The Snowman (10 page)

“I know it's cold,” he said, “but we won't be overheard up here. How much high C do you have?”

Good Lord, thought Blum, you're pretty advanced for your age.

“Five pounds,” he said. “Five pounds of Peruvian flake, 96 per cent, straight from the producer. So strong
it'd eat your nose away. But the brunette will have told you that.”

The tall man smiled down at Blum. It was a rather frosty smile.

“Quite right, no names. And how much do you want for it?”

“A hundred and fifty grand, in cash.”

By now they had walked over the bridge once. Layabouts were lounging around at the far end, passing a bottle from hand to hand. They turned. The dealer stopped now and then and acted as if he were pointing out the city landmarks to Blum.

“That's crazy,” he said. “And over there you see the cathedral. I can get five kilos for 150 grand. If you want to make that kind of money you'll have to sell it on the street. The East Harbour is over there.”

“I could make half a million on the street,” said Blum, trying to light a cigarette. “A hundred and fifty grand is a realistic price. Once you've cut it you'll make twice that out of my stuff, and hey presto, there's your five kilos. I told you, Peruvian flake. The best.”

“I really prefer Bolivian,” said the tall man. “It's got more subtlety.”

“I thought you were going to flog it.”

“All gone,” an old woman called to the gulls that had been snapping her breadcrusts out of the air. “All gone! Nothing left!” She stuffed the empty plastic bag in her shopping carrier. Blum had finally lit his HB and responded to her mad grin as best he could.

“They've all got cancer,” said the dealer. “And the latest skyscraper – yes, look over there – that's the Deutsche Bank.” Then, lowering his voice: “We might start talking at 80,000.”

They had reached the end of the bridge again, and turned.

“Who's got cancer? The old women or the seagulls?”

“The women, the gulls, all of them. Don't you have cancer too?”

“No,” said Blum.

“You just don't know it yet.”

“Do you?”

“Well, no, but I've already had four stomach ulcers.”

“Is dealing so stressful?”

“My work is stressful. I deal in coke on the side just to make up for it.” He looked gloomily at Blum. “I expect you thought I was around twenty. As a matter of fact I'm twenty-six. Been in advertising for seven years.”

“Amazing,” said Blum, “but all the same I want 150.”

It had grown too cold for the layabouts, and they had moved on to Sachsenhausen. The dealer turned again. Blum was beginning to puff and pant. He wasn't used to this kind of fitness training.

“If your C is really that good – and I'm always sceptical about Peruvian – we might be able to agree on ninety. I'll have to try it first, of course.”

Blum threw his cigarette away. A gull snapped it up.

“Then let's go. I have some with me.”

The tall man looked at him distrustfully. “You mean now? Why are you in such a hurry?”

“What do you mean, a hurry? I need the money.”

“I believe you. But a deal over five pounds of snow isn't done that quickly. I'd have to see it all first and choose what I test for myself. You might give me your Peruvian flake now, and then the rest turns out to be washing powder. Nothing doing.”

I ought to push you into the Main, thought Blum, that's where you belong, down in its murky waters. He stopped. The other man held on to his hairstyle.

“No wonder you have stomach ulcers. You're over-suspicious, that's what it is.”

“Anyone can see you're new to the trade. I don't really do business with novices, but if your stuff is really so great . . . I tell you what: where can I reach you?”

They were back on the Frankfurt side of the river again, and the tall man was getting restless.

“Nowhere,” said Blum. “I'll ring you.”

That seemed to make sense to this character. “Give me the sample, then. But not so's the whole of Frankfurt can see you.”

Once again, Blum had no choice – holding his breath, he gave the man the little bag he had prepared.

“Call me tomorrow morning and we'll see what we can do.”

“Not likely,” said Blum, quite loud. “You'll have a nice evening with my stuff and I'll be left high and dry. Do your test now, and I'll call you at eight and we'll get everything in the clear.”

“Can't be done,” said the tall man, straightening his cashmere scarf. “I have a meeting at eight. Try around midnight, but I can't promise anything.”

A white Mercedes drew up by the kerb, with a redhaired woman at the wheel. The dealer drove off in the car. A Turkish boy pointed a broomstick at Blum, crooking his little finger. “You dead!” he said, and laughed. When he saw Blum's face he ran away.

Blum was sitting in a café, seeing ghosts. Hadn't Rossi pressed close to him as he walked along a dark side street on his way to the central police station? There was a car parked outside the café with a woman and two men in it – Renée, her husband and his gay friend? And now he came to think of it, he'd known several of the people in the café ever since Tangiers, where he once dealt briefly in stolen passports. Wherever he went they were sitting there already, staring at him through their dark glasses, and he stared back at them through his own dark glasses, but there were always more of them and they could stare for longer. Oh, hell, said Blum to himself, ordering another cognac, you just don't have any luck. You've finally dumped yourself right in it with that five pounds of charlie. Keeping your nose clean for forty years – that business with the European Community butter was perfectly legal, and after all, he'd never actually claimed that the Titian was genuine – and any high-class supermarket sells porn magazines these days – and now he had go and get mixed up with the drugs trade. Ten years behind bars was the best he could expect. And that would mean the end of his life as such. He remembered the horror of it back in Istanbul, and he'd been entirely innocent. But if he hadn't happened to have a few banknotes of large denominations he'd still be in that dump today. He shuddered, and with trembling hands reached for the glass the waitress put down in front of
him. To her, thought Blum, I'm still just your average type with cirrhosis of the liver, or Blum of the textiles industry who went bust yesterday and is going to shoot himself after the next cognac.

And now another flesh-and-blood ghost came through the door, making itself out to be a Pakistani by the name of Hassan Abdul Haq. In fact four versions of the ghost came in at once; three of them looked rather like Mr Haq, and one of them was exactly like him, down to every greasy strand of hair and every fibre in his green artificial silk suit. The ghost saw Blum, came over to him, smiling, and showed him Mr Haq's two gold teeth.

“Mr Blum! What a surprise!”

It was indeed Mr Haq. He whispered to his countrymen, directed them to an empty table, and came back to Blum.

“May I sit down here a moment?”

“By all means, Mr Haq. I must say it's a surprise for me to see you here too.”

“Ah, but I told you I had to visit Germany because of Jeddah, remember?”

“You didn't mention Frankfurt.”

“But Frankfurt is in Germany, right, Mr Blum? Surely one could say it was in Germany!”

“All the same, I didn't expect to see you here. Anyone else, but not you. Can I order you something?”

It proved unnecessary. Mr Haq seemed to be known in this café – the waitress was already bringing him a pot of tea. Curiously enough, here in Frankfurt a determination that Blum had not noticed in Malta emanated from the little Pakistani. This time he was wearing a narrow black tie with the white shirt that Blum had seen on a hanger in Valletta. How familiar someone seemed when you'd seen his shirt on a hanger,
and the remains of shampoo in his wash-basin with the hairs still in them. Blum ordered a double mocha.

“Won't you invite your fellow countrymen over to our table, Mr Haq?”

“My fellow countrymen can stay put. They don't speak our language, if you see what I mean.”

Blum piled sugar into his coffee.

“You shouldn't take so much sugar, Mr Blum,” said the Pakistani. “Sugar is very bad for you.”

“An unusual opinion for an Oriental, Mr Haq, if I may say so.”

“If we ate less sugar we might have solved our problems as well as you have. That, of course, was a joke, Mr Blum.”

“Of course.”

“But there's a grain of truth in every joke, don't you think?”

“Mm. But since you mentioned speaking the same language, Mr Haq, do you remember the evening you came to my hotel?”

“Yes, of course. It was only three days ago.”

“Really? How time flies . . .”

Blum described the robbery in Republic Street. Mr Haq looked shocked.

“You surely don't think that I—?”

“No, I don't. I admit I suspected you briefly, but the magazines weren't realistic enough for you.”

“Are you getting hold of new magazines now?”

“No. I have something else on the go.” Blum stubbed out his cigarette and looked the Pakistani in the eye. “Remember you said you could use a man like me?”

“Why, yes, Mr Blum. In Jeddah.”

“Well, Mr Haq, this evening I'm saying it's possible
I
could use someone like
you
.”

Mr Haq cautiously sipped his tea and gave Blum a look that was older than Pakistan, as old as any deal done between human beings.

“I'm honoured, of course, Mr Blum,” he said. “But what exactly could I do for you?”

Blum looked round for anyone observing him. The whole café was full of observers. Even Mr Haq's countrymen were staring openly at them.

“Let's go somewhere else, Mr Haq. I'm inviting you to dinner. Somewhere we won't be disturbed.”

Mr Haq looked concerned, and glanced at his watch, which gleamed gold.

“I'm afraid that won't be possible, Mr Blum. As you can see, my countrymen . . . well, we have something to discuss this evening. And unfortunately it's already late! But why not come to my hotel tomorrow, and then we can talk at leisure.”

Blum noted down the address on a paper napkin.

“Of course I can't be sure you'll find me there, Mr Blum, I have so much to do at the moment . . . but do try, say around mid-day, perhaps for lunch? Good evening, Mr Blum, it's been such a pleasure to see you again!”

Then they disappeared into the night, Mr Haq and his three companions, and Blum left too. The car with the woman and two men in it had gone. He called the dealer from a telephone kiosk. The answering machine replied. “There is no one available to take your call at the moment,” said a sexless voice. “Please leave a message and we will call you back.”

“A hundred and twenty grand,” said Blum, hanging up. He retrieved his travelling bag from the left-luggage locker and found a hotel on the outskirts of the station district. He ate a shashlik with potato salad in the snack bar opposite, and then lay down with a
small bottle of Cutty Sark and his Bahamas handbook on the bed in the narrow room, with its wallpaper the colour of pea soup, its dripping tap, its blue bedside lamp, its yellow coconut-fibre carpet, the Merian engraving above the desk, and the groaning and squealing of the bedstead next door. He took a bath and got out of the tub feeling exhausted. He rang again. The dealer wasn't there. He left the number of the hotel. Then he stuck the locker key under the wardrobe with sticky tape. He poured himself another whisky, using the tooth-glass. Everything smelled of Odol. Sirens were howling. He switched the radio on. It was playing Bert Kaempfert, “Spanish Eyes”.

Blum waited all Tuesday for the dealer to call back. No call came. In the afternoon he bought several paperbacks and a large bottle of Cutty Sark. After dinner he tried to read in his room, but after a while he fell asleep over his book. Later, a collision down in the street at the junction woke him: two cars, a hollow crashing sound, metal, glass, police cars, the ambulance was sent off, onlookers soon dispersed. He drank a whisky. No call. Without a return phone call it would be no use for him to visit Mr Haq either. He wanted a woman, and found himself counting his money. Could he afford the 100 marks for a tart? He had just under DM 1,700. And of course his sample case in the locker. It would have to stay there another night. Was the locker secure enough? He went over to the central police station. A few uniformed officers were around, but they were taking no notice of anyone but the shady characters being brought in. He fed more money into the slot of the locker. Blum no longer felt fear, only a sense of paralysis that made every movement difficult, as if he were suffering from consumption.

He went back to the hotel, stuck the locker key to the inside of the lavatory cistern, stared at his money. He was going to be forty next week, and here he was in this room in a run-down hotel, unable to turn five pounds of cocaine into ready cash. And if he did, then what? He saw himself at forty-three, at forty-seven, at fifty-two, in other rooms, but all of them alike, with a
shirt drying on a hanger, a fly buzzing against the lamp, a radio playing “Spanish Eyes”, sirens howling, the level of whisky in the bottle going down, his heartbeats coming faster, and a telephone that didn't ring. He went downstairs again and crossed the street for a shashlik and a beer. A drunk had laid his head on the bar and was sobbing. Two elderly tarts with fat legs under their gaudy miniskirts were dancing together. An American was feeding the fruit machine, and when he won he bought an Underberg and put it in front of the drunk, who raised his head and assured everyone, in tears, that he hadn't done his old lady in but he'd ruined his stomach with Underberg. Then he drank the Underberg and put his head down on the bar again. The tarts stationed themselves in front of Blum, wiggling their hips, and he bought them a couple of vodkas, went to the all-night pharmacy, purchased a number of bromine tablets and went back to the hotel to sleep.