‘It certainly will. But what did you really want to tell me?’
‘Oh … yes. Well, as I said, we’re asking for questions in advance for security reasons. In fact, it’s not open to the general public, but we didn’t want to make that obvious. People are more likely to buy books at occasions where they couldn’t get tickets than at those they weren’t expected to attend. The risk of letting in all and sundry was just too great. The mayor of Frankfurt is coming, maybe even the Hessian minister of the interior … well, anyway, in that connection I wanted to ask you to wear … well, suitable clothing.’
‘How do you mean? A turban?’
‘No, of course not.’ She gave a brief, nervous laugh. ‘If you have a suit, or at least a smart jacket … it will be a very exclusive evening, and in your own interest … I assume you wouldn’t like to be the only one in jeans and a corduroy jacket.’
‘Thanks for the helpful hint. Is a blue pin-striped suit okay?’ I thought of Slibulsky, who had once called blue pin-striped suits the monastic garb of all disreputable folk such as Turks. But obviously Katja Lipschitz wasn’t familiar with this association.
‘Wonderful,’ she said, pleased. Then her tone of voice suddenly became slightly troubled. ‘And I’d like to point out one more thing that can — well, can be surprising for people who don’t know him or the book trade. Er … Dr. Breitel likes to wear short trousers, even in the evening and anywhere, I mean …’
‘He does? Even in winter?’
‘With knee-high socks.’
‘Well, what a good thing you persuaded me not to wear my cord jacket. That would have been a real faux pas!’
‘Er, yes.’
‘Would you like me to wear short trousers as well?’
‘For heaven’s sake, no — that’s Dr. Breitel’s privilege, so to speak. His own signature style, if you see what I mean.’
‘I do. May one pay him compliments? On the fabric, the cut of the trousers, maybe on his legs?’
‘No, no, please don’t. Just try not to notice.’
‘Okay.’
‘Dr. Breitel is …’ I liked the way she obviously had to overcome her embarrassment ‘… very important. If you want to sell books, I mean.’
‘I do indeed see what you mean, Frau Lipschitz. Don’t worry, I won’t do anything to attract attention.’
‘Thank you very much, Herr Kayankaya. Sometimes it isn’t entirely easy …’ She was searching for words.
‘Exactly,’ I said.
‘Yes. Well, yes. Anyway, I’ll send you the schedule for those three days with the signed contract, and a pass to the Book Fair.’
‘And the threatening letters.’
‘Oh, yes, the threatening letters. Of course.’
‘I’ll see you on Friday next week, then.’
‘Friday next week, Herr Kayankaya, thanks.’
Chapter 9
The advance payment came into my account at the end of the week, and by post I received the signed contract, Rashid’s schedule for his visit to Frankfurt, and a pass to the Book Fair. No threatening letters. Those were either a pure invention or a ridiculous insult, but in any case nothing that Katja Lipschitz could show me or wanted to show me. And fundamentally it made no difference. Rashid was getting a bodyguard for promotional purposes. A Gregory job. As long as Maier Verlag was paying.
On the Monday I visited the Harmonia Hotel. A typical middle-class dump with worn fitted carpets; cheap and brightly coloured sofas; little halogen lamps; a bar with beer, spirits and cheese crackers; and a collection of signed postcards on the wall from B-list celebrities who had once stayed at the Harmonia. I bought a bad espresso and got the waiter to show me the back door and the emergency exits. ‘Because of my father. He might be staying a couple of days here next month, and he’s terrified of fire.’
On Tuesday I made my official statement on the Abakay case to the police.
On Wednesday I had a call at the office from a man called Methat who said he was Sheikh Hakim’s secretary. He began by speaking Turkish, until he gave me a moment to explain that I’d never learnt the language. After an incredulous pause, a Turkish curse — at least, it sounded Turkish — and a few contemptuous lip-smacking sounds, he finally went on in German with a strong Hessian accent, and I had to ask three times before I got his drift, which was that His Magnificence wanted to see me.
‘Who wants to see me?’
‘Is Nificence.’
‘Munificence?’
‘No, no! Nificence!’
‘Sorry, try again.’
‘Is Nificence! Like nificent view!’
‘Ah, I get it. His Magnificence.’
‘Don’t pretend you …!’
‘Er … who is His Magnificence?’
‘I ave said I am secretary of Sheisch Hakim!’
‘Okay. Then please tell Sheisch Hakim that if he wants to see me he’d better make an appointment by phone or email. He’ll find my address in the Yellow Pages. I’m travelling a lot just now and I’m only occasionally in my office.’
‘You must be crazshy!’
He was getting on my nerves. ‘I assure you I’m not,’ I said, in as heavy a Hessian dialect as I could manage. ‘But I’m bizshy! So tell him to make an appointment, saying what it’s about. As I said, I’m busy at the moment and I have to hang up.’
I cut the connection before he could call me any more names.
So it was only one day before Sheikh Hakim heard of my statement to the police. I decided that when I got the chance I would tell Octavian that not only did he ‘know a great many people who prefer to save their own skin over the punishment of a criminal’, he also had at least one officer at police HQ who preferred a small fortune in cash, a bag of heroin, a free visit to a brothel or some other inducement within Hakim’s or Abakay’s reach to the punishment of the said criminals. I firmly believed that Octavian did not know who it was, or who they were, but someone was keeping Sheikh Hakim up to date. I didn’t believe quite so firmly that he would do anything to unmask the person or persons concerned. It probably depended on what height he or they had reached in the pyramid of police power. When Octavian took me to the door after I’d made my statement the day before, his quiet words of farewell had been, ‘You’re doing this at your own risk, I hope you realise that. When all this is over, we can see each other again, but until then I guess we’d better not. My promotion will be decided in the next few weeks.’
‘I tell you what, Octavian, maybe we’d better not see each other again, full stop.’
‘Oh, don’t come over like that! I’d get another thousand a month, and I have family to support in Romania.’
‘Don’t we all?’ I said.
‘You don’t,’ he said coolly.
‘I’ve seen the girls in Abakay’s catalogue. They’re my Romanian family.’
‘Don’t turn sentimental.’