Jakob Arjouni - Brother Kemal

‘I had no idea who Gregory was,’ I said, trying to dispel her doubts. ‘The agreement came by fax, and it seemed like easy money.’

‘Right.’ She put her cup down, looked at one of Hanna’s pictures again and pulled herself together. ‘It’s about one of our authors. He’s Moroccan, and he’s written a book that’s created quite a stir in the Arab world. He’ll be coming to Frankfurt for the Book Fair, and he needs protection.’ She paused for a moment. ‘He’s in serious danger. There have been several assassination threats from various Islamic organisations, and even intellectuals are attacking the book and its author harshly.’ She pressed her lips together. ‘Our publisher is taking quite a risk himself by bringing it out.’

‘What’s the book about?’

‘It’s a novel. It takes place in a police station in a fictional Arab setting, although it’s obviously modelled on one of the Maghreb countries. Well …’ Katja Lipschitz looked me in the eyes, as if hoping to read something there. Her look reminded me slightly of Valerie de Chavannes before she told me that the quarrel in which Abakay and Marieke got involved that evening had been about the caricatures of Muhammad.

I nodded encouragingly. ‘Yes?’

‘Well, during an investigation in the red light district the central character, a police detective, discovers that he has homosexual tendencies. He falls in love with a boy and they begin an affair, endangering his marriage and his job, in the end even his life. At the same time, of course, the book is really studying the relationship between Muslim society and homosexuality. There are passages in which the police detective — until then a devout Muslim — thinks about the Koran, God and love between people of the same sex, and in his despair and anger turns against his religion. Meanwhile the book also describes an abyss of drugs, sex, poverty and criminality — fundamentally afar from sacred society. Religion is only there to conceal the widespread misery and keep the people calm — do you understand?’

‘I do. And the author himself has’ — I couldn’t resist a slight imitation of Katja Lipschitz’s excessively cautious tone of voice — ‘homosexual inclinations?’

‘No, no, the story is pure fiction.’

‘How do you know?’

With the slightly exhausted look that comes into all women’s eyes when they are talking about crude, unwelcome advances from men, she said, ‘He was at our offices last year, and I accompanied him to several interviews.’

‘How big is he?’

‘As an author?’

‘No, as a man.’

She frowned. ‘Why do you want to know that?’

‘Well, none of the Moroccans I’ve met so far are giants, and I imagine that if a rather small man tries making up to such an imposing figure as you I can draw some conclusions about his character.’

‘So?’ For a moment she obviously thought I was round the bend. ‘In fact he is rather small. What conclusion do you draw from that?’ Her tone was stern, even a bit angry. Perhaps she didn’t like that ‘imposing figure’, although I had meant it as a compliment.

‘If he was seriously interested in you and outward features like size hardly mattered — none at all. But if he is the kind of man who simply tries to jump on anything female, never mind what his chances, from the perspective of twenty-four-hour personal protection that is not a completely irrelevant factor.’

She thought about it for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, of course you’re right. Hmm …’

Once again she thought it over. She disliked the subject, but not as much as she probably should have, given her position. She couldn’t hide a certain satisfaction in having to make her views clear because the situation demanded it.

‘He certainly doesn’t miss out on anything. Or rather, he’d like to think he doesn’t. His advances aren’t very successful. I spent two days travelling around with him, and he got nowhere with any of the women he made up to. Don’t misunderstand me: he’s good company, well educated, even good-looking, but …’

She stopped.

I said, ‘But he gets on your nerves.’

‘Maybe you could put it that way, yes. However, I’m sorry for him. You see, I think he simply doesn’t understand that it’s different between the sexes here, that communication is more along the lines of equal rights, that we …’

She stopped. The little word we echoed soundlessly in the air, as if Katja Lipschitz had farted and was hoping I’d put the sound down to the chair creaking. We, the civilised Europeans Lipschitz and Kayankaya, and he, the Moroccan Freddie the Flirt? Or more likely you two Orientals and I, the tall blonde …?

I tried to help her out. ‘You don’t have to explain your author to me. I’d just like to know what he does and can or can’t do. The reasons don’t matter to me.’

‘I just didn’t want you thinking that he …’

‘Pesters women?’

‘Well … no … yes, I definitely didn’t want that.’

‘Don’t worry. Besides, he’ll leave me in peace. What languages does he speak?’

‘Hmm …’ She wanted to say something else about her author, but then let it rest. ‘Arabic, of course, French and German. He studied in Berlin, and always spends several months a year there. And incidentally … he chose you.’

‘He chose me?’

‘Well, we showed him a list of all the Frankfurt agencies offering personal protection, and he thought it would help his public image if his bodyguard was a Muslim. You are Muslim, aren’t you?’

‘Oh, well.’ I gestured vaguely. ‘My parents were. I mean my birth parents. They died early on, and I was adopted by a German couple who raised me. I assume they were baptised, but religion didn’t play any part in our family.’

Katja Lipschitz hesitated.

‘But … forgive me for asking, presuming we’re to work together it might not be totally unimportant: how do you see yourself? I mean are you religious in any way?’

I shook my head. ‘No religion, no star sign, no belief in hot stones or lucky numbers. When I need something to lean on I have a beer.’

‘Oh.’ She looked confused and slightly repelled.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t offer you any faith. But that can hardly be of any importance to the public image of your author. My name is Kayankaya, and I look the way I look. I don’t know how Muslim I am under religious law, but ask any of my neighbours, I’m sure they could tell you.’

‘Do you mind if I pass that on to our author?’

‘Not in the least. So he chose me. Was it his idea to hire a bodyguard in the first place? Does the information that his book is causing an uproar in the Arab world come first and foremost from him?’

Katja Lipschitz’s glance lingered on my eyes for a moment. But she wasn’t seeing my eyes, rather something or other beyond them — her boss, a furious Freddie the Flirt, or the newspaper headline: Moroccan author invents role of victim to crank up sales of book.

‘That’s nonsense,’ she said at last, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced.

‘Glad to hear it. I’ve been rather suspicious ever since Gregory, as I’m sure you’ll understand. What’s your author’s name? Well, I can find that out anyway: Maier Verlag, Morocco, gay police detective — Google ought to provide enough hits. And then I can convince myself of the outrage in the Arab world.’

‘Malik Rashid. I’ll be happy to show you the threatening letters.’

‘In Arabic?’

‘We’ll get them translated, of course. In case we’re forced to publish them, or we have to turn to the police.’

‘If you hire me I really would like to see those letters.’

I looked at the time; it was just after noon. I’d determined to get Marieke home in time for lunch. On the one hand, the fastest possible performance of a job is of course part of the service; on the other hand, I liked the idea of impressing Valerie de Chavannes with my swift, uncomplicated help.