Sorry (28 page)

And that was the beginning of the time of trust, the time of therapy, the time of cleansing. Sundance fought for his best friend, he didn’t want to lose him for a second time. When they were children, he hadn’t been able to protect him against Fanni and Karl, so it was only just that he try to protect Butch from himself now. They agreed that it was an illness. Sundance started reading books on the subject, he wanted to understand his friend’s psyche.

The new year began, and it looked good. Spring became summer, and it looked good. They took a holiday, and went to Sweden for five weeks to visit old school friends. Butch was relaxed, he had asked his therapist to put him on a course of antidepressants, his unease faded, he seemed to be at peace with himself. And then came the autumn, and the autumn was like a shadow that put all the lights out. Pure darkness.

Fichtner parks the car in front of the block. He sits there for a moment with his hands on the steering wheel, as if there’s something to see there.

“I don’t know if I can go up there,” he says. “It’s so long ago.”

You doubtless want to know what kind of face you made when he told you on the journey that he couldn’t throw the key away, and asked you if you wanted to see the apartment again. At that moment your face was as open as a book, and it was good that Fichtner had to concentrate
on driving. When you asked him who paid for the flat, he said he didn’t know. You knew he was lying. You checked. The rent is taken out of Fichtner’s account every month.

“I’d really like to see the flat again,” you said, and added after a pause, “to exorcise the ghosts.”

You had expected Fichtner to ask what ghosts you mean, but he had said nothing, and you park in front of the building, and Fichtner goes on staring straight ahead, so you stir yourself and get out first.

Nothing about Fichtner reminds you of the man who walked into the restaurant half an hour ago and looked at you disdainfully. He doesn’t look broken. He just reminds you more of those pensioners in the supermarket who stand for far too long in front of the shelves.

You go into the house.

The courtyard, the steps, the door, the key, the lock.

Fichtner steps in and holds the door open for you, you walk past him, the door closes behind you with a click, and the blow strikes the back of your neck and throws you forward. You try to find a grip on the wall, Fichtner kicks your legs away and grabs you by the hair.

“You little scumbag!” he hisses in your ear, trying to smash your face against the parquet floor. You manage to hold an arm in front of your face, but the tip of your nose scrapes over the wood.

“What do you think you’re doing here? We treated you like a family member. We took you in and showed you what you were worth, and you, you filthy fucking little rat, you come after us?”

Fichtner tries to crush your face against the wood, your arm finds no purchase, you avert your head at the last moment, your ear slaps against the wood. Once, twice. He knees you in the crotch. You can’t get out from under him, come on, dammit, move.

Fichtner breathes on the back of your neck.

“We were better to you than your lousy parents, and this is the thanks we get? Give me an answer, you miserable fuck. What did you do to Fanni?”

You hear him sobbing above you. How could you be so stupid? It was all just a farce—the repentance, the feelings of guilt, the tears.
Now
he’s suffering,
now
he’s grieving. How could you get suckered like that? What kind of a sap are you? All these years and you haven’t learned a thing!

Your foot finds the wall. Fury wakes you, hatred gives you strength. You push yourself up and Fichtner loses his balance. He falls over you, lands on your back, and his fingers loosen their grip on your hair. He
tries to get to his feet. The back of your head slams back and hits his nose. There’s a cracking sound. The weight disappears from your back. Fichtner rolls into the corridor and lies there. He has one hand over his face and the other raised in self-defense, as if he could stop you.

You get to your feet, you suddenly feel very light, and stop in front of Fichtner. He reaches out for you, you break his outstretched arm with a single blow. Before he can cry out, you ram your fist into the bridge of his nose. The only sound coming from him now is a groan, his mouth is full of blood, there’s no strength left in him now, he lies on the ground trembling, his good arm sweeping back and forth on the floor. You grab him by his jacket collar and drag him behind you into the room.

Then the quiet, then the silence.

You sit opposite Fichtner on the floor and look up at him. His gaze is fixed on the wall above your head, he has stopped breathing. You’re filled with a pleasant contentment. You have paid your tribute and you take the phone from your jacket pocket to dial the number of the agency.

“Hello?”

“It’s me, Meybach. I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

Silence, then the sound of Kris Marrer’s voice. Quiet, threatening.

“She’s dead, you know that?”

For a moment you have no idea who he’s talking about.
Of course she’s dead
, you want to say, then you realize he doesn’t mean Fanni.

“It’s no fun cleaning up after you,” Kris Marrer goes on, “but I’ve been able to live with it up till now. What I can no longer live with is Frauke’s death.”

“It was an accident.”

“And that means?”

You tell him what happened. You tell him you called the fire department. And you admit that you’re sorry. Perhaps you should never have arranged to meet her. But it was the only way.

You feel as if you’ve said too much. Why are you actually explaining yourself? A few minutes ago this meditative peace settled upon you, does that mean you’re suddenly becoming talkative?

Kris Marrer is silent. You expected fury and disbelief. Something about him has changed. You think you can sense his thoughts. They aren’t good thoughts. And it’s the wrong moment, and you’re the wrong person for him to talk to his girlfriend about.

You had a reason for calling. Get it over with.

You tell Kris Marrer that this business is your last job for them and you expect the same procedure. You apologize for the fact that it had to happen on the day of the funeral, but it is the only way. You say it twice.
It’s the only way
. Kris Marrer asks you if your sense of humor has always been as perverse as this. He also asks you why he should believe you when you say you’re not to blame for Frauke’s death. That’s enough for you. You hang up, switch off the phone, and study Fichtner’s corpse. This time you won’t clean it up as you did with Fanni. They’ll see what you’re capable of. It’ll certainly win you a bit of respect. You didn’t like Kris Marrer’s tone one bit.

After a while you get up and go and wash your face in the bathroom. Your left ear is swollen, and there’s a small cut on your forehead. You take off your pullover and your T-shirt and use your T-shirt as a towel. Then you feel better.

Do it.

You look up. Nervous, almost feverish. For a moment your eyes dart sideways, then you meet your own gaze, and it’s like a reunion. You’re you again.
Thank you
. It feels so good, it’s wonderful. You missed yourself.
Thank you
. You didn’t know how you would find yourself again.
That was the way
. You’re even glad of the tears, tears of relief. For a few minutes you lean against the basin and watch yourself crying. Tears of joy.
Thank you
. Then you leave the flat without closing the door behind you. It’s over. There’s no connection left, the bridges have been blown up, the guilt is gone.

I
REMEMBER HOW
we thought it was over. I still have a clear memory of the relief we felt. Behind all the rage and perplexity there still lay a faith in goodness. We were so naïve. We were so damned naïve.

I have now left the Ruhr behind me, and am driving past Saarbrücken on the way to Singen. Years ago we went to Lake Constance because there was supposed to be a big party there and a friend of Frauke’s had promised us a vacation cottage. The party never took place, the cottage was a shack without a bathroom, but we still stayed for ten days, played at being a commune, and spent a great summer together. Perhaps I’ll find that shack again. Perhaps I’ll lie down on one of the moldy mattresses and catch up on my sleep.

It’s the morning of the fourth day. I don’t know if they’re after me yet. When do the police ever notice a properly parked car? I’ve thought of everything. I have the papers, I have the explanations, I’ve even got the first aid kit on the back seat in case anyone wants to see it. No one will look in the trunk. I feel safe, even if it sounds ridiculous, I feel completely safe. As if a protecting hand were floating above me. Justice. I only wish it wasn’t simply protecting me, but showing me what direction to go in.

At a rest stop bathroom I wash my armpits, my torso, and my arms. I do a few stretching exercises by the car. The back of my neck and my back hurt the most. What I miss is a bed. I miss the grief. I miss a long break. I don’t know when I’ll have all those things. Rage and despair predominate. I don’t want to call anyone, because this is something I’ve got to do on my own. My only contact is with the people at the cash registers in the gas station shops. That thing in the trunk isn’t a person. I’m all alone in the world with him and know that if grief fights its way up and gets the upper hand, I will kill him. I think that’s what’ll happen. I’ll just kill him.

And maybe I’ll get a bit lucky and find that shack.

T
AMARA AND
W
OLF
find a sweaty Kris, sitting in the living room wearing only his shorts, drinking mineral water from a bottle. The entire ground floor is boiling hot, even though the windows are wide open. Kris doesn’t ask what the funeral was like. He looks at them as if he’s surprised they’re back.

“Is everything all right?” says Wolf.

“Everything’s all right,” Kris asks back.

Wolf goes upstairs to change. When he has left the living room, Kris points to the door with his chin.

“Close it.”

Tamara shuts the door and leans her back against it.
He knows we had sex
, she thinks,
he can see it in our faces, and he probably knew all along that something was going to happen between Wolf and me
.

“I need your help,” says Kris, “and Wolf can’t find out about it.”

“But—”

“Tamara, please, I’ll explain as soon as we’re alone, until then you’ve got to keep your trap shut. We eat together in the evening, we behave quite normally, then the phone will ring, and it’ll be Lutger.”

“Why should your father—”

“Because I’ve asked him to call. Lutger will ask if Wolf could come by for a few hours. Wolf won’t say no, he’ll go and see Lutger.”

“And then?”

“And then we’ll both go away.”

“And I bet you won’t tell me where to?”

“And I won’t tell you where to.”

The phone rings at nine exactly, and Tamara passes the receiver to Wolf. He’s so surprised by the call that he asks his father several times if everything is really all right, before he says goodbye and drives to his place.

Five minutes later Kris and Tamara are sitting in the car as well.

“So?”

“Not yet.”

“What do you mean, not yet? Wolf’s gone, we’re alone.”

Kris doesn’t look at her, drives through the gate and stops outside.

“Will you close the gate?”

“Only when you give me an answer.”

Tamara looks at him expectantly, Kris sighs, undoes his seatbelt, and gets out of the car. After he has closed the gate he comes back to the car and fastens his belt again.

“I know why you don’t want to tell me,” says Tamara. “Because if you do I won’t come, right?”

“Right. Happy now?”

“Kris, what are you up to?”

“Trust me, you’ll understand afterwards.”

“You think?”

“I
know.”

Kris drives; at the Wannsee junction he stops at the lights, looks in the rearview mirror, and then straight ahead again. Tamara doesn’t take her eyes off him for a second.

“Could you please stop staring at me?”

“I’m not staring.”

“Tamara, please.”

“I wasn’t staring,” Tamara repeats and stops staring at him.

Ten minutes later Kris asks, “How bad was it?”

“We missed you.”

Kris doesn’t react.

“Frauke would have wanted you to be there.”

“Tammi, she wanted to be cremated and scattered over the Lietzensee.
That’s
what she wanted. So tell me what you really want to say.”

“I’d have liked you to be there.”

“Thanks.”

They fall silent. The dusk has made way for deep black night, and the lights over Berlin look like a constant lightning flash. Tamara knows from stories that the whole of this section of highway, the Avus, was once fully lit, and that car races were held there. The lights remain, but they haven’t been turned on for over twenty years. The
stands have fallen into disrepair and have the sadness of dilapidated houses. Behind the stands the Funkturm juts into the darkness, a glittering streak; its tip is surrounded by a pall of smog, and looks like the tip of a lighthouse. Tamara slides lower into her seat and feels exhausted. Ten hours ago she was standing by Frauke’s grave, then she had sex with Wolf on the shore of the Lietzensee, and now she’s in the car with Kris and doesn’t know where they’re going. Tamara wishes Wolf were here.

“How long now?” she asks.

“A quarter of an hour.”

Kris turns off the Avus onto the city highway.

Tamara shuts her eyes.

“Tammi, wake up.”

She sits up with a jolt, for a moment she is disoriented, then she narrows her eyes slightly to work out where she is.

“You should get a pair of glasses.”

“I’ve got a pair of glasses. For reading. That’s enough.”

Tamara looks behind her. A wall, trees.

“Where are we?”

They get out, and Tamara recognizes where Kris has brought her.