Self's punishment (13 page)

11

Thanks for the tea

While I was making the tea, Judith paced the kitchen, smoking. She was still extremely worked up. ‘What a twerp,’ she said, ‘what a twerp. And he put the fear of God in me at the War Cemetery.’

‘He wasn’t alone that time. And do you know, if I’d let him get going, I’d have been more frightened myself. He’s beaten up quite a few people in his time.’

We took our tea into the sitting room. I thought back to breakfast with Brigitte and was glad that the dishes weren’t lying in my kitchen now.

‘I still don’t know whether I can take on your case. But you should consider whether I really ought to take it on. I’ve investigated Peter Mischkey’s affairs before. I turned him in for breaking into the RCW computer system, as a matter of fact.’ I told her everything. She didn’t interrupt. Her eyes were full of hurt and reproach. ‘I can’t accept the way you’re looking at me. I did my job, and that sometimes means using people, exposing them, turning them in, even if they’re likeable.’

‘So what? Why the great confession then? Somehow you’re seeking absolution from me.’

I spoke into her wounded, cold face. ‘You are my client, and I like things to be straight between my clients and me. Why I didn’t tell you the story right away, you might ask. I—’

‘I might well ask. But actually I really don’t want to listen to the slick, cowardly falsehoods you might care to tell me. Thanks for the tea.’ She grabbed her handbag and stood up. ‘What do I owe you for your trouble? Send me a bill.’

I stood up, too. As she was about to open the door in the hallway, I pulled her hand away from the door handle. ‘You mean a lot to me. And your interest in clearing up what happened to Mischkey isn’t satisfied. Don’t leave like this.’

While I’d been talking, she’d left her hand in mine. Now she withdrew it and left without a word.

I shut the door to the apartment. I took the olives out of the fridge and sat on the balcony. The sun was shining, and Turbo, who’d been roaming the rooftops, curled up purring on my lap. It was only because of the olives. I gave him a few. From the street I could hear Judith turning on the ignition of her Alfa. The motor roared, then petered out. Was she coming back? A few seconds later the motor was running again and she drove off.

I succeeded in not thinking about whether I had behaved correctly, and enjoyed every single olive. They were the black Greek ones that taste of musk, smoke, and rich earth.

After an hour on the balcony I went into the kitchen and prepared the herb butter for the snails we’d eat after the concert. It was five o’clock. I called Brigitte and let the phone ring ten times. As I did the ironing I listened to
La Wally
and looked forward to Wilhelmenia Fernandez. From the cellar I fetched a couple of bottles of Alsace Riesling and put them in the fridge.

12

Hare and Tortoise

The concert was in the Mozartsaal. Our seats were in the sixth row, off to the left, so that our view of the singer wasn’t obscured by the conductor. Sitting down, I cast a glance around. A pleasantly mixed audience, from elderly ladies and gentlemen right down to kids you could easily picture at a rock concert. Babs, Röschen, and Georg arrived in a silly mood; mother and daughter sticking their heads together and giggling, Georg sticking out his chest and preening. I sat between Babs and Röschen, patting the right knee of one and the left knee of the other.

‘I thought you were bringing a woman of your own to pet, Uncle Gerd.’ Röschen picked up my hand with the tips of her fingers and let it drop next to her knee. She was wearing a black lace glove that left the fingers free. The gesture was crushing.

‘Oh, Röschen, Röschen, when you were a little girl and I rescued you from the Indians, you on my left arm, my Colt in my right hand, you never spoke to me like that.’

‘There aren’t any Indians any more, Uncle Gerd.’

What had become of my sweet girl? I took a sideways look at her, the postmodern angular haircut, and, hanging down from her ear, the clenched silver fist with the expressive thumb between the index and middle finger, the flattish face she’d inherited from her mother, and the somewhat too small, still childlike mouth.

The conductor was a slimy Mafioso, as short as he was fat. He bowed his permed head to us and drove the orchestra into a medley from
Gianni Schicchi
. The man was good. With the barest movements of his delicate baton he coaxed the most tender tones from the mighty orchestra. I also had to concede it was to his credit he’d placed an exquisite little female timpanist behind the kettledrums, in tails and dress trousers. Could I wait for her by the orchestra exit after the concert and offer my assistance in carrying her kettledrums home?

Then Wilhelmenia came on stage. She’d grown plumper since
Diva
, but looked enchanting in a glittering sequined evening gown. Best of all was
La Wally
. With her the concert ended, with her the diva conquered the audience. It was nice to see young and old united in applause. After two hard-fought-for encores, during which the small timpanist brilliantly made my heart turn somersaults again, we stepped lightly into the night.

‘Shall we go on somewhere?’ asked Georg.

‘Back to my place, if you’d like. I’ve prepared snails and the Riesling is chilling.’

Babs glowed, Röschen moaned, ‘Do we have to walk there?’ and Georg said, ‘I’ll walk with Uncle Gerd, you can take the car.’

Georg is a serious young man. On the way he told me about his law studies where he was embarking upon his fifth term, about the grades he was getting and the criminal case he was working on at the moment. Environmental criminal law – that sounded interesting but it was just the usual camouflage for questions of perpetrating, instigating, and abetting that I could have been asked forty years ago. Is it lawyers that have so little imagination, or reality?

Babs and Röschen were waiting by the front door. When I’d unlocked, it turned out that the lighting in the stairwell wasn’t working. We felt our way up, with frequent stumbles and much laughter. Röschen was a bit afraid of the dark and pleasantly mute.

It turned into a nice evening. The snails were good and so was the wine. My performance was a complete success. When I took the cassette player with its small microphone that made pretty good recordings out of my inside pocket, opened it, and slipped the cassette into the tape deck on my stereo, Röschen recognized the reference immediately and clapped her hands. Georg got it when Wally started to sing. Babs looked at us questioningly. ‘Mum, you’ll have to check out
Diva
next time it’s playing.’

We played Hare and Tortoise, the fashionable board game, and at half past midnight it was at a decisive stage and the wine all gone. I took my torch and went down to the cellar. I don’t recall ever going down the main stairway without light before. But my legs had grown so used to the way over the long years that I felt quite secure. Until the second to last flight of stairs. Here the architect, perhaps to make the
belle étage
more impressive, and with higher ceilings, had built fourteen steps instead of the customary twelve. I’d never noticed, nor had my legs taken heed of this detail of the stairway, and after the twelfth step I took a large step out instead of a small step down. My legs buckled, I managed to hold on to the banister, but pain shot up my back. I straightened up, took a tentative next step, and turned on the torch. I got a terrible shock. The wall on the second to last section of stair has a mirror with a stucco frame, and in it I saw a man facing me, shining a beam of light right at me. It took just a fraction of a second for me to recognize myself. But the pain and the fright were enough to send me into the cellar with a hammering heart and unsteady step.

We played until two-thirty. When the taxi collected them and I’d mastered the dark stairs once more and cleaned up the dishes in the kitchen, I stood for the duration of a cigarette by the telephone. I felt an urge to call Brigitte. But the old school won.

13

Do you like it?

I frittered the morning away. In bed I leafed through Mischkey’s file and thought again about why he had put it together, sipped at my coffee, and nibbled the pastries I’d bought yesterday in anticipation of Sunday. Then in
Die Zeit
I read a pastoral Op-Ed piece, a melodramatic political summary, the statesmanlike commentary from our ex-chancellor with the worldwide reputation, and the usual stuff from the owner. Once again I knew the lie of the land and so didn’t feel the need to expose my mind to the food editor’s review of a book on how to cook in a hot-air balloon. Then I smooched with Turbo. Brigitte still wasn’t picking up. At half past ten Röschen rang the bell. She’d come to collect the car. I threw my dressing gown on over my nightshirt and offered her a sherry. Her brush-cut was in rack and ruin this morning.

At last I was weary of my pottering and drove over to the bridge between Eppelheim and Wieblingen where Mischkey had met his death. It was a sunny early autumn day; I drove through the villages, the mist was hanging over the Neckar, and although it was a Sunday, potatoes were being harvested, the first leaves were turning, and smoke rose from the inns’ chimneys.

The bridge itself didn’t tell me anything I didn’t know from the police report. I looked down at the tracks that lay some five metres beneath me, and thought of the turned-over Citroën. A local train went by in the direction of Edingen. When I walked across the car lanes and looked down on the other side I saw the old railway station. A beautiful sandstone building from the turn of the century with three floors, rounded bow windows on the second floor, and a little tower. The station café was apparently still open. I went in.

The room was gloomy, of the ten tables three were occupied, on the right-hand side was a jukebox, pinball, and two video games, on the counter, restored in the old German style, a stunted potted palm and in its shadow the landlady. I sat down at the free table at the window, with a view onto the platform and the railroad embankment, got a menu with
Wiener
,
Jäger
and
Zigeuner-schnitzel
, all served with fries, and asked the landlady what their special was, their
plat du jour
, to use Ostenteich’s terms. She could offer
Sauerbraten
with dumplings and red cabbage, and broth with beef marrow. ‘First rate,’ I said, and ordered a wine from Wiesloch to go with it.

A young girl brought me the wine. She was around sixteen, with a lascivious voluptuousness that was more than the combination of too tight jeans, too tight a blouse, and too red lips. She’d have chatted up any man under fifty. Not me. ‘Enjoy,’ she said, bored.

When her mother brought me the soup I asked about the accident in September. ‘Did you hear it at all?’

‘I’d have to ask my husband about that.’

‘And what would he say?’

‘Well, we were already in bed, and then suddenly there was this smash. And shortly afterwards another. I said to my husband, “Something must have happened out there.” He got up straight away and took the tear-gas gun with him, because our game machines are always being broken into. But this time it had nothing to do with the games machines, but with the bridge. Are you from the press?’

‘I’m from insurance. Did your husband call the police?’

‘My husband didn’t know anything at that point. When he found nothing in the dining room he came back up and pulled some clothes on. Then he went out to the platform but he could already hear the ambulance siren. Who else could he have called?’

Her ample, blonde daughter brought the beef and listened attentively. Her mother sent her away to the kitchen.

‘Your daughter didn’t realize what was happening?’ It was obvious they had a problem.

‘She doesn’t notice anything. Just stares at everything in trousers, if you know what I mean. I wasn’t like that at her age.’ Now it was too late for her. Her eyes were filled with hungry futility. ‘Do you like it?’

‘Just like home,’ I said.

The bell in the kitchen rang, and she removed her willing flesh from my table. I wolfed down the
Sauerbraten
and the Wieslocher.

On the way to the car I heard quick steps behind me. ‘Hey, you!’ The kid from the station café was running after me breathlessly. ‘You wanted to hear something about the accident. Is there a hundred in it for me?’

‘Depends what you’ve got to say.’ She was a hard-boiled little slut.

‘Fifty upfront, and before that I don’t even start talking.’

I wanted to know and pulled out two fifty notes from my wallet. One of them I gave to her, the other I rolled into a ball.

‘So it was like this. That Thursday Struppi drove me home. When we came over the bridge, the delivery van was there. I wondered what it was doing on the bridge. Then Struppi and I, we, well, you know. And when the smash came I told Struppi to leave, as I was pretty sure my father would come any minute. My parents have something against Struppi because he’s as good as married. But I love him. So what. Anyhow, I saw the delivery van drive off.’

I gave her the scrunched-up ball. ‘What did the delivery van look like?’

‘Strange, somehow. You don’t see them round our way usually. But I can’t tell any more. Its lights weren’t on either.’

Her mother was peering out of the café doorway. ‘Get over here, Dina. Leave the man in peace!’

‘Okay, I’m coming.’ Dina walked back at a provocatively slow pace.

Sympathy and curiosity prompted me to meet the man who’d been saddled with this wife and daughter. In the kitchen I came across a thin, sweating little guy juggling pots and pans and casseroles. He’d probably already made several attempts to kill himself with the tear-gas gun.

‘Don’t do it. The two of them aren’t worth it.’

On the drive home I kept an eye open for delivery vans that aren’t usually found round here. But I didn’t see a thing, it was Sunday after all. If what Dina had told me was correct, there was, God knows, more to Mischkey’s death than was contained in the police report.

When we met up in the evening at the Badische Weinstuben Philipp knew that Mischkey’s blood group was AB. So it wasn’t his blood I’d scraped off the side. What conclusions could be drawn?

Philipp ate his black pudding with relish. He told me about gingerbread hearts, heart transplants, and his new girlfriend, who shaved her pubic hair in the shape of a heart.