Morgue Drawer Four (5 page)

Martin took down Nina’s name and address. He wanted to head over there after work today, and I decided not to warn him that obviously I intended to tag along.

The rest of the day passed without any incidents worth mentioning, if you disregard the fact that a suicide victim was delivered to determine the cause of death. Considering that a freight train loaded with new cars fresh off the line at one of Cologne’s large auto plants had cleanly cut the man’s body in two right above the navel, I couldn’t really see any need for a detailed autopsy because I’d have guessed the cause of death as—surprise!—dismemberment, but Martin and his colleagues are resolute. A body that did not die from heart failure, old age, or some other natural cause is investigated very carefully, period.

I kind of kept out of the way during the autopsy; my own was still too fresh in my mind, and at the time the systematic dismantling of corpses still struck me as pretty repulsive. Over time I’ve overcome this timidity, but more on that later.

At quitting time Martin said goodbye to his colleagues. We didn’t see Dream Woman again all day long, which I was very sorry about. The white coat who had surprised Martin in the break room while he was busy arguing with himself at the top of his voice took one more skeptical look at him, but he was apparently unable to see any further signs Martin was wrestling with demons. (Eh? Get it? Not bad, right? A sense for the nuance of language is another thing Martin has taught me, but I think I mentioned that already.) Martin hung his white office jacket properly onto a hanger, in contrast to his green slaughterhouse top, and left the “Institute for Forensic Medicine at the University Medical Center of the University of Cologne”—as the whole, cripplingly long title of this institution reads—then put on his duffle coat, and walked out to his…little trash can on wheels. You know, a Deux Chevaux, 2CV. Duck. Snail. Silver Hornet. Seriously, I’m not lying! He actually drives one of those swaying boxes that people hang up on ski lifts as cable cars or push on tracks through the haunted house ride at a carnival, which should be banned from driving on public streets, incidentally. You wouldn’t go driving around your neighborhood on your lawnmower or bolt an auxiliary engine onto your five-wheeled, height-adjustable, lumbar-supporting office chair, thus rendering the whole downtown area unsafe, would you? All right then.

Anyways, we made our way in this ridiculous shoebox to the apartment of Nina, my ex. The necessity of commending my spirit to the most embarrassing vehicle since Fred Flintstone’s Flintmobile convertible was an even greater humiliation than when my pediatric dentist discovered that I, unlike most people, was born without wisdom tooth buds. Fortunately—and this was the very first moment I really appreciated the immateriality my death had forced upon me—no one could see me sitting with Martin in this thing.

“Do you know what this vehicle was invented for?” I asked Martin as he turned the ignition.

I thought he had suffered a mild coronary, and it took me a while to get that he had not anticipated my presence and had not noticed me. He got the swaying box back under control before almost careening into a light pole, and he breathed deeply, in and out, several times.

“So, do you know?” I started the thread of the conversation again.

“To drive,” he retorted. Ridiculous!

“To let your eggs swing free,” I said, correcting him. “The specification when they were developing the 2CV said to build a car where eggs in a basket would remain unbroken even on a bad stretch of road. In those days, right after World War II, people still used to transport their eggs in baskets and not in cartons.”

“Uh-huh,” Martin said, but he didn’t sound all that interested.

“Plus, even an untrained female driver was supposed to be able to handle it easily.”

“Interesting,” Martin mumbled.

“So…” I said, bringing my reflections to their logical conclusion, “what’s up with the trash can car? You’re not a chick, and you’re not a chicken egg.”

“I like the car, and it’s economical.”

Yes, liking it and economicality were of course very important considerations when choosing a set of wheels. Whereas criteria like engine performance, chassis design, coolness factor, or just that awesome sensation like you’re letting a clear-coated Rottweiler off leash when your right foot just barely taps the gas—that’s all just crazy. We like our cars, and they ought to be economical. People like Martin should ride bikes. Or better yet: tricycles.

Given that the Luddite sitting here next to me driving the automotive equivalent of a rotary phone was going to have to serve as the “extended arm” of my investigation, and given that my motivation to pursue said investigation was not inconsiderable, I didn’t want to annoy him, so I discontinued the discussion of that topic.

I navigated Martin through rush-hour traffic and was admittedly pleased that he found a parking spot right in front of Nina’s apartment. See, I was pretty scared of spending time out in the open. I felt like any gust of wind might sweep me up, blowing me several hundred meters or even kilometers away so I couldn’t come back anymore. The idea was so haunting that I kept right up close to Martin’s dweeby wool coat until we were standing on the front stoop of the apartment building. Martin called up, the intercom didn’t work, but the door was buzzed open, and we entered the dirty entryway. In his coat, neatly combed hair, unfashionably comfortable leather shoes, and wide eyes, Martin looked as out of place as Queen Elizabeth under the purple neon lights in the public bathrooms at the train station. But what could I do? Plus, the surprise effect is always good when you want to ask dumb questions, and Nina would presumably totally lose it at the sight of this creature arisen from the slightly stuffy, unhip world of academia. Which she did, too, right on cue.

Martin introduced himself, said his name was Gänsewein (“goose wine”—seriously, that’s his name! Apparently an old joking way of saying “water,” like how the English say “Adam’s ale”; I hadn’t known that before, either, and I couldn’t help snickering), and he had a few questions regarding my death. Martin nodded when she offered coffee, and plopped onto the battered old leather couch that I knew used to belong to the old man in the apartment next door. After a heart attack he was able to leave the apartment again only feet-first. That was the moment when Nina and my successor pinched the worn-out piece of furniture. And now she was proud as the winner of the Miss Suburban Cologne pageant for being able to call a piece of leather furniture of such exquisite quality her own. She made coffee for the man she addressed as “Doctor,” which meant she plunged two tablespoons of the cheapest instant into a coffee mug, topped it with hot tap water, and stuck in a spoon she’d wiped off on the cuff of her sweatshirt. I myself used to prepare my own coffee with exactly this method, although I usually forwent measuring it with the spoon—so the swill was sometimes stronger and sometimes weaker, and I didn’t think anything of it. But with Mannered Martin sitting on the stolen couch, suddenly this sort of coffee culture struck me as somehow deficient.

While Nina was going about her hostess activities, Martin and I had enough time to give the apartment a good look-see. I don’t know whether death actually brings a person’s spirit closer to something higher, but in any case coming back to this apartment—which had been like my second home for a while—was a confrontation with what is commonly known as a Vale of Tears.

The three ashtrays on the coffee table and the fourth on the windowsill were overflowing, and based on the distinct, browning tinge to the rugs and curtains, one could deduce that the enjoyment of tobacco wares was a full-time occupation in here. Of course, I already knew that from before, but I was never so aware of how acrid tobacco smoke can make a place. The two plants sitting on the windowsill could have worked as extras in one of those spaghetti westerns as withered tumbleweeds rolling in the wind across the dusty streets of a Mexican village. The only paper with words printed on it was the TV guide, which exhibited various marks from coffee cups and beer bottles. And the cushion on the stolen couch had that universal ass-shaped depression in it that you can see in any German living room.

Nina finished her coffee-serving ritual, accompanied as usual by a hastily swallowed “fuck” as she touched the mugs not on the handle but on the body, thereby ascertaining that the ceramic was indeed hot. I glanced into the kitchen and thanked providence that Martin could see only the living room, and I caught myself wondering what degree of civilization one could expect from someone whose kitchen is smaller than the guest bathroom at my parents’ house.

Nina came over and sat across from Martin.

“Have you heard that Sascha Lerchenberg passed away?” he asked, and actually said “passed away.”

“Yeah.”

Just a one-word answer out of the mouth of a woman whose vital functions, unlike those of most people, didn’t consist of inhaling and exhaling but of inhaling and chattering. I have never caught her just exhaling air. Words were always part of it; her whole body seemed to be filled with them, and they seemed just to pour out of her. Nina can jabber, blabber, blather, yap, drivel, gabble, prattle, ramble, and just about anything else that in some way has to do with speaking.

But here and now on her couch I wasn’t getting the impression that Nina was unable to say more because she was overwhelmed with such great sorrow; instead, the reason for her uncharacteristic linguistic inhibition was something else. She looked irritated, and presumably she wasn’t totally sure what reaction was expected from her, so she held back accordingly. She crossed her long legs in her shiny pink polyester track pants and tried to smile.

“Would you think it possible that he was murdered?”

What kind of a question is that supposed to be? Would you think it possible that ten million years ago dinosaurs lived on earth? No? Well, then, there must not have been any! I really wanted to pull out my hair, but as some kind of eviscerated ethereal entity this reaction was of course precluded. Martin, wake up! You’re the cop, she’s a suspect, put the screws on her!

Martin nervously wiped his hand over his forehead.

“Um, well, I don’t know,” was the poorly qualified answer from my dear ex-hag, but you can’t in any seriousness expect a sensible answer to an idiotic question. I hastened to share this conclusion with Martin, and in response he grew even more nervous.

“Would you know anyone who might have any reason to kill him?” he asked.

“Pablo,” Nina said without hesitating. “I don’t know what his real name is, but Pablo thinks it’s Sascha’s fault he’s in prison.”

“But if Pablo is in prison, he can’t have killed Sascha,” Martin objected.

Nina shrugged, pouted, and thought. At least, she pretended to. Whether any actual activity takes place in her brain in a situation like this, I have never been able to ascertain.

“Why do you ask?” she suddenly wanted to know. “Sascha and I haven’t been together for a couple of months.”

Hopefully he doesn’t answer now, I thought. If Martin were a cool guy in a cool movie, at this point he’d say, “I’m asking the questions here,” but I didn’t think Martin was capable of that. And I was right—he let the opportunity pass. Still, he didn’t answer, either, but instead asked another question.

“Why aren’t you together anymore?” he asked.

“Because he conned me.” She literally spit the words.

“That’s not true,” I yelled before Martin could continue. “It wasn’t like that.”

“What happened?” Martin wanted to know from Nina, and we both starting talking at the same time.

“Not over each other,” he yelled, irritated, and Nina gawked at him as though he’d suddenly put on a red and white cap and started singing “Jingle Bells.”

“What do you mean ‘over each other’?” she asked. She narrowed her eyes into slits; her expression was truly frightening. Provided, of course, that one could be frightened of a skirt.

“Pardon me; I meant, please start again,” Martin stuttered. I forced myself to keep my trap shut because otherwise he’d totally screw up the questioning, which already seemed doomed.