Free The Snowman by Jörg Fauser Page A

other man’s. If the Camembert toppled over now there would be a brawl. He put several coins on the bar and tried to get away.
    â€œTalks big but can’t hold his beer any more,” said the man with the paw that was now slipping up the blonde’s back. Suddenly she rose from her swivel stool – the back of it promptly knocked the beer glass out of her suitor’s hand – and let herself fall past him and to the floor, burying the glass under her. The men went on talking as if nothing had happened, except for her suitor, who was complaining about his beer. Blum helped the woman up again. Tears were running down her face, dissolving her makeup. The smell of cognac and perfume was overpowering.
    â€œTerribly sorry,” she stammered, “only looking for my husband. Where can the man be?”
    â€œHere’s some men for you,” boomed someone.
    â€œI wish I knew why anyone would want so much shaving foam,” wondered the man with the Camembert face.
    â€œAsk him then, Otto.”
    â€œHey, you, what do you want with a whole carton full of shaving foam?”
    He bellowed so loud that you could hear him all over the lobby. The Arabs looked expectantly at Blum.
    â€œI’m sure he’ll be here soon,” Blum told the blonde, propping her against the bar. Her smeared, swollen face smiled happily at him.
    â€œHe sells the foam to those Hottentots!” bellowed the man with the big paw.
    â€œAnd we pay the subsidy!”
    This gleaned general approval. The Hottentots really needed that foam.
    â€œYou’re so cute,” said the blonde, fluttering her clogged lashes. “Come on, let’s have another.”
    But Blum disengaged himself and left, yet again – for the third time in three days – with a woman shouting after him. It was beginning to get him down. Then he heard her fall full length once more. This time she stayed down, shrieking like a stuck pig. When he reached the lift he saw the night porters hurrying into the bar.
    â€œDisgusting,” said a blue-rinsed American woman just coming in from seeing the night life of Munich.
    â€œIt’s only a movie,” said Blum, putting his sunglasses on. The American got straight out of the lift again.
    When he was back in room 316 Blum took a deep breath. This is getting tougher than you expected, he thought. It’s all the extra fuss makes the thing so tricky. He stared at a notice on the wall: for your safety. It told him what to do in case of a fire in the hotel. The last sentence ran: “Keep calm – do not panic – thank you!” Right, thought Blum. I hope I can bear that in mind.
    It was a long time before he could get to sleep. He leafed through the Bahamas handbook. One Mr Bernard Butler, a resident there for ten years, said of Freetown, the new city on Grand Bahama, “Everything is just the way we like it here,” and perhaps you didn’t need to work for the Mafia to get a piece of the cake there, raisins and all – but wasn’t Blum already working for the Mafia? It was part of the game, and you couldn’t count on chance. He switched off the light and looked out at the tower. A red eye blinked on top of it, registering everything. No one’s going to give you a chance, thought Blum. Maybe that’s just what will bring you through. I’m an amateur in the cocaine trade, but I’ve had forty years’ experience of survival.He fiddled with his transistor radio and picked up a woman’s voice on short wave, broadcasting coded news to people who were experts in their field, and at last the endless columns of numbers of her code, as well as that dream of the white beaches, began to make him drowsy . . .
    â€œ14811 – 34210 – 42734 – 38307 – 15759 – 61003 – 21536 – 89342” – palms, a gentle breeze, a sunrise sky – “99188 – 50777 – 53338 – 73512 – 39834 –