grinned a little more cheerfully, before turning apologetically to Katja Lipschitz. ‘Excuse me, Katja, by we I meant us Orientals. I’ve no objection to eating pork, but I don’t eat it. And that’s nothing to do with religion. The Jews — and Jews are Orientals too, right? A fraternal people. And what are the bloodiest wars?’ He pointed his index finger questioningly at me. I withdrew my proffered hand and put it in my trouser pocket.

‘Wars between brothers! Anyway — the Jews don’t eat pork either. Nor do Christians in the Orient — and many of my best friends are Christians,’ he added, laughing. ‘At least, they’ve never served me ham hock!’

Katja Lipschitz joined in his laughter, whether out of professionalism or because she really thought it funny I couldn’t tell.

I said, ‘Herr Rashid, I am to be your bodyguard for three days. We shall probably be sitting in the same restaurant several times, maybe at the same table. Please let me know whether it will bother you if I order sausage.’

For a moment his eyes rested on me as if he were wondering whether it had really been a good idea to pick me as his bodyguard.

Then he shook himself, his mouth stretched in a smile, and all at once he was my new best friend again, beaming radiantly. ‘I’ve already heard that you have your own opinions and’ — he nodded approvingly — ‘defend them in your own original way.’

Once again I glanced at Katja Lipschitz. This time she was smiling as if her boss had put a board studded with nails on her chair.

‘Well, Herr Rashid, if eating sausage is an opinion — yes, I have opinions. Shall we discuss the rest of your day? I assume you’ll have to turn up at the Fair to meet your fans and carry out your engagements.’

He laughed ironically, clearing his throat. ‘Ah, my fans! I’m only a little scribbler. Now Hans Peter Stullberg has fans — so does Mercedes García …’ And in a tone of casual interest, glancing at Katja Lipschitz across the multicoloured seating and the chessboard pattern of the carpet, ‘I wonder, what hotel are they staying in?’

For a moment Katja Lipschitz seemed to be in danger of blushing. She caught herself just in time, assumed a kindly smile and explained, ‘Her Spanish publisher is looking after Mercedes García. I believe she’s staying in a guestroom at the Instituto Cervantes. And luckily we were able to get a room at the Frankfurter Hof at the last moment for Hans Peter Stullberg. Rohlauf Verlag kindly let us have one of their quota. On account of his age and his back trouble, Hans Peter Stullberg can’t walk long distances these days.’

‘Oh, the poor man.’ Rashid twisted his face into an expression of sympathy.

‘Yes, he really doesn’t have an easy time. In addition,’ Katja went on, with what I thought was a tiny, cunning flash in her eyes, ‘the Frankfurter Hof would have been out of the question for you, for reasons of security. Thousands of people are going in and out of the hotel every evening and every night during the Book Fair.’ And she explained, for my benefit, ‘The bar of the Frankfurter Hof could be described as the unofficial centre of the air after ten in the evening. Everyone meets there: authors, publishers, journalists, agents, editors.’

‘Apart from which,’ said Rashid, also turning to me, ‘the Frankfurter Hof is, of course, greatly overestimated as a hotel. Last time I stayed there during the Book Fair — ’ He suddenly stopped. Perhaps he sensed Katja Lipschitz suddenly looking at the floor, rather exhausted. ‘Well, never mind. Average food, unfriendly service — that’s what you usually get at the so-called best hotels in the city. They don’t need to go to any trouble. Why don’t we sit down, my friend?’

‘Let’s do that,’ I agreed.

‘Would you like something to drink?’ asked Katja Lipschitz.

‘Mineral water, please.’

As she signalled to the barman, Rashid returned to his subject. ‘Of course there are exceptions. At the Literature Festival in New York last year — ’

‘Herr Rashid,’ I interrupted him, ‘it’s twelve thirty, and at one thirty, according to your schedule, you have your first engagement at the Fair. I’d like to discuss a couple of details with you first.’

‘I understand.’ He laughed. ‘My good German Kemal — work is work, and schnapps is schnapps!’ He laughed again. In fact, he seemed glad that I’d stopped him talking about hotels.

I said, ‘First and foremost it’s about the technicalities when we’re together. For instance, when we’re moving through the halls of the Fair, I’d like to decide, depending on the situation and the number of people present, whether I go behind you or ahead of you. If there are cameras turned on you, of course I’ll keep in the background.’