Free Look Who's Back by Timur Vermes Page A

amateurish lawyer had been up to such frightful mischief. Now a courtroom drama was playing, whose lead actress I at first mistook for the chancellor I had seen on the news. It soon turned out, however, that she was merely a courtroom matron who closely resembled the chancellor. The case being tried was that of a certain Sanndi, who seemed to have been charged with a variety of irregularities at her educational establishment.
    The sixteen-year-old girl had only committed these offences, however, on account of her fondness for a boy called Anndi, who was entertaining relations with three female students at the same time, one of whom was evidently an actress, or wished to become one. Due to inexplicable circumstances, however, she had put this career on hold in favour of a side-line in the criminal world, and now was part-owner of a betting shop. More utter nonsense along similar lines was reeled off, while the courtroom matron nodded keenly, her face a picture of utter seriousness, as if these absurd tales were the most normal thing in the world and actually happened on a daily basis. I simply could not fathom it.
    Who would choose to watch rubbish like this?Untermenschen, perhaps, who can barely read and write, but besides them? Practically deadened, I switched back to the rotund woman. Since my last visit her adventure-filled life had been interrupted by a programme of advertisements, the end of which I just caught. Then the narrator insisted on explaining to me for the umpteenth time that this wretched bint had lost all control over her bastard halfwit excuse for a daughter, and all she had managed to accomplish in the last half-hour was to prattle on to a chain-smoking neighbour about throwing the little cretin out. “This entire coterie of hopeless cases belongs in a labour camp,” I declared vociferously to the television set. “The apartment should be renovated or, even better, demolished along with the rest of the house, and a parade ground built in its stead, so as to expunge for good these calamitous goings-on from the wholesome minds of the German Volk. Exasperated, I hurled the control box into the waste-paper basket.
    What a superhuman task lay ahead of me!
    To subdue my fury I decided to step outside. Not for long, for I did not wish to be far from the telephone, but long enough to dash to the Blitz cleaner’s to fetch my uniform. I entered the shop with a sigh, was greeted as “Herr Stromberg”, picked up my surprisingly immaculate soldier’s coat and briskly made my way back. I could scarcely wait to face the world again in familiar clothing. Naturally, the first thing the receptionist said when I returned was that there had been a telephone call for me.
    “Aha,” I said. “Of course. It would have had to happen while I was out. Who was it?”
    “No idea,” the receptionist said, staring blankly at her television set.
    “Did you not make a note of the name?” I shouted impatiently.
    “They said they’d ring back,” she said, in an attempt to excuse her misconduct. “Was it important?”
    “The future of Germany is at stake,” I said in disgust.
    “Whatever,” she said, returning to gawp at her screen. “Got no mobile?”
    “Mobile?” I spat.
    “Yeah,” she said. “It’s like, handy.”
    “Like Hanndi?” I screamed in a rage. “Is this another tramp who’s gone running to court because she lost her apprenticeship?” I turned on my heel and marched to my room to resume my study of the television.

viii
    I t was remarkable how much more recognisable I was in my usual clothing. When I entered the cab the driver greeted me sulkily, but with a definite air of familiarity.
    “Alright, governor? Back then, are we?”
    “Indeed,” I replied, nodding to the man. I gave him the address.
    “Right you are!”
    I leaned back. I had not ordered any specific type of cab, but if this were an average model it was an excellent ride.
    “What type of automobile is this?” I asked him