The Snowman by Jörg Fauser

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 ashirt 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.
    The phone call came next morning when Blum was sitting in the breakfast room with a throbbing head, drinking the weak coffee and reading a newspaper report about asylum seekers getting their teeth fixed at the taxpayers’ expense.
    â€œSorry, I had to go to Milan yesterday, didn’t get back until one in the morning. I suggest we have lunch.”
    They met at a clip-joint near the hotel. The dealer lunched on four Alka Seltzers, a sesame seed roll with steak tartare, and a Bloody Mary, extra strong. Blum had the full menu at DM 29.90. The leg of veal was just enough for three forkfuls. The dealer was wearing a yellow linen double-breasted suit, a pink tie and white shoes with black toecaps. He seemed to have done a lot of shopping in Milan.
    â€œMightn’t we be overheard in here?” asked Blum, sipping his Budweiser.
    The dealer stroked back his hair and looked at Blum with amusement. He seemed to be in a good mood.
    â€œThis place belongs to us,” he said.
    â€œUs?”
    â€œA couple of friends and me.”
    â€œAh, then you won’t have any trouble with our little transaction.”
    â€œThat depends entirely on you. Your high C is good stuff all right – always supposing the whole five pounds are like what I tested – but even 120 grand isn’t a realistic basis for negotiation. You surely must see that.”
    â€œI think it is,” said Blum, spreading butter on a slice of rye bread. The butter, of course, was chilled hard, and the bread crumbled.
    â€œYou’re not seeing this the right way, I’m afraid,” said the dealer, looking with distaste at the wrecked slice of bread. “There’s a glut here right now, and the market isn’t big enough yet to absorb everything.”
    â€œFirst, I don’t believe it, and second, I’m not interested. My price is 120 grand, and I’m not going below that.”
    The dealer ordered another Bloody Mary. Blum pushed his plate aside, looked round in vain for a toothpick, and finally used a match. The