Jakob Arjouni: More Beer

She ground out the cigarette under her heel.

“Maybe.” Pause. “So-why are you here?”

“I’m a private investigator. Don’t ask me why, I just am. And I’m waiting for someone.”

Now there was a commotion by the door. Cameras were focused, note pads raised.

“A private investigator-and a Turk? I’m supposed to believe that?”

“Take it or leave it.”

The noise level rose. The pack was straining at the leash. My avenging angel moved closer.

“Have you been living in Germany for a long time?”

“My father was one of the first Turkish garbage collectors of this republic. He brought me here when I was a year old. Soon after that, he was run over by a car. I was adopted by a German family.”

“And your mother?”

“She died when I was born.”

She mimed compassion.

“Oh, how terrible.”

I pointed at the door.

At that moment, the double doors to the courtroom swung open and the reporters charged. She took her leave and dived into the melee. There was a lot of noise in the hallway. I stayed put and contemplated my soaked shoes. Then I too entered the courtroom. The attorney was answering questions from a group of newspaper people. Cameras flashed incessantly, camcorders jockeyed for position. Off in a corner, a guy was broadcasting live, manically yelling into his mike. Policemen were posted by doors and windows. I sat down on a bench. My clothes were wet and stuck to my skin. The place was drafty, and I was cold. I lit a cigarette and watched the court clerk, who was waving his arms at me from a distance, presumably to indicate that smoking was prohibited. Ten o’clock. Five minutes later, the attorney walked over and sat down next to me.

“Please forgive me, Mr. Kayankaya. You know, in a trial of this importance … One has to humor the press. I’m sure you understand.”

Dr. Anastas was small and sturdy. Everything about him was brown: the curls around his balding pate, the frame of the eyeglasses resting on the bridge of his snub nose, his suit, his fingernails. His tie drooped like a wet towel.

“Why did you ask me to come here at nine o’clock?” He frowned.

“I did? I thought we agreed on ten. I’m sorry.”

He stared pensively into the courtroom, which was emptying out. Even the cops were picking up their things and leaving.

“You wanted to see me.” He gave a start.

“Forgive me, I have to keep track of so many things. Maybe …”

“Why don’t we go and have a cup of coffee?”

He deliberated, then raised a hand to his forehead.

“Excellent idea. Let’s. I agreed to meet someone in a restaurant just around the comer. What’s it called? Something with an O in it. I’m sure we can find it. After all, you’re a detective.”

He laughed and patted my shoulder, bounded to his feet, and trotted off. I pulled my damp coat around my shoulders and followed.

“That’s it, over there! Chez Jules. No O in that. Doesn’t matter. We found it.”

He parked, and we went inside. It was one of those nouveau joints where you’re afraid the table might collapse if you set down a decent glass of beer on it. You sit on tiny chairs, munch on tidbits, drink out of little glasses. Everything has dainty legs-the furniture, the ladies, the candlesticks. You say “pardon” when you sit down at a table and “ciao” when you get up again. The habitues call out things like, “Jules, are the crabs fresh today?”

The place was packed with a lunchtime crowd. Anastas hurried through it, his neck stretched like a chicken’s, looking for his date. Sipping white wine and nibbling on slices of roasted garlic, the stylish ladies and gentlemen cast pitying glances at the little lawyer. I could hear them whispering to each other. Anastas waved to me and shouted, “Over here, Mr. Kayankaya!” It wouldn’t have surprised me to see the patrons fall off their chairs. As I joined Anastas, I recognized my pretty inquisitor from the courthouse. She looked at me and laughed.

“Oh, it’s the private eye. Now I understand.”

“You do?”

Anastas looked astounded.

“You’ve met before?”

“Just briefly. Not long enough to exchange names.”

“Carla Reedermann of the Rundhlick . Kemal Kayankaya.”

We nodded and slid onto chairs. Carla Reedermann smiled.

“What a coincidence.”

“Yes. Indeed.”

I lit a cigarette and hid behind the menu. Anastas slid his eyeglasses to the tip of his nose and perused the offerings three times over. A waiter, bouncy in white tennis shoes, ambled over, stopped casually by our table, and asked for our orders. Anastas ordered two cheese baguettes and two tomato salads. Then he removed his glasses, folded his hands, and smiled at me. “So here we are, Mr. Kayankaya.”

“Here we are.”

Contentedly he stroked his balding pate. I stared at his round head and pondered why I had been up and about since eight o’ clock. The waiter returned with our plates. With a broad grin, Anastas wished us bon appetit and attacked his first baguette.

I stirred milk and sugar into my coffee, poured my shot of Scotch into it, and took a long sip. My egg on toast was lukewarm and tasted like a fried egg wrapped in brown paper, but the little lawyer was really enjoying his food. His tongue was angling for the threads of cheese that had strayed onto his face, his teeth mashing the greasy white bread. He washed it all down with black coffee. A thick slice of tomato slid off his fork-he sucked it right off his tie. When he asked me if my toast was all right, I pushed it aside and lit a cigarette. Carla Reedermann was working on her order of mussels. I wondered about her connection to this gluttonous little fellow. Her brown eyes kept glancing provocatively at me. I ordered another coffee and Scotch. The two of them chewed their food in silence. I constructed houses out of beer coasters. Five minutes later, the waiter brought my coffee. Anastas reached for the menu to place another order. I slammed the beer coasters onto the table. “Now, wait a minute! I didn’t get up at that ungodly hour just to watch you have lunch.”

The waiter made himself scarce. Anastas put the menu down, wiped his lips, and put his glasses back on.

“I’m sorry.”

“And I don’t want any reporters.”

I pointed at the newspaper woman. After a moment’s silence, she pushed the plate of mussels aside, put a twenty-mark note on the table, and went to get her coat.

Anastas followed her with his eyes.

“Mr. Kayankaya, Miss Reedermann is on my side. I’m sure she won’t write anything that …”

“You can do as you please. I prefer working alone.”

She returned, picked up her purse, and left. She was furious.

“So. What’s the story?”

Anastas adjusted his glasses and murmured, “You must have read about the Ecological Front’s act of sabotage?”

“Not a whole lot.”

“As you know, I am defending the four people involved. I have been working on the case for months. I still haven’t found a concept that would enable me to mount a successful defense. My clients pretty much refuse to make statements. They treat me kindly, but they won’t tell me more than they’re willing to tell the prosecutor. They openly admit that they did blow up the waste pipe of the Bollig chemical plant in Doddelbach. The firm is about forty years old, a medium-sized family enterprise. Twenty years ago, Friedrich Bollig inherited it from his father, who died relatively young. Six months ago, at the time of the explosion, Friedrich Bollig was killed. His body was found with four bullets in his chest and head, on the grounds of the plant, not far from the detonated waste pipe. My clients deny that they even set eyes on him, much less shot him. I believe them. First of all, they had no motive, and second, these four are as far removed from killer commandos as a delegation of allotment holders would be.”