Jakob Arjouni - Kismet

‘We’ll be glad to meet you.’

I thanked him and flipped the mobile shut. Obviously the term Army didn’t just arise from megalomania.

There followed half an hour when Romario kept coming into the kitchen, asking in short order for shaving gear, aftershave, and clean underclothes. I handed all that over in the hope that then he’d feel spruce and well enough to go out into the wide world and find himself another place to sleep.

‘Do you know a restaurant in Offenbach called the Adria Grill?’

The bathroom door was open. I’ve no idea what he was doing in front of the mirror, but when he answered his voice sounded kind of squeezed.

‘Yup, I know it.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Yugoslavian — or whatever that’s called now. Anyway, it used to have a sign saying Yugoslavian and International Specialities. I think then it was Croatian and International Specialities for a while, and when I last drove by it just said International Specialities. It depended on how the war was going and where people’s sympathies were.’

‘What takes you to Offenbach so often?’

‘A girlfriend of mine lives two blocks past the restaurant.’

‘Ah. Does she have a large flat?’

He didn’t answer at once. Only when he came into the kitchen, his face plastered with scraps of loo paper drenched in blood, did he say, ‘She’s married. I can only get to see her for an hour or so in the afternoon sometimes.’ And when he saw my expression of slight distaste, he remarked, ‘I’ve nothing against your razor blades, but I might as well try shaving with a chisel.’

‘Hm. Sorry about that.’ I smiled at him. ‘But luckily all this will soon be over. From tomorrow you’ll have the best razor blades you could wish for, you’ll be able to sing under the shower as loud as you like and get yourself some breakfast.’ I shrugged apologetically. ‘Afraid I don’t even have any more coffee today. I’ve already drunk the last of it.’

He stopped, his mouth opened, and for a moment I was afraid something awkward was coming. But then he just nodded, turned, and went into the living room.

I heard him tidy up the sofa, folding his bedclothes — with one hand, as he did not forget to remind me by dint of theatrical groaning and the whispered words, clearly audible in the kitchen, ‘Damn thumbs!’. The hell with him.

Ten minutes later I gave him the spare key to my flat, and said that if he really couldn’t find anywhere else to stay he could stay another night — if it was a real emergency. Looking injured, he replied that he didn’t want to accept my offer, but next moment, and with a much less injured look, he was enumerating circumstances that might force him to accept it after all. The hell with me! I picked up my jacket and left the flat.

Dr Michael Ahrens was the owner of a packet-soup and instant-pudding factory. The factory consisted of a huge metal shed, a four-storey brick building, and a hoarding measuring eight by eight metres from which the doctor, showing me all his teeth, announced: My Good Name Guarantees Good Food — Ahrens Soups, Pleasure On Your Plate. He had thick grey hair, blow-dried a little too stylishly, a suntanned face and a white shirt unbuttoned to just above his chest hair. However, his eyes looked at me over the top of a plain, narrow pair of glasses as gravely as if he were delivering the Eleventh Commandment. When he had that picture taken the good doctor had obviously been unable to decide whether he’d rather sell a lot of soup or screw a lot of women.

I turned away from the hoarding and walked to the brick building through the rain, which had been falling since morning. Just behind the front door there was a reception desk and switchboard behind glass. A young woman sat in front of a console with several receivers and any number of switches and little lights, chewing gum and reading the paper. I knocked on the pane between us, which was closed, and she reluctantly looked up.

‘Yes, what is it?’ she said. The pane stayed shut.

‘Is that your style at Ahrens Soups? Shouting at your best customers through the glass?’

At first she looked even more reluctant, but then she seemed to think better of it, plastered a smile on her lips and rose to her feet. As she pushed the pane aside, she explained, ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said. It’s difficult to hear through the glass…’

Interesting tactics, I thought, and replied, ‘I said don’t bother, just stay put, I don’t mind shouting.’

‘Hm.’ She said nothing, looked me challengingly in the eye, and for a moment her smile seemed genuine. ‘So how can I help you?’

‘Orhan Yaprak, import-export. I have an appointment with Dr Ahrens.’

‘You do?’ She looked at an engagements notepad beside her. ‘I don’t have that down. Did you speak to Dr Ahrens personally?’

‘My secretary did.’

‘Your secretary…’ She looked at the notepad again. ‘Well, there must have been some kind of mix-up.’

‘Why don’t you just call Dr Ahrens and ask if he has a few minutes to spare? It’s very urgent business, and if his firm isn’t in a position to deliver two million packet soups within a very short time there won’t be a deal anyway.’

Her mouth dropped open. Then she repeated, ‘Two million packet soups?’

‘That’s right. Earthquake in Kazakhstan yesterday evening. Humanitarian aid. The German government will be paying, of course.’

‘Yesterday evening…’ She narrowed her eyes slightly and examined me again as if I’d only just come through the door. ‘So just when did your secretary call?’

‘I’ll give you one guess.’

‘I’m no good at guessing, but I’ve sitting here since eight taking all calls, and there wasn’t one from any secretary with Thingummyjig Import-Export.’

‘Thingummyjig Import-Export! You certainly go to endless trouble to please your customers here. What’s the matter, sweetheart? Is this the Federal Chancellery? Or is the doctor just blow-drying his hair? I didn’t eavesdrop on my secretary while she was phoning, but it could be she didn’t get through at once and said to herself, like some others I could mention: well, then I can just go on chewing my gum in peace for a while and finish reading my horoscope.’

As I delivered this speech she had formed her lips into a pout and begun to inspect her turquoise fingernails, looking bored. Perhaps I wasn’t the first to complain of customer relations at Ahrens Soups, or perhaps she’d given in her notice to leave at the end of the month. Or then again, perhaps she was just an easy going girl.

After a pause she asked, with a sigh, ‘Finished?’ and looked up from her nails. ‘Then I can call Dr Ahrens, but you’d better tell him all that stuff about the earthquake yourself.’ With these words she turned away, picked up one of the receivers and pressed a button.

‘Dr Ahrens? There’s someone here who wants to speak to you… no idea, he wants to tell you personally… says it won’t take long… yes, I’ll tell him.’

She put the receiver down and gave me a sweet smile. ‘You can go up to see him in ten minutes’ time. While you’re waiting, why not think up some fairy tale to tell the boss? In the Federal Chancellery?’

I nodded. ‘Must have been the poster outside. I thought someone who has his own photo blown up to twenty square metres and hangs it in front of my nose must be suffering from something that prevents him from talking to anyone but the real bigwigs.’

‘Hm,’ she said evidently agreeing. ‘But…’ and she looked me appraisingly in the eye, ‘… but that doesn’t make him stupid.’

I nodded again. ‘That’s what I thought. In personnel matters, all the same, I can see he’s just fantastic.’