woods.
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
I’m cross with myself for adding this last remark; a simple ‘thank you’ would have been enough. Clear statements. Don’t hesitate, don’t tremble, look him in the eye, talk loud and clear.
‘How long have you been living here?’ he asks.
‘Getting on for eleven years.’
I take a seat at the place already set with my cup of coffee. It’s the place that gives me the strongest sense of security—my back to the wall and the door within eyeshot. If Lenzen wants to sit opposite me, he’ll have to sit with his back to the door. That makes most people nervous and reduces their powers of concentration, but he accepts without protest. If he notices at all, he doesn’t let it show. He takes notepad, pen and digital recorder from the bag beside his chair. I wonder what else he has in there.
Charlotte has politely withdrawn to the next room. The game can begin.
I know a great deal about Victor Lenzen; I’ve learnt a lot these past months. He may be the journalist here, but he’s not the only one in the room who has done his homework.
‘May I ask you a question?’ he begins.
‘That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’ I ask with a smile.
Victor Lenzen is fifty-three years old.
‘Touché. But I wanted to ask you something before we got started on the official questions.’
Victor Lenzen is divorced and has a thirteen-year-old daughter.
‘Well?’ I ask.
‘Well, I’ve been wondering—the thing is, it’s common knowledge that you lead a secluded life and that it’s more than ten years since you last gave an extensive interview…’
Victor Lenzen studied politics, history and journalism, then worked as a trainee reporter at a Frankfurt daily newspaper. He moved to Munich, rose through the ranks, and was made editor-in-chief at a Munich daily. Then he went abroad.
‘I’m always giving interviews,’ I say.
‘You’ve given precisely four interviews in the last ten years. One over the phone and three via email, if I’m correctly informed.’
Victor Lenzen spent many years working as a foreign correspondent, reporting from the Middle East, Afghanistan, Washington, London and finally Asia.
‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘There are people who believe you don’t exist,’ he continues. ‘They think Linda Conrads is a pseudonym.’
‘As you can see, I do exist.’
‘You do indeed. And now you’ve published a new book. The whole world’s clamouring for an interview, and the only person who gets one is me. But I hadn’t even asked for one.’
Six months ago, Victor Lenzen was offered a job at a German news station. He moved back to Germany permanently and since then he’s been working in television and print media.
‘What’s your question?’ I ask.
Victor Lenzen is reputed to be one of the country’s most brilliant journalists. He has won three major national prizes.
‘What made you choose me?’
Victor Lenzen has a girlfriend called Cora Lessing, who lives in Berlin.
‘Maybe I admire your work.’
Victor Lenzen is faithful to Cora Lessing.
‘Maybe you do,’ he says. ‘But I’m not an arts critic; I usually report on foreign affairs.’
Since moving back to Germany, Victor Lenzen visits his daughter Marie every week.
‘Don’t you want to be here, Herr Lenzen?’ I ask.
‘No, that’s not what I meant! I feel honoured, of course. It was only a question.’
Victor Lenzen’s mother died in the early nineties. His father is still living in the family home. Victor Lenzen visits him regularly.
‘Do you have any more questions that aren’t part of the official interview?’ I try to sound amused. ‘Or shall we begin?’
Victor Lenzen plays badminton with a colleague after work. Victor Lenzen supports Amnesty International.
‘Let’s begin,’ he says.
Victor Lenzen’s favourite band is U2. He likes going to the cinema and speaks four foreign languages fluently — English, French, Spanish and
‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
I’m cross with myself for adding this last remark; a simple ‘thank you’ would have been enough. Clear statements. Don’t hesitate, don’t tremble, look him in the eye, talk loud and clear.
‘How long have you been living here?’ he asks.
‘Getting on for eleven years.’
I take a seat at the place already set with my cup of coffee. It’s the place that gives me the strongest sense of security—my back to the wall and the door within eyeshot. If Lenzen wants to sit opposite me, he’ll have to sit with his back to the door. That makes most people nervous and reduces their powers of concentration, but he accepts without protest. If he notices at all, he doesn’t let it show. He takes notepad, pen and digital recorder from the bag beside his chair. I wonder what else he has in there.
Charlotte has politely withdrawn to the next room. The game can begin.
I know a great deal about Victor Lenzen; I’ve learnt a lot these past months. He may be the journalist here, but he’s not the only one in the room who has done his homework.
‘May I ask you a question?’ he begins.
‘That’s what you’re here for, isn’t it?’ I ask with a smile.
Victor Lenzen is fifty-three years old.
‘Touché. But I wanted to ask you something before we got started on the official questions.’
Victor Lenzen is divorced and has a thirteen-year-old daughter.
‘Well?’ I ask.
‘Well, I’ve been wondering—the thing is, it’s common knowledge that you lead a secluded life and that it’s more than ten years since you last gave an extensive interview…’
Victor Lenzen studied politics, history and journalism, then worked as a trainee reporter at a Frankfurt daily newspaper. He moved to Munich, rose through the ranks, and was made editor-in-chief at a Munich daily. Then he went abroad.
‘I’m always giving interviews,’ I say.
‘You’ve given precisely four interviews in the last ten years. One over the phone and three via email, if I’m correctly informed.’
Victor Lenzen spent many years working as a foreign correspondent, reporting from the Middle East, Afghanistan, Washington, London and finally Asia.
‘You’ve done your homework.’
‘There are people who believe you don’t exist,’ he continues. ‘They think Linda Conrads is a pseudonym.’
‘As you can see, I do exist.’
‘You do indeed. And now you’ve published a new book. The whole world’s clamouring for an interview, and the only person who gets one is me. But I hadn’t even asked for one.’
Six months ago, Victor Lenzen was offered a job at a German news station. He moved back to Germany permanently and since then he’s been working in television and print media.
‘What’s your question?’ I ask.
Victor Lenzen is reputed to be one of the country’s most brilliant journalists. He has won three major national prizes.
‘What made you choose me?’
Victor Lenzen has a girlfriend called Cora Lessing, who lives in Berlin.
‘Maybe I admire your work.’
Victor Lenzen is faithful to Cora Lessing.
‘Maybe you do,’ he says. ‘But I’m not an arts critic; I usually report on foreign affairs.’
Since moving back to Germany, Victor Lenzen visits his daughter Marie every week.
‘Don’t you want to be here, Herr Lenzen?’ I ask.
‘No, that’s not what I meant! I feel honoured, of course. It was only a question.’
Victor Lenzen’s mother died in the early nineties. His father is still living in the family home. Victor Lenzen visits him regularly.
‘Do you have any more questions that aren’t part of the official interview?’ I try to sound amused. ‘Or shall we begin?’
Victor Lenzen plays badminton with a colleague after work. Victor Lenzen supports Amnesty International.
‘Let’s begin,’ he says.
Victor Lenzen’s favourite band is U2. He likes going to the cinema and speaks four foreign languages fluently — English, French, Spanish and
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