by Dora Heldt
He pulled himself up a little. His brother-in-law leaned over. “No, it all looks fine. By the way, who’s driving back? I’m too tipsy.”
“Call Christine,” Kalli suggested. “Then she can drive your car.”
“Christine?” Heinz shook his head. “No, she drives like a lunatic. If I let her drive my car, I’ll end up having a huge dent in it. Either that or we’ll crash into the dunes. But Johann’s a good guy. I’m sure he’s a very good driver.” He took his cell phone out of his jacket pocket and tapped in the number. Seconds later, he looked up in disbelief. “It’s going through to his voice mail. So what do we do now?”
Walter took Heinz’s cell from his hand, thought for a moment, then dialed. He was disappointed to hear a tinny recorded message. “Inge’s cell is off, too, or maybe her battery is dead.”
“Well, who knows where the hell she is!” Heinz grumbled. “So what now?”
“We could call Renate,” murmured Kalli. “After all, I’ve never been in a Porsche before.”
Björne picked up the empty liquor bottle and went into the kitchen with it. “I’ll give Maike a call. She can come with her son, and then we’ll have two drivers.”
About forty minutes later, Björne’s daughter carefully tried to wake up Kalli, who had nodded off on the backseat.
“Kalli, wake up. You’re at Heinz’s now.”
Heinz slapped his hand stoutly on the roof of the car. “Come on, old boy, out you get. Chop, chop!”
Walter, who was leaning against the car with his hands in his pockets, suddenly looked horrified. “Good God, look, it’s Renate. Kalli, she’s driving the Porsche.”
That was the magic word. Kalli straightened up in a flash, knocking his head on the car door as he scrambled out. The impact seemed to wake him up.
“Hello, Renate,” he called out cheerfully. “Is it that time already?”
Renate got out of her car and surveyed the trio commandingly. “Walter, could you be a dear and help me with the shopping bags, please? It’s for the barbecue later.”
Walter prodded Heinz in the side with a grumpy look. “You can help carry too. I’m injured. And I need to have a nap for an hour. That Björne guy and his Bullenschluck practically finished me off.”
“I’ve never been to Flensburg before. And I don’t have a map with me either. Do you know where the lawyer’s office is?” asked Johann as the signs for the town center started to appear.
“It’s on Sudermarkt Strasse,” answered Inge. “You need to go straight on for a bit. I think I’ll be able to find it.”
“Do you know your way around here then?”
Inge nodded. “I haven’t been here in ages, but I have a good memory. Take a right over there.”
She turned around to Christine. “You lived here for five years. Can’t you remember?”
“Aunt Inge, I was seven when we moved away—I can’t remember back that far, just a few patchy memories. One thing I do remember, though, is you driving Dad’s car around here and my parents shouting at you. But I can’t remember why.”
“That’s right.” Inge gazed out at the red brick buildings, which lined the street, chuckling softly to herself. “I’d just passed my driving test on Sylt and wanted to celebrate with Heinz and Charlotte. Heinz let me drive his car across the town, and it was so much fun.”
Johann stopped at a red light. “So why did they shout at you?”
Inge pointed at the traffic lights hanging over the street. “I didn’t notice one single red light. When I was growing up on Sylt and riding as a passenger, the traffic lights were on the side. And, of course, in the driving school diagrams they were always at the side of the street. When they changed the lights, I didn’t know you could get traffic lights hanging down from above too. And Heinz was shouting at me so loudly I couldn’t understand what he meant by, “The lights, the lights!” The police stopped me in the end. But they were very nice about it. Over there, Johann, that’s the street. It’s number three.”
After they had parked, Inge was the first to enter the building and strode quickly over to the young woman at the reception desk. “Good morning,” she said. “My name is Inge Müller. Herr Sorensen is expecting us.”
Before she had even finished speaking, a massive wooden door opened, and a gray-haired man walked out. He was around sixty years old and dressed in a smart brown linen suit. He stretched his hand out in greeting, a look of pure relief on his face.
“Wonderful. Frau Müller, I’m so pleased to finally meet you. My name is Peter Sorensen. Frau Schmidt, Herr Thiess, please do come in with us.”
He led them into his office, where they sat down around a large mahogany conference table. Inge sat down between Johann and Christine and put a copy of the will on the table. Sorensen glanced at it only briefly and gave a contented nod. When he looked up again, it suddenly occurred to Inge that he looked familiar somehow. Confused, she shook the thought away, then began to explain the situation with the help of her notes.
Peter Sorensen listened calmly as she talked, and they were interrupted only once by a secretary bringing in a file. Once Inge had finished, he cleared his throat.
“Well, Frau Müller, let’s see what we can do to shed some light on all this. First things first. I have another letter here for you. Frau Nissen decreed that I keep this letter safe for you and that you read it in my presence. As far as I know, it should explain everything.”
He opened a file and took out a white envelope, which he handed to Inge. She opened it, her fingers shaking. Once she caught sight of Anna’s beautiful handwriting, she took a deep breath, glanced up at Johann and Christine, then began to read it silently, her hand at her throat.
Renate diced up the gherkins finely. Everything was ready. She held her breath for a second and listened to the noises coming from upstairs. Something was going on; she could hear the water running, then footsteps on the stairs. Renate leaned over and looked at her reflection in the oven door. Her carefully tousled updo was still intact. She started to dice the final gherkin.
“Oh, Renate.” Heinz stopped in the kitchen doorway in surprise. “You’re still here.”
She turned around, granting him a self-satisfied smile. “Well, I did say I was going to give you a hand. Look, I’ve made potato salad and some pasta, and now I’m going to make a nice garden salad and sort out something for dessert. Is there anything in particular you’d like?”
“Oh, no.” Heinz stepped aside to make room for Kalli, who had come down the stairs just behind him. “Nothing I can think of. So, Kalli, did you sleep off your hangover?”
Kalli looked around at the overflowing kitchen counters in surprise. It was not the shipshape kitchen Charlotte kept. The chopping board was piled with vegetable peels, piles of bowls, whisks, and spatulas, while bottles of oil, vinegar, and other concoctions were spread about the small kitchen and in the sink.
“I didn’t drink that much.” He took a bottle of water from the fridge and turned on his heel to leave. “I wouldn’t go in there if I were you,” he warned Walter as he passed him. “If you’re thirsty, I can share my bottle with you.”
Walter didn’t heed his warning, and he gave a start as he entered the kitchen. “What’s going on here? Was there some kind of explosion?”
Renate giggled and winked at him. “Walter, you really are very funny. Did you sleep well? Shall I make you a coffee? Did you eat anything for lunch to sop up all the Bullenschluck?”
Walter picked up two bowls from a nearby chair and sank down into it.
“No, thank you. We have to leave soon. And you really shouldn’t do all this…”
Renate took the bowls from him, brushing his arm softly as she did so.
“Walter, it’s very sweet of you, but you don’t have to worry about me. As you can see, I have enough to be getting along with here. By the time you come back, everything will be cleaned up and ready for our big barbecue.” With a flutter of her eyelashes, she turned around to attend to the remaining gherk
in.
Heinz shuffled nervously from one leg to the other. “But you can’t stay here by yourself.”
“Why not?” Renate pushed some loose strands of hair away from her face. “It’s touching that you’re worried about me, but I do live alone, you know.” She turned to give Walter a penetrating stare. “And I’m perfectly capable of entertaining myself. Once I’m done with everything here, I’ll lie out in the yard on a chaise. After all, the weather’s so lovely.”
Heinz shrugged his shoulders in resignation. “Okay, we have to go now though. I’ll get my jacket.”
He left the kitchen, dragging his feet heavily. Walter was just about to follow him when Renate grasped his arm.
“Walter,” she said in a cajoling voice. “If you want to talk later—about the end of your marriage, I mean—then we can go for a walk to the Hafendeck after the barbecue. There’s a dance there this evening. You look like you’d be a wonderful dancer. What do you think?”
Perplexed, Walter looked at her. “We’ll see,” he stammered. “Maybe Inge might like to come too.”
“Inge?” Now Renate took a step back. “Do you really think Inge’s going to come to the barbecue?”
“Yes.” Walter nodded confidently. “She promised she would.” He turned to leave.
Renate watched them go from the window. Walter had a swing in his steps and was clearly very fit for his age. She was ten years younger than him, and that was sure to do him good, plus it would be comforting to be with someone so dependable, with a quirky sense of humor to boot. And while Walter was also obviously unsophisticated, he had a certain charm—charm she was sure Inge never made him aware that he had. Inge—she was the complete opposite of Renate. Feeling triumphant, Renate suddenly remembered that there was a Piccolo champagne bottle in the fridge. Nice—there were two. She fetched them, unscrewed the cap on one, and drank directly from the bottle.
Inge put the letter down and looked up, brushing some tears from her eyes.
“The letter is dated October of last year.”
Peter Sorensen nodded. “Yes. I know.”
Christine moved forward in her seat. “What does it say? Inge, don’t keep us in suspense.”
Inge cleared her throat, smoothed the letter out, and began to read:
Wenningstedt, 10 October
My dear Inge,
In the books we both so love reading, letters like this always start with the words, “If you’re reading this, then I’m no longer with you.” I found myself wanting to write that at first, but I couldn’t. Because it’s simply not true that I won’t be with you anymore. I’m leaving my house to you, and I’m in every room of it, in every last corner. And you’ll feel that, I promise.
After Sinje died, you became the most important person in my life, and that’s why I want you to have my house. I’ve always thought that, and that’s the way it will be. The reason I’m writing this letter to you is very simple: I’ve done many things right in my life, but there are some things I still need to clear up. So that’s what I intend to do now.
You know me—I’ve never suspected or accused people purely based on a hunch. And I don’t want to do so now either, but my gut instinct won’t leave me in peace. That’s why I want to confide in you, in the hope that none of my fears are correct.
Everyone always thought I rented the apartment I lived in, but that wasn’t the case. The truth is that the whole house has been mine for a long time now, but no one knew that. I lived in this beautiful apartment, and the other three were rented out. All the paperwork was done via a lawyer and good friend of mine, Karsten Kampmann. He was a fine man and very loyal—I was his first client when he opened his practice fifty years ago as a young lawyer. I later went back to him with Sinje’s father. And yes, Inge, I can just picture you open-mouthed as you read that last sentence. Sinje’s father was called Peer, and I met him when I was a young nurse in the military hospital in Flensburg. Peer was injured badly in an air raid. He was incredibly brave and often couldn’t sleep because of the pain. Whenever I had time, I would sit down with him, and we would tell each other stories. This went on for weeks on end, and we fell in love. But Peer was married. His wife was staying with her parents in Denmark, and she came back after the war. So we had six months together. After he was released, we swore that we would never see each other again, but we couldn’t help ourselves. He was the love of my life. And Sinje was our daughter.
Once the war was over, as you know, I went back to Sylt with Sinje. I was incredibly sad, but at least I had my daughter. Three years later, Peer found me. He insisted on supporting Sinje and me. He bought the house for us and had it converted so I could rent out the other three apartments. This gave me financial freedom I wouldn’t have had as a teacher and single mother. Karsten Kampmann looked after all the paperwork. He knew the whole story and organized everything for me for many years. Peer never appeared officially in the documents.
A few years ago, Karsten suggested handing the building’s management over to a management company, as he was starting to go into retirement. After that, he tragically lost his life, and his son Mark took over the practice. I had never particularly warmed to Mark, but I could hardly have said that to his father. And this is where my gut instinct comes into play. A few months ago, I looked at the papers for my apartments in detail for the first time, and I was shocked by what I found. There were transfers I knew nothing about, and much more. I phoned Mark Kampmann and asked him whether the management company was aboveboard. He reassured me that it was, but I was convinced something wasn’t right. And so I transferred everything to Peter Sorensen. He’ll tell you everything else in person, and I’m confident he will have done everything so thoroughly that you won’t have any problems. Dearest Inge, the house now belongs to you, and I hope you will want to live in it at some point. It’s a good house, and I had a good life in it. That’s what I wish for you, too, my Inge. Be brave and full of curiosity. You are still young enough to do all the things you haven’t yet dared to do.
With all my love,
Your Anna
Kalli stopped at the corner of the street. “Where are we actually going, and why aren’t we going by car? I mean, we’re all sober again now.”
Walter pointed ahead of them. “I booked us a taxi,” he said. “It’s waiting at the bus stop.”
“Well, I’m capable of driving again,” said Heinz. “I can handle five small drinks, no problem.”
Walter quickened his pace. “Hurry up, the meter runs while the taxi’s waiting as well, you know. Besides, you still smell of booze, and this way no witnesses can describe our car.”
Kalli looked fearful at this comment, but Heinz hastened to add, “We only want to talk to the scoundrel. There’s no law against that.”
The taxi was already there. Kalli and Heinz climbed in the back. Walter glanced at the meter and sat down in the passenger seat.
“It’s only three euros and fifty cents so far,” he commented with relief. “We’d like to go to Kampen please, to…Heinz, where shall we get out? I don’t want to go right up to the house in the car.”
“Why not?”
“So we can surprise him.”
Heinz thought for a moment. “Then Braderuper Weg, on the corner of Pück Deel.”
The taxi driver looked at him in surprise. “Are you sure? But there are only a few old houses there.”
Walter pressed his lips together and stared straight ahead. “Just drive, man.” It made him feel like Robert De Niro.
Twenty minutes later, the taxi driver stopped by the turnoff into a country lane.
“This is Pück Deel. After about three hundred yards you’ll be right in the middle of the Braderuper moors, and beyond that there’s only the sea. Shall I wait?”
Walter opened his door. “Yes, but turn the meter off.” Then he got out.
“How am I supposed to…” Confused, the driver looked at the other two men.
“You’ll get a good tip.” Heinz gave him a jovial slap
on the shoulder. “And if we’re not back within half an hour, then call the police. See you soon.”
Kalli was already running after Walter. “Walter, wait up.”
“What?” Walter didn’t even slow down. Kalli finally caught up with him, pulling on his jacket as he ran.
“Walter! Let’s wait for Heinz. Have you even thought about what you want to say to this Mark guy?”
“Yes. Pretty much.” Walter had stopped and was waving impatiently at Heinz to hurry up. “I’m going to tell him to leave my wife alone. He has a girlfriend already. And Inge is all I have. And I miss her.”
“And you think that will be enough to convince him?” asked Kalli uncertainly. “The way Renate told it, it sounds like he and Inge have something…well…how should I put it…serious?”
“Ha!” Heinz, who had heard the last part of Kalli’s comment, waved his hand dismissively. “I don’t think Renate has a clue what’s going on. I just hope none of the neighbors see her lying in my backyard. I don’t want them getting the wrong idea.” He shielded his eyes with his hand and concentrated his gaze on the end of the street. “It must be that one over there, on the right. By the way, Walter, if Inge does end up running off with Kampmann, you can probably get together with Renate. She’s very keen on you.”
Walter looked at his brother-in-law as if he had lost his mind. “Are you insane?!”
“What?” Kalli shrugged. “Heinz is right. Your daughter is grown up now and your mortgage is paid off, so it’ll be a simple divorce. I know it’s not easy, but Renate would look after you.”
“Enough now!” Walter had gone pale, and was clearly annoyed. “There isn’t going to be a divorce! I’ll sort everything out. And not only is Renate a complete nut job, but she’s also a redhead, and I’ve never liked redheads! I want my good old Inge back, and I’m going to get her, but I’m going to stay calm and not resort to any violent action.”