Jakob Arjouni - Kismet

‘You think?’

‘Now listen, what’s all this? I don’t just think so, I know. At the moment, so I’ve been told, she’s in Munich meeting an industrialist from Zagreb. But she’ll be back by Saturday at the latest, and then I’ll manage to get word to her that you haven’t been getting her messages because of that stupid cow.’

‘Saturday.’ She made it sound like ‘next year’.

‘Two days. They’ll pass quickly.’

‘Oh, well,’ she sighed, and fell silent.

‘OK, look, I still have something to do this evening. I don’t think I’ll be able to drop in. How about I fetch you tomorrow morning, and we’ll go to those other animal rescue centres and look for Susi?’

‘Hm.’

‘Was that a yes?’

‘Don’t know.’

‘Then I do. So… see you tomorrow. Sleep well.’

‘… You too.’

I hung up, stared at the phone for a moment, picked up my glass and went upstairs to the bar. What I still had to do this evening was find a free seat in a quiet corner. The bar was beginning to empty at this time. People playing cards still sat at the long, rough wooden tables around me, a pair of lovers and a small birthday party lingered on. No one I knew.

I leaned back against the wall, drank cider and smoked. With every glass the truth I suspected became more like the story I’d spun Leila. Soon I felt there could be no other explanation of her mother’s behaviour. I couldn’t believe the woman I’d seen in the video yesterday would simply abandon her daughter just to screw around with Ahrens and get her hands on a few marks.

I took a large gulp and waved to the waiter for another glass.

… If they were screwing around at all. They had gone into Ahrens’s office building — and if she had to negotiate with him, why not? As for the way Ahrens was pawing her from behind, well, that was hardly surprising with a man like him. Any more than it was surprising for Schmidtbauer to fail to pass on messages. On the phone I’d simply been making it up; by now I was sure I’d hit the bull’s-eye… I nodded to myself. There was a good reason for everything.

‘Last orders, please!’

I ordered a last glass, and as I smiled at the waiter I realised how a few ciders had brightened my spirits and my general mood. I emptied the glass, and decided they’d be even brighter if I had another drink. I went round the corner to a run-down bar that stayed open all night. When I somehow, some time, got home, my spirits and my general mood must have been as bright as a dazzling summer sky. Unfortunately I couldn’t remember anything about it next morning.

Around twelve I woke up beside the sofa, surrounded by video cassettes, packets of cigarettes, and an empty vodka bottle. The blue of the video channel shone out of the TV screen. I lay there for a moment, working out where I hurt and where, as I gingerly felt myself, I seemed to be all right. Then I heaved myself up and launched into the usual routine: Alka Seltzer, cold shower, smart clothes for my battered body, a litre of water, open the windows and off to the nearest cafe to get some food inside me.

An hour later the ground beneath my feet was still making peculiar swaying movements, but I felt fresh enough to get into the car and keep my appointment with Leila. Obviously all the drivers on the streets today were learners. As I managed, with some difficulty, to avoid their strange manoeuvres I couldn’t shake off the thought that I’d forgotten something during my phone conversation with the Albanian yesterday. Forgotten to tell him something… ask him something… no, I couldn’t pin it down. And then I found that I’d reached Slibulsky’s place.

The afternoon passed much like the last Susi-search, except for Leila’s compliments on my suit and her way of moving my chin aside every time I spoke to her directly.

‘Smell like rubbish from party.’

While Leila looked at dogs I spent most of the time sitting on the nearest crate and drinking bottle after bottle of water, unable to believe how long, loud and painfully those animals could bark. In the Kelkheim dogs’ home a passing keeper groused at us suspiciously as if we were gypsies. Perhaps because of my suit, perhaps because of Leila’s brightly coloured dress or her silver bracelets and earrings, don’t ask me which. When we didn’t reply he stopped, planted himself in front of us, chin jutting, and asked if we were planning to eat the dogs. Good heavens!

‘No, drink dogs,’ said Leila, winking at me.

The keeper narrowed his eyes, turned his head first to her and then to me, and jerked his thumb. ‘What’d she say?’

I sighed. ‘You heard. We boil the animals, then we distil the liquor and get tanked up. Do you have any problem with that?’

Obviously he hadn’t expected an answer, or at least not one in complete sentences. He stepped back, looked from one to the other of us, shook his head, and turned away with a sour expression, as if we were suddenly none of his business.

Then, in Oberursel, a shrill cry of delight drowned out all the barking. I almost fell off the crate where I was sitting. Next moment Leila came racing up, gabbling something excitedly, grabbed my arm and hauled me over to one of the pens. To me, the dog looked like any other German shepherd, but Leila was convinced that the animal leaping up and down in there was my last two weeks’ salary. The dog did in fact react to the name of Susi with enthusiastic howls and tail-wagging. I congratulated Leila, who was bursting with pride and excitement, and gave her a hug. Then we went to the office, settled the formalities, I bought a dog-leash, phoned Frau Beierle and told her we were on our way. Half an hour later we drove off: Leila as happy and exuberant as if she’d won the lottery, I full of respect and almost hangover-free by now, and Susi with her head out of the window greeting the entire Rhein-Main district with loud barking.

‘I’m going to introduce you as my niece from Bosnia.’

‘What for?’

‘Because otherwise explaining you will be too complicated for her. She likes things clear. And try to look sad. When I mention Bosnia you could cry a little, or cover your eyes with your hands.’

‘Like rip her off?’

‘Not really. She’d feel more ripped off if we don’t rip her off…’ I saw Leila’s baffled expression, and dismissed the whole thing. ‘Forget it. Just look like a sad Bosnian girl, and you’ll catch on to the rest. And if you could put your jewellery away while we’re there…’

Soon after that I parked the car, we got out, and Leila took Susi, who was now yowling euphorically and tugging at her leash, off the back seat. Frau Beierle lived in a villa with a small park of a garden and a drive up to it. I rang the bell at the wrought iron gate, the buzzer sounded, and while Susi took off and raced ahead Leila and I marched up the pale gravel path. We were halfway between gate and villa when Frau Beierle came out of her front door and flung her arms round Susi.

As a former politician once famously said, you can run a concentration camp on virtues such as doing your duty, loyalty and obedience — and on Frau Beierle’s hairstyle too, I was thinking. It was dark blonde, smooth, cut in a line precisely between her ears and her shoulders, and so strictly parted to the left of her forehead that a straight line of white skin ran across her scalp. To the right of the line a metal clasp held some of the hair back. The rest of it fell neatly, hair beside hair, as if it had been trained. Presumably hair that didn’t grow in exactly the right way had no future on her head. Her face was square and rather flat with a turned-up nose, quick little eyes and a small mouth that she was always twisting into a slightly ironic smile, as if she were observing everything said and done in the world from an extraordinarily high vantage-point and, from up there, saw human weaknesses and crazy connections which ordinary mortals didn’t even guess at. She was wearing a grey trouser suit, a white silk scarf round her neck and flat, sexless shoes polished to a high gloss. After she had shaken hands with us, expressed her thanks at length, and told us again how happy she and of course Susi were, she asked us into the house and offered biscuits and drinks. A little later we were sitting in her conservatory drinking cherry juice and eating wholemeal vanilla pastries. The little park beyond the windows had a fountain and what I assumed was an Egyptian statue in it. Susi was frolicking around there, celebrating her reunion with the trees and bushes by lifting her leg to baptise them with short, quick jets of urine. To the right you could see the freshly mended hole in the fence through which she had got out two weeks ago. Perhaps someone had taken her away, perhaps she had simply been too stupid to find her way home.