euros on me – I’ve just come straight through the Way of Hell.’
‘You’re a good customer. I’ll take an IOU.’
‘I’m not giving you a sample of my handwriting, Franz. I know you far too well.’
Franz grinned. ‘Sebastian, how can you not trust me?’
‘You’d be amazed. Shall we say two hundred euros to be paid in the near future?’
‘Three hundred, Sebastian, three! You know you can afford it.’
‘My account is being watched.’
‘A pathetic excuse,’ said Franz, waving a hand as though he could banish Sam’s problems with a gesture. ‘You can steal something.’
‘Franz, not everyone is an anarchist. Just do it, okay? I’ll pay soon.’
‘All right, but only because you’re a good customer.’ Franz sat down at a desk and switched on a very bright, steady light. He peered over the letter. ‘Does paper matter?’
‘I don’t think so. Just try and get it as close as you can.’
‘It’ll take time.’
‘Do you have a street map?’
‘Nah.’
‘I’ll be back in half an hour,’ said Sam with a sigh.
He took the U-Bahn into the centre of town, where new shining buildings were being thrown up as fast as could be amid concrete apartment blocks, on which the tracery of huge murals could still be seen, and oddments of grand nineteenth-century architecture, much of it in disarray. He walked down a broad avenue lined with half-grown lime trees, past cafés and huge, ugly international hotels that were the same in any country, past the battered police station, past a chemist so new and bright and clean it might have served as an even more hygienic extension of the local hospital, and on to a small, anonymous building on the street corner. He pushed open the door, which beeped with electronic boredom at the dullness of its life.
Street maps covered the walls; so too maps of the surrounding countryside and posters showing nearby places of interest. Castles competed with new glass government buildings in the heart of town, and pictures of carnivals and traditional festivals. For some reason there was even a picture of a white bunny with a bell around its neck.
A young lady sat behind a desk, wearing the huge, patronising smile reserved for tourists. Sam matched her grin tooth for tooth. ‘Er, hi,’ he said in German, ‘I need to find the Engelpalast, please.’
The girl’s face fell at losing the chance to display her fluency in various languages. Sam was almost tempted to start stuttering in English.
‘What is the Angel Palace, please?’ she asked in German. ‘A museum, a concert hall, a theatre…?’
‘I was hoping you could help me find out. It has a manager, if that’s any help.’
‘Please wait.’ Her smile was almost gone as the triviality of the task beckoned. She turned her attention to a computer screen, angled to be invisible to Sam’s eyes. Probably she was playing solitaire on it. Sam waited while she tapped in her request.
‘Der Engelpalast,’ she said finally. ‘It’s a nightclub. Sixty-seven Engel Strasse.’
Beaming all over, he left the shop almost, but not quite, whistling.
‘It’s not exciting,’ said Franz, handing over the newly forged letter. Indeed, he’d found it so uninteresting that he’d added an envelope, inscribed with the words ‘by hand’, just for something to do.
As Sam scanned the letter he said, ‘Do you know where Engel Strasse is?’
‘It’s not far from here.’
Sam glanced up with doubt in his black eyes. ‘This is the point where you acquire a sinister accent and go, “Ooooh, you don’t want to go there, young sir, it isn’t safe up in Engel Strasse.”’
‘Engel Strasse,’ said Franz primly, ‘is the new centre of the inner-city fashionable-yet-gritty business.’
‘You mean where the rich and privileged go to convince themselves that they’re down-to-earth and practical?’
‘Essentially.’
‘Anything else you might want to tell
‘You’re a good customer. I’ll take an IOU.’
‘I’m not giving you a sample of my handwriting, Franz. I know you far too well.’
Franz grinned. ‘Sebastian, how can you not trust me?’
‘You’d be amazed. Shall we say two hundred euros to be paid in the near future?’
‘Three hundred, Sebastian, three! You know you can afford it.’
‘My account is being watched.’
‘A pathetic excuse,’ said Franz, waving a hand as though he could banish Sam’s problems with a gesture. ‘You can steal something.’
‘Franz, not everyone is an anarchist. Just do it, okay? I’ll pay soon.’
‘All right, but only because you’re a good customer.’ Franz sat down at a desk and switched on a very bright, steady light. He peered over the letter. ‘Does paper matter?’
‘I don’t think so. Just try and get it as close as you can.’
‘It’ll take time.’
‘Do you have a street map?’
‘Nah.’
‘I’ll be back in half an hour,’ said Sam with a sigh.
He took the U-Bahn into the centre of town, where new shining buildings were being thrown up as fast as could be amid concrete apartment blocks, on which the tracery of huge murals could still be seen, and oddments of grand nineteenth-century architecture, much of it in disarray. He walked down a broad avenue lined with half-grown lime trees, past cafés and huge, ugly international hotels that were the same in any country, past the battered police station, past a chemist so new and bright and clean it might have served as an even more hygienic extension of the local hospital, and on to a small, anonymous building on the street corner. He pushed open the door, which beeped with electronic boredom at the dullness of its life.
Street maps covered the walls; so too maps of the surrounding countryside and posters showing nearby places of interest. Castles competed with new glass government buildings in the heart of town, and pictures of carnivals and traditional festivals. For some reason there was even a picture of a white bunny with a bell around its neck.
A young lady sat behind a desk, wearing the huge, patronising smile reserved for tourists. Sam matched her grin tooth for tooth. ‘Er, hi,’ he said in German, ‘I need to find the Engelpalast, please.’
The girl’s face fell at losing the chance to display her fluency in various languages. Sam was almost tempted to start stuttering in English.
‘What is the Angel Palace, please?’ she asked in German. ‘A museum, a concert hall, a theatre…?’
‘I was hoping you could help me find out. It has a manager, if that’s any help.’
‘Please wait.’ Her smile was almost gone as the triviality of the task beckoned. She turned her attention to a computer screen, angled to be invisible to Sam’s eyes. Probably she was playing solitaire on it. Sam waited while she tapped in her request.
‘Der Engelpalast,’ she said finally. ‘It’s a nightclub. Sixty-seven Engel Strasse.’
Beaming all over, he left the shop almost, but not quite, whistling.
‘It’s not exciting,’ said Franz, handing over the newly forged letter. Indeed, he’d found it so uninteresting that he’d added an envelope, inscribed with the words ‘by hand’, just for something to do.
As Sam scanned the letter he said, ‘Do you know where Engel Strasse is?’
‘It’s not far from here.’
Sam glanced up with doubt in his black eyes. ‘This is the point where you acquire a sinister accent and go, “Ooooh, you don’t want to go there, young sir, it isn’t safe up in Engel Strasse.”’
‘Engel Strasse,’ said Franz primly, ‘is the new centre of the inner-city fashionable-yet-gritty business.’
‘You mean where the rich and privileged go to convince themselves that they’re down-to-earth and practical?’
‘Essentially.’
‘Anything else you might want to tell
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