Daniel Kehlmann - Fame - A Novel in Nine Episodes

“Your book! Where d’you think I read it?”

Hiccups. Logical: the excitement. Hard to talk to strangers, don’t normally do it. But I was crazy-excited. “Between Munich and Brussels! Dining car! Finished it as we pulled into the station.”

He looked at me. Turned away, then back to me. Strange moves, sort of angular and nervous.

“Exactly the right length! You leave Munich, you start. You reach Brussels, you’re done. Wicked! I was going to a seminar on UMTS.”

“Remarkable,” he said.

(Hey, not making this up. Wrote his words down as soon as I got to my room. Why? Logical—for this forum.)

Me: Where do you get your ideas?

He turned away, looked down at the gravel, then up at the porch roof. “In the bathtub.”

“Really? Chill! Fact?”

“Promise.”

“Chiller than chill. Eat my socks! Bathtub.”

Then both of us silent for a time. He smoked, I smoked, the rain did its raining thing.

Then me: “And are you writing right now? What’s Lara doing, what’s in the plan? Can I stop being formal with you?”

He threw his cigarette away. “I have to go back in.”

“What are you doing here? Of all the gin joints?”

“Lecture.”

“Hey?”

“A bank’s giving a seminar and they contacted my agent to book me. I thought why not, a few days in the green. But it doesn’t ever stop raining.” Looked at me, as if it was my fault, and again, “Ever!” Turned around and back into the house. Me: Stood there, smoked one more, chilled, and tried to figure out what had just gone on. My God. Wow. Then went up to my room.

I admit, my head was cross-wired and scramble-brained. Too much colliding: the fight with mother and being so stupid as to give out my IP. And worry about tomorrow: okay, a pro like me can make a presentation, but I hadn’t netsurfed for nine and a half hours, no longer up to speed with anything! Not a spark about how lordoftheflakes, icu_lop, ruebendaddy, and pray4us had responded to my postings. Made my stomach heave just to think of it. Potatoed in front of the TV, but nothing but world-level shit, and then I see there was no shower, only a tub, so narrow you couldn’t fit in it. So today would be hygienically challenged too.

A few minutes on the laptop. PowerPoint, not easy to use. Typed a little, moved some windows around, couldn’t get it to work. Well, it would have to work tomorrow morning. So bed, lights out, clutch pillow. The dream Olympics, as mother always says.

But couldn’t sleep. One floor down, sounds of whole choir of drunken nerds. Constant thundering of feet in the corridor. Always like that with Congresses, the desk jockeys can’t handle it and down the booze like drains. Funny ideas in my head. Holy Ninjas: being in the same house as Leo Richter, who made up Lara Gaspard. The guy who decided what she saw and did. Shaking his hand was almost like shaking hers—you pierce my meaning?

And then, at that moment, in the darkness of my room, I had an A-1 flash. If you’re surfing the net as much as I am, then you know—how to say it? Well, you know that reality isn’t everything. That there are spaces you don’t enter with your body. Only in your thoughts, but definitely there. Meeting Lara Gaspard. It was possible! In a story, of course.

Leo used stuff he saw? Guys he met? Events that happened? Yes, he could even use me. Nothing against it! Appearing in a story—really no different from being in a chat room. Transformation! Transport yourself into some other place. In a story I’d be someone else, but also me. In the same world as Lara.

You on my page? I crazy-worship this man, and I wanted to get into a story. He had to get to know me. I had to make him notice me! Either become his buddy or—main thing, had to notice me. My whole shit life, the nonstop fights with Mama, my dog boss, and that huge porker Lobenmeier: I felt suddenly there was a deliverance. As I went to sleep, I was happier than I’d been for long time. And you know what else? I felt light.

Next morning: wake-up. Still no luck with the bathtub, far too narrow. Went down to breakfast room. Made mistake of three plates, one in the left hand, one in the right, and one balanced in the middle, and of course preciselyexactly that one fell: scrambled eggs on the floor, bacon stuff, two rolls, everything garbage fodder. Leo was sitting far back against the wall, alone. Approached him, naturally, and “Slept well, hombre?”

He stared. Funny way of watching. Eyes wide, mouth twitching nonstop. Relaxed, believe me, he’s not.

“Didn’t get the chance to talk yesterday!” Began to eat. Blob of scrambled egg fell down, paid no attention. “Do you want to know something about me?”

“Pardon?”

Said my name and where I work and gave him a brief outline of what my department in the company preciselyexactly does. Also said something about my mother and what it’s like to share your office with a pig.

“Have to go,” he said.

“Your breakfast? You didn’t finish yet!”

Already gone: exit, door, out. Nervous guy, writer, what d’you want. Ate the two pieces of toast he’d smeared with marmalade, would have been a waste, then went to Reception and demanded Internet. What d’you think? Dungheap. Catacombs. And then: Conference room.

Don’t worry, not going to rigidify you with the details. A conference, right. Flipcharts, tables, lots of handshakes around the place, but none with me. Just one guy wanting to know about our department but what are you supposed to say? Looked at him silently till he went away. Then finally lunch break: rolled ham, mayo, eggs, quiche, it went, have had worse. Coming back with my third plate, okay, it was admittedly a little bit full up, a guy got in my way, and “Are you taking precautionary measures against a crisis?” Me, rocketing right back: “Fuck you, pigshit filthsow die!” And he just vanished. Sometimes just flip my lid. Not good, I know, regret it afterward, but can’t help it.

A few minutes left in the break. So back to Reception. “Need to have quick conversation with Leo Richter, please.”

She typed on her keyboard, then picked up the receiver, Leo on the line. Must have been asleep. “Who?”

Give my name again.

“Who?”

Unbelievable. He’d forgotten me again already. “Thought we’d grab a bite together? Lots to tell you. Unbelievable stories, you can really use them. I’ve had quite a life.”

But then, a sharp noise and a click, connection interrupted. Crap hotel. Immediately dialed again. “Me again, so what about lunch?”

He coughed. Sounded influenza’d to the max. “Can’t.”

“Later?”

Silence.

“You still there?”

Silence.

“You coming to my presentation?”

“Difficult. I’ve got a lot …”

“European versus national frequency norms. Interesting for you too!”

He cleared his throat.

“Look, a phone uses something called ISM Codes, for identification purposes. Example: You want to issue an order and you’re not on your home network. If you—”

Click and the engaged signal. That was no accident, I’m not brain-dead, he hung up on me! Artists: shy, you have no idea.

And me: heart-bangingly nervous, and how. Crystal-clear, logicwise of course: the presentation. Right after the break, so now, no exit, no time, close my eyes and go.

Everyone already in the room. Someone gave me hand, then another, than another, didn’t know any of them, and up front at the microphone some type in tie announcing unfortunately my boss not here, but me in his place, then applause. Me, up on platform. Three steps, quite steep, once up there, totally out of breath and sweating. Open laptop, plug in network cable, my PowerPoint started right up on the screen, the technical stuff really A-1 here, you’d have liked it, and off we went, the complete enchilada.