The Snowman Read online

  He leafed through the book he had bought in November from an American in Algeciras. It was the Bahamas Handbook and Businessman’s Annual, Nassau 1978, with a foreword by the governor-general. A photograph showed him: Sir John Cash with the Queen. A handsome black man with mischief in his face. Fair enough, a joke was a joke, and there was a quirkiness about the Bahamas anyway – but a country where the man in charge was actually called Cash, well, that was something else. The American had asked Blum what his line of business was, and Blum had smiled vaguely and said the construction industry. That always sounded good. So what did he himself do, he had asked the American. Oh, he worked for the government, the man had replied with an equally vague smile, looking at Blum as if expecting an insult. But Blum nodded understandingly and looked to see how big a tip the Yank would give. None, of course. Blum looked at the photographs of members of the Bahamian parliament. Most of them were black, belonged to the Progressive Liberal Party, and were either businessmen or trade unionists or both. If he was in the construction industry, the American had said as they parted, the Bahamas would suit him nicely, the place was in the middle of the biggest building boom in the Western hemisphere. That was another odd thing, a man who worked for the government offering a book that was probably handed out to every tourist, selling it to him for two dollars. Well, the Yanks probably needed it now. Even Hackensack with his Havanas and his bourbon and the rubies on his sausage fingers needed something or other, you could tell. Blum, who had seen many booms come and go, almost declined to buy the book, but now he was glad he had. There were days when even the import–export statistics and the estate agents’ ads, not to mention the chapter on the flora of the Bahamas (it was nice to know they grew cauliflowers there too), acted on him like a pain-killer, lulling him, carrying him away to eternally sunny beaches where there were palm trees and flying fish, and women with garlands of flowers welcomed visitors. But Blum was never one of those visitors. Blum did not feature in these dreams at all, and that was the best thing about them – he was in no danger of any disappointments.

  A knock. As he went to the door he looked at the time. He had to set off for Rossi’s. He must have fallen asleep.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” said Mr Haq, flashing a gold tooth at Blum. He was still wearing his green artificial silk suit, but for this visit he had put on black plastic shoes and even socks. For all his solicitude he made an impression of determination, like a man who has geared himself up to demanding a rise.

  “I’m afraid I have to go straight off to meet someone,” said Blum, tucking his shirt into his trousers. He too washed his own shirts, and yet again the good navyblue shirt from Tangiers was rather crumpled because he had been lying around in it.

  “Oh, I won’t keep you long,” said the Pakistani, casting a quick glance around the room. What he saw seemed to satisfy him. So the German was no better off than he was. “I was hoping you’d come and see me again and give me a chance to . . .”

  “The magazines are all sold, Mr Haq. I’m just taking them to the buyer.”

  “I wasn’t thinking of the magazines, Mr Blum.”

  The blood rose to Blum’s head. All he needed now was an exhaustive discussion of the problems of those 15,000 Pakistani immigrant workers in the desert between Mecca and Jeddah. Why did losers always latch on to him? He went over to the wash-basin and combed his hair. A cockroach crawled into the waste pipe, but only as a matter of form. Blum glanced in the mirror. Now his hair was thinning at the sides too. He supposed the day would soon come when he had more hope than hair. But the Pakistani was not among his hopes – not yet.

  “Mr Haq, if you’re thinking of your Saudi Arabian dreams . . .”

  “Oh, not dreams, Mr Blum! They’re concrete ideas – more than ideas, they’re plans!”

  Blum washed his hands. The towel was still last week’s. “Mr Haq, I’m leaving in the next few days. But Jeddah is not on my route.”

  “May I ask where you’re going?”

  Blum put his jacket on.

  “I haven’t fixed the details yet, but I’m thinking of Italy.”

  “Italy? Mr Blum, do you know Italy?” He put a sweet in his mouth, showing two gold teeth. “Why not discuss my plans at our leisure? What would a man like you do in Italy? They don’t even have proper money there.”

  Blum lit his cigarette and took the case full of magazines out of the wardrobe. That was it for now.

  “Money’s money, Mr Haq. Italian money is money too. And I expect I’ll make a little detour to Germany – my own country, as you know. There’s a lot to be done there, as we say at home. We’ll see what we can do about it.”

  The Pakistani nodded, and looked from the case back to Blum. He had to raise his head to do so.

  “I’ve been there myself. In fact my Saudi plans take in a trip to West Germany . . .”

  Blum picked up the case. “I tell you what, Mr Haq – why not look in again tomorrow, and then I’ll tell you just why I’m not interested.”

  “Not interested? How can you say you’re not interested before you know what my plans are?”

  “I’m relying on instinct. Come on, I have to get moving.”

  The Pakistani gave a melancholy smile. “I’d hoped you were an open-minded man, someone who could discuss the problems of modern life – and after that a business relationship usually develops of itself.”

  Then he was out in the corridor at last, and Blum could lock the door of his room.

  “All in good time, Mr Haq. I’ll be happy to tell you a thing or two about the problems of modern life once I know I can pay my hotel bill.”

  The Pakistani said no more. They went down the dimly lit stairs and out into the street. Blum inhaled the mingled smells of refuse and the fragrance of flowers. The refuse was winning. From the harbour came the howl of a ship’s siren. Blum lit an HB and turned to the Pakistani, whose face was grotesquely discoloured under the red light of the hotel sign.

  “Good night, Mr Haq.”

  “I could really use a man like you, Mr Blum.”

  Oh no you couldn’t, thought Blum, quickly walking up the street. At the next corner he looked back at the Pakistani once more. Mr Haq was still standing under the red light, and it looked to Blum as if he were signalling to someone on the other side of the street. This character is beginning to get me down, he thought.

  Republic Street was still very busy. Faces of all ethnic groups, rock music from the discos, neon lighting. Blum used his case to clear himself a way through the crowd. A small boy tugged at his sleeve.

  “Mister! Hey, mister!”

  The same old story. Blum went on. The boy was not giving up; he showed him something. A small picture. Oh no, thought Blum, here comes the competition. The priests, those bastards, using kids to do their work for them.

  “For the Church, mister!”

  Blum stopped and was immediately pushed to one side by the crowd. A Japanese made way for him, giving him an encouraging smile, as if to say: Go on, make the best of it.

  “For the Church? Let’s have a look.”

  The urchin handed him the picture and Blum looked at it, his case jammed between his feet. The Virgin Mary, wearing a blue robe and surrounded by dark clouds, stood on the terrestrial globe with her arms outstretched, a circlet of little stars above her head. She was smiling tenderly. No, there was really nothing she could do for this vale of tears here below. There was wording in Maltese on the back. Madonna berikni u salvani. You didn’t need to know the language to get the general idea. The urchin tugged Blum’s sleeve.

  “For the Church, mister!”

  If Inspector Cassar could see me now, thought Blum gloomily, fumbling in his trouser pocket for small change. At the same moment someone pushed him from behind and then held him hard against the window of a bookshop. It all happened very fast – a sudden jerk, and when he had freed himself he realized that his case was gone. The boy was gone too, and Blum was left holding the little picture of the Virgin Mary. The
crowd surged indifferently by. The bells of St John’s Cathedral rang. It was eleven o’clock.

  7

  The key was in the door of room 523, and the wooden tag with the room number was still swinging slightly from its ring, as if the door had only just been closed. Blum knocked quietly.

  “Rossi? Are you there, Rossi?”

  No answer. Blum was sure no one had seen him enter the hotel. A middle-aged man with lilac shades, a blazer and a cravat was as natural a sight in these surroundings as a drunken seaman in Strait Street. All the same, he felt he was being watched. Someone had been following him all the time. Someone who’d rather steal a case full of old Danish porn magazines than pay $550 for them. The lift clicked shut and glided down. Of course the inspector was capable of anything. Why just the inspector? Anyone was capable of anything. Blum knocked again. Nothing moved. The lift was down at the ground floor now. Blum had no choice – he entered the room. Whoever had closed the door had done so not as he came into the room but as he left it, and had then left the key in the lock. And if this had been the scene of Blum’s “next party”, then Blum was glad to have missed it. The elegant room was totally devastated. The mattresses had been slit open, and their stuffing looked almost as unappetizing as the sandwiches sticking to the walls and the dark puddles on the carpet, which was covered with broken bottles and smashed glasses. Whoever had been wreaking such havoc in this crowded hotel with its swarms of tourists and gala evenings, its big receptions and dozens of security men, whoever had taken the time to smash glazed picture frames, turn bedside tables into matchwood, tear the sunblinds down from the window and pull out the telephone, must have been one of the actors in the drama. But on what stage? And what was the play? And how did he himself and his pathetic porn magazines feature in it? Was he just an extra or one of the main characters in the cast? He glanced at the window. Not a bad view. This small, floodlit rock in the Mediterranean, a fold in the scarf over the Madonna’s head, for the Church, yes, sure, but . . . everything was crammed so close out there, everyone knew everyone else, and he, Blum, had thought he could keep himself to himself here and lead a cushy life. Ha, ha. He wondered where the jail was – what was its name again? Kordin. Probably further off, in the pitch dark.

  And where might Signor Rossi be?

  Not in the wardrobe, anyway, since curiously enough that was completely empty, as if no one were staying here at all, nor in the bathtub, and not under the bed either. Or was he? Wasn’t that Rossi’s hair? Blum had a queasy feeling in the pit of his stomach. Suppose the police storm into this room, and here I am, known in town as an art thief and porn dealer, with Rossi’s corpse under the bed – Madonna salvani. Well, what could he do about it? He bent down for a closer look. What he saw surprised him, confronting him with a mystery, but at least his stomach signalled the all clear. It wasn’t Rossi’s corpse under the bed, only Rossi’s hair. Without really wanting to, Blum put his hand out and picked the hair up. It hadn’t been cut off, it was a wig. Really, what a jerk! Those glorious tumbling locks all artificial, 30,000 lire in a department store. He turned the wig over to look at the net lining, and his queasy feeling instantly returned. There was a strip of sticky tape on the inner band, and if you looked closely you could see a piece of paper under it. He took a deep breath and pulled away the sticky tape.

  A note, carefully folded six times. Blum unfolded it just as carefully. A receipt from the left luggage office at Munich Central Station, counter 1, dated 2 February 1980. The receipt bore the number 55 601. Rather worn, but no red wine stains on it, no spaghetti sauce, everything okay and valid. Blum stood there in the wrecked room for a few moments frowning, smelling nothing, seeing nothing, hearing nothing, thinking nothing. Then he folded the receipt up again and put it in the breast pocket of his jacket, with the red handkerchief, the book of matches from the Pegasus Bar, and the picture of the Madonna that had cost him $550 and maybe a good deal more.

  Steps passed by outside, laughter, a door somewhere was opened and slammed shut. Then Blum was in the lift, smoothing back his hair, and with his lilac shades, his cravat, his height of 5 feet 10 inches from head to foot he was very much the old, carefree Blum on field duty, always with a knowing smile on his lips, just a hint of haste as he made his way to the bar, lighting the inevitable cigarette outside the swing doors, and once inside his first glance was for the women at the bar. This was the high life.

  “You look like you just met Lady Macbeth,” said Hackensack, moving up to make room for Blum beside him.

  “Thanks, don’t bother,” said Blum. He had seen a woman he knew, and Hackensack’s nose was purple yet again.

  “You didn’t meet Lady Macbeth? Then maybe the ghost of Hamlet’s father?”

  “Mr Hackensack,” said Blum, “I might well call in on you in Frankfurt after all. Will you be there next week?”

  “You do just that,” said Hackensack. His fat jowls drooped over his chin, but his eyes were like violets on ice. He brought the flat of his hand down on the bar. “Frankfurt! What a city! Always something to be had there. Would you like a bourbon, or what’s the matter with you? Turned Holy Joe, eh?” He laughed like someone who was being paid for it, and Blum straightened his shades and pushed past him to the woman he had recognized. She was married to a dentist in Düsseldorf.

  “Why, hello there, darling,” she said, digging her long nails into his wrist. Blum flinched. His stomach was still giving him cause for concern. He stared at the doorway. Larry had suddenly appeared in his windcheater, and stood there stroking his chin.

  “You’re in dead trouble,” said Larry, once Blum was out of the bar. Buses clattered across the square to the City Gate, backfiring. A strong wind had risen.

  “You can say that again,” said Blum. “Someone stole my case with the mags in it.”

  “That fits. I reckon Rossi’s mixed up with something that’s not gone down too well with the other side. And seems like, to Rossi, you look like one of them.”

  “So who is the other side, then?”

  Larry shrugged his shoulders and flicked his cigarette end away.

  “Look, don’t start stonewalling . . .”

  “Not so loud,” said the Australian. “I don’t know who the other side is. Does it matter? In Vietnam—”

  “We’re not in Vietnam, Larry. Someone’s stolen 550 dollars from me, 50 of which were going to be yours, that’s the point. And don’t try telling me fairy-tales about the Maltese Mafia.”

  The door of the bar opened and the woman from Düsseldorf tottered out on her platform heels.

  “Where are you, darling? Don’t you like your little Helga any more? Hey, you there, no running off with my Blum!”

  She babbled on at random, making no sense. You’re done for, Blum told himself, you’re all washed up here on Malta – with a dentist’s drunk wife on your arm, a left-luggage receipt from Munich Central in your pocket, stolen out of a wig worn by a wop to whom you were planning to flog 200 porn magazines, and an Australian with only one lung who can’t shake off his nightmares there among the palms in front of you. Not to mention Inspector Cassar wiping his arse on your old Interpol file . . . although not until you’ve pushed off. Robbed, washed up, threatened on all sides, allow me to introduce myself, Blum of the construction industry, just waiting for the boom to revive my own fortunes too. Suddenly he felt how cold it had turned.

  “Come along, darling, let’s have another!”

  Blum freed himself for the second time, left the woman and went off with Larry towards the City Gate. The dentist’s wife was shouting after him.

  “I’ll take you to Gozo,” said Larry. “You’ll be safe from your girlfriend there.”

  “Gozo?” Blum stopped. “What would I do on Gozo? Grow tomatoes?”

  “Only trying to be helpful, mate. After all, I got you into this shit with Rossi.”

  “Come off it, Larry. I’ve never had any trouble getting myself into the shit.”

  They had reached the City Gate, where
the stalls were closing down for the night. The Australian stared at Blum, whose eyes showed nothing.

  “What’re you going to do now, then?”

  Blum compressed his lips. What he was going to do was no business of anyone else, not even an Australian who wanted to help him.

  “See you some time.”

  “Blum, wait!”

  But Blum had already turned the corner.

  8

  After the taxi had rattled through Munich for half an eternity, Blum tapped the driver on the shoulder.

  “This your first day on the job, is it?”

  “Here we are, boss,” said the driver, stepping on the brake. Blum got out. It was perishing cold, but at least it wasn’t snowing. The hotel was called the Metropol. He saw one wing of Munich Central Station opposite. The cab driver gave him change of 70 marks from a 100-mark note. Now he had just 170 marks, 25 dirham and 5 Maltese pounds. A porter offered to take his bag, but Blum waved him away. Then he had an idea.

  “There’s something waiting for me in left luggage. Could you fetch it? I’ve been flying for sixteen hours. I’m done in.”

  “Of course, sir. At your service.”

  Blum gave the porter the left-luggage receipt. During the flight from Frankfurt he had unfolded it and smoothed it out. The porter disappeared into the night with it. Blum went to the reception desk and asked about rooms. There was one vacant, DM 106 with bath and breakfast. He registered. In the box against “Profession” he wrote “Manager”. Then he looked around him. The lobby was spacious. A flight of steps led up to the restaurant in the gallery, which had a glass roof over it. Thick carpets, lots of crystal chandeliers, genuine fifties décor. He could hear the enticing clink of glasses from the bar at the far end of the lobby, and the hoarse voice of an intoxicated woman, but Blum felt nervous and knew it would show. Either the Mafia would storm into the hotel next minute, or the porter was lying on the floor of the left-luggage office clutching his hands to a hole in his belly.