Rain Girl

by Gabi Kreslehner

  The district attorney came over, furious. “Oberwieser!” he fumed. “Why didn’t you call social services right after the accident? This man’s mental condition must have been obvious!”

  She shook her head and felt exhaustion creeping through her veins like heavy, ancient magma. Her bones felt like lead.

  “I didn’t see any reason to,” she said. “I didn’t think it was necessary.”

  “Well, you were wrong,” he said coolly. “There’ll be consequences.”

  Asshole, she thought. You arrogant asshole, what do you know?

  32

  She’d asked for a half-hour break. She was sitting in the courtyard of a cafe looking out into the sunlight, feeling outcast and illegitimate, at the mercy of the anarchy in her head.

  The wind passed softly over the oleander bushes between the courtyard and the parking lot. The sun shone through the luscious tops, creating quivering, fluttering shadows on the ground, as if oleander leaves had wings, as if they were flying out into the bright expanse of the universe.

  She thought of Arthur’s ashen face when she came out of the house, of the patches of sweat on his shirt, of his deep sigh of relief—whereas the district attorney . . .

  She pushed the cold cappuccino away, put a few coins on the table, and left.

  So now there were two bodies. And Brückl, the district attorney, who was a theatrical person and loved dramatic scenes, was possibly right.

  Should she have called social services after the girl stumbled out in front of Bohrmann’s car, destroying not only her own life, but Bohrmann’s as well? How could she have known that his life was so messed up, that death was the only way out for him?

  How could she have known he’d go to pieces?

  Men left their wives. Mothers left their children. In a city like New York sirens were going off all the time. In a town like this the fog crept up from the Danube, covering everything—at least from time to time.

  Franza thought of Bohrmann’s wife, Juliane.

  She’d loved her husband in a way that was dangerous, dangerous because it was closer to death than to life. She was connected to him symbiotically, so symbiotically that there was no escape. They were caught in this web like a spider’s prey—they were each prey and spider at the same time. Franza now understood that they didn’t have a chance. There was no way out, nothing.

  Felix was at the curb leaning against his car, doors wide open. The heat was stifling. Lead, she thought, bones of lead. When will I fall apart?

  “I think she wanted to die,” she said on their way back to the office. “She knew what she had to say for him to shoot her. And she said it.”

  Felix looked at her with surprise. “Why?”

  She didn’t have to think about it. “Because he didn’t love her anymore,” she said. “And she was nothing without his love.”

  “You think?” Felix asked. “Don’t you think that’s a little far-fetched? A little dramatic?”

  Franza shook her head. “No,” she said. “That’s how it was.”

  They fell silent. Franza thought about what Port had said earlier—only a few hours ago, yet it felt like an eternity. About making a choice, about choosing in a fraction of a second. Choosing life or death. And how quick it was to turn from life to death.

  Felix got into the turning lane, the traffic backing up a long way in the heat. There’d be a few people losing it today.

  “And the children?” Felix asked.

  Franza shrugged helplessly.

  “Sad,” Felix said. “Very sad. What sort of a job are we in?”

  Franza attempted a smile. “We’re looking for the truth,” she said. “We’ll find it. Someone has to.”

  33

  They stood in the hallway venting their anger and grief. Young women—girls, really. There were five of them left. One of their group had been killed, and they would never forgive whoever was responsible. One wouldn’t come back, and the rest were angry and grief-stricken.

  Their leader was a tall woman with a bright, alert face and dark circles around her eyes. The others formed the wall.

  They wanted to be impenetrable, just like a wall, silent to the end—the detectives could see that right away. But what they knew might be essential.

  They’d be hard to crack, Franza knew. They’d try to sort it out themselves, even if it put them in danger. Danger wasn’t new to them; they’d dealt with it all their lives, sometimes it had been unavoidable, and that’s why they were here, stranded in this supposed safe haven.

  They were standing in the hallway, silent, wearing dark pants and jackets. It was as if light and colors no longer existed, only their faces glowed bright in the darkness, letting their vulnerability show if you looked closely—if you knew how to look closely. Then in those eyes with the dark circles around them, you could see the vulnerability, how they had been hurt again and again. They knew what it was like when the pain flared up and burned them. They knew its permanence—its persistence—and that’s why they’d fight it to the last. That’s why they were forming a wall that was impenetrable to the pain—unlike the anger, which they let in. The anger gave them strength for revenge and punishment, strength to punish the person responsible.

  Erinyes, Franza thought and shuddered, furies, goddesses of vengeance.

  Wham, Felix thought, they’d just shoot you down if you were in the way. Maybe I should duck?

  34

  They had driven out to one of the suburbs. Marie had lived in a high-rise building where two apartments were connected to accommodate six young women. Supported by social workers, the women were trying to get their lives together.

  “Come in,” said Martha Hauer, the social worker. She led them into the living room.

  “It’ll be tricky with them,” she said, sitting down at the wobbly table. “As you just saw.”

  Franza nodded, then took a quick look around the room. It exuded as much charm as a high-school common room. The furniture was cheap and worn-out, there were stains on the couch, and nothing matched.

  “Well,” the social worker said as if she’d read Franza’s mind. “There’s never enough money, just like everywhere. But we try.”

  She sighed, pausing for a moment. “Can you tell me what happened to Marie?”

  Felix cleared his throat. “We don’t know very much yet. We’re still learning about her life—and we need your help for that. You were something like her family, weren’t you?”

  The woman thought for a moment, giving a short, sad laugh. “Her family. Yes, if you want to call it that. It didn’t help her, though. I wonder . . .”

  She paused again and shook her head while holding it in her hands and covering her face. When she looked back up she’d pulled herself together again. “What a horrible thing to happen. She was doing so well and now this!”

  She shook her head again, took off her glasses, and cleaned them with a tissue. “You have no idea,” she said, “all the things our girls have been through.”

  Franza shrugged. “Oh, you know,” she said, “I think our jobs are more closely related than you think. What are you trying to achieve here?”

  “We’re a social institution for girls between seventeen and twenty-one. We help them gain independence, try to teach them how to live, you might say. How to live a normal life: manage finances, find employment, finish school—friendships, love, contraception, having children. Right here in the middle of this mess—a Sisyphean task, believe me.”

  She nodded as if to lend weight to her words. Franza nodded, too. What’s her problem, she thought, feeling agitation building inside her. Is she a saint or something? Don’t we all have Sisyphean tasks?

  Anger rumbled and raged inside her, like a fist squeezing her and taking her breath away. Well, she thought mockingly, you holy woman of Sisyphusland, can you carry your burden?

  The woman nodded again. Is she a mind reader, Franza wondered, do you learn that, too, in your oh-so-empathetic job?

  “Most of all, we try
to get them out of the vicious circle of violence many are trapped in.”

  Of course, what a surprise! How unexpected.

  The fist in Franza’s stomach clenched tighter and tighter. “And does it work?”

  Franza felt Felix’s surprised eyes on her. She didn’t know herself why she was feeling so aggressive all of a sudden. Maybe it was time to admit that the day’s events had shaken her more than she wanted to believe.

  The social worker grimaced, and tilted her head to one side. “Not always,” she said then with pointed friendliness. “Do you solve all your cases?”

  Felix had to grin a little. “No,” he said, “unfortunately not. But let’s focus on Marie again, shall we?”

  “Of course,” the woman said. “But I haven’t even offered you anything—coffee?” She got up.

  When they’d finally settled down in front of steaming cups of coffee and cheap supermarket cookies, which Franza—unlike Felix—wouldn’t touch, they finally talked about Marie. She’d been through all kinds of state homes before landing in this residential group, which called itself WINGS.

  What a crappy name, Felix thought, a spectacularly poor choice. “Interesting name,” he said, feeling Franza’s hostile gaze. “How did you think of that?”

  “Yes, isn’t it?” Hauer said with a shy smile. Happiness showed in her face, which turned pink and began to glow. “Well, I don’t even remember. It just came to us. We wanted a name full of hope, and wings . . . flying . . . that seemed like the epitome of hope.”

  Felix smiled and nodded politely, then returned to their subject of interest. “Marie?”

  The social worker sighed. “Yes, Marie.”

  Marie, who kept running away from home. Who hung around in parks night after night, slept in train stations and shelters. Marie, who was incapable of thinking straight or feeling, lost in the buzz of the pills and the urge to cut herself. The cutting eased the pressure; the pain broke the heaviness of life into tufts of cotton candy.

  Your wings, Franza thought, you really broke your wings, my darling. A fitting name, really.

  “Tell us about the other girls,” she said. “Why are they here?”

  The social worker looked into her cup and gave a sad laugh. “The usual,” she said. “Broken families, abuse, drugs, whatever you like. Pick one; I’ve got everything to offer you. But I’m guessing you know that, since our jobs are so closely related, as you kindly pointed out.”

  She looked up and waited for a moment. When she continued, the irony had left her voice. “Families with alcohol abuse, often unemployed and lower class, no one wants them, so they lash out in anger and desperation. I know that’s no excuse, but that’s just the way it is. Most of the time it’s the girls copping out because they’re the weakest, defenseless. The beatings are the least of their worries: many have to fear for their lives; many end up on the street as prostitutes. Very few manage to break out of it.”

  She fell silent again and looked out the window. “They get their daughters high on drugs and porn, and then take them to bed with them. Their sons, too. It’s probably not even that difficult. Children don’t put up a fight, and how could they? They’re scared and don’t know anything different.”

  She took a deep breath, nodding emphatically. “That’s what it’s like in this beautiful country of ours. And actually it happens in all social classes. But that isn’t anything new to you.”

  She turned her head to look out the window again. She’d become cynical over the years, disheartened. She’d seen too much and failed too often. Idealism? What’s that?

  “In my job,” she said, turning back to the detectives, “you develop a pretty thick skin, just like in your job. You’ve got to, I guess, but some things . . . some things still get under your skin. That’s why most of my colleagues don’t last very long. Four or five years, then they look for another job.”

  She nodded toward the door. “Jennifer out there, the tall one with all the black around her eyes. Her father was drunk and stabbed her mother to death while Jenny watched. She was eleven. She grabbed her little sister Jessica and hid in the cellar for two days. When the police finally found them, Jenny stepped in front of her sister, holding a pocketknife to protect her. They had a hard time getting it away from her.”

  Yes, Franza thought, you’re right, of course. But we all know these stories. She stood up and went to the window. The sun beat down on the road.

  “If something isn’t going her way,” the social worker continued, “she lashes out. As quick as lightning, without warning, bam! Theoretically she shouldn’t be here anymore. Violence isn’t tolerated, that’s our first rule. No violence, no alcohol, no drugs, no prostitution. But where do you think she’ll end up if we kick her out?”

  She paused again briefly. “She’s scared of the dark, needs the light on to go to sleep. Isn’t it funny?”

  No, Franza thought, not funny. She looked out the window, but all she could see were the neighboring buildings. There were no wide-open spaces, no ocean, no sky.

  “And Cosima, the short blonde. Her father is a musician, her mother a doctor. They had high hopes for her: English-speaking kindergarten, ballet, piano lessons, prestigious school, university, you know, the works. The world at her feet, the high life. But Cosima didn’t cooperate, simply didn’t work out like they wanted her to. She failed at school, took up smoking pot, got stoned and was caught by the police, totaled the family car. Just little things like that, so they kicked her out, Herr and Frau Doctor. At fifteen.”

  “You can’t save them all,” Franza said a little too loud, meaning herself.

  The social worker laughed her strange little laugh. “Yes, that’s true. As we can see with Marie.”

  She refilled their cups. “Marie was on her way to becoming a success story, probably our only one. All of a sudden she started going back to school, aced her finals, and planned to go to Berlin to study. She would have received a scholarship, and we already had arranged a room for her in the dormitory. She would have made it.”

  Pride was evident in her voice. She was in her early forties and her body was gaunt and showing signs of stiffness, though her graying hair probably made her look older than she was.

  And how about me, Franza thought, alarmed, how old do I look?

  “What was she going to study?” Felix asked, glancing anxiously at Franza. Why does he look so worried? she thought. What does he think I’ll do, silly man?

  “She wanted to be an actress and had signed up to take the entrance exam at a university. I’m sure she would have made it.”

  The pride was back in the social worker’s voice, and the soft pink color returned to her face. It showed in her sparkling eyes, and at that moment she looked beautiful. Then the regret and melancholy returned.

  Franza raised her eyebrows. To Berlin to be an actress, I see.

  “Did she have a boyfriend?”

  “No. No . . . boyfriend. Not as far as I know.” Felix heard the hesitation in her voice.

  “But she was in love. That’s what she wrote her mother. Are you sure you don’t know anything about it?”

  The social worker thought for a moment, moving her head from side to side. “Maybe,” she said. “Maybe you’re right; there may have been someone in the last few weeks. She was . . . different. Softer, hopeful, happy. The girls noticed, too, and teased her about it. But it didn’t bother her, she seemed . . . very certain.”

  Franza saw the tenderness in her eyes again, and it touched her.

  “And?” Felix asked impatiently.

  She shook her head regretfully. “Nothing. I don’t know any more. She didn’t talk about herself very much. When I asked her how she was doing, she said fine, and that she was confident she’d make it. But then . . . something must have gone wrong.”

  “Dr. Lauberts—does the name ring a bell?”

  “Yes, of course.” She didn’t seem surprised.

  “You’re not surprised we’re asking about him?”

  S
he shrugged, looking very tired all of a sudden. “I’ve wondered about that for some time.”

  Felix nodded. “Great. So what do you know?”

  She hesitated briefly. “I’m guessing she was involved with him somehow. Or rather, he with her.”

  Franza came back to the table and sat down. “He paid her. I assume you know what that’s called.”

  “Yes,” the social worker said softly. “Of course I know what that’s called.”

  “Could Lauberts be Marie’s murderer?”

  Startled, Hauer looked up and frowned. “Do you believe so?”

  “We don’t believe anything. We investigate. We look at all the angles. What do you believe?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know, either,” she said. “No, I can’t imagine it, not really. But then again I couldn’t imagine that he of all people . . .”

  She fell silent, looking down.

  “What? Frau Hauer?”

  “Would turn her into a hooker,” she said reluctantly. Suddenly she had tears in her eyes, and she quickly turned away, trying to hide them.

  The detectives looked at her with surprise and renewed interest. Was it possible . . . ? Could it be . . . ? Was there any chance of that . . . ?

  “Why didn’t you do anything about this . . . relationship?”

  She looked down at the tablecloth and flicked some crumbs to the floor. “I’ve only known about it myself for two weeks, since this strange visit of his . . . I’m guessing you’ve heard about it. Our intern told me, of course. I confronted Marie, but she only laughed at me.”

  “And?”

  She shook her head, bewildered. “And what?”

  “Do you know of any other . . . clients?”

  She gave a short laugh and brushed hair out of her face. “What are you talking about?”

  “Apparently there’s a list, and we’d like to have it. Do you know anything?”

  “No, how should I?”

  “Don’t you have a certain legal responsibility?”