Jakob Arjouni - More Beer

“You’ll have a scar, but,” he smiled, “you won’t think that’s such a tragedy, will you?”

Was he implying that I wasn’t photographic model material, anyway? I told him to go to hell and tried to get off the cot. I slid and dragged myself over to the chair with my clothes on it. They reeked of alcohol.

“Why does everything smell like that?” I asked.

“We disinfected everything.”

I put on my shoes and reeled into the hall. Heckler clip-clopped along by my side. “Come back in two days, or have your own doctor take over.”

I gave him my doctor’s address and said goodbye. It was two o’clock in the morning. The silent hallway was lit by yellow emergency lights. I fired up a cigarette, shuffled through the reception area, and flagged a taxi. The rain had stopped. You could even see the moon. But I was already fast asleep.

A huge rat in a pair of briefs sat on the edge of the bed, making a fiery speech about the forests of Germany as it kept grabbing one of my feet-I had at least ten-and nibbling on it. Then I was crawling on my stumps down an endless tunnel, past men in white coats who were hooting and pointing at me. From the other end of the tunnel a fat woman approached carrying a ringing telephone. She set it down in front of me, I picked up the receiver and said “Hello?” but no one answered. But it kept ringing and getting louder and louder, and I kept picking up the receiver. Finally I woke up, bathed in cold sweat. Someone was leaning on my apartment door bell like a madman. I threw off the covers and dragged myself over to the closet. The Beretta felt comfortable in my hand. According to my watch, it was twenty past five. Who the devil could this be? I touched my left arm. It hardly hurt anymore. The doorbell started ringing again, and now they were banging on the door as well.

“Open up! Police!”

I switched on the light, turned the key, took the safety off the Beretta, and opened the door. It was, indeed, the cops. Four of them. They faced me in a half-circle. One of them saluted casually and asked, “You’re Kemal Kayankaya?”

“As it says on the door.”

“Come with us.”

I stuck the gun in the pocket of my robe and told him what time it was.

“I have a warrant to place you under temporary arrest,” he rumbled, and showed me a piece of paper. “If you resist, I have to put the cuffs on you.”

The fingers of the three others hovered nervously above their pistols. I surrendered, and half an hour later we were at the precinct.

The cell was no more than three square meters, with a light green plastic toilet in a corner. The walls were covered with obscene graffiti. Above me to the right a small ventilation fan whirred. There were no windows. It was a little after seven by my watch. Outside, the sun must have risen.

I lay on a narrow cot, humming popular tunes to myself. They had turned the lights on half an hour ago-bright lights, which penetrated closed eyelids. A cop had brought me a jug of tap water and told me that the superintendent was still busy. The light became unbearable, and I pulled the gray blanket over my head. My cigarettes were in my overcoat, and the cop who from time to time stuck his head through the door refused to get me any. When one of the clowns pulled me out of the squad car, my arm had started bleeding again. I turned to the wall and tried to sleep, but with no success. I could feel the throbbing of the wound in my brain. So I got up and walked two steps forward and two steps back, back and forth, back and forth. Then I started kicking the toilet at one end and banging the peephole window at the other. Less than two minutes later a head appeared.

“What are you trying to do?”

“I’m trying to stop smoking.”

“Come again?”

“You see a cigarette anywhere?”

He closed the hatch. I heard him say, “Willi, the Turk is freaking out.” I stepped up on the toilet seat and held the blanket up to the ventilation fan. Instantly the stiff fabric jammed the blades. I banged the window again. “What’s the matter now?”

I pointed at the fan. “I’m suffocating.”

He pushed past me and saw the blanket. “Listen here, you asshole, there’s a bunch of buddies back there who aren’t feeling so good because it’s been a fucking long night, and they’d like nothing better than to work you over! So shut up and lie down, you won’t regret it.”

“I want to call my lawyer.”

He gave me a pitying look. Then he roared, “You don’t understand what I’m saying! You don’t even know what a lawyer is, for God’s sake, you goddamn camel driver!”

I grabbed his green uniform collar and pushed him up against the wall. “Now it’s your turn to listen to me. I got out of the hospital at two o’clock this morning, and three hours later you guys pull me out of bed, rip the stitches out of my arm, and throw me in a cell that would make any normal person sick! I want to call my lawyer!”

I let him go and sat down on the cot. He took a deep breath. “Very well, dago. I’ll tell the superintendent that you’re ready for questioning.” He checked the time. “We’ll save the raiding party for another time. I’m off duty.”

I growled something about how I didn’t give a shit, I’d fight all the fucking cops, let them just come by, including the superintendent. He was gone. I ripped the blanket out of the fan and it started whirring again. Then I heard footsteps, and the door opened. Two of them came in, handcuffed me, and took me out of the cell without a word. Our footsteps echoed in the long hallway. They stopped by a wooden bench and told me to sit down. After an eternity of ten minutes, they pulled me to the door facing the bench and into an office.

Behind the desk sat a nice little man with big ears. He looked at me as if he were in the market for a nice red balloon. I was planted in a chair facing him. The two uniformed cops left, and I was alone with the nice little man. He looked down at a piece of paper and read: “Kemal Kayankaya, private investigator. Born in Turkey. German citizen.”

I nodded. He set the piece of paper aside and folded his hands.

“Four years ago I spent a week in Istanbul. An enchanting city. Truly enchanting. And the architecture! Of course,” he lifted his palms in regret, “a little run-down. Not that you don’t see that here too.”

He scrutinized me kindly, fastened his gaze on the handcuffs, and exclaimed with feigned indignation, “These officers! Always so pedantic. They insisted on putting handcuffs on you. But I told them to treat you considerately.” He shook his head. “Please, Mr. Kayankaya, you must forgive us. My staff is still so inexperienced.”

Instead of removing the cuffs, he turned to look out the window, still smiling.

“I gather you have been complaining about the way they’ve been treating you?”

“I just wanted to speak to my lawyer.”

“But you threatened an officer, didn’t you? Do you realize you could be charged for that?” When he turned his eyes back to me, they were cold. “It’s always the really clever ones who demand to speak to their lawyers right away. Are you a really clever one?”

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed one of his big ears.

“You’re not answering me. Maybe you’re a really stupid one?”

He chuckled, and laugh lines appeared around his eyes without softening them.

“Well, all right, let that go. You are presently investigating the Bollig case. That does not please me. I want you to resign from the job. If you refuse to do so, I’ll ask for a warrant for complicity with the culprit and endangerment of our investigation. I don’t want you to interfere in this case. It gives us the opportunity to uncover certain connections and organizations which we haven’t been able to investigate until now. These things require delicacy and time. The police force does not consist only of idiots. We have been weaving a fine web, and you are about to tear it up, in all sorts of ways.”