Timur Vermes - Look Who's Back

“Please excuse me for bothering you, madam,” I said. Pointing to one of the inscriptions, I asked, “Could you tell me what that says?”

“How should I know?” the lady said, giving me an odd look.

“So you find this writing rather strange, too?” I enquired further.

“Not just the writing,” the lady said hesitantly. “Are you alright?”

“Worry not,” I said. “I’m on my way to the dry cleaner’s.”

“You’d be better off going to the barber’s!” the woman said.

I turned my head to the side, bent to the window of a new-fangled automobile and took a good look at myself. Although not impeccable, my parting appeared fine, and although my moustache would need a trim in a few days’ time, for the moment a visit to the barber’s was not essential. I took the opportunity to calculate that the following evening would be the most strategically advantageous for a more thorough body wash. Setting off again, I passed more of the same propaganda slogans, which might as well have been written in Chinese. The other thing that struck me was how many people seemed to be equipped with wireless receivers — an admirable number. Radar dishes were attached to windows everywhere, for receiving radio transmissions, no doubt. Were I to have the opportunity to speak over the radio waves, then winning over a new horde of staunch comrades amongst the Volk would be as easy as marching into Denmark. I had, after all, listened fruitlessly to a broadcast on the wireless, which sounded as if drunken musicians were playing, and announcers were babbling the very words that were smeared so illegibly on these walls. All I had to do was speak comprehensible German, surely that would suffice? — child’s play. Full of confidence and with a spring in my step, I strode on. Then, a short distance away, I saw the sign for YILMAZ BLITZ CLEANER’S.

This came as something of a surprise.

Yes, all those newspapers had implied that there must be a large Turkish readership in the city, even if the circumstances of their arrival remained something of a mystery. And during my stroll I had also noticed the occasional passer-by whose Aryan ancestry was questionable, to put it mildly, and not only four or five generations back, but right up to the last quarter of an hour. Even if it was still a mystery what exactly these racial aliens were doing here, at least they did not appear to be playing a leading role. Which made it unlikely that businesses were being annexed by foreign types on a large scale and their names changed accordingly. As far as I was concerned — even for the purposes of economic propaganda — it was hard to comprehend why anyone should want to christen a “Blitz Cleaner’s” with the name “Yilmaz”. Since when did “Yilmaz” represent the guarantee of clean shirts? At most, “Yilmaz” represented the guarantee of a serviceable donkey cart. The only problem was that I had no alternative to this cleaner’s. And given that rapidity of action was of the essence, to allow me to exert pressure on my political opponents, I needed a Blitz cleaner’s. Plagued by doubts, I marched in.

I was greeted by a distorted glockenspiel. The place reeked of cleaning fluid, and it was sweltering — far too hot for a cotton shirt, but the splendid Afrika Korps uniform was unavailable at present, alas! On the counter was one of those bells one often sees in hotel receptions.

Nothing happened.

I could make out some sort of plaintive oriental music; perhaps, in a back room of the shop, an Anatolian washer-woman was lamenting her faraway Heimat — queer behaviour indeed, especially if one had the good fortune to live in the capital of the German Reich. I perused the items of clothing which hung in rank and file behind the counter. They were wrapped in a transparent material, not dissimilar to the substance my bag was made of. In fact, everything seemed to be wrapped in this stuff. I had once seen something similar in a laboratory, but I.G. Farben must have come a long way with it in recent years. According to what I knew, the production of this material was highly dependent on a ready supply of crude oil; correspondingly it came at great expense. But the way in which synthetic materials were used here — indeed, the extent to which automobiles were driven — suggested that crude oil was no longer a problem. Had the Reich somehow kept possession of the Roumanian deposits? Unlikely. Had Göring ultimately discovered new sources on home soil? A bitter chuckle rose within my chest. Göring! That incompetent morphine addict! He would sooner find gold up his own nostrils than oil in Germany. I wonder what had become of him. It was more probable that we had fallen back on other resources, and…

“Been waiting long?”

A southern European man with Asiatic cheekbones peered out from a passageway at the back of the shop.

“Absolutely!” I said impatiently.

“Why not ring?” He pointed to the bell on his counter and tapped it gently with the palm of his hand. The bell rang.

“I did already ring — here !” I insisted, opening the door to the shop. The strange glockenspiel rang out once more.

“Must ring here !” the cleaner said dismissively, hitting the bell on the counter again.

“A German only rings once,” I said, prickly.

“Then here ,” the half-breed of indeterminate lineage said, ringing with his palm a third time. I was seized by the urge to send round the S.A., and have them lacerate this cretin’s eardrum with his cursed bell. Or even better, both eardrums. He could then explain to his customers to wave when they entered his establishment. I sighed. Being deprived of even the most basic auxiliary staff was downright annoying. A number of things would have to be put straight in this country before I could settle this matter to my satisfaction, but I started to compile a list of traitors sabotaging the future of the German Volk, and “Yilmaz Cleaner’s” was at the very top. In the meantime all I could do was scowl and remove the bell from his grasp.

“Tell me,” I said harshly, “do you clean things, too? Or where you come from is the cleaning industry just about bell-ringing?”

“What you want?”

I placed my bag on the counter and took out my uniform. He took a sniff, said, “Aha — you work at petrol station,” and calmly picked up the bundle.

I ought to have been indifferent to the opinions of a non-voter from an alien race, and yet I could not ignore what he said altogether. Granted, the man did not hail from here, but could I really have fallen into such obscurity? On the other hand, most of the German Volk knew me from press photographs only, and these generally showed my countenance from a favourable angle. Meeting someone in the flesh is often surprisingly different.

“No,” I said assertively. “I do not work at the petrol station.”

I then turned my head upwards and to the side, offering the more photogenic angle to give the half-breed a clearer view of just who this was standing before him. The cleaner looked at me, more out of politeness than any apparent interest, but I received the impression that I was not entirely unknown to him. He leaned over the counter and studied my trousers, tucked impeccably into my high boots.

“I dunno… You famous fishing man?”

“Just try a bit harder, man,” I said forcefully, though feeling slightly deflated. Even with the newspaper seller, no genius himself, I was able to build on some prior knowledge. Now this! How on earth would I make it back to the Reich Chancellery if nobody had a clue who I was?

“A moment, please,” the non-native fool said. “I get son. Always watch T.V., always look at Intanet, know everything. Mehmet! Mehmet!”

The Mehmet in question soon appeared. A tall, moderately neat-looking youth shuffled to the front of the shop together with a friend or brother. The seed of this family was not to be underestimated; both boys wore clothes that must have once belonged to brothers who were even taller — they must be truly gigantic. Shirts like bed sheets, unfathomably large trousers.