From the «Majestic» hotel, where I had put up, to the sought-after «Commerzbank» was twenty minutes on foot. It took me about three hours. Hands shoved in my trousers, I ambled lazily along Hamburg’s little streets and side lanes, came out on the embankment, stood pensively at the parapet and spat into the Elbe flowing past. Admired the views and vistas, then with an effort recalled the ultimate purpose of my journey, ambled off again along the streets and back alleys, examined the gentlemen and ladies processing past, sniffed the little bouquets in the flower shops, got stuck in small stores and did a great many other things sluggishly and thoughtlessly. In the end I reached the bank and made myself pull it together inwardly: «Breathe in, breathe out, repeat: ‘I need information about eight melons’. That’s all!»
I breathed in, breathed out, repeated. Looked at the sign, checked against my crib sheet. Everything matched – same address, same name: «Commerzbank» here and there both. There could be no mistake. Time to begin. I stuffed the crib sheet into the folder under my arm, pushed the heavy door and took a step. The first person I met on the road to eight melons was a doorman two heads shorter than me. In his eyes, at the level of my solar plexus, a mute question was lodged:
– ?
– I want to open an account.
The guard asked me to wait ein Moment, withdrew to a nearby counter and tossed a couple of phrases over it. From behind the counter a bespectacled young fellow peered out and looked at me with anguish from behind his very thick lenses:
– ?
– I want to open an account and transfer money into it from my previous bank.
– Please, come over.
I came over.
The youth slapped his palm on the surface of the counter:
– Excuse me, Herr?…
– Herr Makowski, Robert Makowski, – I introduced myself. Confirmation in the form of a document was not yet required, but, forestalling further questions, I opened the folder and tipped my papers out onto the counter. From the medium-sized scattering it followed what needed to follow. I am a solid client.
– What was your previous occupation?
– I worked as a manager at the «Sunny Club» hotel. Here are the documents.
– These?
– Yes.
– How long did you work there?
– A year and a half. Here is the certificate.
– And before that?
– I worked here, in Hamburg. It was around here somewhere… ah, here it is… You can have a look…
– Later. Which bank’s services did you use here?
– Oh, there was some sort of savings office near my home. I don’t remember the name, «Haspa», I think. I very rarely went in there. If you like, I can find out by telephone within ten minutes.
– Not necessary for now. Why do you wish to open an account at our bank?
– I have decided to rent an apartment in this district. It is convenient, you know, to be served by a bank close at hand.
– The address?
– I have not chosen the apartment yet. For now I am staying at the «Majestic» hotel…
The wearying interrogation soon came to an end. I opened a savings account in the name of Makowski at the bank where the eight million were kept. That fact, contrary to expectation, brought me no joy. Dealing with the inquisitive young man, who was refusing to open an account for a homeless possessor of two hundred thousand dollars, had worn me out considerably. It seemed to me the bank selected its clients far too fussily, all but examining them under ultraviolet light and holding them up against a window. Laundering cash through an establishment like that is a dead loss. Practically impossible. The bankers are bound to start putting on airs: «Where’s the firewood from? What sort of dough is this? What does it smell of? Of what, of what? Impossible. There’s a whiff of rot about it. Smells of narcotics. Clear off out of here!» On the other hand, if a sum has passed the Commerzbank Cerberuses, you can stamp a quality seal on it. The money is clean and shines like a March tomcat’s balls. That’s how my sergeant major back in training used to put it. Maybe it’s all for the best.
I came out onto the street in less than the rosiest of moods. Obtaining information about eight million did not appear possible.
By what means, on what lame nag was one to sidle up to the tellers? What questions to ask? Which eye to wink with, and at whom? Yes. Things had creaked into motion and started turning, but not in the right direction. So what to occupy myself with now? Where to go, where to take myself?
A general mental slackness bordering on feeble-mindedness would not leave me. It took about five minutes to remember the problems with my wardrobe. A trip to Russia required warm, functional clothing. I turned my head, getting my bearings on the terrain, and resolved to do my shopping at the nearby «Kaufhof». In earlier years it was precisely there that I bought all my clothes, cheap and cheerful.
Two hours later, covered in packages and bags, I returned to the hotel, which I knew inside out. In my day, right after deserting, I had earned extra money here at the «Majestic» as a night cleaner. Then, six months later, I rose to the post of bouncer in the bar, dealing with patrons who got too lively. Once I dislodged the cheekbone of one overly active fellow, and he turned out to be a friend of Hans’s. You would think there’d be no getting off lightly after that, but no. Hans liked my handiwork very much. A multiple fracture of the periosteum, a detached retina and a concussion made an impression. Hans tactfully chided me for immoderation and offered me work with him. I agreed gladly. And why not. The salary set for me was five times everything I had earned at the hotel, lawful and otherwise, all of it put together. I gave up nerve-racking service in the hospitality sector but did not break my ties with it. I often stopped at the «Majestic» for a night or two when, beset by doubts, I was in no hurry to go home. Every corner of the hotel’s corridors and staircases was as familiar to me as my own five fingers. I knew the staff by name. In a tight spot I could always count on an outcome favorable to me. A year and a half ago, on returning from Russia, it was here that I lay low for three months before departing for the islands. And here, through old channels, I got myself documents. Initially I bought, at a fair price, the identity papers of a native-born German citizen, but thought better of it in time. What use is that with my accent? I had to become Robert Makowski, a Polish resettler.
That was a long time ago.
Back at the hotel, I did not give myself over to reminiscence. I stuffed the acquired junk into the wardrobes and set off in search of my unattached friends. It was around six in the evening, the hour when the hotel staff change shifts. It made sense not to dawdle.
Twenty minutes later, having made it everywhere in time, I was loading myself into the beer bar across the road with a company of pals.
The evening passed in beer-drinking and song.