Self's punishment (25 page)

19

A package from Rio

The dogs followed me to the car and frolicked alongside, yapping, until I turned off the field-track, onto the road. My whole body was trembling and yet I felt lighter than I had in a long time. On the road a tractor came towards me. The farmer stared at me. Had he been high enough to see me as I pushed Korten to his death? I hadn’t even thought about witnesses. I looked back; another tractor was ploughing its furrows in a field and two children were out on bikes. I drove west. At Point-du-Raz I considered staying – an anonymous Christmas abroad. But I couldn’t find a hotel, and the cliff line looked just like Trefeuntec. I was going home. At Quimper I came to a police roadblock. I could tell myself a thousand times that it was an unlikely spot to be searching for Korten’s murderer, but I was scared as I waited in the queue for the police to wave me on.

In Paris I made the eleven o’clock night train. It was empty and I had no trouble getting a sleeping car. On Christmas Day towards eight o’clock I was back in my apartment. Turbo greeted me sulkily. Frau Weiland had laid my Christmas mail on the desk. Along with all the commercial Christmas greetings I found a Christmas card from Vera Müller, an invitation from Korten to spend New Year’s Eve with him and Helga in Brittany, and from Brigitte a package from Rio with an Indian tunic. I took it as a nightshirt, and went to bed. At half past eleven the telephone rang.

‘Merry Christmas, Gerd. Where are you hiding?’

‘Brigitte! Merry Christmas.’ I was happy, but I could hardly see for weariness and exhaustion.

‘You grouch, aren’t you pleased? I’m back.’

I made an effort. ‘You’re kidding. That’s really great. Since when?’

‘I arrived yesterday morning and I’ve been trying to reach you ever since. Where have you been hiding?’ There was reproach in her voice.

‘I didn’t want to be here on Christmas Eve. I felt very claustrophobic.’

‘Would you like to eat
Tafelspitz
with us? It’s already on the stove.’

‘Yes . . . who else is coming?’

‘I’ve brought Manu with me. I can’t wait to see you.’ She blew a kiss down the telephone.

‘Me too.’ I returned the kiss.

I lay in bed, and felt my way back to the present. To my world in which fate doesn’t control steamships or puppets, where no foundations are laid and no history gets made.

The Christmas edition of the Süddeutsche lay on the bed. It gave an annual balance sheet of toxic incidents in the chemical industry. I soon laid the paper aside.

The world wasn’t a better place for Korten’s death. What had I done? Come to terms with my past? Wiped my hands of it?

I arrived far too late for lunch.

20

Come with the Wind!

Christmas Day brought no news of Korten’s death, nor did the next. Sometimes I was fearful. Whenever the doorbell rang, I was frightened and assumed the police had arrived to storm the apartment. When I was relaxing happily in Brigitte’s arms, alive with her sweet kisses, occasionally I wondered anxiously if this might be our last time together. At times I imagined the scene with Herzog, telling him everything. Or would I prefer to give my statement in front of Nägelsbach?

Most of the time I was easy in myself, fatalistic, and enjoyed the last days of the year, including coffee and plum-with-flourybutter-crumble-cake at the younger Schmalzes’. I liked little Manuel. He tried valiantly to speak German, accepted my morning presence in the bathroom without jealousy, and hoped staunchly for snow. To begin with the three of us went on our expeditions together, visiting the fairytale park on Königstuhl and the planetarium. Then he and I set out on our own. He liked going to the cinema as much as I did. When we came out of
Witness
we both had to fight back tears. In
Splash
he didn’t understand why the mermaid loved the guy although he was so mean to her – I didn’t tell him that’s always the way. In the Kleiner Rosengarten he figured out the game Giovanni and I played, and played along. There was no teaching him a sensible German sentence after that. On the way back from ice skating he took my hand and said, ‘You always with us when I come back?’

Brigitte and Juan had decided Manuel should go to high school in Mannheim, starting next autumn. Would I be in prison next autumn? And if not – would Brigitte and I stay together?

‘I don’t know yet, Manuel. But we’ll certainly go to the cinema together.’

The days passed without Korten hitting the headlines, either dead or missing. There were moments when I wished things would come to an end, no matter how. Then once again I was grateful for the time gained. On the 27th Philipp called. He complained he hadn’t caught a glimpse of my Christmas tree yet this year. ‘And where have you been these last few days?’

That’s when I got the idea about a party. ‘I have something to celebrate,’ I said. ‘Come round on New Year’s Eve, I’m having a party.’

‘Should I bring you round a squeezable little Taiwanese something?’

‘No need, Brigitte is back.’

‘A-ha, Come with the Wind! But may I bring a little something for me to the party?’

Brigitte had followed the phone call. ‘Party? What party?’

‘We’re celebrating New Year’s Eve with your friends and mine. Who would you like to invite?’

On Saturday afternoon I dropped by to see Judith. I caught her in the midst of packing. She was planning to travel to Locarno on Sunday. Tyberg wanted to introduce her to Tessin society in Ascona on New Year’s Eve. ‘It’s nice of you to come round, Gerd, but I’m in a terrible rush. Is it important, can’t it wait? I’ll be back at the end of January.’ She indicated the open suitcases, and the packed ones, two large moving cartons, and a wild confusion of clothes. I recognized the silk blouse that she’d worn when she’d shown me to Firner’s office. The button was still missing. ‘I can tell you the truth about Mischkey’s death now.’

She sat down on a suitcase and lit a cigarette. ‘Yes?’

She listened without interrupting. When I’d finished she asked: ‘And what happens to Korten now?’

It was the question I had dreaded. I had racked my brains over whether I should only go to Judith once Korten’s death was public knowledge. But I mustn’t make my actions dependent upon Korten’s murder, and without it there was no reason to hush up the solving of the case any longer. ‘I’ll try to put him on the spot. He’ll be back from Brittany at the beginning of January.’

‘Oh, Gerd, you can’t believe that Korten will break down in mid-sentence and confess?’

I didn’t answer. I was reluctant to enter into a discussion about what should happen to Korten.

Judith took another cigarette from the pack and rolled it between the fingertips of both hands. She looked sad, worn out by all the to-ing and fro-ing that had accompanied Peter’s murder, also aggravated, as if she wanted finally, finally, to put the whole thing behind her. ‘I’ll talk to Tyberg. You don’t mind, do you?’

That night I dreamed that Herzog was interrogating me. ‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’

‘What could the police have done?’

‘Oh, we have impressive possibilities these days. Come on, I’ll show you.’ Through long corridors, via many stairs, we came to a room that I recognized from castles of the Middle Ages, with pincers, irons, masks, chains, whips, straps, and needles. A hellfire was burning in the grate. Herzog pointed to the rack. ‘We’d have made Korten talk on that. Why didn’t you trust the police? Now you’ll have to go on it yourself.’ I didn’t struggle and was strapped to it. When I couldn’t move, panic surged through me. I must have cried out before I woke. Brigitte had switched on the bedside lamp and turned to me with concern.

‘Everything’s fine, Gerd. No one’s hurting you.’

I kicked myself free of the sheets that were stifling me. ‘My God, what a dream.’

‘Tell me, then you’ll feel better.’

I didn’t want to and she was hurt. ‘I keep noticing, Gerd, that something’s wrong with you. Sometimes you’re hardly there.’

I snuggled into her arms. ‘It’ll pass, Brigitte. It has nothing to do with you. Have patience with an old man.’

It was only on New Year’s Eve that Korten’s death was reported. A tragic accident at his holiday home in Brittany on the morning of Christmas Eve had caused him to fall from the cliffs into the sea while out walking. The information gathered by the press and radio for Korten’s seventieth birthday was now used for obituaries and eulogies. With Korten an epoch had ended, the epoch of the great men of Germany’s era of reconstruction. The funeral was to take place at the beginning of January, attended by the president, the chancellor, the economics minister, as well as the complete cabinet of Rhineland-Palatinate. Scarcely anything better could have happened for his son’s career. As his brother-in-law I’d be invited, but I wouldn’t go. Nor would I send condolences to his wife.

I didn’t envy him his glory. Nor did I forgive him. Murder means never having to say you forgive.

21

I’m sorry, Herr Self

Babs, Röschen, and Georg arrived at seven. Brigitte and I had just been putting the finishing touches to the party preparations, had lit the Christmas tree candles, and were sitting on the sofa with Manuel.

‘Here she is, then!’ Babs looked at Brigitte with kindly curiosity and gave her a kiss.

‘Hats off, Uncle Gerd,’ said Röschen. ‘And the Christmas tree looks really cool.’

I gave them their presents.

‘But Gerd,’ said Babs reproachfully, ‘I thought we’d decided against Christmas presents this year,’ and took out her package. ‘This is from the three of us.’

Babs and Röschen had knitted a wine-red sweater to which Georg had attached, at the appropriate spot, an electric circuit with eight lamps in the shape of a heart. When I pulled on the sweater the lamps started to flash to the rhythm of my heartbeat.

Then Herr and Frau Nägelsbach arrived. He was wearing a black suit, complete with stiff wing-collar and bow tie, a pincenez on his nose, and was the spitting image of Karl Kraus. She was wearing a fin-de-siècle dress. ‘Hedda Gabler?’ I greeted her cautiously. She gave a curtsy and joined the ladies. He looked at the Christmas tree with disapproval. ‘Bourgeois nonsense.’

The doorbell didn’t stop ringing. Eberhard arrived with a little suitcase. ‘I’ve come with a few magic tricks.’ Philipp brought Füruzan, a feisty, voluptuous Turkish nurse. ‘Fuzzy can belly-dance!’ Hadwig, a friend of Brigitte’s, had her fourteen-year-old son Jan with her, who immediately took charge of Manuel.

Everyone streamed into the kitchen for the cold buffet. Dusty Springfield’s ‘I Close My Eyes and Count to Ten’ played unnoticed in the living room. Philipp had put on
Hits of the
1960s
.

My study was empty. The telephone rang. I shut the door behind me. Only muffled jollity from the party reached my ears. All my friends were here – who could be calling?

‘Uncle Gerd?’ It was Tyberg. ‘A Happy New Year! Judith told me and I read the newspaper. It appears you’ve solved the Korten case.’

‘Hello, Herr Tyberg. All the best to you for the New Year, too. Will you still write the chapter about the trial?’

‘I’ll show it to you when you come to visit. Springtime is very nice at Lake Maggiore.’

‘I’ll be there. Until then.’

Tyberg had understood. It helped to have a secret ally who wouldn’t call me to account.

The door burst open and my guests were asking for me. ‘Where are you hiding, Gerd? Füruzan is going to do a belly dance for us.’

We cleared the dance floor and Philipp screwed a red lightbulb into the lamp. Füruzan entered from the bathroom in a veil and sequined bikini. Manuel and Jan’s eyes popped out of their heads. The music began, supplicating and slow, and Füruzan’s first movements were of a gentle, languorous fluidity. Then the tempo of the music increased and with it the rhythm of the dance. Röschen started to clap, everyone joined in. Füruzan discarded the veil, and let a tassel attached to her belly button circle wildly. The floor shook. When the music died away Füruzan ended with a triumphant pose and flung herself into Philipp’s arms.

‘This is the love of the Turks,’ Philipp laughed.

‘Laugh all you like. I’ll get you. You don’t play around with Turkish women,’ she said, looking him haughtily in the eye.

I brought her my dressing gown.

‘Stop,’ called Eberhard as the audience was ready to disperse. ‘I invite you to the breathtaking show by the great magician Ebus Erus Hardabakus.’ And he made rings spin and link together and come apart again, and yellow scarves turn to red; he conjured up coins and made them disappear again, and Manuel was allowed to check that everything was above board. The trick with the white mouse went wrong. At the sight of it, Turbo leapt onto the table, knocked over the top hat it had supposedly disappeared into, chased it round the apartment, and playfully broke its neck behind the fridge before any of us could intervene. In response Eberhard wanted to break Turbo’s neck, but luckily Röschen stopped him.

It was Jan’s turn. He recited ‘The Feet in the Fire’ by Conrad Ferdinand Meyer. Next to me sat an anxious Hadwig, silently mouthing the poem with him. ‘Mine is the revenge, saith the Lord,’ thundered Jan at the end.

‘Fill your glasses and plates and come back,’ called Babs. ‘It’s on with the show.’ She whispered with Röschen and Georg and the three of them pushed tables and chairs to the side and the dance floor became a small stage. Charades. Babs puffed out her cheeks and blew, and Röschen and Georg ran off.

‘
Gone with the Wind
,’ called Nägelsbach.

Then Georg and Röschen slapped one another until Babs stepped between them, took their hands, and joined them together. ‘Kemal Atatürk in War and Peace!’

‘Too Turkish, Fuzzy,’ said Philipp and patted her thigh. ‘But isn’t she clever?’

It was half past eleven and I went to check there was plenty of champagne on ice. In the living room Röschen and Georg had taken over the stereo and were feeding old records onto the turntable: Tom Waits was singing ‘Waltzing Matilda’, and Philipp tried to waltz Babs down the narrow corridor. The children were playing tag with the cat. In the bathroom Füruzan was showering away the sweat of her belly dance. Brigitte came through to the kitchen and gave me a kiss. ‘A lovely party.’

I almost didn’t hear the doorbell. I pressed the buzzer for the front door, but then saw the green silhouette through the frosted glass of the apartment door and knew the visitor was already upstairs. I opened up. In front of me stood Herzog in uniform.

‘I’m sorry, Herr Self . . .’

So this was the end. They say it happens just before you’re hanged, but now the pictures of the past weeks went shooting through my mind, as if in a film. Korten’s last look, my arrival in Mannheim on Christmas morning, Manuel’s hand in mine, the nights with Brigitte, our happy group round the Christmas tree. I wanted to say something. I couldn’t make a sound.

Herzog went ahead of me into the apartment. I heard the music being turned down. But our friends kept laughing and chattering cheerfully. When I had control of myself again, and went into the sitting room, Herzog had a glass of wine in his hand, and Röschen, a little tipsy, was fiddling with the buttons on his uniform.

‘I was just on my way home, Herr Self, when the complaint about your party came through on the radio. I took it upon myself to look in on you.’

‘Hurry up,’ called Brigitte, ‘two minutes to go.’ Enough time to distribute the champagne glasses and pop the corks.

Now we’re standing on the balcony, Philipp and Eberhard let off the fireworks, from all the churches comes the ringing of bells, we clink glasses.

‘Happy New Year.’