The Snowman by Jörg Fauser Read Free Book Online Page B

shrugged and put his magnifying glass away. “Well, in time you get to know these things. There are only three possibilities – Colombia, Bolivia, Peru. Some of my colleagues claim that Bolivian cocaine is the strongest, but of course that’s nonsense. It always depends on the refinement process. You have to learn about it, see? Learning on the spot is best, of course.”
    â€œThen let’s see if we like it,” said Hermes. For the first time he seemed to be the man Blum remembered. He took a small ivory case from the desk, pushed two straight lines of the cocaine into place on the mirror with a razor blade, and inhaled the cocaine through a rolled-up dollar bill. Then he breathed in deeply and passed the equipment over to Blum.
    â€œThese days they often cut it with the most extraordinary things – Italian baby laxative is about the most harmless. What’s it called, Henri?”
    â€œMannite. Looks the same as coke under the magnifying glass, tastes the same, dissolves the same. They’ve taken to using yoghurt cultures too recently.”
    â€œGood heavens.” Hermes lit a cigarette and drew on it deeply and with enjoyment. “Ah, really good stuff, Blum. Congratulations.”
    Congratulations for what, Blum would have liked to ask. Instead he handed the mirror on to Henri, who looked at him inquiringly. Blum shook his head.
    â€œI don’t feel like it.”
    â€œHave you ever done a line?” asked Hermes.
    â€œLast year in Paris,” said Blum. “It makes me too nervous.”
    â€œ Chacun à son goût , that’s all I can say.”
    Henri sniffed and then poured himself a whisky. His hands shook slightly.
    â€œDid you bring this stuff into the country?” he asked Blum.
    â€œLike I told you, Blum’s a traveller by trade,” said Hermes. “You pick up the oddest things abroad. Sometimes you even find something memorable. I think I want some music now.” He lay back on the sofa, glass within reach, picked up something that looked like a TV remote control and pressed a button. The record player switched on. Henri sat down and leafed througha magazine. The only one of them not relaxing was Blum, who clutched his glass and stared at the bed.
    â€œCharlie Parker,” said Hermes, closing his eyes. “Charlie Parker All Star Sextet. Charlie Parker, alto; Miles Davis, trumpet; J. J. Johnson, trombone; Max Roach, drums; Duke Jordan, piano; Tommy Potter, bass.”
    But the music did not soothe Blum. Far from it – as usual with the music of Parker every note, however lightly, almost fleetingly played, seemed to set off a dark, painful echo. How people could listen to this for pleasure was a mystery to him. It was music with more shadows than Blum wanted to see just now, asking questions more difficult than he wanted to hear. Charlie Parker with “Out of Nowhere” on an afternoon in the north, with the sleet like a grey wall between the penthouse and the nearby motorway access road and supermarket centres, like a wall with Miles Davis blowing holes in it, but there was another wall behind it, said Charlie Parker, and yet another wall behind that. Don’t let them get you down, thought Blum. This is your biggest chance in years, and you are damn well going to exploit it, and neither Charlie Parker nor the sleet nor Hermes with his drop-out blues is going to muck it up for you. What does drop-out blues mean anyway? That man never dropped out of anything. He’ll just keep dropping in all the way to his funeral. You mustn’t take your eye off the ball for a split second.
    â€œAmazing,” said Hermes, when the disc came to an end. “He has a shadow for every light and a question for every answer. Right, what sort of questions do we have now, Blum?”
    â€œDo you know any buyers, Hermes?”
    Hermes was standing at the window with his whisky.
    â€œListen, Blum, I’m not delivering a