For some reason, his mother still had remarkably fine-looking hands. She slid one into the bag, felt around for the appropriate piece, and then brought it to her mouth. Her face, in strict contrast, had aged in deep, mottled lines, as if to offset the litheness of the fingers. “You’ve only made it worse for me,” she said. “They’ll all want a bit of chocolate now, and the two of us will be through this by the time you go. They’ll smell it on me, and they’ll know.” She took a bite.
Hoffner reached into his other pocket and pulled out a second bag. He placed it at the foot of the bed. “You can dole it out to the most deserving.”
She took a second bite and nodded distantly.
“You’re not feeling well?” he said. He only now noticed the short table at the other side of the bed. It was littered with a few vials, each half-filled with a deep red liquid.
“That’s what they say.”
“You’ve no opinion on the matter?”
She managed a moment without self-pity. “Something in my chest.” She then plucked out a second piece of chocolate. “They’d tell me not to have this.” She took a healthy bite and, for the first time, showed a trace of pleasure.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t.”
Pulling the bag up close to her face, she began to scrutinize the contents. “Maybe.” Her eyes remained fixed as she lowered her voice. “They’re giving me trouble again.”
“Who? The director? Tell him we’ve been through this.”
“Not the director. He understands the situation. He’s only too happy to let me know how well he understands the situation.”
“Then who?”
“The doctors. The women. Everyone. They treat me as if I don’t belong.”
“It’s all in your head.”
That, of course, was not entirely true. Most of the residents of the Château—a French name for a Russian home; Hoffner had never understood it—had arrived just after the war, fleeing either the Bolsheviks or the Whites or whatever else Jews flee from. It was a place where those too old to make a new start in a new world were set aside by a government still trying to find its way. The onetime Reichs President Ebert, with some sympathy for his own, had done what he could. Evidently it had not been much.
It was, however, exactly what Frau Hoffner had been longing for, even if Russia had last seen her in the summer of 1871. In fact, she had been a German citizen since 1873, and had converted two years later to some form of Christianity—Hoffner had never been told which—so as not to be an impediment to her husband’s career. Even then, Walther Hoffner had managed to rise only so far as the noble, if bitter, rank of Kripo detective sergeant, on a pension half as large as the one his son was due to make. Dead nine years, Walther had left his wife seeking her past. She had gone to an official on Münzstrasse for the paperwork, whereupon Rokel Hoffner had, once again, become a Jew.
The director had promised to keep the particulars of her history discreet. Such men lived on empty promises.
“I can take you out of here,” Hoffner said. They were now on to the second act. “You only pretend to be weak and disagreeable. You could have a room of your own, maybe two, closer into town. I’ve got the money.”
“Then why don’t you do it?”
This was where he had learned to appreciate the stamina of self-pity. “Because you don’t want me to.”
“Why should that stop you?”
He smiled with a recollected warmth. “It shouldn’t, but it does. Are you going to leave me a few pieces?”
She handed him the bag. “I wasn’t always like this.”
“You aren’t like this now. It’s just for me. As punishment. We both know I deserve it.”
“Yes, but you don’t let it sink in. You’ve never let things sink in. It makes it all a waste.”
She was never shy with the truth. He took a chocolate. “I saw Georgi today.” This brought a spark of life to her eyes. “He’s out at one of the film studios. Running errands for very important people.”
The moment of joy slipped away. “He doesn’t know about any of this? You haven’t told him?”
“Why would I tell him?”
“Because you can be overly sentimental.”
She had always confused sentiment with duty, he thought. “And who would that help?”
“I don’t want him to see this place, or me in it.”
“It’s been seven years. If he doesn’t know by now, he won’t. He’s a boy of sixteen with a dying grandmother. He’ll see you at the funeral.”
This seemed to quiet any concern. Funny how she never asked about Sascha anymore. A bell rang in the corridor and Hoffner hoisted himself up.
She said, “Always so relieved when you hear it.”
He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead. “I count the minutes.”
She waited until he had his hat in hand to say, “It doesn’t make you a better man that you come.”
If that were all it took, thought Hoffner, how easy a thing it would be to unburden himself of all manner of self-delusion. He buttoned his coat. “I’ll try to come by next Monday. I’ll bring a book, a novel. We’ll read a bit together.”
Her eyes were already shut. Even then, she was no closer to peace than when he had first arrived, and it was that, and that alone, that always cut him. Not for the sadness or loneliness or desperation that breathed in every corner of the place, but for his own failure. Hoffner carried it like an added weight to his own isolation, out into the street, and imagined that this was what shame must have felt like.
IT HAD BEEN A DAY OF FLATS, Georg’s, the Volker girl’s, and now his own. The lamplight beyond the shades spilled into the room and brought what few pieces of furniture he had into partial relief. Hoffner tossed his hat onto a chair, and set the small plate of cheese and dumplings on the table. He had picked up the food at the bar around the corner; it was still relatively warm. The plate would go back tomorrow morning.
He turned on the light by the stove and opened the icebox. He remembered having boiled a few eggs two, three days ago, and leaned down to retrieve them. Instead, he found a plate of beef, noodles, and peas, with a note at its side: The eggs spoiled and you would have eaten them. I’ll be by later. M.
Schiller, his landlord, must have let her up, thought Hoffner. Schiller liked big-breasted women. Hoffner’s involvement with Maria had raised him threefold in Schiller’s eyes. “A nice healthy girl,” Schiller had said that first time he saw Hoffner send her out into the night. “Well done, Kripo.” Schiller had no respect for the police. Not that he was a socialist or Communist, or whatever “ist” was now most despising of authority. He just thought he could take care of himself.
Hoffner preferred small breasts. They were never the prize and therefore required no special expertise. Women like Maria expected a bit of fanfare, even a delight and gratitude that Hoffner lacked the will to pretend. He recalled the disappointment in her eyes that first time she had unveiled them, certainly well kept for a woman somewhere past forty, but he had known to set the tone even then. There would be nothing between them to hint at anticipation, let alone happiness. Only a plate of beef and a sometime comfort.
He picked up the food, turned out the light, and stepped over to the window. He took solace in seeing Berlin under darkness. The days of unwavering sun were beginning to dull the city’s angularity: patterns were still there, but the details were being washed away. Berlin reemerged at night, but only in her backstreets. Elsewhere, she was giving in to the erosion. Constant light, natural or otherwise, had a fondness for decay.
He heard the knock at the door and thought she might have given him at least time to finish the meal. Letting go the shade, he placed the plate on the table as the knocking became more insistent. “All right, all right,” he said. “You know I haven’t room to hide a girl.”
He pulled open the door and found Leni standing in front of him. Her face was paler than he remembered.
From the corridor’s far end, Schiller’s vo
ice rose with winded insistence. “Look here,” he said, hulking his large frame toward them. “You don’t just push your way through—”
“It’s all right, Schiller.” Hoffner continued to stare at her. “I know the lady.” He was waiting to see something in the eyes.
“And you think that settles it?” Schiller wanted more for his efforts. “Me having to run after her? This isn’t some cheap house up in Prenzlauer where jilted girls go running after—”
“I’ve been attacked, mein Herr.” Leni spoke with the same quiet authority that had been so convincing this afternoon. This time, however, she had left a small wedge open for sympathy. “Herr Hoffner is the only friend I have in Berlin. You’ll forgive my indiscretion.”
Hoffner noticed the rips along her coat sleeve and the small welt under her chin. How he had missed them only moments ago puzzled him.
Schiller saw them now as well. “Well, I—” He seemed to fold in on himself. “Attacked, was it?” He fumbled for another moment, then looked at Hoffner. “That’s serious business, then. Nothing to do with me.” He nodded as if to reassure himself and began to back his way down the corridor. “I’ll say good luck to you, then, Fräulein.” He bounced a nod Hoffner’s way. “Kripo.” And, realizing this was his best opportunity, quickly turned and headed to the stairs.
For an instant Hoffner felt something strangely familiar, a tightening in his chest he hadn’t known in years. It was the need to protect. Just as quickly it was gone. With no other choice, he pulled back the door and invited her in.
INGRID
VERY NICE,” she said, giving the place the once-over before settling into the sofa. “I didn’t realize chief inspectors lived so high on the hog.”
Hoffner pulled two glasses and a bottle from a shelf and placed them on the table in front of her. Without asking, he poured out two brandies. “High on the what?” he asked.
“The hog. The good life. Top of the line.” The window for sympathy had evidently closed. She took her glass. “I don’t suppose it translates.”
“I don’t suppose it does,” he said, and pulled over a chair.
“I might have been laying it on a bit thick, but you really are the only person I know in town. The boys out at the studio don’t count.”
“Or volunteer their home addresses.” Hoffner took a drink.
She tried a smile, but the welt won out. “That, too.”
“You’ll want something for that.” He went to the icebox, and she said, “And about this afternoon. If anything I said—” She stopped herself.
Hoffner pulled some ice from the bucket and reached over for a rag by the sink. “Said about what?”
“At the bar. Your wife. I didn’t know.” He could feel her watching him as he folded the rag over the ice. “I did a little poking around,” she continued. “It’s something I do. Habit, I suppose.”
He tied a small knot and started back to her. “It’s a long time ago,” he said, and handed her the ice.
“Still, pretty horrible. A victim in one of your own murder cases. How do you get past that?”
No room for sympathy at all, he thought. He waited until she had the ice under her chin before saying, “So where was this attack?” He sat.
“I do that sometimes. I don’t know why.” There was a surprising vulnerability in her face, not for any lingering fear, but for the sudden recognition of her own callousness. “Keep on pressing at something. It’s stupid. And it’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”
Hoffner noticed the empty glass and poured her another. “As I said, a long time ago.”
“That’s just to be kind.”
He topped off his own. “Maybe it is.” He placed the bottle on the table and tapped at his pockets for a cigarette. She quickly pulled out her case.
“If you’re willing to slum it,” she said. He took one and she explained, “It was a spot near the Hallesches Gate.” She snapped her purse shut and exhaled: the sound and smoke seemed to focus her. “It was one of the names in the Volker girl’s cards. Lots of lederhosen and sunburnt thighs.”
The Hallesches Gate, thought Hoffner. Just the place for an American. Hoffner narrowed it down to the Cozy Corner or The Trap. “For the tourists,” he said. “You enjoyed it?”
“As far as it went.”
What a perfect answer: enough to show him how little would shock her, still more to let him know how far she might take things. Hoffner said, “The real sex clubs don’t advertise in the same way.”
“Must have been a laugh for Thyssen and the girl. A trip to the zoo to gawk at the animals.”
“Or a safe way to dabble.”
This brought a moment’s surprise. “You don’t think he was homosexual?”
Hoffner hadn’t thought about it one way or the other. Still, it was nice to see her caught unawares. “Him, her, too soon to tell, although I don’t think either would be a first in your line of work.”
“And you don’t approve.”
“Of your line of work?” He allowed himself a half-smile. “I don’t think my approval is much of an issue. What a man does or doesn’t do—he’ll do it anyway. All that matters is if he gets killed for it and a girl goes missing. That’s when my opinion matters.”
She stared across at him, the smoke from her cigarette curling between them. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t believe you asked a question.”
“The brandy’s not terribly good.”
“It goes with the furnishings.”
“You could do better.”
“That would require a bit of effort.”
“Still, it might be worthwhile.”
“It might.”
Hoffner hadn’t played at this in years. The transparency of the thing made it all the more daring: he could almost feel the excitement in her breath. From somewhere deep within him, his isolation seemed to take on a voice all its own. It said, This isn’t the way out for you, and you know it. Then again, it might just have been a plea for its own self-preservation, and why let it damn him for that?
“Let me take a look,” he said, and reached across for the ice. She handed him the rag, then tilted her head. The neck was lithe and smooth, the tiny blue-red bumps of the welt only drawing out its fineness. He placed his fingers against her skin. She breathed in deeply and he released.
“You’ll have that for a day or two,” he said.
“I don’t usually bruise so easily.” She had a compact out and was doing what she could with a bit of powder.
“Back of the hand?”
“The man was a brute. I don’t think he meant to hit me. There was a lot of pushing. He might even have slipped.”
“Any idea why?”
“Wet floor?” It was the only false note she had struck. She knew it instantly. “I asked to have a look at one of the private rooms.” She seemed to take her misstep out on the butt of her cigarette, crushing it into the ashtray. “Someone remembered seeing the Volker girl and a man heading up to one a week or so ago. My friend with the knuckles didn’t think I needed a viewing.” She brushed the ash from her fingers.
“So you became an added sideshow for the tourists.”
“Something like that.”
Hoffner didn’t believe it. The clubs around the Hallesches Gate thrived on a kind of wholesome depravity: what corruption there was never ventured beyond the safe. How else could they keep the tourists coming in? He tossed back his glass and said, “Well then, we should have another chat with him.”
The chance to gauge her reaction was lost to the sound of a key in the lock. Hoffner turned to see Maria, packages in hand, moving toward the icebox. Unaware of her audience, she placed a few bottles of beer, some day-old bread, and a slab of butter on the counter. When she turned, her surprise quickly gave way to a bare silence.
It was nearly half a minute before she spoke. “Schiller said you weren’t back.” Again she waited. “He gave me the key.”
What a bastard Schiller was, t
hought Hoffner. He stood. “Must not have seen me come in.” He motioned to Leni. “This is Fräulein Coyle. She’s involved with a case. An American. Fräulein Coyle, Fräulein Gerber.”
Leni nodded from her seat with that vacant smile the beautiful reserve for the plain. “Delighted.”
Maria had evidently seen it before; her gaze was all the more unkind. “An American? How exotic a case for you, Nikolai.” She reached for the chair, expecting to find her coat, when she realized she was still wearing it. “I’ll go, then. Let you work it through.”
“Actually,” Leni broke in as she stood, “we were just going ourselves, Fräulein. I’ve made a mess of things, and the chief inspector has been kind enough to come to my rescue.”
Hoffner had no idea whether Leni was trying to help him or hurt him; either way, she was doing her very best. “The Fräulein was attacked,” he said, and, not knowing why, “You should stay. I won’t be long.” The words “Let me pity you” might just as well have been ringing in the room.
“There’s beer and bread and butter,” Maria said. “I don’t think you have coffee.” She placed the key by the sink. “You’ll see Herr Schiller gets it back.” Hoffner took a step toward her, but it was an empty gesture. “Fräulein,” she said as she moved to the door. Her “Nikolai” lingered in the corridor like the stench of a wet dog.
Hoffner had long ago dispensed with remorse for these moments of relief. There would be something unpleasant in the next day or two, recriminations, a list of offenses, and he would submit to them all before watching her try to bring him back. But there would be no going back this time. Instead, he would suffer through the sudden surprise in her face at his acceptance of it all, the chance lost, the truth in her appraisal, on and on. Her eyes would grow impossibly warm—“No, no, it’s not what I meant”—then equally cold at his firmness. It would all fall away, and he could already feel the weight lifting.
“Shall we, Fräulein?” he said, as if the last few minutes had played out only for him.
Sensible enough to let it pass, Leni headed for the door.
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