Free Magic Hoffmann by Jakob Arjouni

stomach makes you thinner - full glass, as good as dinner,’ his father had always said. But he could also have done it with: ‘Lots to eat, hunger gone for sure,’ and ended with, ‘gluttony’s the cure.’
    One of the women turned to look at Fred. ‘Who is standing at my back the whole time?’
    Fred removed the bottle hastily from his mouth and vodka splashed onto the ground. Before he could answer the woman said: ‘Do you belong to Carlo?’
    Fred shook his head, ‘No, I...’
    â€˜Are you involved in the neo-nazi documentary evidence?’ one of the men asked.
    Fred shook his head again. ‘I...’
    â€˜Or are you the cook for tomorrow’s party? But wasn’t that supposed to be a Thai?’
    â€˜I know,’ said another, ‘he’s the driver for Sascha’s night scene, the one about the Jewish models in front of Hitler’s bunker, where they sing that forbidden song about hacked off and defiled children’s heads - you know the one.’
    â€˜Ah. That one.’
    They stopped talking and looked at Fred.
    â€˜I’m a friend of Annette.’
    â€˜Is that so?’ said one, and a second: ‘There’s a lot of those about,’ whereupon one of the women gave him a playful slap.
    They continued to talk about the film, and so as not to stand at anyone’s back, Fred retreated to the sink. The brief conversation had given him some encouragement for his start in Berlin, and he waited for a suitable moment to continue it. Besides, with each slug of vodka he was getting smarter. He was definitely going to find a way to get through to them soon. For example he could save them time and money by explaining to them that nobody would watch their film. He knew about the movies: Eddie Murphy, Clint Eastwood, Julia Roberts, Christopher Walken - no problem. And that’s why he knew that these stories with the circle of wagons and half-breed Indians couldn’t have conjured ten marks out of anyone’s trouser pocket for at least the last fifty years.
    The kitchen began to swim in front of Fred’s eyes.
    â€˜Hey you! What’s your name?’
    Fred looked up. Did they mean him? He wanted to reply, but something was preventing him. His lips suddenly became weirdly stuck together.
    â€˜Your name,’ repeated the man.
    Fred passed his hand over his mouth. ‘F-F-Fred,’ he tried to articulate.
    â€˜Fine,’ said the man giving a rubbery smile, ‘well Fred: we have a small problem here. I’d like to hear from you as an outsider your concept of German culture.’
    Fred let the empty bottle drop in the sink, and while he waved his arms in the air in an attempt to keep his balance, he took two steps in the direction of the table. He was cross-eyed with alcohol, and it took him a moment to establish who was talking to him.
    â€˜Â â€™fcourse.’ Now even his tongue was letting him down. It was struggling to get out over the lower canine teeth. ‘German cu-ure,’ he repeated, and he knew precisely that this was connected to a question.
    â€˜Don’t think too long,’ said the man, ‘just come out with it.’
    Fred nodded. Then he could feel a jolt in his chest, and it was as if his stomach were climbing. He noticed people staring at him. If only he could remember the question. He placed his hands on the edge of the table, leaned forward, and his lips formed the first letters of the request to repeat the question, when warmth suddenly filled his throat, and before he could close his mouth a colourful stream spewed over table, papers, and all present. As they leapt to their feet screaming, Fred closed his eyes, lurched forward and crashed unconscious into the chairs.

9
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    Fred was looking for his left arm. He found it under his stomach. He dragged it out and checked the time. Half six. Wake up time in prison. He raised his head gingerly. He was lying fully clothed on