by A. B. Decker
As a refuge, it proved a curious place. It sorely needed a coat of paint. And the aroma of cheap cigars hung in the air. But this was thankfully overpowered by the sweeter fragrance of pastries and chocolates displayed at the counter. They sat down and ordered two cups of coffee.
“Please forgive me,” Frank said. “I hadn’t realised how deeply colonised this part of Switzerland has become by my fellow countrymen. And it certainly never occurred to me that we’d face Nazi marches and demonstrations in Davos. Such a far cry from the sanatorium atmosphere of The Magic Mountain.”
“Don’t be too sure about that. Their death cult is just the kind of self-destructive urge explored by Thomas Mann. Especially in the tedious Tristan theme he obsesses about in so many of his novels.”
Patricia’s melancholy words brought to mind the story she had told him of her school days, when she played Isolde to the Tristan she had been so madly in love with. They hinted at the never-ending sense of bereavement that appeared to pursue her. And he desperately searched for the right words of comfort. A hopeless venture.
As the elderly, sour-faced waitress placed the coffee on the table, Patricia’s gasp startled Frank even more than the voice that snaked its way around the waitress and almost caused her to spill the coffee.
“Good morning, Patricia. Mr Eigenmann. What a pleasant surprise. May I?”
Without waiting for an answer, Breitner planted himself between them at the side of the table. Despite his arrogance and self-assured swagger, he struck Frank as more vulnerable than he remembered the man from their first encounter. Perhaps it was the way he kept his hat on in the tea-room, as if he had something to hide. Or perhaps it was the pastiness of winter that he needed to shake off. Or maybe it was simply an impression engendered in Frank by the feel of the gun that still sat faithfully in his pocket.
“I’ve been looking for you,” he said, directing his attention at Patricia. Then, turning his cold lupine eyes towards Frank, he added: “I’ve been looking for both of you.”
“I’m sure you didn’t come all this way in search of us,” Frank replied.
“Just one of life’s happy coincidences that you should also be here paying tribute to our fallen hero,” he said with a sarcastic smile. And savoured the idea with a supercilious smirk on his lips as the elderly waitress, who looked as though she had not set foot outside her tea-room for the last twenty years, remained standing silently between Breitner and Patricia. Waiting. Patricia spent the whole time looking down at the table like a schoolgirl who had been caught in a compromising situation and did not seem to notice her. But Breitner was plainly irritated by the woman.
“All right, bring me some Black Forest gateau,” he grunted, when he realised at last that she would be satisfied with nothing less than an order.
“We only have carrot cake,” she replied, wrapping her words in a slow, deliberate enunciation of every syllable that did nothing to conceal her impatience.
“Good. Bring me some carrot cake, then,” Breitner said with a nauseous look on his lips. “And make it sharp.”
The old lady endeared herself to Frank by defiantly refusing to show any respect for his arrogant posturing, and she shuffled back to the counter more slowly than ever.
“I can’t stand the cretinous way they address you in this country. They don’t talk to each other like that. Why do they talk to me like it?”
He chose to ignore the smile on Frank’s face and turned a cold dismissive stare on him to underline his complete indifference to any opinion Frank might have of him.
“One way or another, Eigenmann, you cause me a lot of trouble. And you’ve still not found Lola for me,” he added, piercing Frank with his cold steely stare.
“If you’re not collaborating with the communists, you’re interfering in my private affairs.” He looked at Patricia. Her eyes remained firmly on the cup in front of her. But Breitner was determined to demonstrate his dominance. He reached out a hand and lifted up her face to examine the trace of bruising that still showed around her left eye.
“Then look what happens,” he said, letting her head drop and looking back at Frank. “And if you’re not pestering Mademoiselle Roche, you’re molesting my people.”
“You mean Wolfgang and Horst? I trust they made it home safely?” Frank said.
“Horst unluckily struck a telegraph pole as he fell. I’m told that death was instantaneous. Wolfgang was more fortunate, probably because he was unconscious when he left the train. He’s still recovering in hospital, but I shall be seeing him on my way back. I’ll give him your regards.”
“And you can tell him that the bruises he inflicted on Miss Roche are also healing nicely.”
Breitner’s expression turned stone-cold with contempt as he watched the old lady put the carrot cake on the table in front of him. He studied it in silence, as if wondering what he should do with it. But his thoughts were plainly on more sinister plans.
“It would be amusing to have you put away, Eigenmann.” His mouth twisted with malice. “Manslaughter is the very least we could get you on. And we might even stretch to murder.”
“You would get nowhere without witnesses,” Frank observed with a naivety that embarrassed even him as the words came out.
“I have Wolfgang,” he said. “And I have Mademoiselle Roche – a witness of impeccable character.”
Patricia looked up for the first time since Breitner walked in. Panic filled her eyes. It was a look that told Frank she had an understanding of the man so intimate it gouged a deep furrow through his heart and deposited its heavy waste in the pit of his stomach. A look that told him her tormentor was no longer playing. He was deadly serious.
“You said yourself that Wolfgang was unconscious, so he can testify to nothing. As for Miss Roche,” he added hopefully, “I cannot imagine she would have any interest in becoming your witness for the prosecution.”
“Don’t be so sure, Eigenmann.” His confidence unnerved Frank, much to Breitner’s enjoyment. “Patricia,” he added, “I think it’s time for us to go.”
She said nothing. Her eyes were still frozen with panic. But Frank could see from the stirring motion of her body that she was ready to go with her tormentor. Disbelief and feverish confusion seized hold of him.
‘What’s she playing at?’ he asked himself. He had to stop her. Decisions forced themselves on him with a crazed logic that had him act more quickly than his disabled brain was able to follow. With one hand securely on the gun in his pocket, he took the key to Burow’s chalet from the other pocket and laid it firmly on the table in front of Patricia.
“Go home, Patricia, and wait for me there. You don’t have to go anywhere with this rat.”
To Frank’s dismay, she did not instantly reach for the key, but looked at him with a desperate appeal in her eyes. And hesitated.
“I think you’ll find, Eigenmann, that she would prefer to go with me.”
And she reinforced Breitner’s smug assumption: “Please, Frank. Don’t make a scene. I know what I’m doing.”
The blood in Frank’s veins ran hot with an acrid bitterness that set his head spinning. His thoughts raced around in fragmented confusion. But the largest fragment stuck, an embolism of hatred that knew only one remedy. He took the gun from his pocket and laid it on the table concealed under his arm to all but Breitner.
“Take the key Patricia, and go back to the chalet,” he insisted, his gaze fixed on Breitner.
“Look before you leap, Eigenmann. I have a lot of friends here.”
Patricia too lent her support to his arrogance: “Let me go with him, Frank. Please. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
But they had long since passed the point where Frank could listen to her appeals. His mind was locked on Breitner.
“Then your friends will enjoy the opportunity of paying tribute to another hero,” Frank said, picking up the key and thrusting it across the table into Patricia’s hand.
“Could I have the bill, please?” Frank called over to t
he counter and saw Breitner making ready to leave. Frank put a restraining hand on his arm.
“We wait. She goes first.”
Frank returned the gun to his pocket and, as the old lady shuffled over with the bill, Patricia got up to leave. A peculiar petulance on her lips, but fear still in her eyes.
“You didn’t like the carrot cake.” The old lady’s halfquestioning observation lay somewhere between rebuke and disbelief. And it brought a sick expression to Breitner’s face that was not lost even on her failing eyes. Only its significance escaped her.
“Well, the world would be a sorry place if we always had what we wanted,” she mumbled, and took the ten franc note Frank offered her.
“Keep the change,” he said in cheery tone.
She was an unlikely ally, this crotchety old woman with her folk wisdom. And Frank appreciated her commitment, however unsuspecting it was. He gave her a conspiratorial smile as she turned to shuffle her way back to the counter, her duty reluctantly done. But she wanted no part of an alliance with any foreigner, and she scowled at his smile with contempt.
“Go back to the chalet and just wait there,” Frank insisted as Patricia sidled uncertainly towards the door.
“You’re making a big mistake, Eigenmann,” Breitner growled. But the more he tried to throw his weight around, the firmer the ground became for Frank’s blind obsession, which matured with every second that he kept his gaze on Breitner’s visible discomfort.
He enjoyed watching the layer of smug self-assurance peeling off. The lupine eyes that earlier had flashed a cold detached indifference now shifting. Nervous and vulnerable.
“Let’s take a walk,” Frank said, and reinforced the image of vulnerability by lifting Breitner from his seat with a supporting arm and leading him out of the tea room.
“Auf Wiederluege,” said the old lady. Frank’s unwitting ally was plainly not sorry to see them go. And he was no less sorry to leave the air of chocolate and cheap cigars.
“Auf Wiedersehen,” he replied without conviction. In his relief to breathe the fresh mountain air again as he stepped out behind Breitner, he overlooked the atmosphere of sneering arrogance that he and Patricia had left behind them when they entered the tea-room. But it was still there in the street, in the speeches that continued to presume their self-celebration on to an Alpine village that was too comfortable with the ways of nature to put up any kind of resistance beyond the crotchetiness of the old lady in the tea room.
Frank nudged his hostage in the direction of the Parsenn station. When they turned the corner, Frank saw two young men approaching. Breitner quickened his pace slightly, opening up some space from Frank, as they drew closer. The men wore the uniform of what he knew at once to be Germany’s so-called youth sports group. They swaggered down the street looking for all the world as if they thought the emblems of hatred they were dressed up in invested them with authority over every inch of the world. Frank’s watchful eye could not escape the movement of Breitner’s shoulders expanding with a new confidence as they came closer. He quickly closed the gap and pushed the barrel of the gun into the small of Breitner’s back. Frank sensed him stiffen.
“Not a word,” Frank grunted.
The two men appeared to recognise his captive. They invoked their leader’s name as they passed – “Heil Hitler” – and their arms shot out like serpents’ tongues – threatening, sinister and at the same time rather ludicrous in their forage caps. He saw that one of the men bore a scar on the side of his face that had a cold deliberate look about it, suggesting it had been self-inflicted, as if deliberately to underline his menace.
Breitner made no response. It took another prod in the back to prompt any kind of reply. But his half-hearted effort brought questioning looks in their direction. Frank was a stranger to them, so his evident influence over Breitner aroused their curiosity. And when Frank glanced back, he saw the two men had stopped to watch their conspicuous walk to the Parsenn station. His looking round was plainly the signal they had been waiting for. As soon as his head turned, they exchanged a few words, then moved suspiciously in Frank’s direction. They stayed on Frank’s tracks all the way to the station and stood in the doorway watching as he bought two return tickets up the mountain.
“Going to the top, Mr Breitner?” the one with the scar called out. “It looks a bit too cloudy up there for my taste. And it’ll be getting dark soon.”
Breitner said nothing. His submissiveness irritated Frank. It seemed to him a consciously exaggerated effort to arouse their suspicions. The two men watched expectantly, waiting for a reply. His silence would be a signal to intervene, and this was plainly what he was counting on. He had to say something.
“We just need the fresh air,” Frank called back. “We’re not going for the view. Come on, Willi. We’ll miss the train,” he added, ushering Breitner out of the foyer and onto the platform of the funicular railway with a hasty “Auf Wiedersehen” to the two watchdogs as they vanished from view. The pretence of intimacy suggested by his use of Breitner’s first name went so hard against the grain that it almost wedged against Frank’s tongue before he got it out. But it gave him the short gap in their mistrust that he was looking for. And the train was heading out of the station before the two youth sports thugs could do much about it.
“I told you I have a lot of friends here,” Breitner said smugly, preening himself on his sense of position and authority, as the train pulled them up from the station and out onto the mountainside. It was Frank’s turn to say nothing. The train was otherwise empty. They were alone. Whatever Breitner might think about his position, Frank was the one with the instrument of authority in his pocket. He could relax, and let his nerves do the talking.
“I don’t know what you have in mind, Eigenmann, but I have an appointment this evening in the Davoserhof. If I’m not there, my friends will get worried. And they’ll come looking for you.” He fixed Frank with his cold stare, and added with dark emphasis: “Davos is a very small place.”
He maintained a cool exterior, but Frank could not escape the jittery, agitated edge to his words. He was used to cracking the whip. And to watch him now without the whip in his hand was like witnessing the desperate fidgets of an alcoholic in search of his next gin. Frank enjoyed every minute of the spectacle. Nonetheless, those words had managed to chip away at the self-confidence that had been sired by his blind rage. And now that this rage had given way to a certain clarity of mind, doubts began to grow in the cracks.
The chill that pricked at his face as they left the station and walked out onto the mountain did nothing to dispel the doubts. But he had taken on a mission, and he had to see it through. The last train down left just after four according to the sign at the exit. That gave him three quarters of an hour. He nudged Breitner out onto the snow, and they took the path towards the Strelapass.
Despite what the scarfaced watchdog had said, the cloud cover was quite thin, and the limpid light over the sheer expanse of snow made the air almost sparkle with clearness. The few remaining skiers of the day were beginning to make their way down. Frank was put in mind of the long walks he had taken here with Patricia these last few days. How different his circumstances were now.
Frank watched him trying to negotiate the slippery path in his smart city shoes. He was not dressed for mountain walking. Frank had the advantage over him in every respect. And he meant to keep it that way. This was emphatically not the time to expose his weaknesses. Breitner had to know that he was in the mood for vengeance.
“Breitner,” he called after him, his hand as firm as ever on the gun, “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”
Breitner stopped, and turned uneasily on the icy surface, but said nothing. Just waited.
“Whatever happened to Achim Zimmermann?”
“Your friend?” A thin contemptuous smile twisted its way across Breitner’s lips. “He was a fool.”
“What do you mean ‘was’?” Frank repeated.
Breitner’s s
mile thickened.
“I really should be grateful to you, Eigenmann.”
The puzzled expression on Frank’s face was not necessary. Breitner was going to elaborate anyway.
“For putting me onto Zimmermann. We might never have known about his little games if you had not made such a spectacle of yourself with your clumsy advances towards Mademoiselle Roche.”
Frank recalled that stupid evening in the wine tavern waiting in vain for Patricia. His first encounter with Lutz.
“Weak, so weak,” he heard Breitner say, and the man’s expression widened with a look almost of sympathy. “What a man will sacrifice for a woman. One might almost think you had gypsy blood in you.” He peered narrowly at Frank as if to test the truth of this hypothesis. It was plainly intended to be a defiant show of contempt. Frank ignored it.
“And his family?” The horrific scene flashed for an instant through his mind as he spoke these words. “What did they ever do to you?”
Breitner’s eyes snaked their way through the light reflected off the snow. Colder than ever. “I’ve never met his family.” He spoke with a slow deliberation which seemed to be saying that, for once in his life, he was telling the truth and he wanted Frank to know it. Then he turned his back on him to continue his slippery progress down the mountainside. For a good few minutes, Frank watched him from behind as he followed in his tracks, the images of Gertrude and her two baby boys flashing a collage of carnage across the landscape of white light.
They were completely alone now, and there was something pathetic about the sight of that arrogant bully sliding awkwardly over the vast expanse of snow. A solitary figure with the bearing of an injured animal. Now was the time to put the beast out of its misery. There was no going back.
“Breitner,” Frank called.
Again Breitner stopped, and turned on the side of the path in time to see the gun emerge from Frank’s pocket. The smile never left his lips. Frank moved closer to enjoy the fear in his lupine eyes. But there was none. They remained colder than the ice that chiselled away the rocks around them. And they glared at Frank with stony disdain.