Knives, Forks, Scissors, Flames

by Stefan Kiesbye

  A door opened, and seconds later Ralf appeared on the landing. With one hand he held something hidden under his sweater, and when he arrived outside the kitchen, he stopped with a jerk.

  “What are you giving me for this?”

  “I won’t tell on you.”

  Ralf grimaced. “Not good enough.”

  “I guess it’s just a sock or an old shirt.” Benno tried to sound disinterested. “I don’t have time for games.”

  “But you’ve come to me, not I to you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “What do you have?”

  Benno stepped toward Ralf, but the boy stepped back and shook his head. “Not a good idea. My brother is upstairs, and he’s stronger than you.”

  “Who’s the king?” Benno asked.

  The question seemed to confuse the boy. He raised his eyebrows and stared at Benno. “Everybody knows that.”

  “Who then?”

  “Your son. If he comes back.”

  “But why should he die? If he’s the king?”

  Ralf stared at Benno with a mixture of pity and disgust. “Not Tim. Friedrich, his reign is over.”

  “His reign over what?”

  “The village. Us.” The boy shrugged.

  “And that’s why he has to die?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “But why? He’s not old. “

  “That’s just how it is.”

  “But why has Tim disappeared? Who has him?”

  Ralf pursed his lips and shook his head. Benno thought he heard a car outside the house. He quickly reached into his pocket and pulled out a few crumpled bills. “Here, take that,” he said.

  The boy took the money, and as he began to count it, the object he had kept hidden under the sweater fell to the kitchen floor. Benno hastily grabbed it, but as soon as he held it in his hands, he let go again.

  “Nasty, huh?” Ralf said with satisfaction and smoothed out the bills. “Thirty marks? Is that all you have?”

  Benno bent down again, looked at the little doll that was lying on her back in front of him. It was covered with dried, almost black, blood.

  “Stuck out of her abdomen. Nobody wanted to pull it out, so I did.”

  Benno grabbed a kitchen towel and lifted the doll by one leg. It was made of plastic. The thumb of her right hand was stuck in the bloodsmeared mouth.

  “There’s something written on it,” Benno said. “Did you write that?”

  “Nonsense,” the boy said.

  “Who did you tell about this?”

  “No one. The others ran away screaming. They didn’t even look at the doll. They thought it was real.”

  Benno nodded, wrapped the doll in paper towels and went past Ralf to the entrance.

  “It was Sybille, right?” the boy asked.

  Benno turned his head, but didn’t answer. Then he pulled the door open and stepped out onto the porch. He walked through the increasingly heavy snow to his car. He only remembered where he was when he stopped at the edge of town and with trembling hands opened the package. The little baby doll grinned at him. On her belly was written, “Another girl.”

  25

  No one answered the door. After several minutes he pulled his keys from his pocket and unlocked it. Rasmus jumped up on him and pressed himself against his legs. He held very still as Benno knelt beside him and stroked his head.

  Without a clear plan Benno sat down on the couch and stared out at the yard, the sandbox, Heintz’ old yellow Taurus, snow collecting on its roof and windows. Rasmus jumped on the cushion beside him, looking threatening, perhaps, or simply confused. Maybe it was only the black eye that made him appear frightening.

  Benno felt all of a sudden how tired he was, and only the prospect of Carolin coming home kept him from curling up and falling asleep. It was nearly five o’clock, and snow and gray clouds made off with the last light of the day.

  The receiver seemed infinitely heavy, and he dialed a wrong number twice, three times, until he finally got through. Then he let it ring until a woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

  “Benno, the guy you met at the cafe.”

  “Yes?”

  “You said I could call you if I had a question.”

  “And?” Ania Walczak’s voice was calm, more whispered than spoken, as if she had just awakened from a nap.

  “Describe the man you saw with Irina at the restaurant. Her lover.”

  “But I already did.”

  “Do it again, please.”

  Silence followed, then a slight cough. “It’s been so long. I paid Irina little attention back then.”

  “I gave you three hundred marks.”

  Silence again, this time even longer. “Maybe as big as you, dark hair. He was a pastor.”

  “Without glasses.”

  “Yes, without glasses.”

  “And pretty thin. Almost lanky?”

  A hesitant, stretched Yes was the answer.

  Benno sighed, closed his eyes and pressed the phone hard against his ear. “You never saw him, right? Irina had no lover.”

  “She did, I remember him exactly.”

  “And he was not a pastor.”

  “But I tell you . . .”

  “What kind of car was the man driving?”

  “I . . . it was a large car.”

  Benno sank back deep into the couch, and as though he had sensed something, Rasmus came closer and put his head in his lap. For several seconds, only static could be heard on the line. Rasmus closed his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. The money. I thought . . . every village has a pastor.”

  Benno hung up. Blackness surrounded him. Tim wasn’t home. Carolin was not here, and he felt for the first time how cool it was in the apartment. Gratefully, he stroked the large, soft head in his lap. There was so much to do, but he could hardly move. Sybille Antler—who had kidnapped and raped her? Who had questioned her and tried to intimidate her? Who had known that the children had discovered the corpse?

  Corinna, Friedrich’s daughter, had told him about the painted doll. Who else had she confided in? Her boyfriend? Harald Wehrke, the son of the champion shooter? But why would he kill Irina? What had he to fear from Sybille?

  Benno tried to calm his breathing. He knew that the whole village was watching his house. The entire village was awaiting his next step and preparing an answer for him. While he kept his eyes closed, others were making plans for his son and himself. But he didn’t move, only felt his own breath and the fear that penetrated his body together with the cold. Rasmus sniffled loudly and curled up.

  He wrote her a message. He took Rasmus into the garden where the dog eagerly took to the snow and finally stopped at a huge brown tuft of grass. He lifted his leg and looked reproachfully at Benno.

  He hadn’t meant to take him. But the dog didn’t want to go back into the house, pulled away and instead ran to the car. There he sat down in the snow, in front of the right rear door.

  Benno looked at him puzzled, looked at the sky and felt the snow on his face, the flakes so small and gentle, no moon in the sky.

  “Okay, then come with me,” he said and opened the car door. Rasmus jumped with a bark onto the backseat and lay down at once, as if he feared that he might be thrown out again.

  Benno opened the trunk and lifted the lid of his toolbox. He fished around in it, but his fingers wouldn’t obey him.

  “What are you doing?”

  Benno spun around, hitting his head against the trunk lid. Manfred stood wide-eyed behind him, his head half-hidden by the hood of his anorak.

  “I liked you old car better,” he said, almost wistfully.

  “Do you know where my wife is?” Benno cut him off.

  Manfred shook his head.

  “Can you tell her that I have Rasmus?”

  “You have to find Tim,” he said. “He’ll be afraid, all by himself. And he didn’t take my knife with him. Otherwise he could stab his captors or dig a tunnel.”

  Benno nodded, closed t
he trunk and got in the car. Manfred was still standing near the trunk; for him the conversation wasn’t finished yet. “I’ll go inside now. Hopefully Tim has something to eat. It’s time to eat.” Then he trotted toward his front door.

  Hopefully his son had something to eat. Where could he be? Where did they hide him? Or had they already buried him in a field or ditch? The engine howled furiously as Benno left the yard.

  It was five minutes before closing time, and the brightly lit showroom was almost empty. Two salesmen rummaged through their papers, closed drawers and file folders. He nodded at them, figuring they recognized his face by now. Did they know what was going on here? Or did they hail from Wengsten or Kamitz or Grevenhorst? Would they pick up the phone and report his visit as soon as he turned his back on them?

  “Is the boss around?” Benno asked.

  One of the salespeople, a fifty-year-old man in a white shirt and a yellow tie, pointed behind him.

  “He’s in the spare parts warehouse.”

  Benno turned and walked back out onto the lot and over to the low-slung building. Stifling heat greeted him. Without a sound he closed the door and started looking for Friedrich. He found the dealer in a small office where he was flipping through a catalog and taking notes on a pad. When he saw Benno, he smiled and stood up.

  “How can I help you?”

  Benno didn’t know if any mechanics were still present, or who else was still at work, but when Friedrich came toward him, he lost his nerve, and instead of waiting for an opportune moment, he pulled the metal flashlight from his sleeve and hit the smiling face.

  But Friedrich had enough time to take a step back—the blow only struck his shoulder. The second also missed its target, but Benno lunged forward. The third blow struck Friedrich’s skull, and the sound turned Benno’s stomach. Once again he struck, and finally the dealer’s legs gave out and he slumped to the ground. His raised hands could not protect him from the next blows. They hit the chair, the desk, the shelves, the floor, and again and again Otto Friedrich.

  The Scotch tape and office chair squeaked when Friedrich began to stir again. Benno hadn’t been prepared, and after Friedrich had collapsed, he panicked. He bent over the lifeless body and looked for signs of life. Then, when it was clear that he hadn’t killed Friedrich, he had noticed that he hadn’t brought any restraints. Wide scotch tape and a few cables were all he found.

  “The scribbler,” were Friedrich’s first words. Then he closed his eyes and moaned softly.

  Benno rolled the chair into a corner of the small office, to make sure that Friedrich couldn’t fall over. “If you do something stupid, I’ll kill you,” he hissed.

  “Go ahead,” Friedrich whispered. “Better than what I’ll suffer at the hands of my own people.” A smile flickered on his lips.

  Benno sat down on the desk opposite him. Naked neon lights hung from the ceiling and buzzed loudly. On the wall in front of him hung a Ford calendar and photocopied office jokes.

  “How long do you have?” he asked. “End of March?”

  Friedrich nodded almost imperceptibly.

  “Where were you hiding Irina Sobieski? Here? In your home?”

  Friedrich smiled at him weakly.

  “You still don’t know?”

  Benno’s face turned red. He had beaten Friedrich, he had tied him up in his own chair, and yet he still felt like a schoolboy who played a trick on the teacher and knew that in the end he would get punished.

  “Where? In the clinic?”

  “You Romantic,” Friedrich said. “You’ve fallen in love with the old shed.” He paused for a moment before he cleared his throat and said, “She lived right next door to you. Under the same roof.”

  Friedrich’s words were so matter-of-fact that they left no doubt.

  “Most of the time she lived in Heintz’ basement. He hasn’t given you a full tour of the house, has he? He was faithful to me for a long time, knew what would happen if I had no successor. But during visiting hours, Mrs. Schmied let us have her room.”

  “Visiting hours?”

  The car dealer groaned. “With a son I could have bought time. With a son I could have convinced them.”

  “Who kidnaps a woman in the hope that she’ll give birth to a son?”

  “Someone who fears for his life. I knew Irina from Lübeck, I knew that she had no relatives or friends. A desperate plan. But with an heir they would have let me live, with an heir nobody would have stood a chance against me. I had no reason to kill a pregnant woman.”

  “But it was another girl.”

  “Did they tell you that?”

  “Who?”

  Friedrich was silent, letting his chin fall to his chest. “I have long tried to bring new life to Strathleven, but the problem is that new life doesn’t necessarily bring more life into the village. It’s blind to the old. New and old don’t mix. They simply live side by side.”

  Something cracked behind Benno’s back. He turned, but there was nothing. He grabbed the flashlight, turned it in his hand. “Where is Tim?” he asked.

  Friedrich shook his head.

  “You kidnapped him.”

  “I should have.”

  “Then who has him?”

  “Andreas Wehrke. He hasn’t forgotten the old magic, he brought the Twelve Nights back to the village. The slogans that the king must die? All Wehrke. The people in the village love their TVs and their fast cars and cruises, but horses and bells for New Year’s Eve still frighten them to death.”

  “What’s in it for him? He’ll have to die himself.”

  “Not him. He is much smarter. He wants to avoid bankruptcy.”

  “He still has the concrete plant.”

  “Did he tell you that? The farmers here are impoverished, the harvests are bad. His store is almost broke, and have you ever counted the trucks that come from the factory through the village? They’re working only one shift there. And when I’m dead, he will find a way to take over my business. Although I doubt he’ll leave it to his son. He’s a dud.” Friedrich chuckled. “Harald. He’s the new king. That’s how Wehrke gets around dying.”

  “Don’t people believe that Tim is the new king?”

  Friedrich now looked at him with a serious face. “Sure. I’ve told anyone who would listen. His skin—that’s something you don’t see every day. I’ve been telling everyone that it was a sign. Didn’t you get that pretty crown? I had it made. Here in my shop.”

  “You gave Tim the crown?” Benno asked.

  “I was scared,” Friedrich said. “When I was twenty-three, I was called back to the village. I was studying in Kiel at the time, had my own apartment. It was the beginning of the 60s—it was a great time to be young.” He laughed. “Hell, it’s always a great time to be young.”

  “Your father was murdered.”

  Friedrich looked up, directly at Benno. “He wasn’t murdered,” he said contemptuously. His mouth and eyes twitched. “He absconded from this town.” His voice was trembling. “My father always knew what awaited him, and he preferred to die by his own hand rather than to be hacked to pieces by his friends and neighbors. Wehrke wanted to be king at that time, spread rumors that I was a coward and slept with men. Wanted to do away with his brother too and said we had a relationship.” He paused for a moment. “My father was already dead when they descended on him. They put a knife in my hand, wanted to test my resolve. You found Irina. That wasn’t a pretty sight, now was it?”

  “And if you hadn’t done it? If you had refused to become king?”

  “That would have served Wehrke well. They would have killed me. You cannot reject the honor.”

  Benno looked at the car dealer, looked at his hands, looking for any sign that this man could really be a killer. A murderer, kidnapper, and rapist. But there was nothing. He had bruises on his face where Benno had hit him, but otherwise he didn’t look particularly aggressive. The gray suit was now full of dust and stains.

  “You didn’t kill Irina?”

&
nbsp; “Before she could give birth to my child?” Friedrich laughed bitterly. “You must think I’m a monster, but no. I had nothing to do with it. I had no reason to kill her.”

  “Wouldn’t you have been able to bed any woman in the village?”

  “We’re not barbarians, I’m not a feudal lord. Don’t think I haven’t tried to produce an heir. But my only son . . .” He broke off.

  “Your son?”

  Friedrich nodded. “You know him. Manfred.”

  Benno stared at him. The widow had never mentioned her husband. “Mrs. Schmied is not a widow?”

  “She is, but she wasn’t always old. Thirty years ago, she was a beauty, even if you can no longer see it.”

  “And your wife?”

  “She grew up here. She understands what’s going on.” Friedrich’s face seemed to become narrower, older, tougher. “I’m the king,” he said. “Of what? Of a few farms and people who don’t know if they should listen to Abba, Nena, or some other silly nonsense, or if they should believe in Wotan, Miracle Oaks and wizardry. I have enjoyed the benefits of my so-called rule. Don’t you think the people here could have bought their shitty cars cheaper in Lübeck or Hamburg? Fear and a sense of duty have saved me more than once. The old order says that the king rules for twenty-four years and guarantees the welfare of the village. Then he must die in order to make place for the new one. Twenty-four years, no more. He should never grow frail and weak. He is a representative of Wotan, a higher order. And he lives in the village.”

  “And people still believe in this nonsense?”

  “Of course not. They haven’t believed in any of it since before the war. In Wotan, I mean. My father, after he was chosen, wanted nothing to do with the old superstition. But he wanted a good life, and people believe in power and violence. And where else should they go? Move away to the city? Leave the farm? Abandon their business? The King is still important here, even if he can’t perform any magic.”

  “And Cornelius?”

  Friedrich laughed. “He represents the new God. Only that this God cannot be held accountable. They leave the pastor alone, they don’t kill him. His God is already dead.” He tried to sit up in his chair. “Without me, Cornelius would never have set foot in the village.”