Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  Benno shrugged. “At the Strandkurier?”

  “Of course. Haven’t you noticed? Whenever they publish something iffy or sensational, they use a name that nobody has ever heard of. It’s an open secret.”

  “Apparently not open enough.”

  Ms. Stein smiled. They returned to the small reading room with the coffee table and history books.

  “I thought about barrows. Do they still exist?”

  “Dolmens, megalithic tombs . . .” The librarian furrowed her brow. Then she seemed to have an idea. “There was something,” she said, walking slowly up and down in front of the shelves.

  She bent down and pulled out several books, but could not seem to find the right one. “Look,” she suddenly said. “There’s something from one of your new neighbors.” She handed Benno a small book with a soft, pale brown cover. The Children from Wodeberg was printed in old-fashioned lettering, and the subtitle promised The story of a Strathlevener family. The author’s name was Martin Wehrke. “Do you know him?” the librarian asked.

  Benno shook his head. “Might be related to the champion marksman. No idea.”

  “I’ll tell you if I find the book about the megalithic tombs. It was probably nothing important, but ask me about it next time. I have to go back down and guard the desk.”

  Benno sat down at a table and opened the thin book to a foldout family tree in the back. The author himself was the younger of two brothers, divorced, and father of an adult son. A photo of Martin Wehrke was printed on the inside of the book cover. He seemed to be thin, with a long nose, beard, and a bald head. A pipe was stuck in his mouth, and he wore a jacket and tie. Benno could not remember having seen him at the shooting club ball.

  He made it just in time to the John Deere dealer before the store closed for the evening. Christensen’s silent hostility was getting on Benno’s nerves, and the lawn looked more chopped off than mowed whenever his neighbor was done with his handiwork. Buying his own lawnmower seemed inevitable.

  There were only two cars in the parking lot, but one of them Benno recognized immediately. It was the black Jaguar Tim had fallen in love with a few months ago. Was this Andreas Wehrke’s, the owner’s car?

  Unlike Otto Friedrich’s glittering palace, the John Deere dealership was a more modest affair. Shabby linoleum covered the sales floor, where you could buy rakes, power tools, garden soil, and fertilizer. Two small tractors were parked in the blue and green-carpeted showroom, with extra pieces of carpet stuck underneath the tires.

  “Can I help you?” An employee in a green coat approached Benno. He had a bald patch and seemed to have swallowed a broomstick.

  “The shooting club ball,” Benno said.

  “Demnig.” The salesman broke into a smile, which looked ugly because of his bad teeth. “Walter Demnig. Your wife, she’s a great dancer. Full of energy.”

  “I need a lawnmower.” Benno clenched his fists. He felt an itch to show this man what exactly he thought of him. “Is Andreas Wehrke here?”

  “The boss? No, these days he’s usually over at the concrete plant.”

  “Oh, I thought . . . the concrete plant also belongs to him? So that’s not his Jaguar outside?”

  “That’s Junior’s.”

  “He works here?”

  “It’s probably his winter break. And over Christmas, he’s supposed to run the store.” Demnig leaned forward and whispered, “We make sure that he doesn’t mess up everything . . .” He wanted to add something else, it seemed, but suddenly straightened up and said, “If it continues to rain like that, you might still need the mower.”

  The reason for Demnig’s behavior had just stepped out of a small office in back. Harald Wehrke wasn’t wearing a green coat, but a black velvet jacket that matched his car’s coating. He was almost as tall as his father, and even slimmer. His dark hair was curled and reached almost to his shoulders.

  “Nice car,” Benno said loudly enough that Harald could hear it. “My boy loves it.”

  An involuntary smile appeared on the young man’s lips, but quickly disappeared again. He nodded at Benno. “Is Walter helping you?” he asked. “Or is he trying to talk you into buying a tractor to cut your grass? Walter loves his tractors.”

  Demnig turned red, but bravely held on to his smile.

  “We’ll find the right mower,” Benno said. “Thank you.”

  Harald slowly walked back into his office and closed the door. Through the glass window Benno could see the young man put his black shoes—adorned with straps, silver buckles and studs—on the desk and light a cigarette. One perfect smoke ring after another escaped his wide-open mouth.

  8

  It was mid-December when Benno stopped for a second time at the Miracle Oak and ran out into the field. Fortunately, the rain had taken a break. They’d had their first night of frost and the grass crunched under his shoes. Benno was as happy as a little boy—he had even thought to bring gloves and a wool hat.

  From the car he had seen something hanging in the now leafless branches, and since he had left the house early enough, he allowed himself the little detour. That something had probably been red or brown originally, but was now covered by a layer of frost. It had no shape at all, and looked like a big, half-filled plastic bag. With an old branch, Benno poked at the strange thing, which turned out to be still soft and not fully frozen.

  Suddenly he remembered the night when they had picked up Rasmus. “Bovine stomach,” Carolin had said, and really, whatever it was that had hung in Farmer Reincke’s tree had looked like the innards of a large animal.

  Benno hastily ran back to the car and pulled his camera from the glove compartment. His fingers were so cold that the camera almost fell out of his hands. He couldn’t make any sense of his find, but he’d figure it out one way or another. He would develop the photos in the darkroom of the Strandkurier and show them to people in the village. But to whom? For a moment he paused. Mr. Heintz maybe? Yes, that was a possibility. Or better yet Martin Wehrke? If he had written a whole book about Strathleven, he would also know stories about the oak tree. He had to be listed in the phone book.

  Even Corinna Friedrich, whom Benno had never seen in church before, stood with some friends at a booth and sold cookies and cake. It was the second weekend of the Advent season, and Pastor Cornelius had announced during his sermon that the proceeds of this year’s Third World Bazaar would go to a cooperative in Colombia.

  Benno was wearing a Santa hat, which Carolin had bought for him at the table of her youth group, and picked up small bags containing marzipan or almond biscuits, before eyeing a tin can filled with cinnamon cookies.

  “Tell me,” he said to Corinna. “The story about Sybille and that boy . . . you know, the story about the dead woman.” He hadn’t been able to shake the image of one of the boys taking a souvenir from the murder scene.

  “Yes?” Corinna asked slowly. She stepped closer toward him, so that the other girls wouldn’t be able to overhear their conversation.

  “Has Sybille told you anything more about that day?”

  Corinna shook her head. “That hat is too small for you.” She took hold of his Santa hat and adjusted it. Her hands brushed his ears. “Yeah, that’s better.”

  “Have you found out what the boy stole that day?”

  “No idea.”

  “Who else knows about it?” he asked. When the girl only stared at him with vacant eyes, he added, “What’s up with Harald?”

  “What should be up with him?”

  “Are you guys still . . .” Benno hesitated.

  “It’s none of your business, but yes, I’m still fucking him. Are you going to buy those cinnamon cookies or are you just going to stare at them?”

  Benno quickly produced his wallet, and after he paid and left the table, he could hear the girls snickering behind him. He hoped that it was only because of his silly hat.

  “Old wives’ tales,” Mr. Heintz said cheerfully when Benno stopped at his table and asked him about pagan ri
tuals. Before him lay an assortment of wooden figurines.

  “No black cats? No witches’ dance in Strathleven? Where are the Miracle Oaks?” Benno pointed to the colorful figurines: the Christ Child in the manger, the Three Kings, obese Santas and small angels in white robes, playing the flute or harp.

  “They don’t please Cornelius. Not holy enough. But really, if we go back two or three hundred years, every village was still burning witches at the stake.” His ring of white hair was oiled and lay plastered against his skull.

  A hand touched Benno’s shoulder. He turned around, expecting to see the pastor’s face. To his amazement, it was Andreas Wehrke who stood before him.

  “Well, that’s a surprise,” Mr. Heintz said. His face seemed to try on different expression yet proved unable to decide on a particular one. Suspicion and fear seemed to mingle, and then suddenly made room for a vigorous grin.

  Wehrke was wearing a light wool coat, a suit that looked too shiny for this little town, and he smelled a bit too strongly of aftershave. “Oh, you have to support good causes. And when you’re even allowed to drink wine . . .” He smirked.

  “Lawnmower,” Benno burst out.

  “What?” Heintz stared at him in astonishment.

  “Oh, sorry, but I’ve just bought a new mower. My first. If it keeps raining this way, I’ll still need to trim my lawn by New Year’s Eve.” Then he turned directly to Wehrke. “I’ve been meaning to get in touch with you.”

  “Well, well,” Heintz said, as though this concerned him.

  “With me?” asked Wehrke.

  “Yes, with you and your brother. I’m working on an article about Strathleven, and I thought, I mean, as the champion marksman . . .” Benno began to stutter.

  “Have you seen my son?” Wehrke asked, without addressing Benno’s remark.

  “Harald? No, I haven’t.”

  “He wanted to help a friend. Sorry!” He shook Benno’s hand. “Just stop by the store sometime.”

  Benno watched the dealer as he walked through the crowd. Maybe it was just his imagination, but it seemed to Benno as though the members of the congregation backed away from him. No one seemed to want to talk to him, and many turned this way and that to avoid eye contact. Probably people were just being polite and simply did not want to bump into Wehrke. He was a businessman and the champion marksman, he commanded respect.

  “He doesn’t come here often,” said Benno and turned back to Mr. Heintz. “Doesn’t seem to be too happy either.”

  “Ah, nonsense, he’s just . . . he’s just a Wehrke.”

  “Are they something special?”

  Heintz shrugged. “They’ve been here forever.”

  “I have a question about the Miracle Oak,” Benno said. “There was something strange hanging from the branches.”

  The old man had sat down in a folding chair and now he opened the Lübecker Nachrichten. “You’re ruining my business,” he said dryly.

  “What?”

  “You’re standing in front of my table and blocking the view.”

  Benno blushed, mumbled an apology and looked around for Tim and Carolin, but couldn’t find them in the crowd. He joined Heintz behind the table, once again asked about the oak and fished two of his photos from his pocket.

  Heintz looked at the pictures with narrowed eyes, then took a pair of reading glasses from his jacket. “An old dragon, perhaps?”

  “There was blood on it and it almost looked like a bovine stomach. Maybe. I can’t be certain.”

  Heintz shrugged. “Some monkey business. Probably some kids who hung it there.”

  “I saw something similar at Reincke’s farm.”

  “You didn’t grow up here. It’s terribly boring in Strathleven. A bovine stomach or an afterbirth is a lot of fun here.”

  Benno said goodbye, without having learned anything new. And now he had to hurry. Lübeck would play this afternoon against TSV Kiel. He kept looking for Tim and found the boy at a table that was heaped with old junk. Braided juice bottles, Macrame hangings, a camera, and old dishes were inspected, but apparently not purchased, by the villagers.

  “Have you seen Carolin?” asked Benno.

  Tim shook his head.

  “I have to go. Please tell her that I’ll be back for dinner.”

  The boy looked at him pleadingly. “Can I come?”

  “Not today. You’re needed here.” Benno took off his Santa hat and pulled it over Tim’s head. “Next time.”

  He ran into Carolin near the exit, next to the old baptismal font which was used to collect money after the service. She had a petition lying before her on the table and was collecting signatures and sipping coffee. “Do you have to leave already?”

  He gave her a kiss. “Call of duty.”

  “Can you let out the dog once more?”

  At that moment Pastor Cornelius appeared in the doorway. Benno had not seen him since the rock-music sermon, and his face was bright crimson. He was not wearing his wire-frame glasses, and Benno was able to see the man and not his office for the first time. Cornelius was strongly built, and his face did not exude its usual shiny goodness. Without his robe, he was an intimidating presence, bigger and probably stronger than Benno. Yet the pastor did not seem to notice him. Without wiping his mud-caked shoes, he marched past Carolin and Benno.

  “Damned insolence,” he hissed and was gone the next moment.

  “What’s got into him?” asked Benno, but Carolin seemed too shocked to answer.

  When he stepped outside, seconds later, he saw a black car drive off slowly. It was raining cats and dogs, but Benno stood and stared after the car. The black velvet coating he recognized immediately. It was Harald Wehrke’s car.

  Lübeck lost as expected, and after talking to the players and the coach of the TSV Kiel after the game, Benno stopped by the offices of the Strandkurier. Advent wreaths hung in the newsroom, and it smelled like cinnamon rolls. The whole town was festively decorated and looked like a Christmas fantasy. Only the snow was still missing. Even though it was already after five o’clock and dark outside, two of his colleagues were still sitting at their desks. Even Jochen Hecht, the publisher, was in his office, and Benno seized the opportunity and knocked on the open door.

  Hecht looked up from a stack of bills and smiled. He might have been about sixty years old, and his skin was leathery and wrinkled. The eyes behind the thick horn-rimmed glasses were reddened, his voice was loud and smoky. “Diedrich, why aren’t you with your family?”

  Benno shook his head. “You’re not home either.”

  “Divorced. No child custody. Girlfriend. Too young and not interested in the business. The holiday season is just lousy, but for New Year’s we’re going to Sylt.” Hecht always seemed cheerful. “Got anything on your mind?”

  Benno sighed. “Not really.”

  “Really?”

  “I don’t know. We’re slowly settling in, and I thought . . . I thought maybe I could write an article about Strathleven.”

  “Cattle and grain prices?”

  “More like a portrait of the place, maybe a bit of history, profiles of some people.”

  “Who put that idea in your head? The mayor?”

  Benno laughed sheepishly. “No. It was the pastor.”

  “Oh, the Anabaptists?”

  “Baptists. They take that seriously.”

  “I don’t want to curb your enthusiasm,” Hecht said, taking off his glasses and rubbing his eyes. “But every new employee comes into my office with such a story, and I have to reject them all.” Without his glasses his eyes seemed twice as large. “There are always people who think, ‘Oh, maybe now we get into the news.’ It’s a minor miracle that you haven’t asked me earlier. We are not the Hamburger Abendblatt, but not a week goes by without random people stopping me in the street and suggesting I write an article about their mothers, nieces and great-grandchildren.”

  Benno just nodded his head.

  “But if you dig up any dirt, then of course we will
print that. Eight-legged calves, unsolved murders and ghosts. Have you already visited the old insane asylum? I think we did something on that . . . oh my goodness, fifteen, twenty years ago.”

  “Insane asylum?”

  “Yes, a private clinic. Quite posh. But at the time they were housing young drug addicts there. The whole area was in a state of panic. Drug addicts!” Hecht laughed and leaned back in his chair. “You want some coffee? I think Kerstin just made some.” He stood up, put his glasses back on, and together they went to the small kitchen. Hecht took two mugs from the cupboard and poured Benno some of the pitch-black liquid. “Half-pot Kerstin we call her,” he said in a low voice and chuckled. “Filter full to the brim, but only half a pot of water. One day my heart is going to explode.”

  “So if I find something . . .” Benno tried to steer the conversation back to Strathleven.

  “Yeah, sure. Violence and murder are preferred. But that’s probably not what your pastor expects. But the people there will still be proud to be in the paper.” He paused for a moment. “How’s your wife?”

  “Good. I think, anyway. She enjoys country life. She . . .” Benno was about to mention Carolin’s medication, but he swallowed his remark. He realized that he hadn’t spoken to anyone about Carolin, hadn’t confided in any of his colleagues. In Berlin there had been friends who had listened to his every sorrow and heartbreak, but here he didn’t know anybody.

  Perhaps Hecht interpreted Benno’s silence correctly, because he said, “You should bring your wife to our Christmas party. It can get awfully lonely in the country.” He nodded and left the kitchen. Benno stayed behind, drank the bitter, burnt liquid and thought about driving home and joining Carolin, Tim and the dog. But instead he leaned against the cupboard for several more minutes thinking about what Hecht had said.

  Then he put the cup in the sink and walked quickly to his desk, took out the phone book and opened it to ‘W.’ Wehrke—there were four of them, but only one Martin. Benno looked at the clock; it was almost seven, not yet too late to call.

  9