Look Who's Back by Timur Vermes Page B

the situation had been no different in the Weimar Republic. It was unavoidable that I would have to put up with weasels like these for a while. Besides, thus far I had not said anything, at least not anything of what I had to say and was minded to say. Despite this I detected a significant degree of approval.
    “You’ve grilled that burger to perfection,” Sensenbrink said. “Classic. Set it all up, then wallop! – out with the punchline. And it comes across as über-spontaneous! But you prepared the routine in advance, didn’t you?”
    “Which routine?”
    “The Poland routine! You’re not going to tell me you did that off the cuff?”
    This Sensenbrink fellow actually seemed to possess a more profound understanding of the issue. One does not produce a Blitzkrieg off the cuff, either. Why, maybe the man had even read his Guderian.
    “Of course not,” I said. “The Poland routine had been planned down to the finest detail by June ’39.”
    “Well?” he asked, examining his shirt with a mixture of regret and amusement. “What other clubs have you got in your bag?”
    “What do you mean, ‘other’? What clubs? What bag?”
    “You know, a programme,” he said, “or other texts.”
    “I have written two books!”
    “Extraordinary,” he marvelled. “Why didn’t we pick you up on our radar years ago? How old are you, actually?”
    “Fifty-six,” I said soberly.
    “Of course,” he laughed. “Have you got a make-up artist, or do you do it yourself?”
    “Not usually, only when filming.”
    “Only when filming,” he laughed again. “Excellent. Look, there are one or two people in our company I’d like to introduce you to. Where can I touch base with you?”
    “Touch what?” I asked.
    “Where can I get in contact with you?” he explained.
    “Here,” I said firmly.
    The newspaper vendor interrupted me, adding, “I told you that his personal circumstances at the moment are a little … unsettled.”
    “Oh yes, that’s right,” Sensenbrink said. “You are, how should I put it, currently homeless … ?”
    “For the time being I am indeed without fixed abode,” I conceded. “But I am certainly not without a Heimat!”
    “I understand,” Sensenbrink said, and turned to Sawatzki. “Well, that’s no good, is it? Sort something for him. The man needs to sharpen his pencils. I don’t care how good he is, if he turns up in front of Frau Bellini looking like that he’ll be scrap metal before he can open his mouth. It doesn’t have to be the Adlon, does it?”
    “A modest dwelling will suffice,” I said in agreement. “The Führerbunker was not exactly Versailles.”
    “Excellent,” Sensenbrink said. “Do you really have no manager?”
    “No what?”
    “Forget it,” he said, flapping his hand. “That’s settled, then. Now, I don’t want to let the grass grow long on this one; we should try and diarise it this week. You’re going to get your uniform back soon, aren’t you?”
    “Maybe this evening,” I reassured him. “It is a Blitz cleaner’s, after all.”
    Sensenbrink fell about laughing.

vii
    E ven taking into account the dramatic events I had already experienced, the first morning in my new quarters was one of the most arduous in my life. The great conference at the production company had been delayed, which did not bother me. I was not so presumptuous as to deny that I had much work to do in familiarising myself with this present era. By chance, however, I came across a fresh source for such information: the television set.
    The structure of this apparatus had changed so substantially since its initial development in 1936 that at first I simply failed to recognise it. To begin with I assumed that the dark, flat plate in my room must be some bizarre work of art. Then, taking into consideration its shape, I speculated that it might serve as a means of storing my shirts overnight without them creasing. There were many things in this modern world to which I had to