Frank Schätzing - Limit

‘Fine then, you two go to Muntu. I’ll hold the fort here.’

‘You could amuse yourself with Diane in the meantime,’ suggested Jericho. ‘Try to find out more about how Mayé was overthrown. And more about Ndongo. What drives him, what are his interests, who’s supporting him? And why has there not been any more news from Equatorial Guinea?’

‘I think I already know.’

Jericho stopped. Even Yoyo seemed to have overcome her hurt pride and was looking at him expectantly. Tu stretched out his fingers and massaged the globe of his belly.

‘And?’

‘Later.’ Tu got up. ‘You have things to do, I have things to do. Have a good sleep. After that you can go and exhaust my credit cards.’

Jericho would have preferred to track down Donner as soon as they landed and, if needs be, turn up on his doorstep and get him out of bed, but there was no private address on record for him anywhere. He instructed the hotel computer to wake him at 10 a.m. He feared he’d relive the nightmare of the previous night, interspersed with phases of just staring at his eyelids from the inside, but instead he slept a deep and dreamless sleep for two hours and awoke in a much better mood and full of purpose. Yoyo seemed more cheerful too. They made their way through the mall, purchased underwear, shirts and toothbrushes and commented on the everyday life going on around them. Yoyo bought several bottles of spray-on clothing. It was hot and sunny in Berlin, so they didn’t need more than just a few things. Jericho avoided asking her about her private life. He didn’t really know how to act around the girl in this relatively normal setting; for a change there wasn’t anything to research, nor was there anything to run from. Yoyo displayed an almost dismissive lack of concern by skipping around in front of him in the tiniest of tops, touching him every few minutes, pulling him here and there and getting so close to him that the only possible explanation for her actions seemed to be her complete lack of sexual interest in him.

That’s exactly what it is, concurred the pimply boy hiding in the shade at the corner of the playground, seeking comfort from Radiohead, Keane and Oasis. That’s what women are like; you’re just a thing to them, not someone who can express desire or intentions. A conglomerate of cells only spat into life to be a friend to them. They would rather be seduced by their teddy bears than acknowledge the possibility that you could fall in love with them.

Bite me, Jericho told him. Pussy.

After that, the pus-filled, pubescent-stubble-covered ghost retreated, and Yoyo’s company really began to grow on him. Nonetheless, he was still relieved when it got closer to twelve and it was time to drive to Oranienburger Strasse. Muntu was on the ground floor of a beautifully renovated old building just a few hundred metres from the banks of the Spree, where Museum Island divided the water like a stranded whale. They almost walked right past it – the tiny restaurant was crammed furtively between an evangelical bookshop and a branch of the Bank of Beijing, as if it wanted to make a surprise attack on passersby. Over the door and windows was a cracked wooden panel with MUNTU in archaic-looking lettering, and underneath, The Charm of African Cuisine .

‘It’s cute,’ said Yoyo as they stepped inside.

Jericho looked around. Ochre and banana-yellow coloured walls, offset with blue on the skirting boards. Batik-patterned tablecloths, above which paper lamps hung down like huge, glimmering turnips. Wooden pillars and ceiling beams were painted and decorated with carvings. The end wall of the square room was dominated by a bar of rustic design, and to the left of that swing doors covered with mythical images led through into the kitchen. There was no trace here of the battle sculptures, spears, shields and masks commonly found in similar establishments, an agreeable omission which suggested authenticity.

Only a few of the tables were occupied. Yoyo headed towards a table near the bar. A figure broke away from the half-shadow behind it and came over to them. The woman might have been in her early forties, possibly older. Wrinkles came late to African women, which made guessing their age a challenge. Her slim-fitting dress was hued with powerful, earthy colours, and a matching headdress unfurled from an explosion of Rasta locks. She was very dark and quite attractive, and had a laugh that didn’t seem acquainted with the compromise of a smile.

‘My name is Nyela,’ she said in guttural German. ‘Would you like a drink?’

Yoyo looked at Jericho, confused. He mimed bringing a glass to his lips.

‘Ah, okay,’ said Yoyo. ‘Cola.’

‘How boring.’ Nyela switched to English instantly. ‘Have you ever tried palm wine? It’s fermented palm juice made from flower bulbs.’

Without waiting for an answer, she disappeared behind the bar, came back with two beakers of a milky-looking drink and laid out English menus in front of them.

‘We’re out of ostrich steak. I’ll be back in a moment.’

Jericho took a sip. The wine tasted good, cool and a little sharp. Yoyo’s gaze followed Nyela to the neighbouring table.

‘What now?’

‘We order something.’

‘Why aren’t you asking to see Donner? I thought it was urgent.’

‘It is.’ Jericho leaned over. ‘I just don’t think it’s a good idea if we blurt it out just like that. In his position I would be a bit mistrustful if someone asked for me for no reason.’

‘But we’re not asking for no reason.’

‘And what do you want her to tell him? That he’s going to be killed? Then he’ll slip through our fingers.’

‘We’ll have to ask for him at some point.’

‘And we will.’

‘Okay, fine, you’re the boss.’ Yoyo opened her menu. ‘So what do you fancy today, boss? Ragout of kudu-antelope perhaps? Monkey penis with skinned-alive frogs?’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Jericho let his gaze wander over the starters and main courses. ‘It all sounds really good. Jolof rice, for example, I had that back in London.’

‘Never had it.’

‘All it takes is a little courage,’ Jericho teased her. ‘Think of how we Europeans have to suffer in Sichuan.’

‘No, I’m not so sure. Adalu, akara, dodo.’ Her eyes flitted back and forth. ‘Look at the crazy names these things have. How about some nunu, Owen? Some nice nunu.’

Jericho paused. ‘You’re on the menu too.’

‘Eh?’

‘Efo-Yoyo Stew!’ He laughed loudly. ‘Well, we know what you’re having then.’

‘Are you insane? What on earth is it?’ She wrinkled her brow and read: ‘Spinach sauce with crabs and chicken and – ishu? What the devil is ishu?’

‘Yam dumplings.’ The black woman had come back over to their table. ‘No party without yams.’

‘What are yams?’

‘It’s a root. The queen of all roots! The women cook them and then pound them with a pestle and mortar. It really builds the muscles.’ Nyela gave a deep and melodic laugh and showed them a well-sculpted bicep. ‘Men are too lazy for it. Probably too dumb too, no offence, my friend.’ Her hand clasped Jericho’s shoulder in a familiar way. A spicy scent came off her, a raw seduction.

‘You know what?’ said Jericho cheerfully. ‘Just put something together for us.’

‘He’s no fool,’ said Nyela, winking at Yoyo. ‘Letting the women decide.’

She disappeared into the kitchen. Not even ten minutes later, she came back bearing two trays groaning with dishes.

‘ Paradise is here ,’ she sang.

Yoyo, her face full of mistrust, watched as Nyela put down little plates and bowls in front of them.

‘Ceesbaar, pancakes made from plantain. Akara, deep-fried dumplings with shrimps. Samosas, pastry parcels with minced beef. Those are moyinmoyin, bean cakes with crabs and turkey meat. Next to that is efo-egusi, spinach with melon seeds, beef and dried cod. Here, nunu, made from millet and yoghurt. Then adalu, bean and banana stew with fish. Brochettes, little fish skewers. Dodo, roasted in peanut oil, and – tapioca pudding!’