by Dan Vyleta
Zuzka shook her head, took one anyway.
‘I don’t smoke,’ she said.
She watched Vesalius take a drag, then picked up the box of matches from the windowsill and lit her own, took a careful little puff. It seemed to calm her. There were no tears now in her eyes.
‘You should go,’ the old woman said.
Zuzka nodded, embarrassed, looked to one side in the vague direction of her room.
‘In a moment.’
‘I mean home. To your family.’
Zuzka did not protest. They stood quietly for some minutes, blew smoke at the window, the girl working her way through her cigarette with rapid, shallow drags. She managed not to cough.
‘I was writing to my sister earlier,’ she muttered in a tender, quiet voice, then coloured when she saw derision in Vesalius’s face.
‘I know myself it’s stupid. Writing to the dead.’
She tried to smile but it froze on her face. Unhappiness did not become her. There were women, Vesalius thought, who looked fetching after they had cried: purified. Not Zuzka.
‘You were twins?’ she asked, breaking the silence. ‘The Professor mentioned it.’
‘Yes,’ Zuzka nodded. ‘Two peas in a pod. When we were small, father used to say that it was she who’d become the doctor. And I would settle down and marry rich.’
‘How did she die?’
‘Polio. When we were twelve. A long time ago.’
‘You should go home.’
Again the girl nodded, screwed the cigarette into the window’s glass, then started when she noticed a man standing in the kitchen just a few steps away. It was impossible to say how long he had been there. Vesalius, too, had not noticed him enter and stared sour-faced at the intruder. He was tall, fat in the hips, held himself remarkably still. A smell of mints and of some type of musky cologne streamed from his awkward figure; the dark, sunken eyes were flat like a doll’s. But what struck her most, and most unfavourably, was the shape and colour of his lips. They looked painted on with a two-groschen brush, thin and fraying at the edges. Zuzka saw him, winced, and immediately ran to the door, keeping as much distance between herself and the man as possible. Vesalius looked after her, then back to the man. He was holding a brandy glass, was taking steady, quiet sips. After a few moments he turned and left without a word. In the doorway he nearly crashed into the fat Chinaman who had come to forage for more food. The two men tried to squeeze through the doorway at the same moment, their bellies touching at its centre. Vesalius barked out a laugh, turned back to the window, and lit another cigarette.
7
He followed her. Like a good hunting dog he sniffed out her room even though she’d closed the door behind herself when he was still out of sight. Perhaps there was no trick to it; perhaps he’d simply opened all the doors until he found her. He was a police detective after all. Who was to tell him that it wasn’t allowed?
He stepped in as naturally as though it were the cloakroom; closed the door again with the softest of touches. She’d switched on the light when she’d come in, two minutes earlier, had sat down on the bed. Teuben stood under the tasselled lampshade as though it were a shower head. His dense mop of hair seemed to absorb its light: a deep and inky black. It had to be a wig. He was still holding his brandy glass, a sliver of liquor was left at its bottom. Zuzka wondered whether he was drunk.
She made a movement to get up from the bed, but a gesture from his hairy hand bid her to remain seated. He moved calmly, without haste.
‘You were there the other night. When I met Eva. Hiding in the doctor’s flat. You heard us talk.’
He drained the dregs of his glass.
‘How much did you hear?’
‘Nothing.’
Teuben smiled. He looked around, stepped over to where the chair stood near the window, wrapped his hand around its backrest, but did not sit down.
‘Nothing. Or everything. What does it matter? A funny man, this Dr Beer. Difficult to figure out. You were talking to him just now. Looked like you were running away from him. Did he say something you didn’t like?’
The detective gave her a chance to respond, but she merely shook her head and drew her knees up in front of her body, hiding her chest. The heels of her shoes made dimples on her coverlet.
‘A strange man, this Beer,’ Teuben repeated, his dark eyes following her movement. ‘I thought for a while he fucked her himself. But I suppose he’s fucking you.’
‘I will scream for my uncle.’
‘Don’t bother,’ he said, turning away from her and opening the window. ‘I’m only here to take in the view.’ He pushed his face out into the night.
Almost immediately he broke into a laugh.
‘Now will you look at that,’ he said, grinning, and waved her over to the window.
She obeyed despite herself, keeping her distance, and squinted cautiously to where his hand was pointing into the darkness. When she said she could not see, Teuben withdrew from the window and watched her take his place. Above them, a floor and a half up, and at a steep angle to their right, two men in uniform had heaved the big stairwell window from its hinges and stood jostling, shoulder to shoulder, balancing within its frame, their trousers open, and pissing into the darkness of the yard. All she could make out with full clarity was the tips of their boots, jutting out from the window frame, and the twin cascades of urine raining down into the yard. Down there, on the muddy ground, emerged the Oriental, Yuu; he stopped, looked up, then carried on towards the door of the back wing. Teuben stood next to her, quietly laughing.
‘Like children at a birthday party. And tomorrow they’ll be sent off to war. For the greater glory of the Reich. It all seems a little silly, doesn’t it?’ He burped, drew a watch from his trouser pocket, checked the time.
‘But anyway, I’d better be off. There’s another lady waiting for my visit. Not a word, you. Your uncle is an influential man, connected. But nobody’s out of reach.’
The detective’s hand snapped forward as he said this, grabbed her by the wrist, finger and thumb connecting across her bones.
‘These are volatile times.’
It surprised him that she did not flinch from his grasp. Instead she bent closer, so that he would be able to see her face. Up close she struck him as near hysterical, her mouth twitching, her cow eyes filling up with tears. Something gave inside her. All at once she was speaking, shouting, shaking head to toe.
‘You are going to see Eva, aren’t you?’ she shouted. ‘Did you know that my uncle raped her? She was only a child. Her name was Evelyn then. Evelyn Wenger. It was all in the papers. And tonight, I thought that Otto would –’ She raised her free hand and rolled it in a fist in a gesture meant to denote punishment, or revenge. ‘In his performance, you see. But all he did was chase a fly. Everybody laughed.’
She opened her mouth and let out a giggle. Her breathing was laboured, whistled in the depths of her. Puzzled, Teuben let go of her wrist.
‘What the hell are you talking about?’
‘He killed Uncle’s dog.’
‘Who?’
‘Otto. Because of his sister. Because of what he did to her.’
Teuben heard it and laughed, his thin lips parting around teeth and gums.
‘You’ve been writing a novel, I see. Cute. But Eva’s always been Eva, and I’d bet good money that Speckstein’s never seen her in his life. As for the dog, I have the killer in a cell at the police station. He has all but signed his confession.’
He shrugged, dismissed her with a wave of his arm.
‘What you are,’ he said, ‘is a little cuckoo. But that’s all for the better. Just go on crying wolf.’
He left a moment later, having watched the disappointment spread across her face. His boy looked like that, when he got a present he didn’t like: flushed and sulky, anger giving way to tears. Zuzka threw herself on to her pillow. From the back, legs spread, the skirt riding up to the top of her knees, her hips awriggle with her sobs, she did
n’t look half bad. Teuben left without bothering to close the door.
8
The clock struck ten-thirty. It was a six-foot grandfather clock of Danish origin, in white lacquered wood with gold-leaf trimmings around the face, and stood, somewhat awkwardly, between two of Speckstein’s bookshelves where it was in danger of getting lost amongst their bulk. On another occasion Beer might have gone up to it and studied it more closely; opened up its case and watched the pendulum in its rhythmic movements and the near imperceptible descent of its twin weights. As a boy he had owned a John Alker longcase that had been bequeathed to him by a paternal uncle and had spent many happy hours taking it apart, cleaning it, and then reassembling it with infinite care. Now he listened to the tall clock’s chime with a mixture of trepidation and hope. Teuben had disappeared. He did not dare hope he had left the house altogether; nor did he wish to assume that by some policeman’s trick he had let himself into the doctor’s flat without waiting for permission. It would have been easy enough for Beer to run up and see if such worries were misplaced, but the doctor did not stir. All he had done was shift from the chair in Speckstein’s living room to one in his study, where there had been fewer people at the time. Beer’s mouth was dry and he thought he should get up and find a drink of something, but the lethargy that had taken hold of him was impossible to shift.
The clock struck ten-thirty and he looked around. Beer was surprised to find himself alone in the room. Through the open door he could see that the living room, too, had begun to empty out. The men had eaten and drunk their fill, and many seemed to have left in search of new entertainments. In another half-hour or so, only the dead-drunks would be left, passed out in some corner and impossible to shift.
Speckstein entered. He had been sitting in his armchair in the living room ever since Beer had arrived at the party, but now Beer watched him get up rather heavily and walk into his study. He, too, it seemed, had had too much to drink, and was swaying on his short march between the doorway and his desk. When he reached it he seemed to have forgotten why he’d come; looked up lost and puzzled and found Beer sitting with his back against the wall. The Professor was wearing an old-fashioned dinner jacket and a beautiful white ruffled shirt. Only the pin he had threaded through his lapel announced his membership of the Party that many of his guests had literally worn upon their sleeves. When he saw Beer, he nodded to himself and began to stagger towards him. Halfway there, his eyes began to water and he stopped to dig a handkerchief from out his pocket; blew his nose, then wiped the corners of his eyes. Even in his inebriated state there was a certain gentlemanly elegance to his movements. Beer stood up to greet him. The leather upholstery of the chair he had been sitting in creaked as he lifted out his weight, a sound so animate and plaintive that both men involuntarily turned to stare at the chair, as though expecting it to move. It took an act of will for them to shift their eyes from chair to one another.
‘Herr Professor,’ Beer said in greeting, then found himself at a loss as to how to continue. ‘My congratulations on your party.’
Speckstein waved away his words with his handkerchief, then raised it once more to his teary eyes. A slight shiver seemed to shake his figure.
‘Are you unwell?’
‘It’s nothing, Dr Beer. I was just thinking about Walter. My dog. I miss him tonight.’
‘Why yes,’ Beer answered, embarrassed, mentally sifting through the conventional remarks one made to those who were recently bereaved. But none of them would seem to fit.
‘I am very sorry for you,’ he said at last.
‘The Chief of Police tells me Detective Teuben is holding a suspect.’
‘So I understand.’
‘He killed my dog?’
‘I suppose.’
‘You don’t know?’
‘I am assisting purely on the medical side of things. Though even there I’m out of my depth.’
‘Nonsense, Beer. You are a luminary in your field. And this Teuben fellow – he’s nothing but trash. A vile, coarse, brutish piece of trash. You know what he did to me? He –
‘But here he is himself,’ he finished, embarrassed, becoming aware of Teuben’s arrival a fraction too late. ‘We were discussing the case, Detective.’
Teuben smiled, gave the ghost of a bow.
‘I’ve just come from the washroom, Herr Zellenwart. Some of the lads have made rather a mess of things, I’m afraid. You might do well to tell your housekeeper.’
The two men stood looking at each other for a moment, Speckstein erect, weepy, drunk; the detective slovenly and brazen.
‘I will see to it,’ the Professor said stiffly.
‘Good. It will give the doctor and me a chance to catch up on the case.’
They walked a few steps behind Speckstein, the detective holding on first to Beer’s elbow, then to his wrist. When their host swung left towards the kitchen, Teuben manoeuvred them onwards, to the front door. The SS man was still standing in the doorway on his self-appointed vigil, and let them pass without a word. Halfway up the stairs, a cold draught blew into the building where somebody had ripped a window off its hinges. It lay, shattered, on the steps. A young man lay not far from it, the same flaxen-haired youth who had previously held his head and been comforted by the soothing whispers of his friend. He was alone now, passed out amongst the shards; a splinter of glass had evidently cut the side of his nose, which bled lightly past his mouth and cheek. They stepped over him without comment and continued on their way to Beer’s door. Once they had arrived, Teuben watched Beer struggle with the lock and reached out at one point to steady the doctor’s hand. Inside, Beer took two quick steps and tried to usher Teuben into his kitchen.
‘I have the new autopsy report,’ he said hastily. ‘Perhaps we should go over it together, see whether it’s what you had in mind.’ His hand went to the inner pocket of his jacket and withdrew some carefully folded typed sheets of paper. ‘Why don’t you sit down?’
‘Later,’ Teuben laughed, amused, looking past the doctor’s shoulder to the bottles of beer standing on the kitchen table.
‘Were you planning on getting drunk, Herr Doktor? Keep some for me. Afterwards, we can sit down and have a beer together.’
Even as he spoke, he seemed to change his mind and reached past the doctor to grab one of the bottles, sunk it in his jacket pocket.
‘In case I get thirsty.’
He turned around, started walking down the corridor, the doctor running after him, hard at his heels.
‘About that, Detective. The infection, it is bad today. I had to reapply some maggots. Maybe if you wait just a few days –’
Teuben stopped dead in his tracks, seemed to enjoy the fact that Beer ran into him, bumping his chin on the detective’s shoulder.
‘And if she were crawling with them.’ Teuben laughed. ‘You know, I think I’m in love.’
Again he started walking, and again Beer ran alongside, talking at him, giddy now with agitation.
‘There’s something else. I’m … an invert. That is to say, I sleep with men. It’s why my wife left me.’
He succeeded in bringing Teuben to another halt.
‘Oh my,’ he answered, still grinning, then spat. ‘Is this true?’
‘Yes.’
‘I had no idea.’ He looked the doctor up and down as though he saw him for the first time. No disgust or irritation showed on his face, just wonder mixed with calculation.
‘You must stop it at once, of course. Until after the trial. I need a credible expert witness.’
He took another step towards the bedroom door; laid a hand upon the handle, opened it, then turned around.
‘But why are you telling me this now? Surely you are not planning anything stupid. Look here’ – he leaned into the doctor, placed a big hand on his neck and cheek – ‘this is not the time for games. There’s no point punishing yourself, Dr Beer, if that’s what’s going through your head. And don’t think for a moment that what is about to happen is the wor
st there can be. If she ends up in a hospital, it will happen a hundredfold and worse. I just want this once. And then your statement, sworn in court. That’s all. You can live with that, I assure you. If you couldn’t, why, you would have moved her by now and put a bullet through your brain.’
He studied Beer another second, then dropped his arm, turned and stepped through the door.
‘But enough talk.’
Shaking, his eyes on the bottle of beer sticking out of Teuben’s jacket pocket, Beer followed him into the bedroom. Eva lay as he had left her, her eyelids closed, the bed-sheet neatly folded underneath her chin. She looked pristine, calm, composed. Teuben kneeled down at her bedside, a smile splitting his features, and began to peel back the sheet.
‘Good God, but she’s pretty,’ he muttered, unbuttoning the top of his shirt. ‘Ghastly gown you put on her.’
Beer wanted to leave but was rooted to the spot. The detective reached for her neck with both hands as though he was planning on strangling her.
The moment he touched her – at neck, cheek and collarbone, squeezing her skin with fingers that were as greedy as they were tender, his bluff face still split by a smile – Eva started sweating, unaccountably sweating, soaking her linen nightdress in a matter of moments until her body emerged as though from under yards of water, ivory pale, her ribs showing like the bones of a corset. Alarmed, Teuben withdrew his hands and stared in fury and wonder at the outline of the breasts that had emerged beneath the damp cloth.
‘It’s the fever,’ Beer muttered and started forward.
With sudden violence, Teuben jumped up and pushed him back and out the room.
‘Leave us!’ he shouted, slammed the door in Beer’s face.
The doctor took five steps, fell to the floor, and clapped his hands over his ears so he would not have to hear a thing.
9
Zuzka did not cry for long. Soon after Detective Teuben had left her room, the sobs lost some of their intensity and she made an effort to wipe the tears and snot from her face. When she tried to stand up, she noticed that she had lost sensation in one of her legs. She sat down again, and began massaging her calf and ankle. Very gradually the numbness was replaced by the pain of pins and needles running through her skin. Her breathing was ragged; she seemed to have to gasp for air. Even so, she hobbled out into the corridor and on towards the front door, where she searched frantically to locate her coat. She found it at last, locked away in a cupboard, along with her uncle’s hat and umbrella and Vesalius’s thirty-year-old Loden coat. In her haste to search its pockets she lost her balance and fell into the cupboard, then had to pull herself out by the strength of her arms; her legs were giving way under her.