Dead Calm

by Inge Löhnig

  She ran a hand through her hair. Why not? ‘When Albert was eleven or twelve, my dad decided to play one of his power games. Albert nearly died because of it. It came back to me just now, and I feel sick.’

  Marc took her hand. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ll have to go way back if I’m going to explain it properly.’

  ‘I’ve got time. I can skive off, if it comes to that.’ For a moment, a starburst of tiny wrinkles appeared around his eyes.

  It would do her good to tell someone. Caroline placed her hands around her mug of coffee and began to talk. Albert, the first-born, had been Dad’s favourite. Always. He was the favoured one. He was allowed to see The Jungle Book in the cinema as a reward for good grades, while Bertram was locked in his room because he hadn’t done his homework. Dad took Albert when a new pizzeria opened in Germering and pizza still tasted like holidays, sea and sun. Albert got an expensive Scalextric set for Christmas, while Bertram, who’d been hoping for skis, found a toboggan under the tree. ‘It was always like that. Dad played them off against each other. But Albert never caught on. He wasn’t the one suffering – he just basked in Dad’s affection.’

  ‘And your mother? How did she feel about that?’

  ‘My mother?’ I don’t think she loved any of her children. She didn’t really want us, thought Caroline. Should she tell Marc about Elli’s affair with Peter Brandenbourg, about his tragic death and Elli’s subsequent resignation and collapse? But that was another story. ‘My mother wasn’t the emotional type. She looked after us, cooked, cleaned, made sure we were properly clothed and well behaved. She never said she loved us. A tender gesture or a fond glance were the most we got. She went along with everything serenely, as if none of us mattered to her. Until Albert came home from school one day all worked up. He was ten or eleven; I was eight or nine. I’ll never forget it. It was as if someone had shaken my mother awake. Suddenly she was . . . present, like a different human being.’

  Marc was smearing bread with honey, but listening intently. ‘What happened at school?’

  ‘He must have been eleven, actually, because it was his first year at secondary school. They’d got a new music teacher. He’d opened the instrument cupboard and every child was allowed to choose an instrument. Albert picked a violin, and he was able to coax a decent sound out of it straight off the bat. The teacher was delighted, and so was Albert. He told Mum the violin had been waiting for him in the cupboard. From that point on he took violin lessons, although Dad didn’t want him to. Albert was supposed to concentrate on his schoolwork, get perfect grades, study medicine and eventually take over the practice. So, in his tried-and-tested way, Dad tried to talk him out of learning music. Classical music was for sissies, it would never earn him anything, he’d turn into one of those long-haired unwashed creatures, blah blah blah.’ Caroline sighed. Just like always. In this case, however, Mum had taken Albert’s side and fought alongside him.

  ‘Dad’s strategy didn’t work, partly because Mum was supporting Albert. He really was gifted, and he loved music. It wasn’t more than a year before he had a new teacher, someone from the conservatory, I think. But the constant practising didn’t leave much time for school, and Albert’s grades began to slide. When he brought back his first D, the gloves came off. Dad flew off the handle. He expected Albert to give up the violin.’

  Marc had been listening attentively, but now he interrupted. ‘Your father didn’t forbid Albert to play, he just expected him to give it up on his own?’

  Caroline nodded. ‘That’s how he was. He demanded people come round to his point of view. Mum negotiated a compromise, though: reducing the number of lessons and getting a Latin tutor. At first it seemed to go well. An older pupil gave Albert lessons. Apparently. But then Albert got a stomach bug and had to stay home in bed, and the cat was out of the bag. His violin teacher phoned Dad at the practice, worried. The music school was rehearsing for a concert, and if Albert wasn’t back on his feet in time . . . anyway, Dad figured out the truth from that conversation: Albert was still going to the conservatory four times a week. When he came back home for lunch, Dad was very calm. Albert sat with us at the table. He was still weak, drinking water and eating rusks. There was an argument, of course. Albert had lied to him, and he’d got another D. Dad insisted he make a decision. Give up music and concentrate on his studies. Albert didn’t want to, of course.’ Caroline looked up. ‘He didn’t want to disappoint Dad, but he also didn’t want to abandon the violin. You can’t ask that, he said. It’s inhuman. And that’s not the kind of thing you said to my dad.’

  *

  Christine Meingast phoned as Dühnfort was leaving the motorway at the Wolfratshausen exit. ‘You’re right. He’s gone to the cabin. I’ve parked my car on a slip road. Everything’s quiet. First they were on the terrace, now they’re talking in the kitchen. Looks quite peaceful.’

  Dühnfort was relieved. Nothing threatening to escalate, nothing coming to a head. He’d show up at the cabin and say there was a mix-up about the bikes, then ask Albert to come in for questioning. ‘Keep out of sight and don’t do anything. I’ll be five minutes.’

  Just before the town sign for Münsing, his mobile rang again. He recognised Gina’s number on the display. Probably she’d accuse him of not being a team player, not leading his troops properly, following the trail like a lone wolf. She was right. Yet again he’d neglected to inform her and Alois in time. He picked up. ‘Hi, Gina, I was just about to call you.’

  ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Looks like Albert is our man.’

  ‘Albert?’

  He told her what Meo’s analysis of the geolocation data had revealed.

  ‘Well, that fits. I mean, I’ve just come from a young woman who’s about to look for a new job because her boss is shutting down his practice,’ said Gina.

  ‘Albert’s receptionist? What did she have to say?’

  ‘She bought Superclean. Margret Hecht, she’s called. Albert asked her to order the stuff to get rid of the graffiti on the wall of the building. Said his wife had a thing for organic products and wouldn’t have anything toxic at the apartment or the practice, so she should get it sent to her address.’

  ‘Fine. So we know Albert doesn’t mess around – he’ll stop at nothing.’ They’d need to tread very carefully from now on. If Margret Hecht had told her boss about Gina’s visit, then he was forewarned. How would he react if he felt cornered?

  Dühnfort explained about Christine Meingast’s phone call and Albert’s and Babs’s trip to the cabin, letting her know he’d be on the scene shortly. ‘Either way we’ll need reinforcements. Just don’t let them come barging in, all right?’

  ‘We isn’t without a certain irony. Unless you’ve started using the majestic plural? For Christ’s sake, you never tell us these things in time. I’ll sort it out then be on my way.’

  *

  Albert stood at the window, gazing into the garden. Babs couldn’t believe he wasn’t Wolfram’s son. As if he’d read her mind, he turned round.

  ‘Yeah, I had that same gormless look on my face too. I didn’t believe it until Dad showed me the pages he tore out of Mum’s diary.’ Albert wiped his hand over his face and sat back down at the table.

  ‘Was that the first he knew of it? After Elli’s death?’

  ‘What do you mean? You think he would have put up with me, encouraged me and supported me, more or less handed me the practice on a silver platter, if he’d known I was foisted on him like a cuckoo’s egg, that he’d brought up the bastard son of his rival?’

  ‘Is that what he called you? A bastard?’

  Albert sank back in his chair. ‘Not just that. He wasn’t actually planning to tell me, but by the time I arrived he’d already opened a bottle of wine and was two glasses in. It must have eaten him alive, the way I trundled up like a good little boy to repair the drain. The product of his upbringing, sure, but not the fruit of his loins.’ Albert reached across the table and took her hand in his. I
t was ice-cold.

  Babs knew what forces must have been tugging at Wolfram when he discovered Elli’s deception. Everybody thought Albert was Wolfram’s son. The successful, well-adjusted doctor carrying on his father’s life’s work. So long as nobody knew the truth, that façade could be maintained; nobody could laugh at Wolfram behind his back or, worse still, openly make fun of him. So long as nobody knew, he’d remain the man he’d always been. On the outside. But he couldn’t lie to himself. ‘Is that why he came up here, to think about what to do with the truth?’

  Albert nodded. ‘He wanted to kick me out, really. But then he’d be left with Bertram. That criminal.’ Albert laughed bitterly. ‘It’s tragicomic. He made us what we are. I’m a pussy and Bertram’s a crook. And for what? I was supposed to be his trophy from his victory over Mum’s lover. Living proof of his masculinity, and above all his power. That’s why he pampered and encouraged me, constantly favoured me and tried to mould me in his own image. As a perpetual reminder of what a great guy he was. And then, after forty years, he finds out he lost the battle to pass on his genes.’ Albert got to his feet and began to pace up and down.

  Babs felt sorry for him. Wolfram had taken away the certainty on which Albert’s life was built. ‘You said before that he didn’t intend to tell you the truth. Why did he do it, then? What happened on our anniversary?’

  Albert, having gone to stand by the doorway to the hall, now leaned against the wall and stared at the ceiling.

  ‘He watched me crawling around under the sink, repairing that bloody drain while he drank a glass of wine. Sitting there like some grand duke, smug grin plastered across his face as this sludge of dishwater and leftover food runs down my arm. When I was finished he asked me to make dinner. He probably found it hilarious when I rang you. And then, over dinner, he smirks at me and says: “You’re as big a pussy as your father!”’

  Albert swallowed, shutting his eyes for a few seconds. ‘I didn’t get it. I must’ve been gawping at him like some moron.’ He moved away from the wall and sat back down at the table. Then he told Babs how his father had explained that remark, calling him a bastard, a freeloader, a pansy and a wimp. What would you call someone who’s had everything handed to him on a plate, and isn’t even man enough to say no to his dad, who’d rather take orders and scrabble around in a sewer than screw his wife on his anniversary?

  ‘When he was finished with that tirade he told me Bertram had come round on Sunday, that they’d had a barbecue and a pleasant conversation, that Bertram was so much like him and he’d misjudged him, his only son. His only son!’ Albert leaped up and kept pacing around; like a caged tiger he stalked back and forth between the fridge and the doorway. ‘I didn’t want to. But suddenly everything was pointless. My whole life I’ve done everything to make him love me, given up everything for him.’ Albert’s voice cracked. He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes. ‘Everything.’ It was almost a whisper. Slowly he slid to the floor. Without opening his eyes, he continued. ‘There was an argument. We yelled. I might have shoved him. Either way, he ended up unconscious on the ground. And it all came back to me. I’ve led the wrong life. For his sake. But to get me to that point he nearly killed me.’

  *

  ‘I don’t know why it was so important to my father that we make our own decisions. Only if we agreed with him, though. He tolerated nothing else. We were children. Albert was the oldest, eleven. Dad could have simply said: No more violin lessons. End of discussion. I’m not paying any more, or not until your grades improve. Like other fathers would have. But my father demanded we reach the decision on our own. So he sent Albert down to the basement, where he was supposed to think it over calmly and make up his mind. Only then could he come back upstairs. But it wasn’t a real choice. If he’d picked music, the drama would have continued until Albert had “realised” that school and his future career as a doctor were more important than “fiddling”. To put it another way: Albert had to decide whether he still wanted to be Dad’s favourite or not.’ Caroline leaned back in the kitchen chair and gazed at the ceiling. She fought back tears, just as she had at the time.

  ‘But that’s sadistic. Your father actually sent a sick little boy into the basement?’ Marc sounded outraged. ‘To force him to make a “voluntary” decision?’

  ‘That’s just what he was like. It was all we knew. For us it was normal, and usually we didn’t sit in that musty basement for more than ten minutes. I only saw it for what it really was much later, when I was grown up. So did Bertram. But Albert simply refused to. He doted on Dad. Maybe he was too close to him to realise the kind of games Dad played.’

  ‘And Albert didn’t come out of the basement after ten minutes, did he?’

  Caroline reached for the jam jar and turned it between her fingers. ‘It must have been a tough decision. When he still hadn’t come out by Friday evening, I was worried. I wanted to bring him biscuits and lemonade. He’d only gone down there with a glass of water and some rusks. Dad caught me and sent me back to bed. Said I mustn’t give him anything to drink. That way he’ll come to his senses more quickly, Dad said.’

  ‘That was cruel. How long did Albert last?’

  Caroline looked up and caught Marc’s eyes, which had grown dark with anger. ‘Until Sunday evening . . .’

  ‘Two and a half days!’

  ‘He came upstairs totally exhausted. He collapsed in the hall. Mum wanted to call an ambulance, but Dad wouldn’t hear of it. He went down to the practice and fetched a drip. Albert was nearly dead by the time he came back. Mum tried to give him something to drink, but he couldn’t swallow. It was dreadful.’ Again, Caroline struggled not to cry. ‘I couldn’t do anything, I felt so helpless. I thought he was going to die in Mum’s arms.’

  Marc stood up and pulled her close. ‘Don’t be cross with me, but your father was a heartless bastard.’ The warmth of his body was comforting. ‘More than two days. Jesus. How desperate he must have been, down there in the basement. Like being caught in a trap. He must really have loved music.’

  Caroline sniffled. ‘Yes, he did. His playing was wonderful. The violin was like an extension of his body. He’d probably be giving concerts today if he hadn’t bent to Dad’s will. He could have led a totally different life, been a totally different person, if Dad had let him.’ She felt a slight jolt run through Marc’s body, and glanced up.

  Astonishment was written on Marc’s face. ‘He collapsed, you say? Presumably because he was completely dehydrated. Don’t you see the similarity?’

  *

  Christine Meingast was standing near her patrol car when Dühnfort pulled up on the forest path. She was small and sturdy, and again he was reminded of a farm girl’s fresh radiance. In her hand she held binoculars. Switching off the engine, he got out of his car.

  ‘Still all quiet. They’re chatting. He looks upset, though, keeps running about. What shall we do now?’

  ‘Can I grab those for a minute?’ Dühnfort pointed at the binoculars, which she immediately handed to him. Raising them to his eyes and focusing them, he peered at the wooden cabin from the protection of the pine trees. Babs Heckeroth, stony-faced, sat at the kitchen table while Albert paced up and down, gesticulating. Dühnfort lowered the binoculars. ‘We wait for back-up. Officers are on their way.’

  Christine Meingast leaned against her car. ‘Did he kill his father?’ She jerked her chin in the direction of the cabin.

  ‘We’re working under that assumption.’

  ‘His wife seems to know something, or have guessed. She’s pretty rattled. Perhaps he’s kidnapped her and is planning to . . . should we really wait until he does something to her?’

  ‘At the moment it doesn’t look like that. Before I talk to him I want to have some back-up in place. We’ve got to tread carefully. The man looks to be at the end of his tether. I don’t want him to crack up completely.’

  ‘Fair enough. I’ve learned something new.’ Christine Meingast eyed him. ‘By the way, I applied for p
romotion.’ Dühnfort remembered her plan to become a detective. ‘I’ll cross my fingers for you.’ He raised the binoculars once more and stared at Albert.

  *

  She was horrified and disgusted. And she understood him. Her expression gave him hope. Over the past few minutes he’d told her about the weekend when the man who wasn’t his father had nearly let him die. Out of pride and vanity! A paramedic would have asked questions, and even if not, his father would certainly have had to explain his son’s condition at the hospital. That cowardly piece of shit.

  Albert sank down onto a chair. Why had he given up the violin? He’d betrayed himself. No, he’d sold himself. For an ice-cream sundae, an approving pat on the back, a hug that smelled of Irish Moss aftershave, for the cosy sensation of being loved by Dad, for a masculine bond and for victory over Bertram. Soon afterwards Bertram had started fighting Dad, constantly challenging him and deliberately styling himself as the unloved son.

  Babs laid her hand on his. ‘I understand why your anger boiled over that day. Wolfram mocked you and provoked you, and he ripped away the foundations you built your life on. I also understand why you took revenge for that weekend in the basement – so that he experienced what he made you go through, paying him back like for like. But what I don’t get’ – here she withdrew her hand and folded her arms on the table – ‘is why you didn’t stop before it went too far. How could you bear it? You must have known where it would end. You’re a doctor.’

  The sympathy was gone from her voice, recast into accusation. Babs and her fucking morals. How could she understand him? He didn’t fully understand either. But he had to try and explain. To her, and above all to himself.

  Albert rested his elbows on the table and put his head in his hands. He hadn’t known where it would end, because he hadn’t let himself know. Something else had been stronger. ‘I stopped even on the drive home. I was going to turn round and untie him. But then . . . he called me a bastard, a freeloader. He was going to sit in the bathroom for as long as I was in the basement. Two days. Also . . .’ He looked up. She was listening intently. ‘I was scared. Bloody terrified.’ Now it was out. He felt somewhat lighter. ‘I was afraid of him like a little boy. So I didn’t turn back. Two days. Then he’d be pleased and grateful when I let him go.’