Before I could nod and say, ‘Sorry,’ or something of that nature, there was an angry interjection from behind the mound of foam. ‘That’s nonsense, Katja! I don’t want to make the world a better place, if anything I only want to make literature better! You might as well say I wanted to change the world! And there’s your nice little UNESCO scribbler! Off I go into the paperback African Narratives series!’
Katja Lipschitz froze. I scratched my chin and tried to think of something as sensitive as possible to say. Rashid lowered his cup and shot angry, scornful glances at me. ‘As for you, you’d better read my book! Here you are, working for me, and you haven’t a clue about it! My novel has nothing to do with your self-indulgent world of mini-mozzarellas!’
‘I’m glad to hear that, Herr Rashid. Just now I was afraid, for a moment … well, since you know your way about first-class hotels so well, and if I remember correctly your central character is, well, sexually indeterminate — for a moment I wondered whether the story in your novel is set in the world of flight attendants or interior decorating … if you see what I mean? Something along those lines. But you know,’ I went on fast, before he could throw his coffee cup at me, ‘I’m just a bodyguard. I never studied at university and I must confess, to my shame, that my reading matter has been confined to the daily TV programmes for far too long. So I’m glad you’ve given me such a personal incentive to make up for that. I’ll read your book as soon as I can, and I really look forward to it. However …’
I stopped. They were both staring at me with their mouths slightly open, as if they were watching acrobatics in a circus. Was I about to break my neck? Would they break it for me?
‘Well, since I’ll be close to you most of the time over the next few days, I’m wondering whether you wouldn’t be uncomfortable if I carried your book around with me? I mean, it’s possible that people might get the idea that as your bodyguard I was, so to speak …’ I gave a short laugh, ‘forced to read it. So, I can simply read it at night. I can get through it by Sunday, and then I’d be delighted to talk to you about it. When does one get the chance to discuss an author’s work with the author himself?’
Rashid stared at me for a moment, baffled, then he looked at the black plastic table in front of him and said, in a tone suggesting that he was overcome by exhaustion, ‘I have to go to the toilet, and then I think it would be best if we went to the Fair.’
‘There’s one more thing I’d like to get clear, Herr Rashid.’
Rashid got up from the sofa and asked, turning away from me, ‘And that is?’
I noticed Katja Lipschitz’s fingers digging into the arms of her chair.
‘I appreciate the fact that you address me as a friend, indeed I take it as a great compliment. But over many years I’ve found that excessive familiarity with the person I am protecting can lead to moments of carelessness in my work. So let’s keep it formal until the end of our contract.’
Rashid cast me a quick, expressionless glance over his shoulder. ‘Whatever works for you.’ And he went off slowly, almost dragging his feet, in the direction of the toilets.
I wondered whether I ought to accompany him, but then decided that my work didn’t begin until we were at the Book Fair. I thought it most unlikely that Rashid would run into any danger in the toilet.
I sipped some water and turned to Katja Lipschitz. She was still sitting in her chair all tensed up, fingers digging into its arms, eyes turned on the floor.
‘Was that sensitive enough?’
She looked up and scrutinised me as if she were asking herself — in as many words, unusual as they might be in her mouth but surely satisfying — what damn whore had brought me into the world? Then she said, ‘You know very well that you’d be fired if there was any chance of finding a replacement for you in the next half an hour. What possessed you to speak to our author like that?’
‘And what possessed your author to treat me like a fool? “My protector!” ’
‘It was a sign that he liked you!’
‘He doesn’t know me at all. Why would he like me? For my origin?’
She took a deep breath. ‘Maybe I didn’t make it clear enough at our last meeting: Malik Rashid is a great, a fantastic, a very special author, recognised and celebrated all over the world. If at first his behaviour or his style is not easy for you to comprehend, then it may be because you seldom mix with artists and intellectuals.’
I remembered what Valerie de Chavannes had said about her husband: ‘Well, maybe your job doesn’t allow you much experience with people whose approach to life doesn’t conform to the usual standards.’ Obviously I didn’t exactly strike the ladies of upper-class Frankfurt society as a man of the world.
Katja Lipschitz went on: ‘The thought processes of creative minds are often more convoluted and their conduct in public clumsier than ours. Because they think too much!’
God knows no one could say that of you, she said with her eyes.
‘Because they try to understand things in all their complexity! And sometimes make them more complicated than they really are. I am sure Malik thought seriously about the way to meet you. Do you know what he said to me on the phone two days ago?’
Being unable to think of anything sensitive, I didn’t reply.
‘He said how uncomfortable the situation was for him! Giving a grown man instructions about his most intimate affairs. For instance that he’d have to be accompanied to the toilet. Or the other way around, taking instructions from you. The idea that he couldn’t go anywhere or do anything he liked. He probably thought it all over carefully — whether a formal or informal approach would relax the situation more.’
‘You ought to have suggested that formality is best between adults at the start.’
‘Don’t be so uppity!’
‘You mean that as an Oriental I …’
‘Argh!’
‘Oh!’
She leaned forward angrily, picked up her coffee, and disappeared, like Rashid, behind a mountain of milky foam.
‘Well,’ I said, ‘I think with that everything’s cleared up now.’
Katja Lipschitz was still hidden behind the foam.
‘All that remains is for me to wish us all a happy working relationship.’ I raised my glass of water. ‘Here’s to three relatively calm days as uneventful as possible.’
She lowered her cup far enough for us to look into each other’s eyes. ‘Please just do your work as well as you can. The situation is what it is, and Malik Rashid is Malik Rashid. I’m sure you’re professional enough to accept that going forward. If there are any more disagreements or supposed problems, or anything else, please turn straight to me. I’ll be the person you talk to for the next three days — and no one else. Malik needs his strength for the fair, and don’t even think of approaching members of our staff …’
She was searching for the right word. I helped her out. ‘To pester them?’
She took a sip of her coffee. ‘You know what I mean.’
‘Don’t worry. I’ll be as invisible as possible.’
‘Good, Herr Kayankaya, I’m glad to hear it.’
She put down her mug of cappuccino and said, ‘Excuse me, it’s the Book Fair and I have things to do.’ Then she tapped a text message into her iPhone and checked her emails. Time passed, and Rashid did not come back. I wondered if he suffered from diarrhoea, and imagined the two of us having to go to the toilet together every half an hour for the next few days.