Magic Hoffmann by Jakob Arjouni Read Free Book Online

w-w-week-end and trample on everything and sp-sp-spit at me. Wolfgang from N-n-nine A is one of them. I have to have b-b-beer r-ready for them.’
    â€˜Wolfgang?’
    â€˜Suzie-is-a-38D Wolfgang.’ Karl chuckled with pleasure. Those were the days. Fred and some others had put a microphone in the school toilets, and the noises were broadcast over speakers in the playground. Wolfgang had taken a porno magazine to the toilet, and because he was a poor reader, he had been loudly deciphering the picture captions.
    â€˜Well,’ said Fred, looking at his watch again, ‘I must be going. When I get back I’ll stop by at the week-end. Shove some Valium in their beer.’
    Karl looked at him doubtfully.
    â€˜D-do you really m-m-mean that?’
    â€˜Sure. And when they’re asleep, you can whack them in the face.’
    â€˜That would be t-t-terrific.’ Karl was thrilled at the thought.
    â€˜Or you get someone to replace you at the week-end.’ Fred began to manoeuvre himself gradually towards the exit.
    â€˜W-w-won’t work. The other gardener is an Arab, and th-that would be even more st-stupid.’
    Fred was bored with the subject. He wasn’t interested in Nazis. Or in Karl, for that matter. He wondered whether to buy provisions in the supermarket. At the exit he took his leave of Karl, promised to come by some time, and a few metres further on, he had forgotten him.

6
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    The train slowed down, bumping along over uneven track. The glasses in the dining carriage clinked. Empty fields went by the window, then a cobbled path that led to a group of small of tumble-down houses. There were scythes next to the front doors, rusty hoardings, old car tyres, an outside toilet. The only new items on the houses were enormous, grey satellite dishes, which perched on the roofs like artillery directed against extraterrestrials. In the background was a grain silo, from which a tree-lined asphalt road led through the barren, brown landscape. The sky was grey, and everything seemed to be floating in porridge.
    â€˜First time you’ve travelled through the former workers’ and peasants’ state then?’
    Fred looked away from the window. For some time he had felt that the red-faced man opposite had been watching him. He wore a shabby, grey suit with a gaudy tie, his fingers sported two fat gold signet rings, and his blond hair had been blow-dried airily upwards. He had entered the dining carriage after Fred and was on his fourth or fifth beer.
    He gave a broad grin, ‘or rather, idiots and unemployed people,’ and laughed loudly.
    â€˜Well?’ he asked.
    Fred nodded. ‘First time. Why?’
    â€˜Because you’re taking in the monotonous landscape and these derelict dumps as if they were by Monalisa.’
    â€˜By who?’
    â€˜The painter. Where do you come from then?’
    Much amused, he shook his head and waved at the waitress.
    â€˜Two Pils and two vodkas for my young friend and I.’
    Then he grinned again. ‘You’re the first person I know, apart from the Japanese, who has never travelled through the East.’
    Fred didn’t want the man’s vodka. Like misers who get annoyed at the meanness of others, Fred disliked strangers who came across a little too brash. ‘And you’re the first person, apart from the Japanese, who has grinned at me so often in such a short time.’
    The man was taken aback, then burst out laughing again.
    â€˜Sorry my friend, the grinning gets on my nerves too but I can’t give it up, it’s part of the job. I’m a rep. Do you know what for?’ Without waiting for Fred to answer, he leaned forward and whispered: ‘Fruit machines, territory Mecklenburg-Vorpommern. Cool Rudi.’
    Fred looked uncomprehendingly. Rudi frowned.
    â€˜You know what fruit machines are, don’t you?’
    â€˜Yes, but...’
    â€˜Well then. Why aren’t you laughing? Fruit