Look Who's Back by Timur Vermes Read Free Book Online Page B

the counter and took out my uniform. He took a sniff, said, “Aha – you work at petrol station,” and calmly picked up the bundle.
    I ought to have been indifferent to the opinions of anon-voter from an alien race, and yet I could not ignore what he said altogether. Granted, the man did not hail from here, but could I really have fallen into such obscurity? On the other hand, most of the German Volk knew me from press photographs only, and these generally showed my countenance from a favourable angle. Meeting someone in the flesh is often surprisingly different.
    “No,” I said assertively. “I do
not
work at the petrol station.”
    I then turned my head upwards and to the side, offering the more photogenic angle to give the half-breed a clearer view of just who this was standing before him. The cleaner looked at me, more out of politeness than any apparent interest, but I received the impression that I was not entirely unknown to him. He leaned over the counter and studied my trousers, tucked impeccably into my high boots.
    “I dunno … You famous fishing man?”
    “Just try a bit harder, man,” I said forcefully, though feeling slightly deflated. Even with the newspaper seller, no genius himself, I was able to build on some prior knowledge. Now this! How on earth would I make it back to the Reich Chancellery if nobody had a clue who I was?
    “A moment, please,” the non-native fool said. “I get son. Always watch T.V., always look at Intanet, know everything. Mehmet! Mehmet!”
    The Mehmet in question soon appeared. A tall, moderately neat-looking youth shuffled to the front of the shop together with a friend or brother. The seed of this family was not to be underestimated; both boys wore clothes that must have once belonged to brothers who were even taller – they must be trulygigantic. Shirts like bed sheets, unfathomably large trousers.
    “Mehmet,” his progenitor said, pointing at me. “You know this man?”
    I could detect a spark in the eyes of this boy whom one could hardly call a boy any longer.
    “Hey, man, yeah, of course! That’s the bloke who always does the Nazi stuff …”
    Something, at least! There was no denying that his manner of expression was rather sloppy, but what he said was not altogether incorrect. “It is called National Socialism,” I corrected him sympathetically. “Or National Socialist policy, you could also say.” My identity validated, I cast “Cleaner Yilmaz” a look of satisfaction.
    “It’s that Stromberg,” Mehmet said confidently.
    “Epic,” his friend said. “Stromberg in your laundry!”
    “No,” Mehmet corrected himself. “It’s the other Stromberg. The one from the send-up.”
    “No way!” the friend said “The other Stromberg! In your laundry.”
    I was keen to come back with a response, but was simply too exhausted. Who was I again? Petrol-pump man? Fishing man? Strom-man?”
    “Can I have an autograph?” a delighted Mehmet asked.
    “Yeh, me too, Herr Stromberg,” the friend said. “And a photo!” He waved a tiny instrument at me as if I were a dachshund and it a canine treat.
    It was infuriating.
    I took the receipt for my uniform, consented to have a souvenir photograph taken with these strange companions andleft the cleaner’s, but not before I had signed two sheets of tissue paper with the colour pen I was handed. A brief crisis followed the autographing, when complaints were aired that I had not signed “Stromberg”.
    “Look, it’s obvious,” the friend said reassuringly, although it was unclear whether he was trying to placate Mehmet or me. “That’s not Stromberg!”
    “You’re right,” Mehmet agreed. “He’s not Stromberg. He’s the other one.”
    I must concede that I had underestimated the enormity of the task facing me. Back then, after the Great War, at least I was the anonymous man from the heart of the Volk. Now I was Herr Stromberg – not the first Stromberg, but the other one. The man who always did the