Jakob Arjouni - Brother Kemal

When we arrived, Rashid had commented dryly on the special presentation of Stullberg’s novel with, ‘On account of his back trouble.’

There was a whole shelf full of copies of his own novel, Journey to the End of Days , with a quotation from Le Monde above it. ‘Seldom have relevance of content and formal expression achieved such perfect symbiosis.’

‘A great quotation,’ said Katja Lipschitz.

‘Well, Le Monde is always Le Monde ,’ agreed Rashid.

And I said, ‘Makes you want to read it right away.’

Katja Lipschitz gave me an expressionless look before pointing to the corner next to the hospitality room. ‘We thought you could sit there. You’ll have a good view of the stand, and you’ll be relatively inconspicuous. Malik will be interviewed by journalists and talk to readers and booksellers at the table in front of you.’

‘Great,’ I said, putting the bag containing my ironed shirt and pin-stripe suit for the evening occasion with Dr. Breitel down on the chair intended for me. Rashid pushed his gleaming black rucksack with a little Canadian flag patch sewn onto it and the inscription Vancouver International Writers’ Festival in red under the table, explained that he was going off for a moment to see people, and began walking round the stand saying hello to the publishing staff; with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks for the women, and a hearty handshake for the men. ‘Great book, Malik!’ ‘Immensely touching!’ ‘A really important text!’ ‘My favourite new book this year!’

While Katja Lipschitz turned away to use her phone, I looked around for places where Rashid and I could take cover if need be. In front of us was the aisle with the constant flow of visitors to the Book Fair, to the right the Maier Verlag tables where staff members were discussing sales figures, developments at the Book Fair, personal details, events they were going to attend and the latest Book Fair gossip — ‘Gretchen Love!’ — ‘She’s bound to be on the non fiction best-seller list next week!’ — ‘Crazy!’ — ‘Scandalous!’ To our left there was the partition between Maier Verlag and the neighbouring publisher. On that partition was Rashid’s shelf with new copies of his novel, some three hundred of them, the quote from Le Monde blown up large, and a photo of Rashid propping his head on three fingers and looking as amused and superior as he had when I walked into the lounge of the Harmonia Hotel.

So the only possible cover was the hospitality room. But by the time we had got the sliding door behind us open and closed again, and flung ourselves down among the trays of rolls and crates of bottled water, any assassin worth his salt would have finished off Rashid with a knife taken from the nearest pizza trolley and disappeared into the throng of visitors again.

Besides my suit for that evening, my bag also contained a baseball bat, pepper spray and a pair of handcuffs. I unzipped it and placed the handle of the baseball bat close to the side of the bag so that I could get at it as quickly as possible. I also took my pistol out of my back holster behind me and put it in the right-hand side pocket of my corduroy jacket. No one could spot the gun there, and I could shoot through the jacket itself.

‘I hope you’ll be careful with that.’ Katja Lipschitz came up to me and pointed to my jacket pocket. ‘I’ve been observing you. I mean, there can also be exuberant fans who might want to embrace Malik.’

‘Then that’s their bad luck. I rather like firing at random, you know. Right here in the aisle with all the visitors coming to see the show you’re bound to hit someone. By the way, do you have those threatening letters with you?’

We looked at each other.

After a pause, Katja asked, ‘Do you have a wife, I wonder?’

‘You mean am I gay?’

‘No, just wondering if anyone lives with you?’

‘You’d be surprised: I’ve been in good hands for more than ten years. We share an apartment, no affairs — at least on my part — which is why I’m so good-tempered, so easy to please, a man surrounded by the warmth of a feminine nest. Sorry about that, in case you were interested in your chances.’

Katja Lipschitz uttered a brief laugh.

‘How about those threatening letters?’

‘Would the letters change anything in your approach?’

‘Yes. I’d know whether I can rely on the information of the lady who hired me.’

Another pause. I heard a cry from one of the other Maier Verlag tables. ‘Here, see this text message! Number one!’ — ‘I don’t believe it!’ — ‘Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind having someone like Gretchen Love on our list too — you can always sell it as art!’ — ‘ Spermaboarding as art? I don’t know about that.’ — ‘Is that the title? Spermaboarding? ’ — ‘Yes, and something else as well.’

Finally Katja Lipschitz said, ‘A few weeks ago Malik said he’d received letters like that. Unfortunately he hasn’t brought them yet. I’ve asked him several times.’ She looked at me challengingly. ‘Happy now?’

I shrugged my shoulders. ‘It’s all the same to me what you people do to crank up sales. But it’s part of my job to estimate roughly the extent of the danger for the person I am protecting and for myself. I’ll assume even more now that we shall have a peaceful afternoon.’

It took her a moment to overcome herself, and then she said, ‘Glad you are so relaxed about it. I’m sorry, working with authors’ — she hesitated — ‘well; they have their oddities, surprises — if you see what I mean?’

‘Of course — because they think too much.’

She smiled wearily. ‘Then that’s all right.’ And looked at the time. ‘I must get back to the phone now. If you need anything, then as I said, please ask me. See you later.’

Soon after that Rashid sat down at the table in front of me, and Katja Lipschitz’s young assistant, wearing a chic blue trouser suit, served him a cup of stewed coffee and a slice of coconut and banana cake.

‘Thanks, darling.’ He winked at her. ‘Mmm, that smells good. Let’s hope our young colleague writes as well as he bakes.’

‘Oh, he does,’ said the assistant with a friendly smile. ‘A great book, really moving. If you need anything please ask. The man from the Bamberger Allgemeine will be here in five minutes.’

‘What about the Wochenecho interview?’

‘We’re still working on it, Herr Rashid. Katja is doing all she can. The problem is that the journalist who agreed to do the interview had to withdraw at short notice for health reasons. I’m really sorry. As soon as there’s any news I’ll let you know.’

She turned to me. ‘Would you like a piece of cake too?’

‘No thank you, just a glass of water, please.’

As the assistant went to get the glass of water from the hospitality room behind me and a cloudy aroma of Harz cheese and banana enveloped me from the open door, Rashid turned to me, glancing at the hospitality room. ‘Sweet, isn’t she?’ Then he held his cake fork aloft like a little sword. ‘An interview in the Wochenecho ! If that comes off then the sales …’ And he drew a line slanting up in the air with his fork.

‘Great,’ I said.

A little later Katja Lipschitz’s assistant brought the journalist from the Bamberger Allgemeine to Rashid’s table. He was a stout, unshaven, uncombed, comfortable-looking man in his mid-forties in trodden-down shoes and a raincoat so crumpled that he might have spent the night in it. He let his apparently heavy shoulder bag drop on the floor and greeted Rashid exuberantly. ‘… A great honour for me … Very glad to … What a brave book … thank you for giving me your time.’