Free Look Who's Back by Timur Vermes Page B

nonchalantly.
    “Mur-say-dees.”
    I was suddenly overcome by a wave of nostalgia, a wonderful feeling of security. I thought of Nuremberg, the magnificent rallies, the journey through the delightful old town, the late-summer, early-autumn wind, which would prowl around the peak of my cap like a wolf.
    “I had one of these once,” I said dreamily. “A convertible.”
    “And?” the driver asked. “Drive well?”
    “I do not have a licence myself.” I said. “But Kempka never voiced any complaints.”
    “So you’re a Führer who’s never in the driving seat?” The man burst out laughing. “Good joke, eh?”
    “It’s an old one.”
    There was a brief pause in the conversation. Then the driver started up again.
    “Well? Still got it – the car? Or did you sell it?”
    “To tell you the truth I have no idea what became of it,” I said.
    “Shame,” the driver said. “So, what are you doing in Berlin? Winter Gardens? The Red Cock?”
    “Red Cock?”
    “You know – what theatre? Where are you appearing?”
    “First of all I intend to speak on the radio.”
    “I knew it,” the driver said. “Got grand plans again, have we?”
    “Destiny forges plans,” I said firmly. “I am merely doing what needs to be done, both now and in the future, for the preservation of the nation.”
    “You’re really good!”
    “I know.”
    “Fancy a little detour to your old haunts?”
    “Perhaps later. I should hate to be unpunctual.”
    This, after all, was the reason for having ordered a cab. Given my limited means, I had offered to walk to the firm’s headquarters or take the tramway, but anticipating possible traffic congestion or other imponderables, Sensenbrink had insisted on my taking a cab.
    I peered out of the window to see if I could still recognise parts of the capital. It was no simple task, especially as thedriver was avoiding the main thoroughfares to save time. Seeing very few old buildings, I nodded with contentment. It appeared as though almost nothing had been left behind for the enemy. What I still had not fathomed was how, after barely seventy years, such a large metropolis could be standing again. Did Rome not scatter salt in the earth of vanquished Carthage? Had it been down to me, I would have dispersed trainloads of salt in Moscow. Or in Stalingrad! Berlin, on the other hand, was no vegetable garden. The creative man can build a coliseum even on saline earth; as far as construction technology and engineering are concerned, of course, a tonne of salt in the soil is actually quite irrelevant. Moreover, it was quite probable that the enemy had been as awestruck when faced with the rubble of Berlin as the Avars had been before the ruins of Athens. And then, in a desperate attempt to preserve the culture, they had rebuilt the city only as well as second- and third-class races are able. For there was no doubt about it: even at first glance the trained eye could see that the vast majority of structures erected here were inferior. A frightful mishmash, compounded by the fact that wherever one looked the same shops appeared. To begin with I thought we were driving around in circles until I realised that Herr Starbuck owned dozens of coffee houses. The diversity of bakeries had gone, a chain of butchers was everywhere, and I even spotted several YILMAZ BLITZ CLEANER’S. The houses, too, were built to a very unimaginative design.
    The edifice that accommodated the production company was no exception. It was hard to believe that in five hundred or a thousand years people would stand here, marvelling at this insipid block of concrete. I was heartily disappointed. Thebuilding resembled one of those former assembly plants; perhaps this all-encompassing “production company” was not all it was cracked up to be.
    A young, blonde, rather heavily made-up lady met me at reception to escort me to the conference room. I shudder to describe this place, with its bare, concrete walls, broken up occasionally by