Soup Soap Salvation · Suppe Seife Seelenheil

Planes, trains, and mid-life feels for Matto Kämpf's most unstereotypical Swiss agent of chaos

At the bottom of a glass of rakija at a Serbian wedding

When the past catches up to the present with a bang

You start questioning everything

WHAT THE PAPERS SAY

"With Soup Soap Salvation Matto Kämpf delivers a hilariously funny novella. Addressed to you, the reader, in second person, Kämpf sets his hero – a mix between Buster Keaton and Globi the cartoon parrot – on a course of non-stop motion. The illustrations fit the text perfectly."

NZZ am Sonntag, 20 November 2022

"A Swiss is found by a farmer in some bushes in Bosnia and Herzegovina – a "ruined creature, dishevelled", as the resulting police report puts it. How the man ended up in a shrubbery without a passport or a phone is the subject of Matto Kämpf's novel Soup Soap Salvation, making effective use of second-person narrative and showcasing his customary dark comedy."

Kulturtipp, December 2022

"Matto Kämpf is a jester, but one who moulds his characters into a high-precision contemporary satire. One who plays effortlessly and joyfully with genres (western, epic, station drama). One who is a master of absurdity and irony as well as smooth psychoanalytic comedy."

CH-Media, 16 December 2022

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"The man needs sorting out. Escaping from the police in Belgrade, he wanders in handcuffs through the Serbian countryside. Can it end well? The dishevelled fellow receives some TLC in the Swiss Embassy in Sarajevo before being repatriated. Back in Switzerland, his escapades are put under the microscope. 

In his third novel, Matto Kämpf lovingly as much as mercilessly dissects the sense of self of a middle-aged man who has begun to despair both of himself and the world. Kämpf's cunning shows itself once more in the manner in which his boisterous comedy almost incidentally asks big, existential questions."

⁕⁕⁕ 

Winter never ends

Rakija hangover helps

Reroll frozen dice 

SOUP SOAP SALVATION

pp.9-19

MATTO KÄMPF

SOUP

SOAP

SALVATION

To sit or to lie? That is the question. These days, most sit. It conveys a greater alertness. You are tired. You could sleep on the sofa. Someone needs to assess you, you need to straighten something out, that’s how it goes. You don’t want to therapise anyone, nor do you wish to be therapised. A misunderstanding. But an assessment must be made. Because 37 hours ago you were found in some Bosnian-Herzegovinan bushes. By a friendly farmer. Who called the police. The police took you to the Swiss Embassy in Sarajevo. They fed you and succoured you and later repatriated you. You wanted to go to Croatia, but you were ill-informed. And you ended up in Republika Srpska. Republika Srpska is part of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Your bushes were in close proximity to Bijeljina, a city near the border between Bosnia and Herzegovina and Serbia. The Bijeljina police wrote a report about you. And had it translated. 

Ruined creature loaded in shrubbery by Bijeljina. Creature dishevelled, had to be awoken before being awake. No resistance. Transportation to station. Creature was hunger and thirst. Deposed on divan. Much time later good state. Immediate interrogation. Creature apparently Swiss. Transportation to Sarajevo. Ambassador Helvetic Union waiting. Bijeljina Constabulary wishes sprightliness and joie de vivre. 

The embassy in Sarajevo reports that you fell foul of the law in Belgrade. However, no further details were given. You will assuredly tell the rest of the story. That’s why you’re here. 

What are you, anyway? Patient, prisoner, that remains to be seen. You can get up anytime you like and go. Under certain conditions. Not without an assessment. You won’t be going out the front door, anyhow. This is a police station. You walked in of your own volition, but well, now you’re here. You find yourself in the classic setting. You lie, you sit. You stare at the ceiling, you have the notepad in your hand. Ready and willing to note. You’re lying comfortably. Functional couch with a neck roll, more physiotherapy than Freud. Freud was all Oriental folderol. From the sofa. From the sofa, that’s where I’m from. Only nostalgics lie down now. Stare up to the ceiling and associate down to the ego.

Where could you begin? When you went to Belgrade. When you ran from the police. In a railway station. You ran from the police because you have feet. Did they chase you? You have no idea, because you were running. Because you were in handcuffs and didn’t want to fall over. Because looking back would have meant running into someone. Could have meant. And standing up with handcuffs on takes longer than without. You were arrested, one might say. Pretty very arrested. Previously, in the train, by two policemen. They didn’t speak any English. You could already see yourself being left to rot in a Serbian cell. Not as far as you were concerned. You ran away. Felt dashing and daring. On the lam. People and lights flashed past. But you didn’t cause any commotion. It’s normal to run in a railway station. By good luck, a swing door at the exit had been shoved open. The handcuffs were behind your back, you would have had to ram your way through head first. You twined yourself between taxis, dodged honking cars, and finally ended up in a park. There, you turned around. Nothing. No one at your heels. Then you laughed. Pulse 200, metallic taste in your mouth, and howls of laughter. Who’s your health insurance with? Sanitas. Are you laughing now?

You stand in the gloaming in a park in Belgrade and laugh. You have nothing now and you laugh. Nothing more to lose, because you already lost everything. Money, credit card, phone, passport, all gone, poof. Only handcuffs remain. Existential theatre. You expropriated yourself. Funny thought. Expropriation starts at home. Not only must the rich be eaten; you too must be eaten. Money is a depressant. There’s nothing sadder than the atmosphere in a 5-star hotel. Be that in the restaurant, the lobby, or the hotel bar, it’s all soaked in the same profound sadness. As if a compensatory Justice wished to say to all the maids and footmen: Be happy that you are not rich. Admittedly, having no money is not ideal either. That too leads to too much unpleasantness. Therefore: expropriate the rich without fail. For their own protection. Dear Illionaires, we’re taking your money away because it makes you sad and stupid. We can no longer simply watch and do nothing. We’ll give your money to the poor, where it will avert unpleasantness. 

You sat down on a park bench. That wasn’t so simple. You only managed it because you could slip the arms with the handcuffs sideways through the backrest. Handcuffs behind you are stupid. Better in front. You can get something done then. For example, fiddling with some bushes. Still, in an emergency, you could fiddle with some bushes behind your back. 

Why did you go to Belgrade? For a wedding. Whose wedding? A former housemate’s, Claudia’s. In a small town near Belgrade. Claudia had met a Serb, Milan, at a seminar in Heidelberg. She had married him. They live in Belgrade, but the wedding was held where his parents live. A long time ago you lived with four housemates. You lived with Claudia, Marlies, Lea and Ritschi in a small house on the edge of town. 30 years ago. Money was tight so every space was a bedroom: the two actual bedrooms, the cellar, the attic, and the garage. Wherever it was, someone was sleeping there. When everyone was in the black, you took turns. Whoever was broke got the cellar, that was free. The most impecunious were cellar dwellers. Until they came into money again and could begin their social ascent. You were all in your early twenties and in turmoil: What should I do? What not? How should I live? How not? Excesses of all kinds. Bad and good. You lived in a haze. Information, it all came from somewhere uncertain, from word of mouth, from friends of a friend, diffuse, no internet, everything a mystery. All peculiar and disturbing, but full of promise too. You were always wound up. You were always hearing about some new thing or other. The singer from Black Sabbath had bitten the head off a bat. One Ozzy Osbourne. You found that shocking and it bothered you for years. Today, two or three mouse clicks and you’re done. Back then, all you had was your parents’ encyclopaedia. Though there wasn’t anything about Ozzy Osbourne in it. There was only an entry for an ocelot. 

Claudia had emailed all of you. She would love to see everyone again after such a long time. She had just moved to Belgrade and was getting married in three months and you were all invited. As for yourself, you weren’t in touch with any of them anymore. You didn’t know about the others. Presumably, Claudia didn’t know either. She wrote that her search for Ritschi had led her to social services. They had given her an email address that proved not to work. They hadn’t wanted to give her a telephone number. Could you lot help? Turns out – you couldn’t. 

Ritschi was your real one of a kind. The one who flew the highest and fell the farthest. While the rest of you had at least a vague conception of your future, he was swimming in different waters. You guys dragged out and down-at-heeled your degrees; he wasn’t even thinking about graduating. Ritschi didn’t want a future. He wanted to party. He wanted drugs. And to travel. To start off with he lived off his parents’ money, like you all did. Once they cut him off, he turned to crime. And he didn’t hang about. There was a box next to his bed full of banknotes. When it was empty he went out to fill it. How he did it, he never told you. Once he tried to rob a kiosk. Unarmed, unmasked, just because, spontaneously. He opened the till and took the money. The assistant stood there with her mouth open. Stupidly enough, just at that moment a dedicated customer walked in. This led to a fierce fight, during which Ritschi is said to have repeated: “It’s none of your business, it’s not your money.” Which was true, at the end of the day. Eventually, Ritschi ended up on the ground and this bloke on top. It seems they were a difficult few minutes. Ritschi described the smell of the man’s breath as “warm and cheesy.”

Indeed, there are times in life when these peculiar situations arise, when for sporting reasons men end up lying on top of one another, or stuck to each other. During wrestling, during boxing. Both are reputed to be maximally masculine, yet turn out maximally curious, or rather, intimate. When both boxers are exhausted and can manage no more than to cling to each other. Spent, despairing and longing for the bell. All that remains is to embrace the opponent and hope that that’s the end of the matter. Like partners in a relationship, completely worn down, who hold on to each other with their last ounce of strength. In wrestling, one ends up lying on top of the other. Top presses down, bottom pushes up. The one on the bottom resists being put on his back with everything he has. It can be a protracted process at times, and strange seconds drag out. The two forces combine to neutralise each other and the pair seem frozen, like cats facing off in a garden. Most of the time, the one on the bottom will finally give in, surrenders to his fate, resigns himself to his subjugation. 

After you’d read Claudia’s email, you thought to yourself that if you ever were going to visit Belgrade, now was the time. With a joyful impulse, you said yes. And asked the other two if they were coming with you. Marlies and Lea. Marlies wrote back immediately that she’d be joining you. She was living in Geneva now, she was an urban planner and had two kids. Lea only responded after repeated attempts to contact her. She lived in Munich and was definitely not interested in being reminded of the old days. No one had a clue about Ritschi. He was you guys’ Huckleberry Finn. The Wild One. The future can’t be put off forever. One day the future comes. Your little houseshare too had its expiration date. Afterwards, if you ever saw Ritschi, you crossed to the other side of the road. Once, you bumped right into him. You suggested going for a drink. He said alcohol-free would be ok, a normal one would make him puke. According to him, he’d been involved with several co-operatives, then some start-ups, all kinds of business ideas, then before he could blink he was on welfare. He was damaged. He was living in a group home and he was doing more or less ok. Your encounter lasted less than five minutes. He made you nervous, touched you in a way you didn’t like. You had to get away. 

Are you happy that Ritschi turned out a failure? Why should you think that? It’s normal. Everyone who indulges in that lifestyle deserves their comeuppance. TV shows about expats not living their dream life abroad are extremely popular. Sweet balm for everyone who stayed at home.

In a park in Belgrade, then, just escaped from the police. Accompanied by a very beautiful sunset. You sit down on this bench for a long time and try to keep calm. All that remains are handcuffs. Rather dumb. Done up like ćevapi. Perfectly served up to be arrested, robbed, or kidnapped. You pace up and down in front of the bench and try to wind your hands together in a pose that hides as much of the chain and the cuffs as possible. But what’s the point? You have no plan. What are you supposed to do? Apart from avoiding the police? Wait until tomorrow morning? And ask some nice passerby to show you directions to the Swiss Embassy on their iPhone? And prostrate yourself in front of the entrance singing Es wott es Froueli z Märit gah until Helvetia herself comes to save you? Or a St Bernard?

But to return to the wedding. You agreed to meet Marlies at the gate. In Geneva, where she lives. But she doesn’t show up. Miffed, you board the plane. You only flew from Geneva for her sake. You haven’t got a phone number. You touch down in Belgrade at three in the afternoon at Nikola Tesla Airport. Claudia is busy with the wedding, but sends a driver. He is holding a sign at the exit. He doesn’t speak any English. He takes you to a hotel in the small town. You lie down on the bed and you’re still miffed. Every ten minutes you check your emails and get more miffeder. Marlies could have at least made some kind of excuse. Then you go join the celebration. Everyone is already well into it; the Swiss and the Serbs visibly separate. Apart from the groom, no one speaks English. Claudia greets you politely, but instantly regrets inviting you. The two of you stare at each other in embarrassment and stutter formulaic pleasantries. After half a minute, she launches herself at some other guests. Your face thunders. Had Marlies suspected as much? Milan shakes your hand heartily enough, but avoids you for the rest of the evening. What has Claudia told him? You feel like an inflamed appendix from Claudia’s past. You down beer after beer. An over-talkative Thurgauer tells you about his company. His firm produces pimples. He’s not enjoying the wedding because there hasn’t been enough firing into the air. Thankfully, later on a type of schnapps called ‘rakija’ is served. You give a long lecture on Serbian Orthodoxy. About its relationship with Russian and Greek Orthodoxy and the evolution of the Eastern Church in general. Without knowing a single thing about it. The Thurgauer can only marvel. Later on, you go over to the Serbs. One of them asks you “What are famous Swiss people except Roger Federer?”

You wake up at noon with a terrible hangover. Shit, the return flight is still five days away. You’d have run not walked straight to the airport. Rather just got out of there. Over breakfast, you try to have a good think. Actually, you were supposed to be doing something together with Marlies and Claudia now. But Marlies isn’t there, and since yesterday, Claudia is clearly a bust. At some point you think to yourself: tourism. They organise a train ticket for Belgrade for you at reception. You board the train with a hangover still in full flood and fall asleep instantly. A conductor yanks you out of your slumbers. Invalid ticket. You are on edge. The hangover seethes inside you. You paid a lot of money in the hotel and now the ticket is supposed to be invalid? The conductor doesn’t speak any English. You try to use gesticulations to explain how you got the ticket and how much you paid for it. He shakes his head and gives you to understand that you need to pay a fine. Better if you had. You shake your head and close your eyes. He goes away and you fall asleep again. After a while he wakes you up a second time and this time he has two policemen with him. Where he got them from is a mystery. Given that the police are there, you’d obviously be prepared to pay. Why obviously? You don’t want any trouble with the Serbian police. But money isn’t the issue now. The policemen go through your jacket and your luggage. You ask what they are doing. But they don’t understand English either. When one of the policemen starts spreading out the contents of your wallet on one of the seats, you snatch it off him. That’s when the situation escalates. They grab you and shove you into the corridor. Your luggage and your jacket remain in the compartment. They turn you face against the wall, pull your arms behind your back and put you in handcuffs…

© Matto Kämpf 2022, translation Bryn Roberts 2023