I waited a few moments. “Did you know what the deal was with Leo Salger, and about Wendt's relationship to her?”
He laughed. “That's why I was fired, so I ought to know a thing or two about it. I did in fact know what Leonore Salger was mixed up in. I took it the way I take all entanglements, entanglements with drugs, with relationships, with work. It was obvious that she wanted to break free from it. It was also obvious that her childhood friend, or friend from her adolescent years—Lemke, Lehmann, this archangel Michael—was playing a disastrous role. You are aware that Wendt knew him? They had had quite a few dealings with each other in the early seventies, when Wendt participated in that radical Socialist Patient Collective, and Lemke was building up his cadre.”
I know nothing about psychiatry and psychiatric hospitals. I know that the idea of the lunatic asylum, with screaming, raving lunatics and barred doors and windows, is out of date. I'm glad it is. The way things were back when Eberhard was in the hospital was not good. But I couldn't agree that Leo belonged in a psychiatric hospital. The therapy offered by Wendt did not seem particularly professional to me: He was a friend of hers, was even in love with her, not to mention that he knew Lemke, from whom Leo wanted to break free with the help of this therapy. The whole thing sounded more like a therapeutic cover for something quite different: Leo's hiding from the police. And all of that was going on right in front of Eberlein's eyes. I could understand the decision of the authorities to suspend him.
I told Eberlein my doubts.
“When Leonore Salger came to us, she was suffering from severe depression,” he replied. “It didn't come out until later, and then only bit by bit, that she had known Wendt from before, and that Wendt knew Lemke, and that she knew Lemke. You are right that these aren't the best conditions for a cure. But then again it is always a delicate matter to break off therapy in the middle. I must say that once all the problems were laid out on the table, Wendt went ahead and did the right thing: He brought Leonore Salger's therapy to a quick conclusion and arranged for her release from the hospital.”
I must have looked skeptical.
“I can't convince you? Your view is that I should have handed Wendt and Leonore Salger over to the police?” He waved his left hand in resignation.
The Alps had disappeared.
17
Too Late
When I got into bed that night, I hoped I would dream about the Alps. I would take a running start on the Dilsberg, swing into the air, and with wings calmly beating fly over the Oden-wald Range, Kraichgau, and the Black Forest, all the way to the Alps, where I would circle around the peaks and land on a glacier.
I had just fallen asleep when the phone rang. This time, too, there was a rustling and an echo on the line. But I could hear her voice clearly, and as far as I could tell she could hear mine, too.
“Gerhard?”
“Are you doing OK? I've been worrying about you.”
“Gerhard, I'm frightened—and I don't want to stay with Helmut anymore.”
“Then don't stay with him.”
“I think I want to go to America. What do you think?”
“Why not? If you like the country and the people. After all, you liked it there when you were in high school.”
“Gerhard?”
“Yes?”
“Must one pay for everything in life?”
“I don't know, Leo. Tell me, did you know about the poison gas in the American military depot?”
“I have to go. I'll call you again.” She hung up.
I lay awake listening to the bells from the tower of the Heilig-Geist Church pealing off the time, quarter hour by quarter hour. At dawn I fell asleep. Again the phone woke me. This time it was Nägelsbach.
“A warrant for your arrest has just come up on our computer.”
“What?” I looked at the clock. It was eight thirty.
“Aiding a terrorist organization, obstruction of justice— according to this, you warned little Miss Salger and got her across the border. For Christ's sake, Self—”
“Who said I did that?”
“Don't play cat and mouse with me. The Agency got an anonymous call and followed up on it. They say you were seen together in Amorbach, and then an innkeeper in Ernsttal saw you. Tell me it isn't true.”
“Is a Mannheim patrol car going to come get me?”
I suddenly remembered that at ten I was supposed to be best man at Philipp's wedding. I hadn't even gotten him a present yet. “Will you do me a favor? I need you to put things on hold. Tell the computer system that you've already taken me into custody. I promise to come in this evening. Philipp is marrying Füruzan, that nurse—you know her from the New Year's party—and I'm to be their best man. 'For one brief sun my fate delay, to wed the nurse, and then away.'“
He was silent for a long while. “So it's true?”
I didn't reply.
“This evening at six. At my office.”
I flicked the switch on my coffeemaker, rushed into the shower, and then threw on my blue suit. I was already on the stairs when I remembered my little suitcase. Corduroys, sweater, pajamas, toothpaste and toothbrush, shampoo, and my eau de cologne. Presumably the cell would reek of rat piss and the sweat of fear. I picked up a volume of Gottfried Keller, my traveling chess set, and Keres's Best Games of Chess. Turbo was roaming the roofs instead of waving farewell.
Frau Weiland promised to look after him. “Are you off on a little weekend getaway?”
“Something like that.”
I put my suitcase in the car. All kinds of foolish thoughts flashed through my mind. Did prisons offer parking for inmates? Short-term and long-term parking like at the airport? Wouldn't it be a great idea if there were something like prison insurance that paid prisoners on remand a daily allowance, as well as paying the state the necessary supplement for a single cell? On the way to the city hall I bought a large umbrella for Philipp's balcony. He didn't have one, as he rarely sat outside. But that would change now. I could see them there, Füruzan crocheting, Philipp polishing his surgical instruments, from time to time a little chat with the neighbors, and geraniums in bloom along the railing.
Füruzan and her family were waiting outside the registrar's office beneath a balcony that was propped up by two stone men on either side of the entrance. Füruzan was wearing a pale apricot-colored dress, had a white rose in her dark hair, and looked most charming. Her mother had gained with girth the kind of distinction only found in emperors, kings, and chancellors. Füruzan's spindle-thin little sister giggled. Her brother looked as if he had just come galloping down a wild Kurdish mountain and then got all dressed up.
“My father passed away three years ago,” Füruzan told me when she saw my eyes flit over the group. She pointed at her brother. “He is going to give me away to Philipp.”
The city hall clock struck ten. I tried to make small talk. But her mother only spoke Turkish, her little sister answered all my questions with the same fit of giggles, and her brother seemed unable to unclench his teeth.
“He's studying landscaping at the Technische Hochschule in Karlsruhe,” Füruzan said, building a bridge on which her brother and I could have met to chat about Semiramis's hanging gardens or the Luisenpark. But he remained silent, his jaws grinding.
Periodically the mother uttered a wordy Turkish sentence, sharp and fast like a blow. Füruzan did not react. She looked over the marketplace, her face cool and proud. The pale apricot-colored dress was turning dark under her arms.
I had broken into a sweat, too. The market was lively. A little old lady at a nearby stand was touting fine Mangold beets. On the Breite Strasse, a delivery truck honked and a streetcar jingled. Early strollers had settled at the tables outside the Café Journal and were enjoying the sun. A waiter was opening the umbrellas. Whenever there is a big catastrophe, when everything collapses, I always keep my cool. But small catastrophes, those treacherous crags in life's broad stream, finish me off.
Before I even caught sight of
Philipp, I saw from Füruzan's hurt, startled eyes that he had turned up. He was holding himself upright and was impeccably dressed: a dark blue silk suit, a white and blue striped shirt with a white collar, a gold collar pin, and a paisley tie. He walked with long strides, bumping here and there into market stands and pushing people out of the way, because he wasn't in a state to walk around them. He saw us, raised his arm, waved, and smiled sheepishly.
“I'm late.” He raised his shoulders apologetically. “Why don't we head over to the restaurant right away? I mean, it'll be nice for us to get to know each other, or see each other again. That in itself is reason enough for a celebration, even if we don't—”
“Philipp …”
He looked at the ground. “I'm sorry, my little Fur-ball. I can't go through with this. I downed a whole bottle of the stuff that Gerhard always drinks, but I still can't go through with it. I wish I could, but I…” He looked up. “Perhaps a little later. After all, now that I've drunk so much, it wouldn't even be valid.”
The mother hissed, and Füruzan hissed back. The brother raised his hand and struck Füruzan across the face. She held her cheek, astonished, incredulous, said a few words to him that made the blood drain from his cheeks, and with a disparaging gesture slapped him across the mouth with the back of her hand.
I noticed his bleeding lip that had been cut by Füruzan's ring and didn't notice his hand, in which a knife flashed. “Easy, easy, young man!” Philipp said, stepping between brother and sister, and the knife plunged into his left side. The brother pulled it out, ready to take another stab, but I managed to knock the umbrella against him just in time. It surprised him more than it injured him, but the knife went clanging to the ground, and as he bent forward to pick it up, I quickly stepped on his fingers. Phillip collapsed, falling onto the knife, and the brother had to make do with spitting on the ground in front of his sister. He turned around and walked away.
“You have to bandage it up,” Philipp said in a low but clear voice, pressing his left hand against the wound. “Real fast and real tight. The spleen bleeds like crazy. Tear your shirt.”
I took off my jacket and shirt, tore at my shirt to no avail, and gave it to Füruzan, who bit at it, shredding it strip by strip.
She began bandaging him. “Harder,” Philipp snapped.
People stopped, asked what had happened, offered help.
“Can your giggly little sister get a taxi from the Parade-platz?” Philipp asked Füruzan. “She can? OK, Gerhard, call the hospital and tell them to get the operating theater ready. Shit, he got me in the lung, too.” Philipp was talking with a bloody mouth.
Füruzan's little sister ran off. I saw from the phone box that she was back in a few minutes with a taxi. Füruzan had finished bandaging Philipp and led him to the taxi. The driver must have taken him for drunk and groggy, but obviously didn't see any blood, just that his dark blue silk suit might have gotten a little wet. Füruzan got in with him, while her mother shooed away the crowd. I don't know what Füruzan said to the driver, but he drove off with screeching tires.
18
A little peace of mind
“As far as we can tell, he should be fine. We took out the spleen and patched up his lung.” The surgeon who had operated on Philipp took off his green cap, crumpled it up, and threw it in the trash. He noticed my cigarette. “Can I have one, too?”
I handed him the pack and a lighter. “Can I see him?” “If you like. But you ought to put on a gown. It'll take a while, though, for him to come around. When his girlfriend comes back, she'll take over.”
When I got to the room, Füruzan was no longer there. Perhaps she was in the process of shooting her brother. Or reconciling with him. Or was mad at Philipp and didn't want to see him again. I sat at his bedside listening to his labored breathing and to the low hissing of the pump from which a tube leading to his ribcage disappeared beneath his hospital gown. Another tube ran from a drip to the back of his hand. His hair, wet with sweat, was sticking to his head. It was the first time I noticed how thin and sparse it was. Was my vain friend a maestro with a hair dryer? Or had I just never noticed? The blood around his mouth had not been cleaned away properly; it was brown and dry, and flaking at the corners of his mouth. From time to time his eyelids twitched. The sun and the blinds drew lines through the room that slowly wandered across the linoleum floor, the bedcover, and up the wall. When the nurse changed his drip, he woke up.
“Maria with the pretty ears.” Then he recognized me. “Remember, Gerhard: Nice earlobes mean nice breasts.”
“Really, Herr Doctor!” Maria said, playing along.
“I'd do better not to speak,” Philipp whispered with some effort.
The nurse left the room, quietly closing the door. After a while Philipp beckoned me to come closer. “My spleen is out? The pump is running? I used to dream sometimes that I was dying. I'd be lying in the hospital, in a room and a bed just like now, and I would bid all the women I ever knew farewell.”
“All of them?” I, too, was whispering. “You mean they'd be lining up outside, along the corridor and down the stairs?”
“Each woman would say that after me she never met another guy like me.”
“I see.”
“And I would tell each of them that I never again met anyone like her.”
“What you'd need is a room with two doors, one in front and one in back. The women you've already spoken to mustn't come face-to-face with the women still waiting. Can you imagine if word got down the line that you were telling every woman that you never met another woman like her?”
Philipp sighed and was silent for a while. “You have no idea about love, Gerhard. In my dream, all of them get together anyway. They leave my deathbed and go to the Blaue Ente, where I've arranged a banquet for them, and they eat and drink and remember me.”
I don't know why Philipp's dream made me sad. Because I have no idea about love? I took his hand. “Forget all that for the time being. You're not dying.”
“No, I'm not.” He found it increasingly hard to talk. “As it is, I couldn't even speak to all of them now. I'm much too weak.” He fell asleep.
Füruzan came around five. I could see that her brother had beaten her, but she whispered to me that they had made up. “Do you think Philipp will forgive me, too?”
I didn't understand.
“Because the knife was meant for me.”
I didn't feel that this was the time to give her a crash course in emancipation. “I'm sure he'll forgive you.”
I didn't wait for Philipp to wake up again. At six I was in Nägelsbach's office, at seven in prison at the Fauler Pelz. Nägels-bach was taciturn, and so was I. He did, however, tell me that there'd be no more food by the time I got to the prison and took me shopping. Pretzels, some Camembert, a bottle of Barolo, and a few apples. I remembered the Mangold beets being sold at the market in Mannheim. I have a soft spot for this underrated local vegetable when it is cooked au gratin or served as a salad—but one has to put the beets in a marinade while they are still warm and let them sit for a few hours.
I hadn't been at the Fauler Pelz prison since the days when I was a public prosecutor. More than forty years had passed, and I no longer recognized the layout. But I did recognize the smell, the echoing sound of steps, the correctional officer's fumbling for the right key on the jangling bunch, and the unlocking and relocking of the cell door. The warden closed my door and locked it. He and Nägelsbach walked away, and I listened to the echo of their steps. I ate a few of the pretzels with some cheese and apples, drank the Barolo, and read Gottfried Keller. I had taken along his Zurich stories, and learned from the Bailiff of Greifensee to what extent one can be driven to gather together all one's old loves. I wondered if Philipp, too, was seeking a graceful and edifying end to a ridiculous story, as well as a little peace of mind.
I was doing quite well until I lay down on the bunk for the night. Numbing cold seeped through the thick walls, and yet a summer breeze blew waves of warmth t
hrough the openings in the window. It also brought the voices of reveling barhop-pers, calls of greeting and good-bye, the droning laughter of men and the bubbling laughter of women. Once in a while there was utter silence, until I heard faraway steps and voices approaching, getting louder, and then fading again in the distance. Sometimes I caught shreds of conversation. Sometimes a couple would stop beneath my window.
Suddenly I was gripped by longing for the bright, warm, colorful life outside, as if I had been locked up and would be locked up in this cell for years. Locked up for years—was that what was in store for me? I thought of the pride that comes before a fall, and of the fall that follows pride. I thought of the successes I had striven for in my life and the failures I had had. I thought about Korten's death. Was I experiencing the victory of poetic injustice?
The next morning I attempted a few squats and push-ups. They are said to help you survive years of solitary confinement. My joints ached.
19
Pending proceedings
At nine thirty I was taken for questioning. I had expected Bleckmeier and Rawitz. Instead I sat opposite a young man with a clever face and manicured hands who introduced himself as Federal Public Prosecutor Dr. Franz from the Federal High Court. In a clear, pleasant voice he read me the charges, ranging from aiding a terrorist organization to obstruction of justice. He asked me if I wished to be represented by a lawyer of my choice. “I am aware that you have a legal background,” he said, “but so do I, and when it comes to my own affairs I wouldn't touch something as simple as a purchase or rent dispute. Never act on your own behalf in legal matters—that's a solid old legal principle. In your case, the main issue will be the severity of the sentence, so overview and experience will be necessary, neither of which you have.” He smiled affably.