The Sinner (18 page)

"But I didn't tell you to use it as a pretext."

"It isn't a pretext. I really can't go on." Firm and resolute only a
moment ago, her voice had suddenly grown tired and tearful. Her
lower lip started to tremble like that of a two-year-old on the verge
of bursting into tears.

He could see this reflected in the windowpane, but he wasn't
going to fall for such a cheap trick. His daughter had always
adopted the same tone when she couldn't get her way.

"You'll be able to go on in a minute or two," he said. He couldn't
help sounding sharper, nor did he want to. All his sympathy and
consideration notwithstanding, she must be made to realize that she
couldn't fob him off indefinitely with her refusals and evasions.

"So you came to Cologne in December five years ago. Was there
any particular reason why you opted for Cologne?"

He assumed that she had discovered something about Frankenberg's true identity and had set off to look for him.

"No," she said quietly. "I got into a train which happened to be
going there."

He'd believed her up to now, but that he certainly didn't believe.
"Perhaps you'd care to think again, Frau Bender. There was a
reason. We already know it, but we'd like to hear it from you."

"I've no need to think again. There was no reason. I didn't know
anyone in Cologne, if that's what you're getting at."

She couldn't understand why he was so insistent. In her mind's
eye she was still standing outside the door looking into Mother's
face, hearing Mother's voice: Cora is dead ... No! Cora was alive,
the man was dead, and Cora was going out of her mind. She
sensed that quite clearly, like a handful of water trickling through
her fingers. No matter how tightly she squeezed them together,
they couldn't stop it seeping away.

It wasn't a good idea to mingle lies with smidgens of truth.
Lies took on a life of their own - they caught up with you. The
truth hit you on the head like a club, and everything got mixed
up. The splashy painting was a complete fabrication. She was well
aware of that, yet she could clearly see it hanging on the wall in
the whitewashed lobby with the little green squares between the
flagstones. And his face ... So close to her own, she had to shut her
eyes because it went blurred. Impossible! Johnny was kissing her just
the way she'd said. She could feel the pressure of his lips on hers.

It was only her fingers, which she was pressing against her mouth
to prevent herself from crying out. She knew they were only her fingers, but that knowledge didn't help. Over his shoulder, she
could see the two figures going downstairs.

A short, fat man and a girl. The girl had fair hair. She was
wearing a dark blue satin blouse and a white skirt with a scalloped
hem. The skirt was made of lace and almost transparent.

Where had those details come from? She must have seen them
somewhere. In a film! That explained it. It must have been in a film,
and every film had some dialogue. The girl on the stairs laughed
and called over her shoulder: "Coming, you two? You can carry on
downstairs, it's bound to be cosier down there." Every movie had
music too. Sure enough, it came drifting up from below: a drum
solo. And, while she was trying to recall the title of the film and
how the scene went on, the chief asked her about Cologne.

She was past concocting a logical lie. Cologne meant Margret.
Did he already know about her? Had Gereon mentioned her?
Possibly.

A five-minute rest, that was all she needed. Just five minutes in
which to dream up a plausible story, and if he ignored her request
she would remind him of his invitation. "May I have something to
eat before we go on? Please, I'm very hungry. I never got around to
it down at the lake. I meant to eat the rest of that apple. A Golden
Delicious, the kind I adored as a child."

We had an allotment, but it wasn't near our house. We had to
walk a long way to get to it. It wasn't far in reality, but to me as a
child everything looked immense. To me, the allotment seemed a
terribly long way off. I often felt so tired, I thought I'd never get
there. I didn't want to either, because the allotment was such a
temptation.

We didn't spend much time there the year Magdalena was
fighting off her leukaemia, and I was beginning to wonder what
it would be like if she never came home. But there was a lot to do
the following spring. We went there almost every day. I weeded the
vegetable beds - that was my job - while Father wielded a spade or a rake, and Mother looked after Magdalena. It was a mild spring,
and she thought the fresh air would do my sister good.

The allotment next to ours contained an apple tree and a
strawberry bed. It wasn't fenced off - the boundary was just a
shallow trench. The strawberry bed was so close to the trench,
I'd only have had to bend down, not set foot in our neighbour's
allotment. Sometimes the strawberries overhung the trench itself.

I could have picked one while weeding and popped it into my
mouth unobserved, but I didn't dare. I'd seen what had happened
to Magdalena after that bar of chocolate, and Father had given me
that. Helping yourself to someone else's property was one of the
major sins.

Being eight years old by now, I knew there were immense
differences between one sin and another. I hadn't been told that
by Mother, for whom all sins were equally grave. We talked about
the subject in school as well. There were venial sins, the little
ones that were forgiven if you repented of them at once; and
medium-grade sins, from which you were cleansed in Purgatory
when you died; and mortal sins, for which you atoned in hell for
all eternity.

We were never told in school that someone else had to suffer or
die for our sins. Only Mother said that, and I'd ceased to be sure
that she knew any better than our teacher, who wasn't a Catholic.

It was a time of uncertainty from my point of view I never
knew whom or what to believe. Father said one thing one day and
another the next. One night lie would kneel before the crucifix and
repent of his sinful urges; the next, he would roam the house in a
restless mood or lock himself up in the bathroom. When he came
downstairs again he would gaze at Magdalena and mutter: "What
have I done to you, sweetheart?"

Magdalena was sicker than before. She had to be taken to
Eppendorf every four weeks. According to Father, they injected
her with poison and bombarded her with nasty rays. She used to
cry a lot the day before Mother took her there, but very quietly
because any form of exertion was bad for her. When she returned
she was so poorly she couldn't be left alone for a minute.

Sometimes Mother sent me into her bedroom so I could see
what I'd done and would never forget it. I used to stand beside her
bed and look at her, and she would return my gaze. I would have
liked to apologize to her, but I never knew what to say.

That spring was an especially bad time. It was like an obsession.
I couldn't help imagining what would happen to Magdalena if I
stole a strawberry. Terrible, the feeling that it was solely up to me
whether she lived or died ... I had to keep a constant check on
what I said, thought and did. Sometimes, when it all became too
much for me, I longed to go to sleep, to dream of something nice
and live on inside that dream.

I was very relieved when the strawberry season ended, relieved
and proud of myself for having resisted temptation. I was
particularly proud because it seemed to have worked: Magdalena's
health was gradually improving. Although you couldn't spot any
difference from one day to the next, you certainly could from one
month to another.

Mother always wheeled her to the allotment in an old pram.
Magdalena lay in the pram like a bundle of clothes that spring, but
by autumn she could sit up almost straight. Only for a few minutes,
but it was a great improvement.

There wasn't much to do at the allotment during the summer,
and Magdalena tended to find it too hot there, even late in the
afternoon. In the autumn, however, we went there every day. When
Father came home from work we would set off in a procession.
Father in the lead with the tools on his left shoulder and a bucket in
his right hand, Mother pushing the pram. Magdalena wore a cap.
Although her hair had grown back a bit, it was still very sparse and
almost white. She couldn't stand the sun on her head.

I brought up the rear, thinking of our neighbour's yellow apples
Golden Delicious; Father had told me their name and said they
were sweet. The tree was so close to the trench that many windfalls
landed in it or even on our allotment itself I thought it wouldn't
really be stealing if they were lying on our allotment and I picked
them up, and that apples couldn't be as pernicious as chocolate
and sweets. Grit had often told me that eating fruit was healthy. It occurred to me that I could pick up a few windfalls for Magdalena
and make her healthy. I didn't want them for myself, honestly not.

Our route to the allotment crossed a busy road, and beside it
stood a big old wooden box that used to hold sand for gritting the
roadway in winter. It was empty at present, so Father had told me.
But then I had this dream.

We were on our way home. Magdalena was sitting in the pram,
utterly exhausted and weeping with pain. Mother came to a halt,
kneeled down in the roadway and started praying. I walked past
them. Father had already drawn level with the sand box. I caught
him up and we slowly walked on together.

Then I heard a sound behind me - a creaking sound, followed
by a growl. I turned around and saw a black wolf leap out of the
box. Taking no notice of Father and me, it made for Mother and
Magdalena. It reached the pram with a single bound and gobbled
up Magdalena in an instant. Mother it ignored.

Then it scampered back to the box and jumped in again. Before
shutting the lid it looked at me and laughed like a human, the teeth
in its gaping jaws still stained with Magdalena's blood. I should
have been afraid but I wasn't - I knew from the way it laughed that
it liked me. I wanted to take it home with me, like a dog.

Mother was kneeling beside the empty pram with her hands
raised to heaven. Father put an arm round my shoulders, smiling
contentedly. "That was the hellhound," he said. `A handsome
beast, isn't he? Did you see what a magnificent tail he has? And
those splendid teeth! He's done us a great favour. We're rid of her
at last! Now we won't have to wish that our sins would rot away.
Not any more. Now we can enjoy them again, Cora, and we will.
Shall I show you something nice?"

It was a duel! After his brief intervention, the man in the sports
coat was taking no further part in things - just sitting there,
switched off so to speak. With the unerring instinct of a hunted
beast, she realized that he was dissatisfied. She didn't know what was bothering him, her lies or the chief's mode of procedure: all
this probing and digging and hassling.

He was demanding something of her she couldn't give. It was
almost like it had been with Mother. That on its own she could
have coped with - she'd learned the art of deception at an early
age - but this time it was altogether different. She seemed to be
bewitched. The image refused to be shaken off; it only conjured up
others. That confounded painting, the splashy one, and the backs
of those people going down the stairs, a man and a girl ...

She now saw the backs of two people in the front of a car, but
this time they were both men. One of them turned and smiled at
her. His expression was like a promise. Johnny Guitar!

It was all in her imagination, all just a pipe dream. Wishes could
easily generate images in the brain and make themselves at home
there like memories. And the rest? The girl's voice, the satin blouse,
the skirt with the scalloped hem, the drum solo? She must have seen
and heard all those things at some stage. In a film! That was the
only possible answer. Gereon watched masses of films - almost one
a night. That meant over a thousand in their three years together.
If only she could recall the title or the ending ...