Jakob Arjouni: More Beer

I shook my head and went back to sleep.

Finally we stood in front of my building. Slibulsky leaned forward in the driver’s seat. His voice was low and hoarse. “You’re a pretty good guy, Kayankaya.”

“Un-hunh,” I agreed, and got out. He drove off. I tottered through the rain toward the front door, holding the Chivas with both hands. Suddenly a shadow detached itself from the wall.

“I’ve been looking for you all day. Two hours ago, Detective Superintendent Kessler himself called the editorial office to let us know that the four suspects are more or less innocent. The fifth man, someone named Kollek, had just been using the four to trick the police. Can you imagine?”

Carla Reedermann waved her hands excitedly, then looked at me with compassion. “I’m so sorry for you. You tried so hard. And the idea about the informer wasn’t so bad, but … Anyway, I came to tell you this so you wouldn’t have to read it in the papers. And Anastas wants to apologize. He admits that he was a little … grumpy yesterday.” She smiled winsomely.

First I grinned, then I laughed out loud, laughed like an idiot, unable to stop.

“I don’t understand …”

“Never mind, sweetie. You understand lots of other things.”

She looked confused, took a turn on the pavement, then said quietly, “The only thing I can’t figure out is, who attacked Anastas?”

I tried to light a cigarette, but the rain kept extinguishing it, so I stopped trying.

“Well, Kollek, for instance, maybe together with Kessler, or with the Mayor, or with me … or was it our Father in Heaven?”

Her hair and her overcoat were soaking wet. It was a pleasant sight, even when she got furious. “What is it you want? First you act as if you didn’t give a shit, then you act like a wild man who won’t give up on the case, and now you don’t give a shit again.”

I raised my arms.

“What do I want? I want some beer. More beer! Much more beer!”

Then I pushed past her and staggered down the sidewalk. Halfway to the door she caught up with me, said, “I’m sorry,” and asked me if she could come up to my place.

I thought it over for a moment.

“There’s a dead guy up there. Not a pretty sight. Maybe some other time … Not now, I don’t think.”

I left her standing in the rain.

Then I was in my apartment. I wrapped Schmidi in two old bedsheets and dragged him out onto the landing. I poured myself a glass of Chivas and leaned against the window. A cat screeched, and down in the street someone shouted, “Red Front!”

I stood there for a while and stared at the rain.

JANUARY 1987

REAGAN CALLS FOR FINAL SOLUTION OF PALESTINIAN QUESTION

Gaddhafi wore jeans!

Theo Sontag’s political commentary: Was this a trick?

LEAK IN BIBLIS NUCLEAR REACTOR

The Minister of the Interior says, “Radiation negligible, no cause for concern among local population” and warns against “unfounded panic mongering.”

U.S. DEFENSE SECRETARY ADDRESSES NATO

“We want a second-strike capability that renders a third strike impossible.”

“BUT OUR WOMEN ARE MORE HONEST”

The Federal Chancellor in Bangkok at the end of his Asian tour.

FORMER MAYOR OF FRANKFURT DECLARES HIMSELF WILLING TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT OF FEDERAL REPUBLIC

Verdict as expected in Bollig case

The four accused were sentenced to two years’ imprisonment without probation. Many questions on the role played by Herbert Kollek remain unanswered. In his summation, the Public Prosecutor again stressed “the basic attitude of hostility against the state” of the accused.

In the eighty-ninth minute of the game, the Stuttgart team scored a regrettable goal and caused Gladbach to lose 2–1.

I put the newspaper away and dropped two aspirins into the glass. It was Saturday, ten o’clock in the morning. Outside it was snowing like hell. Next to my cup of coffee lay two letters, one from the Public Prosecutor’s office, one from the Preungesheim Prison administration. I tore open the one from the prosecutor and read my third summons to be interviewed in the Schmidi case. Kessler kept on working hard to get me put away for murder. The one from the prison I held in my hand for a while. Then I opened it carefully. I was informed that Nina Scheigel, nee Kaszmarek, had died in the night between the second and third of January. According to her wishes, I was being notified of the event.

I drank my aspirin, lit a cigarette, and sat there smoking until the phone rang. It was Slibulsky.

“Two o’clock, at Karate’s?”

Sure, I said, and hung up. Then I made some fresh coffee.