Timur Vermes - Look Who's Back

“What can I get you?” asked a waitress, whose dirndl at least bore the authenticity of an honest work uniform. “A litre?”

“Still water, please,” I said.

She nodded and vanished.

“Hey, a pro,” said a large coloured man sitting next to a blonde at the other end of the table. “But you gotta get that in a large tankard! Looks better in the photos. Believe me, I’ve been doing this for fifty years now.” He gave me an unbelievably broad grin, exposing a staggering number of teeth. “Doesn’t look so good to be at the ‘Wiesn’ with a water glass.”

“Rubbish! Still waters run deep,” said a rather raddled dirndl-clad woman opposite me. I later heard on the grapevine that she earned her livelihood in one of those amateurish drama series. That is, when she wasn’t featuring in another transmission which, if I understood it correctly, consisted of equally third-rate personalities being taken to ancient woodland where they allowed themselves to be observed wading through worms and excrement.

“You do funny stuff, I’ve seen some of your programmes,” she said, taking a sip from her tankard and bending forward to afford me a view of her cleavage.

“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’ve seen a couple of your things too.”

“Should I know you?” a young blonde man asked from the other side of the table.

“Of course,” the negro said, signing a photograph for another man with a thick felt pen. “That’s Hitler from Gagmez. Fridays, MyTV! No, hang on, he has his own programme now. You gotta watch it, it’ll crack you up.”

“But it’s different from the usual, it’s kind of political too,” the raddled cleavage said. “It’s almost like the Harald Schmidt show!”

“Not my cup of tea, I’m afraid,” the blonde man said, turning to me. “Sorry, mate. Nothing personal, but politics — I just think nothing ever changes. All those parties and that, it’s just a mess.”

“A man after my own heart,” I said as the waitress placed my mineral water on the table. I took a sip and looked down into the main room of the tent, expecting to see people swaying to and fro in time to the music. But no-one was. Everyone was standing on tables and benches, with the exception of those who had just fallen off. People were wailing and shouting for someone called Jude. I tried to remember whether Göring had ever mentioned this mass debauchery after one of his visits, but my memory harboured no such recollection.

“Where do you come from?” the raddled woman asked. “South Germany, right?” Once more her cleavage was held up to me like a offering bag.

“From Austria,” I said.

“Like the real one!” the cleavage said.

I nodded and allowed my gaze to wander around the tent. There was a shriek, then some of the women in their ludicrous dresses attempted to clamber onto the benches and persuade others to join in. There was a hint of desperation about these unappealing women with their affected high spirits. But perhaps appearances were deceptive, and it was merely a consequence of their heavily swollen lips, which despite every effort gave their mouths a sulking, even offended expression. I took a casual glance at the lips of the raddled cleavage opposite me. They, at least, looked normal.

“I don’t like all that injecting either,” the cleavage said.

“I’m sorry?”

“Well, you were looking at my lips, weren’t you?”

She took a sip of beer. “I won’t let a doctor near them. Even though I sometimes think I’d have an easier time of it. I mean, none of us are getting any younger, are we?”

“A doctor? Are you feeling poorly?”

“You’re very sweet,” the cleavage said, bending over the table, tempting one to gather up the contents. Grabbing my shoulder, she turned me so that we were both looking in the same direction. She gave off an odour of beer, albeit not yet at a disagreeable level. Then, with slight twitches of her index finger, she pointing from right to left at the array of women: “Boob job. Nose job. Boobs. Arse. Dunno. Lips. Arse. Boobs — a while ago now. Dunno. Dunno. Nose. Lips. Boobs. Arse. Boobs and arse, paid for by the telly channel or production company; she did it for a special report.” She sat down again and looked at me. “You’ve had something done, though, haven’t you?”

“I’ve had what done?”

“This similarity, pur–lease! The whole industry’s scratching their heads, wondering who did it. Although…” Here she took another gulp of beer. “…if you ask me, you should sue the bastard.”

“My good woman, I have not the faintest idea what you are talking about!”

“Operations, for God’s sake,” she said with a tone of irritation. “Don’t pretend like you’ve not had one. That’s plain silly.”

“Of course there were operations,” I said, confused. She was a likeable woman in her own way. “Sea Lion, Barbarossa, Cerberus…”

“Never heard of them. Were you pleased?”

Down below they were playing “Pilot, Give a Wave to the Sun”, which put me in a pleasantly nostalgic mood. I sighed. “To begin with everything was fine, but then there were complications. Not that the English would have done any better. Or the Russians… But still.”

She scrutinised me. “I don’t see any scars,” she said with the air of a professional.

“I’m not going to complain,” I said. “The deepest wounds are those that Fate inflicts upon our hearts.”

“You’re right there,” she said with a smile, holding her beer towards me. I matched her gesture with my mineral water, then continued in my attempts to determine the nature of this strange company. Youth was poorly represented here, and yet most people seemed to be behaving as if they were not a day older than twenty. I dare say this was the reason behind the parade of décolletés, as well as the behaviour of one or two individuals. It was disconcerting. The impression it made upon me was so strong that I could not shake it off. All these men who were unable to tolerate their physical decline or compensate for this with cerebral work, or at least a certain maturity; all these women who refused to sit back contentedly, having bred and reared their children for the Volk, but conducted themselves as if this were their one and only opportunity to reclaim their withered youth for a few precious hours. I would have loved to take these characters by the scruff of the neck and shout, “Pull yourselves together! You are a disgrace to yourself and to your Fatherland!” I was ruminating on such matters when a man approached the table and rapped on it with his knuckles.

“Evening,” he said in that unmistakable dialect which always reminded me of Streicher’s beautiful city. He was in his mid-forties or older, with long, dark hair, and was accompanied by what must have been his daughter.

“Lothar!” the raddled cleavage said, shifting to one side. “Take a pew!”

“No, I’m not staying. I just wanted to say I think what you’re doing is brilliant. I saw the show on Friday — I nearly wet myself, but also what you say is so true. All that Europe stuff and that! And the week before, that stuff with those social whatsits…”

“Social parasites,” I said.

“…Exactly,” he said, “that, and all that stuff about kids. Kids really are our future. You really hit the nail on the head. I just wanted you to know.”

“Thank you,” I said. “I am most pleased. Our movement needs your support. And I would be delighted if I could count your dear daughter amongst our supporters too.”

All of a sudden he looked incensed, then he burst out laughing and turned to his daughter. “There he goes again. Utterly ruthless! Gets you where it really hurts.” Then he rapped his knuckles on the table once more and said, “Ciao!”