When he finally did come back his temper had greatly improved.
‘Right, Herr Kayankaya,’ he said in a conciliatory tone. ‘Let’s do it whatever way you think is right.’
Katja Lipschitz looked relieved.
On the way to the Fair, the mood in our taxi was suddenly really good. Rashid asked Katja Lipschitz who else was coming, maybe Lutz Whosit or ‘witty Bodo’, how many interviews he was giving, where we could get a quick bite to eat before the evening’s event, and he seemed as happy as a child, even if he groaned now and then, ‘My God, what a strain this is going to be!’
And to me, he said, ‘You wait and see, the Book Fair is hell!’ But he was beaming all over his face.
Chapter 11
The Book Fair wasn’t hell, it just smelled a bit like it. Huge halls over several stories, each with a floor area about the size of two football fields, were filled partition after partition with the stands of millions of publishing houses, right to the last corner. A sweating, unwashed, perfumed crowd of humanity, drenched in alcohol, hungover and smeared with hair gel, pushed its way along aisles and past stands, up and down escalators, into toilets and through entrance doors, never stopping. The greasy vapours of sausages, pizza, Chinese food, Thai curry and chips wafted overhead, invisible radiators seemed to be turned up to maximum — or maybe it was just all those bodies producing such heat — and only the few doors opening and closing brought any fresh air into the place.
From Maier Verlag’s small hospitality room behind me came the odours of filter coffee stewing on a hotplate, egg and Harz cheese rolls that no one touched and smelled stronger as the day went on, and a homemade coconut and banana cake brought by a young American author for the staff of the firm — For you guys, for all the amazing work you do! It seemed to be made of Bounty bars and rotting fruit.
The stand of Maier Verlag was about twenty-five metres long by five metres wide. Portraits of authors and posters of book jackets hung on the walls, stacks of new releases lay on several shelves. The seating consisted of simple wooden benches and chairs, with small round tables and on each a dish of biscuits and another of salted crackers. A part of the wall some five metres wide in the middle of the stand, as well as a table positioned there with four chairs in front of it, differed from the rest of the furnishings. The wall was adorned with a fishing net, two plastic lobsters, a plastic octopus, a bottle with a letter inside it, a small buoy and five copies of Hans Peter Stullberg’s new novel hanging in the net. Its title was An Occitanian Love. The table was in the classic French bistro style, with an iron foot and a marble top, the chairs were folding wooden garden chairs in red and yellow. ‘The colours of Occitania,’ as Katja Lipschitz explained to us.
When we arrived, Rashid had commented dryly on the special presentation of Stullberg’s novel with, ‘On account of his back trouble.’
There was a whole shelf full of copies of his own novel, Journey to the End of Days, with a quotation from Le Monde above it. ‘Seldom have relevance of content and formal expression achieved such perfect symbiosis.’
‘A great quotation,’ said Katja Lipschitz.
‘Well, Le Monde is always Le Monde,’ agreed Rashid.
And I said, ‘Makes you want to read it right away.’
Katja Lipschitz gave me an expressionless look before pointing to the corner next to the hospitality room. ‘We thought you could sit there. You’ll have a good view of the stand, and you’ll be relatively inconspicuous. Malik will be interviewed by journalists and talk to readers and booksellers at the table in front of you.’
‘Great,’ I said, putting the bag containing my ironed shirt and pin-stripe suit for the evening occasion with Dr. Breitel down on the chair intended for me. Rashid pushed his gleaming black rucksack with a little Canadian flag patch sewn onto it and the inscription Vancouver International Writers’ Festival in red under the table, explained that he was going off for a moment to see people, and began walking round the stand saying hello to the publishing staff; with a hug and a kiss on both cheeks for the women, and a hearty handshake for the men. ‘Great book, Malik!’ ‘Immensely touching!’ ‘A really important text!’ ‘My favourite new book this year!’
While Katja Lipschitz turned away to use her phone, I looked around for places where Rashid and I could take cover if need be. In front of us was the aisle with the constant flow of visitors to the Book Fair, to the right the Maier Verlag tables where staff members were discussing sales figures, developments at the Book Fair, personal details, events they were going to attend and the latest Book Fair gossip — ‘Gretchen Love!’ — ‘She’s bound to be on the non fiction best-seller list next week!’ — ‘Crazy!’ — ‘Scandalous!’ To our left there was the partition between Maier Verlag and the neighbouring publisher. On that partition was Rashid’s shelf with new copies of his novel, some three hundred of them, the quote from Le Monde blown up large, and a photo of Rashid propping his head on three fingers and looking as amused and superior as he had when I walked into the lounge of the Harmonia Hotel.
So the only possible cover was the hospitality room. But by the time we had got the sliding door behind us open and closed again, and flung ourselves down among the trays of rolls and crates of bottled water, any assassin worth his salt would have finished off Rashid with a knife taken from the nearest pizza trolley and disappeared into the throng of visitors again.
Besides my suit for that evening, my bag also contained a baseball bat, pepper spray and a pair of handcuffs. I unzipped it and placed the handle of the baseball bat close to the side of the bag so that I could get at it as quickly as possible. I also took my pistol out of my back holster behind me and put it in the right-hand side pocket of my corduroy jacket. No one could spot the gun there, and I could shoot through the jacket itself.
‘I hope you’ll be careful with that.’ Katja Lipschitz came up to me and pointed to my jacket pocket. ‘I’ve been observing you. I mean, there can also be exuberant fans who might want to embrace Malik.’
‘Then that’s their bad luck. I rather like firing at random, you know. Right here in the aisle with all the visitors coming to see the show you’re bound to hit someone. By the way, do you have those threatening letters with you?’
We looked at each other.
After a pause, Katja asked, ‘Do you have a wife, I wonder?’
‘You mean am I gay?’
‘No, just wondering if anyone lives with you?’
‘You’d be surprised: I’ve been in good hands for more than ten years. We share an apartment, no affairs — at least on my part — which is why I’m so good-tempered, so easy to please, a man surrounded by the warmth of a feminine nest. Sorry about that, in case you were interested in your chances.’
Katja Lipschitz uttered a brief laugh.
‘How about those threatening letters?’
‘Would the letters change anything in your approach?’
‘Yes. I’d know whether I can rely on the information of the lady who hired me.’
Another pause. I heard a cry from one of the other Maier Verlag tables. ‘Here, see this text message! Number one!’ — ‘I don’t believe it!’ — ‘Well, to be honest, I wouldn’t mind having someone like Gretchen Love on our list too — you can always sell it as art!’ — ‘Spermaboarding as art? I don’t know about that.’ — ‘Is that the title? Spermaboarding?’ — ‘Yes, and something else as well.’
Finally Katja Lipschitz said, ‘A few weeks ago Malik said he’d received letters like that. Unfortunately he hasn’t brought them yet. I’ve asked him several times.’ She looked at me challengingly. ‘Happy now?’