Read Online Magic Hoffmann by Jakob Arjouni - Free Book Online

slobbered at his side. Wealthy quarter this Kreuzberg, thought Fred, even the beggars own dogs. He shook his head and ran off. It was shortly after half seven, and the cloudy sky was beginning to turn dark.
    Soon he realised that the area was anything but wealthy. The houses and streets were decaying, the pubs emitted a harsh stench of fags, beer and rancid fat, and old women wandered round with handcarts full of firewood. But they weren’t really poor either: more and more well-fed dogs approached him. Their young owners were admittedly only half as well fed and looked pitifully grey and ragged, but they didn’t seem to care about their appearance in the slightest. On the contrary: they paraded their self-satisfied earnestness, and seemed proud, as if their poverty were some kind of rare craft. Fred became more convinced that in Berlin, a sunny disposition was bad manners.
    The nearer he got to Annette’s address, the smarter the houses became, the cleaner and leafier the streets. Now the pedestrians looked like students or pianists, and the pubs smelled of food. When he stood in front of number fourteen, darkness had fallen, and it had begun to drizzle. On the ground floor was a bar with small, round, dirty windows, like portholes. A strange noise emerged, reminiscent of the juddering of a damaged fridge motor. Inscribed sheets hung from the windows above: ‘Never again’ or ‘Solidarity with’- the wind had covered the rest of the message.
    Fred entered the dismal hallway in a state of high excitement. On the wall to the right were letter boxes, and Fred found Annette’s name next to three others which he didn’t know. But where was the flat? Staircases to right and left, then another courtyard with two more staircases to the sides and one straight ahead. No panel of doorbells. Fred looked round the courtyard. Somewhere a vacuum cleaner droned, and he could hear bright laughter from the first floor. He had no alternative but to climb one staircase after another. Berlin bids you unwelcome. Even the nameplates seemed designed to make it difficult for strangers: they had been painted over or covered with stars made from straws, some were of pottery, one was even knitted. Often, in the dim light of the hallway, Fred could see only colourful chaos at first glance.
    On the third staircase, second floor, the door he had been looking for was suddenly in front of him. A silver sign gleamed above the names of Annette and the others: MEGASTARS INTERNATIONAL FILM PRODUCTION.
    Fred took a deep breath. Then he removed the slightly damaged bouquet from a plastic bag, ran a hand through his hair and pressed the bell. It took a while before he could hear steps coming from far away.
    The door opened slightly, and a cowboy put his head round. Pointed boots, jeans, brightly embroidered buckskin shirt. He was wearing shades and a dyed black goatee. ‘Yes?,’ he reeked of booze, ‘What is it?’
    Fred quickly hid the flowers behind the bag. ‘Is Annette there?’
    â€˜No. Why?’
    â€˜Well, I...’ curious question, thought Fred, ‘I’m a friend of hers.’
    â€˜Is that right?’ The cowboy was watching him closely. ‘She’ll be back in about an hour.’
    The door didn’t move. Fred looked for a sign from the shades: Saloon closed to strangers. He looked over to the stairs. ‘Is that the waiting room for international film production?’
    Without a word, the cowboy opened the door. Only now did Fred notice the inverted baseball cap. The hall in the apartment was the length of two bowling alleys. Fred counted more than ten doors to left and right, while the cowboy walked ahead of him in silence. Several doors were open: kitchen, offices, empty rooms containing just a sofa or a mattress. As they reached an enormous double door, Fred asked: ‘Where’s the baseball tournament taking place?’
    The cowboy turned his head as he walked,