The interests of the layer of people to which Herr Hagen belonged can be usually placed in the following triangle: new women – new cars – new movies. But at least they are a credit humus, a feeding ground for numerous finance companies. All of their belongings are brought on credit – house, car, furniture, household appliances, even clothes and shoes. It’s the greatest invention of our economic system – which, I believe, is the future – to create a class of people-conductors, people-pipes. They get money in their account from their employer, then straight away, without taking any cash out, transfer it as payment for their credits. Sometimes the employer and creditor is the same organization. In this way, the natural circulation of money continues and these ‘Herr Hagens’ are an important part of this circulation.
In the States, by the way, there’s plenty of people like this, and I wouldn’t say they are exactly condemned by society. Quite the opposite. To become one of these white collars is as prestigious, and it’s tough to get into this caste from a farm in the Midwest or from the ethnic districts of a megalopolis. The social life is social because it doesn’t stop on all the floors of a building.
Sometimes I get a kind of fascist idea that if people like this didn’t exist, nobody would notice it – apart from the banks and, of course, their relatives.
Why this creature was of any interest to the NSA, I’m afraid, even Buddha may not know. And why would I care – I just complied with Steve’s request.
In the meantime, Herr Hagen was getting wild. He was either laughing his nuts off, throwing his head back and displaying his whitened teeth, or squeezing the girls, who, by the way, didn’t object at all. Or he would suddenly jump up, inviting the girls to dance. By that time there was a totally unrestrained atmosphere in the club with everyone shaking and grinding, By the small stage where the musicians were performing, bras and tops of excited fans were already flying through the air.
After an hour, there was no sign of Herr Hagen slowing down. After beer, he moved on to tequila, and he sprinkled salt onto the palm of one of the two laughing glamourpusses, and after drinking sucked a slice of lemon from the breast of the other one.
I began to count how much he had drunk but I lost count after the tenth.
The evening was rolling down its habitually orchestrated rails. The musicians had left and a DJ of unclear gender and nationality took their place.
Distracted by the DJ, I only noticed Herr Hagen walking towards me when he was two steps away. My heart dropped to the bottom of my stomach and my palms became suddenly sweaty. The music moved to the distance and rang in my ears as it always does when I get really scared.
He’s seen through me! He’s done it so easily because I am green and probably staring at him too openly. And all my conclusions about a typical representative of office plankton are in reality worthless. He is a spy – a professional, probably – and a murderer, trained in Al-Qaeda camps. Damn, he even looks like an Arab! He will now approach me, discreetly stab me with a poisoned stiletto and carry on as if nothing has happened.
I was in uncontrolled fear. I was paralysed and only my teeth were knocking the resounding beat. Herr Hagen came right up to me. I had a faint hope he wanted something from the bar, even though I saw that he walked past the barman shaking a drink.
The moment of truth came.
‘Hello, mate!’ Herr Hagen said in English with an awful accent. ‘How are you doing?’
I could only manage a nod – meaning, ‘I’m good’.
‘Where are you from?’
All I could manage to squeeze out was an unclear head movement and a muffled:
‘From… from there.’
‘Are you already drunk, er?’ Herr Hagen began to laugh. ‘Dweeb! C’mon, let’s have tequila, it’ll sober you up. Although you’ll have a headache in the morning it doesn’t matter. Would you like to come to my table?’
I was silently blinking, not able to force out a single word. Streams of cold sweat were running down my back. The first time in my life that had ever happened.
He put his hand into his jacket. My legs went rigid as if I had just stepped in ice-cold water. Now he’ll get his stiletto out…
Instead of a stiletto Herr Hagen pulled out a five-euro note, waved it in the air and shouted over the DJ.
‘Hey, barman! Two tequilas for me and my friend!’
I drank the tequila as if it was water, without noticing its flavor or smell.
‘What about lemon and salt!?’ Herr Hagen raised his arms sorrowfully. ‘What are you doing, friend… Hey, man, looks like you already had enough. You better go home otherwise you may cork off here – then there’ll be no end of trouble. Do you hear me?’
I nodded, struggling to realize that he hadn’t cracked me but just approached me because I was the only guy in the club alone. I needed to play along and pretend that I was indeed very drunk.
‘Maybe I should call you a taxi?’ he was hanging over me like a pruned tree. ‘Where do you live, mate?’
I somehow managed to explain that I’m a visitor and that a friend is waiting for me in the car outside. I paid for the martini, got off the stool and trudged towards the exit. The last thing I heard was Herr Hagen telling his laughing girlfriends loudly:
‘American. They just can’t drink.’
After leaving the club, I turned a corner, straightened up, stopped and called Steve.
‘That’s it, I had to leave.’
‘Why?’ my friend was surprised.
‘He began to talk to me, got me a drink and then decided that I am too drunk and began to offer help.’
‘But you are sober!’ Steve surprised.
‘It just happened…’
‘Did he approach you himself?’
“Yes.’
“Do you know why?’
I had to confess:
‘Probably because I was sitting there alone…’
He grunted.
‘I see. So, what can you tell me about our friend?’
‘He’s a typical white collar not burdened by excessive intelligence,’ I was getting my own back on Herr Hagan for the fright he gave me. ‘He picked up two whores and pumped them up so much that in the end they were only capable of laughing. He likes to drink and eat but keeps well. After beer, he drinks tequila and claims it can sober you up. People say that’s a sign of an early stage of alcoholism…’
‘Josh, mate, let us come up with the conclusions,’ Steve interrupted me. ‘Thanks for your work. I owe you.’
…I probably would’ve forgotten about the event if there hadn’t been a follow-up. It so happened that I got delayed in Zurich. I can’t tell you all the details, but I’ll just say that it had something to do with my job, with part of it which I have no intention of divulging under any circumstances.
These were lonely, miserable days. It rained non-stop. The wind bent the bushes right over on the waterfront, rattled the signs and tore shreds of clouds, which looked black, across the grey sky. The Paladins had for various reasons all suddenly left. Some had gone to Geneva. Some had even left Switzerland. So there was nobody left in the consulate except for security and a couple of diplomats.
The dreariest time was in the evenings when streams of vehicles crawled through the gloomy wet streets. Zurich residents were hurrying to their homes, to their families and pets, and here I was dawdling, stepping over puddles, back to the dull hotel where crap coffee and a cold bed were waiting for me.
One evening, I think it was Thursday, I felt so lousy I decided to go out for a warming drink, like mulled wine.