Daniel Kehlmann - Fame - A Novel in Nine Episodes

To begin with, it was aces. Everything clear, the flipcharts flipped, and I talked New Approach and the national security protocols for UMTS, pros and cons, glitches and possibilities, everything clockwork. Then I see Leo.

Or maybe not. You know, darkened room, two spotlights on my face, and no chance to see if the Darth Vader–black shape right at the back was him or not. My invitation, after all. His size, the nervous twitching were right, and he kept rubbing his head. But his face? I leaned forward, useless, saw nothing. From then on, it was curtains for me.

Stuttered. And how. The whole nine yards. Words disappeared in the middle of sentences, then the laptop went on the fritz and blocked the graphics. And my hand so wet, couldn’t work the mouse. Felt everyone looking at me, burning. Wouldn’t wish it on any of you (no, not true: lordoftheflakes). And then a thought: Leo could really use this! A good guy, knows his stuff, but goes to pieces big-time during lecture. Chill story? You can bet on it. And suddenly was seeing myself from the outside as if it wasn’t me; result more stuttering, and result more stuttering still.

Hands sweating even more, mouse fell down, clattered on the floor, and bending over impossible, what to do? Stood there gaping, clueless. Then somebody out there in the middle laughed. Then somebody else at the back. Then three women in the first row, then everybody. Asked myself if I was dreaming. Had had dreams like that, so have you, so has everyone. But this was for real, one to one, Life Reality, the full program. Managed another few sentences, then thought flash: “What if that’s it?” And that’s what happened, I heard myself not hearing myself any longer because my voice was gone and I saw myself standing there looking at myself standing there looking at myself. Hell. And meantime they were laughing. I still managed to get it together to say into the microphone that I wasn’t feeling well, then that I was faintingfitsick, gross-out, then back down the three steps, luckily without landing flat. A tie-guy asked if I needed doctor, but I told him to mind his own business, and out of there.

Absolutely flatass. Sweating like a sauna. Dizzy, boneless. Every part soaked. Had to cool down somehow, come down, be chill again. Looked around lobby. And right then I spotted guy getting up from table, direction restroom, laptop abandoned—and it had a WiFi stick! Snuck up closer. And closer. Then down into the chair, typed furiously, foot on the gas. First stop Movieforum, and yes, in response to my totally factual posting, bugclap had flamed me so fiercely it took my breath away—what is it with you guys, don’t you have a life? Replied express, had to.

Flashback the lecture again. When shit finds fan, flies in bucketloads. Hands trembling: Quick into chat room, where I told pray4us what needed telling since forever, dumb as pigshit, die. Then into my mailbox. No messages—thought again about having given out my IP. Was someone already after me? Because the bigshots are ruthless. They do whatever they want, and I’d insulted everyone from the President on down. Then went into TheeveningNews and said today’s lead article was all bullshit. Hadn’t read a word of it, but so what, they’d take it down anyway, and it helped, feeling calmer already. At that moment, from beside me “Hey what’s going on?”

Me: huh, what, what d’you? I’d already forgotten. Head pretty cross-wired, believe me.

“You, that’s my computer!”

What big retort is there in a case like that? So me: Apologies, sorry, error, the whole shitload. Stood up, went through the lobby. Just then, saw people coming out of one of the other conference rooms: tie-guys and women in silk stuff, but in the middle: guess who!

I was speed itself. Heard someone say, “Do you know where I read it? In the plane from Hamburg to Madrid.” Leo nodded. He looked peculiar.

Another one: “Where do you get your ideas?”

Leo twitched, turned around, swayed a little. The whole nervousness deal. “Have to go work now!”

“What a won-der-ful lecture!” A woman. Glasses, a real wrinklie, upswept hair. “You have made us think!”

And another: “You’ll stay to have dinner with us?”

In your dreams. I manipulate his shoulder and “Out of discussion, we have an appointment!” Stressissime for me, crazy to madness, sweating saunas, but didn’t let it show. “No boringness, we’re going for a drink Misterman Leo the Writer, we’re off.”

But he pulled himself away and ran to Reception and “Room 305, key.” I can tell you this exactly because I heard it with fine ears and know the vitalness of exactitude online and precise info and datastuff as soon as you have something. Have thought about it often since, but supercertain, no doubt, 305, I heard it!

Then Leo to the elevator, so fast I couldn’t follow him: I’m not so lightfoot. Next to me, the woman says to the tie-guys “What a pity. It was really mah-vell-ous.” To which one of them “Okay, but he really isn’t very appealing.” And the third: “I thought it was so-so.” And the woman again, to me “And who are you?”

Didn’t want to talk to them. So button lip and leave, head for bar, order whisky. Then another. Charged to the company of course. And another. Tie-types went by, turned their heads toward me, laughed. You know, those people who at a certain point grab a gun-thing and then it’s blood by the square yard, I can understand them. It’s just I’m not that type. I don’t know artillery, wouldn’t know where to get it, unfortunately.

One whisky doesn’t do much for me, I need several before I feel anything. After the fourth however, downhill slalom. Vertigo, thick tongue, eyes frozen, the whole effectsofalcohol program, you know it all, don’t have to explain. But suddenly I was so sad. And didn’t know what to do anymore.

Lara Gaspard. Now or never. So I got up (ethylo-alcoholic impediments notwithstanding), took elevator to the third floor. 305.

Knocked. Nothing.

Knocked louder.

Nothing.

Banged with fist.

Chambermaid suddenly next to me. Of course total panic and sorry and my mistake and started to go when she: “Did you lock yourself out?”

And me right away: “Exactly!” Because when in need, I can cogitate like lightning, Spock’s a koala compared to me. So she does the card thing into the slit, beep, door opens, I’m in. Switched on the light. Everything empty, bed untouched, no Leo.

Sweat event. I had thought that was over, but you know what? With sweat, there’s always more. Leo Richter’s room, I thought. Looked around, opened drawers, cupboards—Lara Gaspard’s room. Somehow hers as well. My God.

Usual stuff in the cupboards. Underwear, a laptop (booted it up, but required password), couple of books: Plato, Hegel, Bhagavad Gita. Unnecessary, the lot of them, it’s all in What the Thinkers Tell Us by Auristos Blanco, only much clearer and easier to pierce. I squatted on the bed. Listen, no bullshit, I was completely at fours and fives. And afraid of course: if Leo came in now he’d be perfectly capable of calling for help. But I had to reach his awareness somehow. Had to get into the story. Because what else did I have? It was a one-time opportunity. I’d have hit him in the chops if that would have helped, but he wasn’t there.

As I looked around, the room looked—well, don’t ask. Craziness: drawers pulled out, papers strewn around, computer on the floor, screen probably busted. Sheets torn out of the notepad and all crumpled up. Bedcover on the carpet, in the bathroom, everything dropped onto the tiles, glass splinters. Was that me? I couldn’t tell you. Then I lay in his bed for a bit. So soft. Cried for a long time into the pillow. Thought about Lara.

Then out again, quick. Along the corridor to the elevator, down to my room. Just made it to bed. Legs collapsed, lay there, and the ceiling was spinning abovebelowabovebelow me, everything mixed up with everything else, my God was I drunk.