33. A necessary subterfuge

Isobel and I had it all planned out. If we did a chapter every couple of days, then we would get the book finished a week before the deadline. That would leave us a few days to look over the manuscript and polish it before we handed it in. It was just about doable, but it meant I had to work every evening, and it didn’t leave much time for anything else.

One thing it certainly didn’t leave time for was the Professor. It was vital that I did not let myself get trapped into doing more work for him, or the English book would never get finished. I was still committed to the encyclopaedia project — the editor credit had not lost its allure — but that would have to wait until after Henk’s deadline.

Hence it was essential that I did not run into the Professor, because it was certain that if he saw me he would give me work to do. I took to skulking around the Verlag offices, checking to make sure the corridor was clear before I sneaked down it. I made a point of walking very quietly past the Professor’s door so that he would not hear me and look out.

But I soon discovered that the Professor was not my only problem. One morning I was just about to enter my office when I heard a loud noise coming from inside. It sounded like someone had blown a horn. I stopped in my tracks. My first thought was that a burglar was inside — it was just after 8 and no one else was in the office yet — but then it occurred to me that a thief would be unwilling to advertise his presence through loud noises. I peered round the door and spotted a man sitting at the desk opposite mine. He was in his fifties, balding, with a moustache, and he was blowing his nose.

He was in mid-parp when I knocked on the door.

“Can I help you?” he said, not in an unfriendly tone, putting down his handkerchief.

I introduced myself and told him that I had been working in the office.

“Ah, nice to meet you,” he said, standing up and offering me his hand. “Günther Krebs.”

“Nice to meet you too,” I said, shaking his hand, which was slightly sticky.

“Well, sit down, sit down,” he said, seeing that I was unsure what to do. “This is your office too now. Don’t let me stop you getting to work.”

As I settled down at my desk, he explained that this was his first day back at work after his Kur. Somewhat foolhardily, I asked if he was back to full health. Instead of the simple “yes” I had been expecting, he launched into a description of his various ailments. Apparently he was not really fit enough to be back at work — he had some kind of circulatory problem, as far as I could understand — but he was determined to soldier on. “I don’t want to be a burden to the Verlag,” he said.

Krebs was friendly and chatty, and seemed to take a liking to me — possibly because I, out of politeness, listened to his descriptions of his health problems, something no one else in the company was prepared to do — but after a couple of days I had already grown to resent him. It was impossible to get any work done while he was around. For one thing, he was constantly blowing his nose, coughing, or making a curious harrumphing sound with his throat which might have been intended to clear it but came across more as a nervous tick.

Then he had very strong feelings about the status of the window. I discovered he had an elaborate medical cosmology involving the ideal degree of stuffiness in the air and the dangers of draughts. He would allude to his beliefs, as if they were common knowledge, while manipulating the windows, without ever fully explaining them. Whatever his philosophy was, it seemed to involve positioning the windows in the way guaranteed to cause maximum physical discomfort. On warm days, he insisted that the windows remain shut, while on cold days they needed to be wide open, and he would become irritated if I even suggested closing them.

On top of that, he had decided that, as the company intern, I was his own personal assistant, and was constantly giving me tasks to do which ate up my time. Initially I tried to explain I was busy, but that information seemed to be so detrimental to his health,  causing him to have such severe coughing fits and come close to the complete circulatory collapse he dreaded, that I gave up and did what he asked me to.

This was partly because I felt sorry for him. It became clear to me very quickly that he was completely  and utterly incompetent. He had no idea how to use a computer, and was incapable of performing even the simplest task without messing it up. He was always trying to fill in the wrong form or using the wrong version of a manuscript. Once I caught him just as he was about to shred the translation I had just done for him, convinced that it was an old document he no longer needed.

But despite my pity for him, it was clear I had to do something about the situation. I wasn’t getting any time in the office to work on my manuscript, and I was falling behind with my schedule — just working in the evenings was not enough. I wondered if it might be possible to change offices. I would have to think of some excuse so as not to hurt Kreb’s feelings, of course, but desperate measures were needed.
I ran the idea past Ana when I came in one morning, as I was helping her carry the crates of bottled water which had just been delivered through into the downstairs kitchen. I tried to be as subtle as possible, and say that I wanted to move because my office didn’t get enough light.

“Not a chance,” she said. “The waiting list for changing offices is years long. Nobody has enough light.”

I explained the situation to Isobel the next time she was over at my flat to help with the book and asked her if she had any ideas.

“You could always resort to the tactic Germans use when they find work is getting too much for them, or they want to avoid an inconvenient situation in the office.”

“What’s that?”

“Get signed off sick,” she said casually, taking a sip of the herbal tea I had made her.

“But I’m not sick,” I protested. “How can I get signed off?”

“Easiest thing in the world, if you live in Germany.” She explained that I just had to go to the doctor and tell him that I had the symptoms of some non-life-threatening but painful illness, preferably one which had symptoms that could not be independently verified or treated apart from with rest. “He’ll be signing you off work faster than you can say ‘Krankenversicherung,’” Isobel said. “You do have Krankenversicherung, don’t you?” she added quickly, suddenly looking worried.

“Of course,” I said, feeling glad that the Verlag had taken out health insurance on my behalf when I first came to Berlin. “But what is this magic illness which will get me off work?”

“Let me think,” said Isobel, furrowing her brow in a manner which I found quite charming. “Food poisoning could work, although he might ask you too many questions about the consistency of your stool. Flu is a possibility too, but then he might want to inspect your inflamed sinuses, and that’s hard to fake.”

We pondered for a few moments. Then Isobel cried, “I’ve got it.”

“And?”

“Back pain. Men are always taking time off work because of back pain, I read about it in Der Spiegel. It doesn’t have any obvious cause, they have to take your word for it that you are experiencing pain, and there’s nothing they can do about it except give you painkillers and tell you to rest. It’s perfect.”

“I’m not sure I can fake back pain, though.”

“Of course you can. Come on, let’s practise.” She indicated for me to stand up. “Walk across the room very gingerly, as if every step were sending shooting pains through your back.”

“Like this?” I tried to walk as gingerly as I could.

“Good,” she said. “But bend over a bit more.” She put one hand on my waist and gently pressed my back forward with the other. “That’s better. And wince as you put your foot down and you’ll be perfect.”

I practised walking backwards and forwards across the room until Isobel decided my subterfuge was convincing. Then I practised sitting and standing up in pain, and finally making noises of pain when Isobel touched my vertebrae, in case the doctor decided to do an in-depth examination.

“Excellent,” she said when we were finished. “You’ll fool anyone. And certainly an overworked German general practitioner.”

“You know,” I said, sinking back down into the sofa. “I think my back really is starting to hurt after all that practising.”

Isobel clapped her hands together. “Even better. Then you’ll really be convincing.”