By the author of LOOK WHO'S BACK, a radical and bold satire in inequitable times. "Whizz-bang energy and gleeful imaginative savagery" Sam Leith, Guardian "More than mere satire, it's a book that engages deeply" Alex Preston, Financial Times "An immensely enjoyable read" Daniel Hahn, Spectator "A caustic, clever satire with a powerful emotional core" Becky Long, Irish Times "Satirical, sharp, believable . . . Brilliant" Rick O'Shea, RTE REFUGEE CAMPS IN AFRICA ARE SWELLING And Europe has closed its borders. The refugees have no future, no hope, and no money to pay the vast sums now demanded by people smugglers. The only thing they have is time. AND THEN AN ANGEL ARRIVES FROM REALITY T.V. When model and star presenter Nadeche Hackenbusch comes to film at the largest of the camps, one young refugee sees a unique opportunity: to organise a march to Europe, in full view of the media. Viewers are gripped as the vast convoy moves closer, but the far right in Germany is regrouping and the government is at a loss. Which country will halt the refugees in their tracks? THE HUNGRY AND THE FAT A devastating, close-to-the-knuckle satire about the haves and have-nots in our divided world by one of Europe's finest and most perceptive writers. Translated from the German by Jamie Bulloch
Release date: January 23, 2020
Publisher: MacLehose Press
Print pages: 400
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The Hungry and the Fat
“Laminate for the work surface?” the under-secretary said. “Isn’t that for floors?”
“We’ll get to the floor.”
“So what’s the advantage? Can’t we just have wood?”
“Just wood!” Tommy snorted as if the under-secretary had suggested climbing Mount Everest in flip flops. He was standing in the hallway in his shorts, the “Hello Kitty” rucksack across his shoulders. But not even the cat’s ghastly head could mar the flawless arse below. Then the flawless arse turned and gleaming white shorts approached on two slim, tanned legs with a spectacular fuzz of blond hair. As Tommy sauntered past he picked up something, which looked like an extremely thick and extremely boring magazine, and let it slap down on the table like an enormous paper steak. “Have a read of this,” he said, “and see what normal people have to deal with. I can’t keep spelling it out for you. I’ve got to go now, and by the way the wallpaper won’t choose itself.”
“But . . .”
“Be happy that I’ve already narrowed down the choice. We’ll make the final decision on Saturday morning, half ten, at the wallpaper shop. It’s in the diary.”
“Outlook or Calendar?”
“Both. Gotta go now. Happy governing! And say hi to Volker!”
The under-secretary certainly won’t be saying hi to Volker. And again he curses the moment he agreed to move in with Tommy. They’d had a wonderfully practical arrangement – him in Berlin, Tommy in Hamburg, happily reunited every fortnight. He was able to meet who he liked in the evenings, have backroom conversations until all hours, hook up with someone (though that was seldom, to be honest) or bring people home and chew over a few strategies until half past three in the morning. That wouldn’t have to change, Tommy insists, and perhaps he’s right. You could easily bring five politicians home without waking your partner if you’ve got enough space to put the bedroom a fair distance away. And now they’re going to have a fabulous two hundred and fifty square metres, plus roof terrace. Throw in a jacuzzi and Tommy can spend more time doing what he does best.
Which certainly isn’t cooking.
Granite is superb, the under-secretary reads in the paper-steak, but natural stone stains easily. And absorbs liquids. Granite is also hard blah, blah, blah . . . Weighed down by his catalogue misery, the under-secretary glances at his mobile, hoping to be saved by a message. But there are none. He taps on the calendar: two meetings, two interviews. No emergencies. He thinks of Tommy’s bottom in the white shorts and the phrase “summer recess” springs to mind. There’s nothing going on, and he ought to be glad about that. It wasn’t always thus.
That summer and autumn when the stupid cow opened Germany’s doors to refugees. The events on New Year’s Eve in Cologne. The hiding they took for the Turkey deal. And then another hiding after the putsch. One crisis meeting after another, seemingly with no break in between. He can’t remember whether it was September or October when he came home and Tommy said, “The way you stink makes me wonder who’s still keen to negotiate with you.” He didn’t change his clothes for four or five days at a time, but now that the uproar has more or less subsided, the refugee numbers have dropped, and they’re mentoring or reducing or upskilling this new stock – or all of these together – he can cut back on the overtime and finally pick up a decent book.
But instead of that he’s reading kitchen catalogues.
“Wood is a living material,” it says. Exactly. Good old wood. The disadvantages: vulnerable to moisture, fruit and vegetable juice, blood. You simply have to be careful not to cut yourself, he thinks, before realising that they’re not referring to the cook’s blood here.
There’s been so little to do recently that he was even able to chair a transport meeting. The summer break is looming; he can already sense the election campaign in the air. Little more is going to happen. If governments do anything at all, it’s straight after taking office; they need to show their voters that the election has achieved something. But after two or three years all the nice, simple tasks are complete. What’s left is arduous and risky.
Laminate. Not good for hot pans. How clever, a work surface that can’t cope with hot pans – who thinks these things up? But what should they have instead? What copes well with heat? Steel? Glass?
My kingdom for a national crisis.
It would be far simpler if Tommy decided. At the moment, however, they’re not just discussing a domestic cooker, but a domestic crisis too. Fortunately it’s quite specific and hasn’t affected other sectors, but still, they have to ensure it doesn’t spread. The domestic crisis is called “The under-secretary is so brilliant at delegating” and it means he needs to involve himself a little more in household affairs. Recently Tommy let him know that he regarded himself as the under-secretary’s life companion, not just another ministerial tart. Then Tommy wanted to know whether the two of them could agree that he, Tommy, wasn’t just a ministerial tart, otherwise, Tommy said – and he was saying this in the nicest possible way – otherwise they could end this here and now.
And that means everything is going to get a bit trickier. He had thought that the new kitchen would simply involve getting more chipboard from the D.I.Y. store. He even enjoys the occasional visit to the D.I.Y. store. The subtle aroma of wood and solvent, the neatly ordered shelves. All those tins of paint. Screws. Brackets. Screwdriver sets. Spanner sets. Not that he’s especially handy, but if you’ve got a spanner set, one of each size, and a screwdriver set, one of each size, doesn’t that give you the feeling of satisfaction, of being prepared for every screw life can throw at you?
Dekton. The miracle substance. You can slaughter a pig on it and detonate an atom bomb, and then, in fifty thousand years’ time, when the earth has been re-inhabited by mutants, those mutants will clear away the rubble and say, “Hey! A Dekton work surface. Almost as good as new!” This is an exaggeration, of course; Chernobyl has shown that you can re-inhabit nuclear areas far more quickly and without such rapid mutation. As far as he’s concerned, this phasing out of nuclear power is not entirely crazy; he’s chatted to a few people from Vattenfall who seem to have their heads screwed on. But he doesn’t want to know about the environmental impact. Of this Dekton stuff. Environmental impact is a big deal for Tommy: “After all, we’re leaving this to our children.”
“You need to get out of your bubble. That bloody party of yours is making you incredibly narrow minded, it really is!”
His mobile rings. Finally. The driver.
“I’ll be down in a sec.”
He needs to be quick now. He’s often noticed that he finds it easier to think when he’s under pressure. He doesn’t have a clue about kitchens. Tommy has very precise ideas and wants to have a kitchen that looks impressive should the minister happen to come around. And if one day the under-secretary happens to become a minister himself, who knows who might be paying them a visit? That cute prime minister from Sweden?
Briefly the under-secretary pictures Svensson in a pair of boxers. Then he snaps out of it and becomes the professional politician once again. He picks up his smartphone, compares prices, then chooses the most expensive. Tommy will say “typical” and complain that he’s a show-off (ten minutes), that you can get it better and cheaper (two minutes), then he’ll suggest his own and go on about the choice of colour (thirty to forty-five minutes), and the under-secretary will just have to make a bit of a fuss (five minutes, ideally fifteen) before giving in.
No doubt it could all be done quicker. But sometimes you have to embark on these kinds of detours, and in this respect dealing with Tommy is no different from dealing with his ministerial tarts.
But he can’t tell Tommy this, of course.
Nadeche Hackenbusch leans back contentedly. She knows that the first ripples can be felt long before she arrives at the T.V. company. Like shockwaves, like the wind before a storm, that rustling in the trees that sounds different from the normal breeze. Like the humming of railway tracks before a train approaches.
Logically it should begin when Sensenbrink instructs his secretary not to put though any unscheduled telephone calls, and yet again tells her to remind everyone who’s coming to the meeting, so that everybody shows. But well in advance of that moment her name is already buzzing down the corridors like a rumour. Employees sense a phenomenon like this as animals sense an earthquake.
“You lot have got a tough day ahead.”
“Is she coming on her own?”
“So? Full company meeting again?”
The time when she used to flit from meeting to meeting in different departments is long gone. To begin with she felt important, until she realised that you’re more important if you meet the same people in fewer meetings. Last year, when it became apparent that the first series would hit record viewing figures, she managed this for the first time. There was only one single meeting for the second series, which everyone had to show up at. And the date wasn’t suggested to her; she chose it herself. Of course she went for July.
“Why ‘of course’?” asks the new girl beside her in the limousine.
“Because it means some of them will have to interrupt their holidays,” she says, flipping open a pocket mirror and checking her make-up. A fluid, gliding movement, hand into the bag, hand out with mirror flipped open as it’s raised, a glance during the brief pause between the mirror coming up and going back down, hand with mirror glides into the bag, all in all under two seconds.
“Doesn’t that piss them off?”
“Sure. But that’s like, the only way to get respect. The important people, the people with money, the people who make the decisions – those are the ones you have to treat badly. Not the little people. Write that down, please.”
The new girl jots it on her pad. Nadeche Hackenbusch doesn’t yet know whether this is going to be a self-help book or her memoir, but it’s one of her favourite phrases and it has to be in there, whatever. She puts her hand in her bag again and plucks out a fifty-euro note. It happens so smoothly, maybe she has a special section for fifty-euro notes. She leans forwards and puts the note into the driver’s hand. “Before I forget, this is for you.” She sinks back into her seat.
“You need to treat the little people well,” she says. “That’s what my mum always said. I come from a humble background, you see. My mum was a very simple woman.”
“Oh, wait a sec.” The new girl leafs back through her pad, then says, “Your mother married a businessman – do you really want to depict that as a humble background?”
“My mum was a very simple woman,” she clarifies. “And I will never forget my roots. You have to know who you are. Only those with roots are proper people.”
She pauses briefly. When nothing happens she widens her eyes and nods towards the writing pad.
“Sorry,” the new girl says. “Only . . . those with . . . roots are . . . proper people.”
She notes with satisfaction that her words are being written down. “In the beginning I only used to give ten euros,” she says. “Then I thought that might be like, a bit stingy. So I gave twenty euros. But then I thought that might still be stingy. And I mean, it’s silly to give a tip if you end up thinking it wasn’t enough. I might as well not bother. So now I give fifty.”
“And you don’t think fifty’s stingy?” the new girl asks.
Nadeche doesn’t like the undertone. Is she being ironic? Critical? Sar . . . whateveritis?
“Anybody who doesn’t think fifty’s enough is like, probably after a hundred. And a hundred’s greedy.”
“But fifty isn’t?”
Nadeche Hackenbusch makes a disapproving sound with her lips. “How much do you give, then?”
“I dunno,” the new girl says. “Five, maybe? It depends on the fare.”
“Absolutely not.” She shakes her beautiful head. “I can already see that I’m not going to be able to explain it to you. Just try to get it down in some form and we’ll look at it later. Maybe we’ll edit it out altogether.”
“The bit about the tip or the important people?”
This new girl won’t last long. Thank God her handwriting’s good; whoever replaces her will have no problem reusing the notes.
“I don’t know yet,” Nadeche says, gazing absentmindedly out of the car window. “Maybe both.”
“Shame I’m not being paid by the hour,” the new girl says ruefully.
“You signed your contract.”
Nadeche checks the time, then grabs her mobile. “Madeleine? Look, it’s me. We’ll be there in ten minutes. Could you call and let them know? So that when . . . Exactly. Actually, no, I fancy a cappuccino today . . . Super . . . Sweetener. You’re a real love!”
Outside, the city flashes past. She likes this. Some of her old friends shook their heads when they found out how her life had changed. The interviews, the living in the public eye, an endless willingness to be photographed or spoken to. Plus the fact that this wasn’t just a burst of fame, it’s remained pretty constant ever since. She, however, was in thrall to her new life straightaway, and she still loves it. It’s a world she feels comfortable in, as others might in their local pub. Not least because the corollaries of her fame mean she can always be sure she’s on the right track. The fact that there’s always someone hovering around her leads Nadeche to believe that she must be leading an interesting and enviable life. For her, journalists are like canaries in a mine. So long as one’s still hopping around, everything’s O.K.
She glances at the new girl.
“Take this turning, please,” she says to the driver. “I just want to see what they’ve built here.”
“But then we’ll be late.”
“We’re not in any hurry,” she says softly.
Which is why, half an hour later, she relishes Sensenbrink’s apology that her cappuccino is cold. “A fresh one, please. Pronto!”
“Only if it’s not too much trouble!” Nadeche Hackenbusch says.
Once again they’ve opted for the large conference room at the very top of the building. With a view of all of Hamburg. They meet in a hotel, the very best in town, rather than in one of those shabby studios in Cologne or Unterföhring in Munich, where square tables are shoved together beneath outdated designer lamps. She likes it like this. Place settings and those three-tier stands for nibbles, biscuits and cakes. The T.V. companies can boast all they like about their catering departments, but in the end you just get canteen coffee and supermarket biscuits. No, she wants linen serviettes, she wants attentive waiters all wearing the same outfit, she wants to see other people spending money on her. For a brief moment she thinks she ought to dictate this to the new girl at some point. Or to her successor.
The cappuccino arrives soon after Sensenbrink has launched into his presentation; he’s going to have to start from the beginning, which is a good thing, she thinks, as not everyone was quiet first time around. Besides, she loves staring at the logo of her programme: “Nadeche Hackenbusch: An Angel in Adversity”. They added a cutesy doe with dungarees and slightly too large breasts. The doe looks like her, even though she’d never dream of wearing dungarees.
“The ratings are epic,” Sensenbrink says, fading in some graphics, “and they’re still heading north. We’re getting the old codgers and the young ones. This topic is still our secret sauce and nobody else’s. Of course it helps that nobody believed in the format to begin with.”
“Apart from me,” she insists. O.K., she didn’t have another offer at the time, but there’s no television show that isn’t better with her, and because of her.
“It’s hard to believe nothing’s staged,” a blonde woman says. She’s met the blonde many a time, but can’t remember her name. The blonde is young, thirty at most, at the very most, and yet at the last meeting she said several things that made the others sit up and take notice. Kalkberger? Kalkbrenner? It sounded a bit like something you might find in a D.I.Y. store. She’ll make a note of the name next time. But Nadeche can’t tell for sure how the remark was meant. Was it sarcastic? Sceptical?
“I suggest you check again,” she says harshly.
“No, no, I don’t doubt it in the least,” the blonde says. “The authenticity is what makes the programme stand out. Some of those scenes, they practically stink through the T.V. screen. I’m sure I can speak for everybody in the room when I say we’re full of admiration.”
They all rap their knuckles on the table in appreciation. She smiles and makes it look bashful. “I can assure you I want everything to stay authentic in future too. After all, the key point is that these people need our help.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t do it.” These words come from a quiet, shy mouse of a woman at the far end of the table. “I get annoyed with myself for thinking this, but I couldn’t pull it off. Sometimes I think how cute these refugee kids look – but that episode from a couple of weeks back.”
“Ow, exactly. The one with the teeth . . .”
“Ugh, the teeth episode.”
Nadeche sees Kärrner smiling. Kärrner rarely says a word, even though it’s his television company. He controls meetings with his face.
“That’s how it is . . .” she says.
“Sure, but the teeth of those kids were practically black!”
“That was the one time I thought for a brief moment that you might be fiddling it,” the blonde says. “That you’d cherry-picked some especially bad cases. I honestly didn’t believe it could be as bad as that.”
“Oh, but it is. You just need to take a look at the parents’ teeth. People like that, you really need to start from scratch.”
“And then they give their kids handfuls of sugar cubes . . .” The mousy lady is beside herself. “I could have screamed at the telly.”
“I know,” Nadeche says sympathetically. “Oral hygiene, it’s like, mad. And it’s not like they all lost their toothbrushes fleeing to Europe – they never had them in the first place. They think toothpaste is some kind of sealant. So we have to step in and help.”
“Spot on,” Sensenbrink says. “That’s our reach-out. But the great thing is: we’ve hit a nerve. It’s not just the ratings that tell us this, it’s also the reactions on Facebook. So sometimes it’s ugly, but at the end of the day: it shocks. It leaves the viewers speechless. It’s no coincidence that the first thing people think of is the teeth episode.”
“The dentist’s visit to the hostel . . .” This comes from an executive somebody or other who’s remained anonymous so far. Shaking his head, he puffs up his fat cheeks and slowly exhales. “The way he peered into their mouths, one after the other, and then grimaced – there’s no way you can act that . . .”
“He didn’t need to act,” Nadeche Hackenbusch says. “What he found was terrible. Things happen that I’d never have believed possible. There are children younger than four whose mouths smell like a septic tank.”
The bigwigs in the T.V. company exchange glances. They purse their lips and raise their eyebrows to acknowledge the gravity of the situation. She wonders whether this is the time to drop her fabulous phrase right into the middle of this silence. The phrase that always makes such a splash whenever she utters it to a newspaper or into a camera, and everyone is taken aback by how such a beautiful woman can be so thoughtful and have such a grasp of economic relations. But then the possibly critical blonde gets in before her and says:
“And this in one of the richest countries on this earth.”
She even says “this earth”, which always sounds more reproachful than “the earth”. What a bitch!
“Frau Karstleiter is so on point,” Sensenbrink responds. “But this is what’s growing our business. These images may be hard to stomach, but they shock people in a way it’s almost impossible to do these days. It signposts us exactly the way to go: where it hurts.”
“We’re there already,” she says energetically. “If you like I’ll show you my feet after a day’s filming.”
There is warm and sympathetic laughter all around, including from Sensenbrink. “I think we’re all well aware of the A1 effort you’re putting in. You eat, drink and sleep ‘Angel in Adversity’. And it’s your baby – its success is totally dependent on Nadeche Hackenbusch. It thrives on your commitment, your authenticity, your willingness to get your hands dirty and your feet sore. But – and please forgive this play on words – despite the punishment those feet have already sustained, today we’d like to propose that you go one step further.”
“It’s the first I’ve heard of it.” She tries to wrinkle a few lines of anger on her brow. If there’s one thing she hates, it’s people trying to control her. She knows how difficult it is to become independent and remain so. She knows best what’s good for her, and she knows that advertising people, management consultants and media people like to do the same things they’ve already done to others. But unless she goes her own way she won’t remain the one and only Nadeche Hackenbusch. She’s not risking much; her position right now is too good for someone to put the screws on her. All the same, a little frown ought to signal that Sensenbrink’s treading on thin ice. But then she realises that it’ll only make her look silly. You can’t have everything: wrinkles and Botox.
“Of course. You won’t have heard anything about it yet, the idea’s fresh out of the wrapper,” Sensenbrink says hastily. “But don’t worry, you know we don’t decide anything here without running it up your flagpole first—”
“I have the final word,” she says, somewhat too defiantly.
“Yes, sure, you have the final word, period. What would ‘Angel in Adversity’ be without the Nadeche Hackenbusch? Nonetheless I beg you to listen to the proposal. We believe we’ve got a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity here . . .”
Reassured by Sensenbrink’s tone and efforts to placate her, she smiles her priceless smile – which even the Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung once described as “overwhelming” – and says, “O.K, then.”
She sees Frau Karstleiter stand up, go to the front of the room and place her notes on the lectern. She shows slight signs of tension, not only because she’s talking to Nadeche Hackenbusch, clearly, but because the scope of the project is huge. A pretty good sign.
“Not only has the second series of ‘Angel in Adversity’ been a huge success,” Karstleiter begins, “the programme also exhibits enormous potential for growth. Viewer surveys have shown that Nadeche Hackenbusch represents honest commitment. The public particularly likes the shift away from one-off features. Because we’re always filming in the same hostel, the viewers are able to see the overall improvement in the refugees’ situation. We ought to take advantage of this momentum and enthusiasm. And so, Frau Hackenbusch, with a third of the series yet to be broadcast, we’d like to finish with a special. Perhaps even a multi-part special.”
Nadeche frowns as best she can. This just sounds like more. And, as she knows only too well, more is not always good. Once, for television, she shared an apartment with models. This was ramped up in pre-publicity, but it turned out to be appalling, downmarket television. Someone had wanted to plug the gap between series of “Germany’s Top Model” with model-related stuff. Although she was gone after the second episode, she remembers the ghastly award ceremony. Not the Lanxess Arena, not the Allianz Arena, not New York or Paris, but beside a pool at a four-star dump in Mallorca, with no audience at all. It was so miserable, they might as well have handed the winner her ugly prize at a bus stop. This is why Nadeche says sceptically, “To be honest, that sounds a bit cheap.”
“Not as far as the budget’s concerned,” Karstleiter immediately assures her. “We’re making more money available than for the normal episodes. We’re taking this very seriously.”
The comment about the budget works. More budget means more for her.
“We want to strengthen our product rather than weaken it. We want Nadeche Hackenbusch to get to the heart of the matter. We want you to go where a lack of toothbrushes is the least of people’s problems. To the largest refugee camp in the world.”
This catches her off guard.
“Are you crazy?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you know like, what’s going on down there? People are being shot!”
“People aren’t being shot,” Karstleiter says.
“How do you know that?”
“They wouldn’t be able to amass all those refugees if people were being shot.”
“If people weren’t being shot there wouldn’t be any refugees. Take a look at the news!”
“Frau Hackenbusch, Frau Hackenbusch, we don’t see any cause for concern,” Sensenbrink chips in, “the whole place is teeming with military and blue helmets and aid organisations!”
“I don’t believe that. Where did you get that from?”
“Well I can’t reel the programmes off the top of my head, but why else would all those refugees be ending up there? I think if you peel the onion—”
“I don’t have the time to be glued to some news channel. Put me together a dossieux and I’ll have it checked out.”
“Frau Hackenbusch,” Karstleiter says gently, like a broad-shouldered orderly holding out a straitjacket, “do you really think we’d send you somewhere dangerous? We’d be risking just as much as you.”
“I see it a bit differently.”
Sensenbrink looks at Kärrner, who pulls an unenthusiastic face. He clears his throat and then says firmly, “Perhaps we ought to look at the whole thing from a different dugout. Nobody here’s trying to deny that the risks are greater than for some studio filming in Ossendorf. And so the crucial question is whether it’s worth it.”
“I can give you the answer right now: no way!”
“Sure, the idea went down here like that too,” Sensenbrink says, now with incredible earnestness. “But just for a moment see us as the partner. Your partner.”
No matter how much she baulks at this, no matter how reluctant she is to have anything taken out of her hands, Nadeche cannot stop Sensenbrink getting his foot in the door and forcing it open a crack.
“First and foremost, of course, we’re thinking of our own interests, but we can’t deny that sometimes our interests and your interests are on the same hymn sheet. And just let me disambiguate: if we’re discussing these risks with you, it’s only because we see opportunities. For us – I’m not going to keep the kimono closed on that one – but for you too. Just think how you and we can synergise with this special. It’s the perfect storm. At a stroke you’re going to leave all those home-furnishing and renovation formats in the trolley park. The blind date and missing persons’ programmes—”
“These days I don’t reckon anybody thinks the B-listers fronting those shows are in my league,” Nadeche says truculently.
“We don’t need to make comparisons,” Sensenbrink says, coming to her defence. “But just incubate this for a moment: it will prove your seriousness to an extent never seen before. Nadeche Hackenbusch goes where others do not dare. Like Antonia Rados.”
“Antonia Rados. The R.T.L. woman who always pops up in war zones.”
“Never heard of her.”
“It’s not important. Let’s just say it would put you in Günther Jauch territory,” Sensenbrink says patiently. “There’s been only one like him in Germany before. Do you remember Margarethe Schreinemakers?”
Everyone using Botox remembers Schreinemakers. Best T.V. slot, three, four hours, advert breaks as long as an entire soap, no problem if it overran. That was the heyday of infotainment. And everyone would have loved to take home what Schreinemakers took home.
She should have have paid tax on it all, or something like that. But this won’t happen to Nadeche; she always pays her taxes. Last time she just said, “Right, I want 2.5 million after tax and all that. You must have someone in your accounts department who can sort it.”
“You’d be the new Margarethe Schreinemakers. But with the radiance of Angelina Jolie,” that bloody Karstleiter now adds.
Could Karstleiter tell from her face that the Schreinemakers comment had worked? She tries not to give anything away, ever; she’s not an amateur, after all. But Sensenbrink had hit a nerve and now this Margarethe Jolie, it takes root in her head straightaway. That and the fact that as Ang
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