In Matto's Realm: A Sergeant Studer Mystery
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Authors: Friedrich Glauser
Friedrich Glauser was born in Vienna in 1896. Often
referred to as the Swiss Simenon, he died aged fortytwo, a few days before he was due to be married.
Diagnosed a schizophrenic, addicted to morphine and
opium, he spent much of his life in psychiatric wards,
insane asylums and, when he was arrested for forging
prescriptions, in prison. He also spent two years with
the Foreign Legion in North Africa, after which he
worked as a coal miner and a hospital orderly. His
Sergeant Studer crime novels have ensured his place
as a cult figure in Europe.
Germany's most prestigious crime fiction award is
called the Glauser prize.
Friedrich Glauser
Translated from the German by
Mike Mitchell
... and so writers can write novels about the conversations
that the inmates locked up in institutions have with each
other, while what those employed there say serves more to conceal thoughts and promote ambitions ...
Arnold Zweig, Education before Verdun
The scene of the crime and the casino
The late Herr Direktor Ulrich Borstli
Short intermezzo in three parts
Conversation with the nightwatchman
Studer's first attempt at psychotherapy
There is no risk involved in telling a story that takes
place in Berlin, London, Paris or New York. To tell a
story that takes place in a Swiss town, on the other
hand, is risky. I once had Winterthur Football Club
object to one of my stories because a fullback appeared
in it. I had to assure the lads that no reference to them
was intended.
To embark on a story that takes place in a Bern
psychiatric clinic is even riskier. I can already see the
protests hailing down. For that reason I would like
to make the following clear from the outset: there are
three psychiatric clinics in the Canton of Bern -
Waldau, Miinsingen, Bellelay. My Randlingen Clinic is
neither Miinsingen, nor Bellelay, nor Waldau. The
characters in it are entirely fictitious. My novel is not a
roman a clef.
A story has to take place somewhere. Mine takes
place in the Canton of Bern, in a lunatic asylum. So
what? Presumably we're still allowed to tell stories?
It's five o'clock in the morning, a time when respectable people are still fast asleep in their beds, and the
telephone rings. Wakes you up. It's the chief of police
on the line, so of course you dutifully reply, "Sergeant
Studer here, sir." Naturally you're still in bed, you still
have a good two hours sleep left. Then you're told a story
a half-awake brain has problems getting to grips with. So
you have to keep interrupting your lord and master
with "What?" and "Sorry?" until eventually you're told
you're a moron and you should wash your ears out ...
That wasn't as bad as it sounded; the chief of police
likes to express himself forcefully, and moron, for
goodness sake! ... What was worse was that he
couldn't quite cotton on to what he was supposed to be
doing. A certain Dr Ernst Laduner, he'd been told, was
coming to pick him up in half an hour, to take him to
Randlingen Psychiatric Clinic, where a patient by the
name of Pieterlen - yes, P for Peter, I for Ida, E for
Edith. . . - a patient by the name of Pieterlen had run
off.
It happened now and then ... At the same time, that
is during the same night, his boss went on, the director
of the loony bin - the chief of police had no very high
opinion of psychiatrists - had disappeared. He'd get
the details from Dr Laduner, who wanted to make sure
he was covered, covered by the police. And the chief of
police had made a joke involving the word "covered",
not a very good joke, one with a whiff of the cowshed.
