‘I do. And the author himself has’ — I couldn’t resist a slight imitation of Katja Lipschitz’s excessively cautious tone of voice — ‘homosexual inclinations?’
‘No, no, the story is pure fiction.’
‘How do you know?’
With the slightly exhausted look that comes into all women’s eyes when they are talking about crude, unwelcome advances from men, she said, ‘He was at our offices last year, and I accompanied him to several interviews.’
‘How big is he?’
‘As an author?’
‘No, as a man.’
She frowned. ‘Why do you want to know that?’
‘Well, none of the Moroccans I’ve met so far are giants, and I imagine that if a rather small man tries making up to such an imposing figure as you I can draw some conclusions about his character.’
‘So?’ For a moment she obviously thought I was round the bend. ‘In fact he is rather small. What conclusion do you draw from that?’ Her tone was stern, even a bit angry. Perhaps she didn’t like that ‘imposing figure’, although I had meant it as a compliment.
‘If he was seriously interested in you and outward features like size hardly mattered — none at all. But if he is the kind of man who simply tries to jump on anything female, never mind what his chances, from the perspective of twenty-four-hour personal protection that is not a completely irrelevant factor.’
She thought about it for a moment and then nodded. ‘Yes, of course you’re right. Hmm …’
Once again she thought it over. She disliked the subject, but not as much as she probably should have, given her position. She couldn’t hide a certain satisfaction in having to make her views clear because the situation demanded it.
‘He certainly doesn’t miss out on anything. Or rather, he’d like to think he doesn’t. His advances aren’t very successful. I spent two days travelling around with him, and he got nowhere with any of the women he made up to. Don’t misunderstand me: he’s good company, well educated, even good-looking, but …’
She stopped.
I said, ‘But he gets on your nerves.’
‘Maybe you could put it that way, yes. However, I’m sorry for him. You see, I think he simply doesn’t understand that it’s different between the sexes here, that communication is more along the lines of equal rights, that we …’
She stopped. The little word we echoed soundlessly in the air, as if Katja Lipschitz had farted and was hoping I’d put the sound down to the chair creaking. We, the civilised Europeans Lipschitz and Kayankaya, and he, the Moroccan Freddie the Flirt? Or more likely you two Orientals and I, the tall blonde …?
I tried to help her out. ‘You don’t have to explain your author to me. I’d just like to know what he does and can or can’t do. The reasons don’t matter to me.’
‘I just didn’t want you thinking that he …’
‘Pesters women?’
‘Well … no … yes, I definitely didn’t want that.’
‘Don’t worry. Besides, he’ll leave me in peace. What languages does he speak?’
‘Hmm …’ She wanted to say something else about her author, but then let it rest. ‘Arabic, of course, French and German. He studied in Berlin, and always spends several months a year there. And incidentally … he chose you.’
‘He chose me?’
‘Well, we showed him a list of all the Frankfurt agencies offering personal protection, and he thought it would help his public image if his bodyguard was a Muslim. You are Muslim, aren’t you?’
‘Oh, well.’ I gestured vaguely. ‘My parents were. I mean my birth parents. They died early on, and I was adopted by a German couple who raised me. I assume they were baptised, but religion didn’t play any part in our family.’
Katja Lipschitz hesitated.
‘But … forgive me for asking, presuming we’re to work together it might not be totally unimportant: how do you see yourself? I mean are you religious in any way?’
I shook my head. ‘No religion, no star sign, no belief in hot stones or lucky numbers. When I need something to lean on I have a beer.’
‘Oh.’ She looked confused and slightly repelled.
‘I’m sorry, I can’t offer you any faith. But that can hardly be of any importance to the public image of your author. My name is Kayankaya, and I look the way I look. I don’t know how Muslim I am under religious law, but ask any of my neighbours, I’m sure they could tell you.’
‘Do you mind if I pass that on to our author?’
‘Not in the least. So he chose me. Was it his idea to hire a bodyguard in the first place? Does the information that his book is causing an uproar in the Arab world come first and foremost from him?’
Katja Lipschitz’s glance lingered on my eyes for a moment. But she wasn’t seeing my eyes, rather something or other beyond them — her boss, a furious Freddie the Flirt, or the newspaper headline: Moroccan author invents role of victim to crank up sales of book.
‘That’s nonsense,’ she said at last, but she didn’t sound entirely convinced.
‘Glad to hear it. I’ve been rather suspicious ever since Gregory, as I’m sure you’ll understand. What’s your author’s name? Well, I can find that out anyway: Maier Verlag, Morocco, gay police detective — Google ought to provide enough hits. And then I can convince myself of the outrage in the Arab world.’
‘Malik Rashid. I’ll be happy to show you the threatening letters.’
‘In Arabic?’
‘We’ll get them translated, of course. In case we’re forced to publish them, or we have to turn to the police.’
‘If you hire me I really would like to see those letters.’
I looked at the time; it was just after noon. I’d determined to get Marieke home in time for lunch. On the one hand, the fastest possible performance of a job is of course part of the service; on the other hand, I liked the idea of impressing Valerie de Chavannes with my swift, uncomplicated help.
‘When does the Book Fair begin?’
‘Next Wednesday. Malik is arriving on Friday and staying until Monday.’
‘Is he staying at a hotel?’
‘The Harmonia in Niederrad.’
‘Not a very cheerful neighbourhood.’
‘We’re glad to get any hotel rooms at all. You may not know it, but Frankfurt is fully booked during the Fair.’
‘I’m only wondering what Rashid’s evenings look like. People don’t usually like going home to Niederrad early.’
‘He has engagements on all three evenings — dinner with the publisher, a reading and a panel discussion, and after those he’ll be exhausted and want to go to bed.’
‘Does he drink alcohol?’
‘He says not, for religious reasons, but to be honest … well, I’ve seen him at least once when his conduct made me think he was under the influence.’
‘Maybe he smokes weed?’
‘I … you’ll have to ask him that yourself. You see, I’ve tried to avoid personal subjects between us as much as possible because …’
‘Yes, I understand.’ I nodded to her. ‘Fine, Frau Lipschitz, I have enough information for now. I assume you’ll want to think it over. You can call me anytime.’ I took one of my business cards out of my shirt pocket and gave it to her. ‘My usual fee as a bodyguard is a hundred euros an hour plus taxes, but for round-the-clock standby duty, at least a thousand euros a day, plus taxes. If Rashid gets drunk or catches flu and spends all day in bed it will still cost you just under a thousand two hundred euros. However, I’m flexible about calculating working hours: for instance, if Rashid wants to go to the cinema or something like that, and I can go for a coffee in the meantime, I won’t sit outside the cinema and claim I was searching the street for Al-Qaeda for two hours on end.’
‘I’ll have to discuss it with the publisher.’
‘Do that. And if we come to an agreement, please let me know as soon as possible so that I can check out the hotel before Rashid arrives.’