Brenner and God sb-7

by Wolf Haas

  Brenner, however, was already a little more into the next world than here in this world, of course. He was already so close to feeling eternal peace that he was mixing up the most important details. You should know, total peace is related on many levels to stupidity. Brenner’s lack of oxygen was now to blame for his confusion over the before and after. In reality, of course, he’d said immediately that Helena would die a miserable death without him. It had occurred to him right away, instantly, the very first thing. Because normally when your life is in danger, your only trump hits you pretty fast. And when your death is in danger, you play it right away.

  And Brenner was absolutely normal in this respect, too. In other words: instantly! He hadn’t even been knee-deep in the cesspit when he howled: Kid! Basement! Helena! Helene! Because you can’t forget that his life was in danger. That his death was in danger. And as his thighs were sinking, it had long ceased to be news to the two altar boys by the cesspit and the two gravediggers on the balcony, because he’d already howled it out the moment the shit started seeping into his shoes. Not just once, but ten times, a hundred times, I have the kid, so loud that somebody must have heard it down in Kitzbuhel. I still say, someone should really investigate whether someone or other down in the village below heard Brenner-screaming for help, his life in danger-and didn’t lift a finger because that’s how people are!

  Interesting, though: it didn’t seem to him like he was sinking. More like the threat of death was sloshing up out of the earth to meet him. Like the threat to his life was inexorably rising, like sewer water, above his ankles, above his calves, above his knees, and not as if he were sinking ever deeper into the threat of death. Because our senses deceive us like crazy, especially considering the fumes. And even though he bellowed that he knew where Helena was and that she would die without him, it now seemed like he hadn’t said anything, because it only occurred to him once it was too late.

  If there is such a thing! But I say it’s lucky that in such desperate situations, the human mind is prone to mercy. Just like how we often glorify things with age, and it wasn’t all that bad, when I was in the war I got to see Scandinavia, when I was in love I got to visit IKEA several times, just as the consoling brain sometimes arranges the world in such a way that lets us think we had an impact. And when someone has cancer, then we say, well, he could have prevented it, if he’d lived accordingly, because sunburn, alcohol, white flour, dark meat, dreary thoughts, and, and, and. Or canoodling with a smoker twenty-eight years ago, i.e., nobody but yourself to blame for tongue cancer. And with self-blame, everything’s instantly half as bad, because at least an impact was made. And so, with his senses dwindling, Brenner felt around for Knoll in the absolute darkness of the cesspit, and still managed to think: I only have myself to blame because I should have said that I have Helena. And so you see that in dying he was already entering the euphoric phase-and all because of self-blame-and that is the greatest fortune that you can have at the end of a fulfilled life.

  Brenner was happy to meet someone he knew on the bottom of the cesspit, too. But not what you’re thinking, Knoll. Because after sixty seconds in a cesspit-you get what I mean? By that point a person’s generally resembling a gnat already, more soft wing tissue than legs and arms-eternal circulation more than crude perfection.

  Now, who was it, if it wasn’t Knoll? Watch closely: believe it or not, there on the bottom of the cesspit Brenner met the good lord. Of course it was a surprise, don’t even ask. Well, for Brenner a surprise, not for the good lord, of course. He smiled benevolently from the other side of the cesspit, which seemed about as far away to Brenner now as the other end of a swimming pool. But regardless, no doubt who the man was. The very fact that he glowed. Iridescent understatement! You can’t even imagine what a Hello that was for Brenner. Because first of all, he never really expected to meet the good lord even once-and if he did, then he expected a nice setting, with trumpets, with fanfare, with candlelight, with menus, with virgins, and, and, and. But no, Brenner thought-and he had to do a double take, he was so surprised to meet him in this unseemly place- in a cesspit, covered in seven feet of shit, I meet the good lord.

  Interesting, though: the surprise visit didn’t make Brenner nervous. Not even as the good lord came closer now. And one thing you can’t forget: he moved insanely fast, he traveled faster than a light in the dark. And the closer he came, the better Brenner felt. Because the good lord, of course-charisma, don’t even ask. To him, the lackluster surroundings didn’t matter one bit. You hear that again and again, the real celebrities are uncomplicated. Prime example right now: the good lord. He just smiled when Brenner said, “So you do exist!”

  To be perfectly honest, a slight note of indignance accompanied the surprise in Brenner’s voice. “If I had known in my youth,” he said to the good lord, “I would’ve had the girls lined up!” But then it didn’t seem that important for him to complete the sentence anymore, and he thought to himself, forget about it, main thing, don’t let the opportunity go to waste. Just a pity that I can’t tell anyone else now what a good guy he is!

  But “pity” and “reproach” and “main thing,” the whole “alas” and “thank god,” didn’t mean anything real to Brenner anymore. You should know, when you’re sitting in the good lord’s lap, the earthly matters slip right past you. The MegaLand stooges up above were already irrelevant to him, he wasn’t even mad at them because-great terms with the good lord.

  He only got angry when they pulled him out at the last second. And when his mind started up again, its explanations immediately kicked in, too, i.e., the light that Brenner had seen was only the light of day that he’d been heaved back into. His feeling of happiness was only triggered by the pleasant sensation of being lifted up and out of the cesspit. And the good lord’s swift approach must have been triggered by his encounter with Congressman Stachl, who-just as Brenner was being brought back into the light-flew past him into the cesspit.

  CHAPTER 20

  It happens that fast in life. Congressman Stachl had just been standing up there among the people who were trying at all costs to find out where Brenner was keeping the video, and now he was the one lying in the cesspit and Brenner was back up above. Fortunately, Brenner’s promise of information about Helena’s whereabouts proved to be of greater interest to Kressdorf than the million-euro project after all, because-paternal instincts.

  And when Congressman Stachl refused to haul Brenner back out, Kressdorf got his hunting rifle from the house and struck the congressman so forcefully on the back of the head that they later determined from the autopsy that Stachl hadn’t drowned in the cesspit at all, but arrived there with his neck already broken. And so you see once again how much truth there is in the saying practice makes perfect. Say what you will about it. Because with Knoll they determined that Kressdorf had only knocked him out with the hunting rifle and it was in the cesspit that he died.

  But don’t go thinking that the two musclemen blindly listened to Kressdorf and pulled Brenner back out again. The opposite. It got to be much too much for them once Kressdorf completely lost it and went for the congressman. They realized right away, of course, that they couldn’t rely on Kressdorf anymore. And not on their stake in MegaLand either, since he was putting the project at risk. Watch closely. With a shotgun pointed at them, he had to force them to pull Brenner back out and untie him there beside the cesspit.

  I’ve thought about it a lot since then, and I can thoroughly understand Kressdorf taking such drastic action, given that he’d learned just two days earlier that Helena wasn’t his biological daughter. Now he saw his one and only chance to take back his fatherhood with force, by doing away with the sperm donor and rescuing Helena. And one thing you can’t forget: after he’d clocked Knoll for rubbing it in his face that he wasn’t even the father of his own daughter, it would’ve been pointless for Kressdorf to stop halfway.

  Brenner, of course, wasn’t waiting a moment’s thought on these things now. He wasn’t even aware a
t first that he was back up above. His senses hadn’t completely returned to him yet when the shot rang out. And one thing you can’t forget: a hunting rifle’s always a loud shot. But that’s not to say that Kressdorf was shooting into the air with his hunting rifle in order to return Brenner to his senses now-wake the dead, as it were. Quite the contrary. Kressdorf was helping his security boss-who didn’t want to resuscitate Brenner-to quit smoking once and for all, i.e., shot him right in the lungs. And then the foreman did it gladly, though it was no pretty task, because let’s put it this way: Brenner had more freckles on his face than the man who was respirating him. The foreman only did it because his boss was holding a shotgun to his head. But if you’re saying, that’s despicable, then I unfortunately have to tell you, this was still the nice part of the story.

  And if you scare easily, think about something else now. Close your eyes and think of that vacation on the beach, reclining chair, suntan lotion, sound of the waves. And not of that patch of grass beside the cesspit. Kressdorf wasn’t leaving anything half-done there. In other words, Brenner’s first breath was also his rescuer’s last. Because directly in the head. And believe it or not, Brenner almost envied him for it.

  Normally you’d say that a person who’s just come to should rest a little while and not return right away to the mob office that he’s just taken a flying leap from until after a lunch break. But here again is the advantage of being the murderer. You don’t have to go around agonizing about the little moral prescriptions. And Kressdorf wasn’t going to begrudge Brenner the chance to catch his breath now. With shotgun in hand, he forced Brenner, who was still shaky and befuddled, to push the two corpses into the cesspit to join Knoll and Congressman Stachl. And you see, that’s the beautiful thing about misfortune. That is the magnificent thing about sickness and death. That’s the wonderful thing about exhaustion and collapse. You hopelessly outmatch every weapon. Because total exhaustion, terminal illness, complete despair, nothing’s more motivating than a shotgun. But Brenner was just too exhausted still. Even with the strongest of wills, he couldn’t do it. His knees kept buckling-marionettes haven’t got anything on him.

  There was nothing left for Kressdorf to do now. Shotgun or no shotgun, he had to do it himself. In the workplace, he’d heave a loud sigh at every opportunity and bemoan tearfully how he always had to do everything himself. But today, no whining, no sighing, and no stamping his feet. He was utterly focused on the matter at hand. I’d almost like to say it was one of the happiest moments in his life, when there was nothing except him and the task before him, and with a few determined kicks of his foot, he nudged the two corpses over the edge of the cesspit, where each disappeared with an indifferent splash.

  My dear swan, Knoll, the congressman, and the two bully-boys in a cesspit. A party came together there, and you almost have to say, it’s no minor feat when a pool of shit is made qualitatively worse.

  Standing had become so strenuous for Brenner that he sat back down in the grass, right at the edge of the cesspit. He stared into it and tried to remember something important that he’d experienced down there. He mustered all his powers of concentration, but he only knew that it was something terribly important. Something earth-shattering, it seemed to him, that explained why he was so exhausted. But it sank deeper and deeper, never to resurface in him.

  Purely from a detective’s standpoint, it wasn’t so bad that he’d completely forgotten the good lord because the good lord wasn’t the perpetrator. The good lord didn’t make the South Tyrolean take Helena. He didn’t make Brenner forget to gas up the night before. He didn’t make the Frau Doctor implicate her husband in a gigantic construction contract by not reporting an abortion she’d performed on a twelve-year-old child. He didn’t make the congressman spoil Prater Park and get his contractor’s wife pregnant. And above all, he didn’t make Knoll make threats in his name.

  The good lord just gazed upon all of this with a smile because-free will. The sight of the open pit, into which his memory had disappeared for all eternity, was so discomforting to Brenner that he asked Kressdorf whether he should cover the cesspit back up with the wooden boards or whether it wasn’t worth it because he was still planning to throw him in, too.

  “Close it up,” Kressdorf said. “Why do you think I got you back out, Herr Simon?” Because-unbelievable, Kressdorf, still correct, addressing Brenner formally as Herr Simon. “You I still need. And those few boards can always be quickly removed again. But no innocent person should fall in.”

  Then he sent Brenner to the shower and had him put on some of his clean hunting clothes. And then they drove to Vienna to get Helena.

  CHAPTER 21

  One thing I’ve never liked about the human brain: that in the most dangerous situations, it often attaches importance to the silliest little things. So it bothers you that the executioner uses a bad aftershave, it bothers you that the doctor pronounces your throat cancer with a rolled R, and it bothers you that you can’t claim your wedding ring as a tax deduction. And believe it or not, it was bothering Brenner now that he should have to slip into a hunting ensemble while Kressdorf nagged him.

  But I have to defend Kressdorf here. What was he supposed to do? There simply wasn’t any other clothing in the cabin. And was he supposed to let Brenner sit on his leather upholstery in his cesspit-soaked clothes? He didn’t have to rush him, either, though. As if it were all riding on these few seconds now. Brenner only had two buckhorn buttons fastened when Kressdorf got impatient and pushed him into the car.

  So that Kressdorf wouldn’t notice how bad he was feeling, Brenner said in the car, “Today we’re really contributing something to the rejuvenation of society.” But Kressdorf didn’t react, just kept his sights trained on Brenner so he wouldn’t make a wrong turn on the way out of Kitzbuhel. As if the joke-explaining soul of the newly deceased security guard were inside him, Brenner went on, “Because swapping four imbeciles for one child, society can’t have anything against that.”

  But Kressdorf told him he should keep his mouth shut and concentrate on the driving. Whether or not he meant to address Brenner formally as Herr Simon was left open-ended this time because short and succinct: “Shut up.”

  As Brenner told him the story of the accidental kidnapping by the South Tyrolean, it seemed like he might actually be halfway reaching Kressdorf again, but no sooner had he begun to hope that his disclosure might turn Kressdorf around and pull him back over to his side, when Kressdorf interrupted him again with a perfectly devoid of emotion “Shut up.”

  At least this gave Brenner plenty of time to think about what his best course of action was in order to keep Kressdorf from shooting him as soon as he got the kid. Or if he did shoot him, how he could prevent him from shooting the South Tyrolean, too. Because one thing’s clear: when you’ve come as far as Kressdorf has, you don’t waste any time coddling your witnesses, no, you mop them up like fly droppings because-no sentimentality.

  But the longer he thought about it, the more hopeless the situation seemed to him. Between Amstetten and St. Polten, he tried to ensnare Kressdorf in conversation again. “What was it about your wife that Knoll caught on tape and you killed him for?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  Interesting, though: because Brenner thought “Nothing at all” meant about as much as “Shut up,” he didn’t even entertain the possibility that Kressdorf had just begun to tell him the truth. But maybe Brenner’s silence was good just now, because twenty kilometers outside St. Polten, Kressdorf started talking again. “It wasn’t my wife who Knoll found something out about. It was me. You know how my office is in Munich.”

  Kressdorf thought about this sentence for another five minutes, as if he’d discovered an explanation for all the world’s misfortunes in the words “Munich” and “office.”

  “That’s why I’d sometimes use my wife’s office in Vienna and keep the bribe money in the clinic’s safe. Once, Congressman Stachl met me there to deliver a kickback. And Knoll got it on his s
urveillance camera.”

  “How much was he demanding for it?” Brenner asked, because now that Kressdorf had gotten to talking, a question in between wasn’t a problem anymore.

  “Nothing at all. Knoll was an idealist. His suggestion was: he erases the tape, and I get my wife to close the clinic once and for all. If he’d gone public with his evidence, not only would MegaLand have been history, Congressman Stachl and I would’ve gone to prison, KREBA would’ve gone bankrupt. And so on. I’m not just talking about a few million euros.”

  That Kressdorf was telling him all this-ninety-nine hours after Helena’s kidnapping-was not a good sign for Brenner.

  “You know what I think?” Kressdorf asked him. But then he just thought it over for a while and kept it to himself. Whether he just wasn’t certain, or he just didn’t want to divulge it to Brenner, I don’t know.

  He said, “Knoll was always grinning with that air of superiority. Especially when I explained to him that I’d rather go to prison than cause my wife any harm. He just said, with that smug smile of his, that he didn’t understand where Helena-”

  Kressdorf sank so low now, it was as if he’d never speak another word again. Brenner almost finished the sentence for him, just to get it out there. He almost said, this kind of thing has happened to other men before, too. Almost said, the main thing is that nothing’s happened to Helena. But Kressdorf didn’t give the impression of wanting to hear anything more, so Brenner didn’t say anything at all.

  “What blood type are you, Herr Simon?”

  “I don’t know. They measured it once when I was on the force.”