Rain Girl

by Gabi Kreslehner

  He finished his presentation with effusive praise for the protein content of anything swimming around in the ocean, followed by a lecture directed at Felix about the importance of aforementioned proteins for the health and fitness of certain parts of the body.

  “Well,” Felix said, grinning. “My loins seem to be doing just fine without me eating that stuff—I’m becoming a father again. Twice over, actually!”

  Borger was amazed. “You don’t say! Good for you, old stud!”

  They decided to celebrate Felix’s growing family over a few drinks that evening. Men, fatherhood, and alcohol, Franza thought and had to laugh. What a cliché!

  “Every French restaurant, every Greek and Italian, just every restaurant offering Mediterranean cuisine,” Franza instructed Arthur. “And, of course, every seafood place. Maybe we’ll be lucky and someone will remember something.”

  Arthur didn’t seem overly enthusiastic. “But I’m working on Frau Hauer.”

  Felix waved dismissively. “Forget about her. Old news, she’s out. That tired unhappy relationship trail has gone cold.”

  “But,” Arthur said, “it makes sense. Marie stole her lover. So she might have . . .”

  “No, it wasn’t her, believe me. I’ve got a nose for these things. What do you smell, Franza?”

  “The same.” She shrugged regretfully at Arthur.

  “Well, then, we’ve all agreed. So, what are you waiting for?” Felix gave Arthur an encouraging look. “Sometimes that’s just the way it is: a thousand hours of hard work just to find one piece of the puzzle—you’ll have to get used to it if you want to grow old here. And you want to, I can tell by looking at you.”

  Is that so, Arthur thought, and what do you see? Boogers? Snot dripping? Bullshit!

  “Cheer up,” Franza said looking out at the relentless rain. “I know it’ll be a lot of running around, but at least it’s a nice day for it.”

  “That’s life,” Felix said. “Take Robert with you so you can divide the restaurants between you. Don’t forget Marie’s photo.”

  “Well, looks like we made our young colleague’s day,” Borger said.

  “Yes,” Franza said. “You could say that.”

  48

  Dinner had been a success. He knew she loved seafood, so he’d reserved a table at the most expensive seafood restaurant in town. The restaurant had two private rooms for its wealthiest customers to dine in undisturbed. He’d booked one of them, which had made the evening a whole lot more expensive, but he couldn’t risk being seen with her. Not when things had not yet been decided.

  Jumbo shrimp appetizers followed by entrées of sea bass on char, grilled vegetables, and puree of truffles. For dessert, two kinds of chocolate mousse with raspberry sauce. He’d ordered champagne to go with the meal—Moët & Chandon—the most expensive on the menu.

  “You can see what you’re worth to me,” he’d said. She’d been reserved at first, and he’d noticed it right away. She hadn’t accepted his present—his wife was wearing the pearls now.

  Never mind, he’d thought. She’ll come around.

  The dinner had been perfect; they wanted for nothing. The table decorated in cream and silver, the white flowers, the polished glasses. Marie in that dress that could have been a wedding dress—the strings of pearls gray and translucent like the rain on that day, and today.

  49

  Marie’s essays showed sensitivity, her handwriting was clean and smooth, her grammar and syntax good. But other than that, one and a half hours of searching her room proved fruitless. No trace of a list of names, no phone numbers.

  Franza sighed. It was painstaking, as always. Searching and searching without even knowing what you’re searching for. Solving mysteries that ended up not being mysteries at all.

  At least they’d found bank statements, showing Marie was not exactly poor. The inheritance from her grandfather had lived on not only in her soul, but also as a considerable amount in her bank account. In addition, her statements showed a steady stream of deposits into her account. There was a generous monthly transaction, probably from her parents, but far more interesting were the large cash deposits made at irregular intervals—apparently the fees paid by certain men for certain services. Arthur would visit the bank later to ask the details.

  The apartment was quiet. Everyone had gone to work or to school. The only one there was a young intern who’d retreated to the office to be left in peace.

  Then someone knocked at the door of Marie’s room, loudly and vehemently. Cosima.

  “Hey,” she said. “Can he go?” She nodded toward Felix, who immediately lifted his hands in surrender.

  “I’m already gone,” said Felix. Wham! he thought of his first impression of her. She’ll just knock me down if I don’t go voluntarily.

  “You’re here? I thought . . .” Franza began with surprise.

  Cosima shook her head. “Never mind.”

  She took her time, walking beside the bookshelves, brushing the spines with her index finger. Then she leaned against the windowsill and looked out at the street.

  We all do that, Franza thought, all the time, looking out of windows, at streets, at houses, at the sky, trees, the countryside, the rain. What do we think we’ll find?

  “My name’s Cosima,” Cosima said eventually and turned around. “Did you know that?”

  Franza nodded and Cosima continued, unperturbed. “My father’s an average-to-bad orchestra conductor. Wagnerian, if you know what that is. He called everyone around him Cosima—his dog, the cat, me, even my mother, although she already had a name. He thought it was . . . uncompromising. What do you think?”

  “Strange,” Franza said.

  “No,” Cosima said. “Not strange. Crazy! Stupid! What a bunch of shit! Would you want to be called Cosima?”

  Franza shrugged. “Franza’s not exactly the greatest.”

  Cosima ignored the comment. “She was an anti-Semite, Cosima Wagner, she was in cahoots with Hitler. Did you know that?”

  Franza nodded.

  “And yet he named me after her. I can’t forgive him for that. But it doesn’t matter, there’s so much I can’t forgive him for.”

  She looked out the window again, and then after what seemed an eternity said, “Is Pooh still here? Have you found him?”

  Franza’s heart beat faster. “Pooh?”

  Cosima became impatient. “Yes, Pooh! Don’t be so slow! It belonged to Ben—you must know that! Or are you just as ignorant as the rest of them?”

  “Ben? What do you know about Ben?”

  Cosima’s gaze was unfathomable. “Jenny’s going to kill me,” she said with a sigh. “But I guess I’ll survive.”

  She grinned, but then her serious expression returned immediately. “She doesn’t trust you. She doesn’t trust anyone. I do, though. I know how he used to talk about you.”

  “Who? About whom?”

  Cosima shook her head and looked at Franza with contempt. “You really aren’t very bright, are you? Ben, of course! About you—his mother! You’re his mother!”

  Franza was speechless. What else did this girl know?

  “How . . . ?”

  “How do I know this?”

  She flicked an invisible speck of dust off her sleeve. “He brought photos from time to time. Marie was crazy about photos—family photos, if you know what I mean. Christmas, Easter, birthdays, just happy families. We’re all crazy about them.”

  She gave a mournful laugh. “So Ben brought them along and told us what it was like in a so-called happy family at Christmas and Easter. Then Marie would cry her eyes out, and he’d have to hold her. She was awesome, our Marie. Really a great chick, but sometimes she was just nuts.”

  She fell silent again and looked out the window, trembling slightly. She shook it off. “Sometimes we got to look at the pictures, too, Jenny and me. He told us lots, Ben. That you’re a cop, for example, and that you have a boyfriend, an actor, who’s younger than you.”

  Franza blu
shed as Cosima’s eyes examined her from head to toe, stopping at her hips, which were too wide and too . . .

  “But who gives a shit. Your husband cheated on you, too, and probably still is.” Cosima raised an eyebrow indifferently and paused for a moment. “We know about the whole family—even the little half sister in Sweden.”

  Her voice had become mocking and her eyes sharp. Franza felt she was being tested again. Eventually Cosima shook her head. “That’s all really ordinary stuff, you know. Don’t think Ben’s a gossip just giving away all your family secrets.” She laughed. “Although I guess that’s what he did. But only to cheer us up, to show us that happy families aren’t always happy, either. But we already knew that.”

  Franza felt bad. “So he’s unhappy?”

  Cosima was surprised. “No,” she said, “of course not! Don’t you know that?”

  “I hoped so. But I . . . I didn’t realize he knew everything. That his father and I . . .” She shook her head, the look in Cosima’s eyes silencing her.

  This wasn’t about her and her life, which, apart from a few minor hiccups had gone relatively well so far. No one had beaten her up as a teenager or raped her or threatened her or put her out on the street. Apart from a few floods, she’d grown up peacefully and had had time to prepare for life. So who did she think she was, complaining about her petty problems?

  And Ben? What had he been doing here?

  Ben, who’d grown up so fast she hadn’t even noticed. How withdrawn he’d become. And how he was living his own life, taking responsibility, being in love—deeply and truly it seemed.

  And now?

  Marie was dead and Ben was God-knows-where.

  She felt a stinging pain deep inside her. How could she have thought even for one second that Ben . . .

  It had taken this girl to dissipate the last of her doubts.

  That’s how little she knew him. How little she knew of him.

  “What’s the matter?” Cosima came right up to her and looked her in the face. “You all right?”

  Franza nodded. “Where did you meet? Here?”

  “Here?” Cosima laughed. “Don’t be silly. No, Ben never came here. She would never have brought him here.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugged. “When you love something, you keep it to yourself. Then no one can take it from you.”

  What logic, Franza thought and had to smile. Young girl’s logic. Secret logic.

  “But it didn’t work,” Cosima said quietly. “Nothing ever does.”

  She cleared her throat. “We met in bars. Or down along the Danube, in the meadows. It’s nice there.”

  Silence again. Franza waited. Marie’s secret life. They must be getting close to Marie’s secret life. Time was running out.

  “Cosima,” she said. “You wanted to tell me something.”

  Cosima looked up, returning from wherever she had been in her thoughts, and shook her head. “No,” she said. “No more. Jenny’s going to kill me.”

  She walked to the door, looking small and lost. I screwed up, Franza thought, oh shit, I really screwed up.

  “Cosima,” she said, trying to keep her from leaving. “You can trust me! Please, trust me! Tell me what you know.”

  Cosima stopped. “Ask Ben,” she said. “I don’t know anything.”

  “I can’t ask Ben,” Franza said. “He’s gone, and I don’t know where he is.”

  Cosima hesitated for a brief moment, began to waver, but then she shook her head almost imperceptibly.

  “Sorry!” she said. “Too bad. I’ve got to go.” She opened the door, and there, sitting on the floor, leaning against the wall, was Jenny.

  “Just give it to her,” Jenny said. “You’re probably right. She’ll know what she’s doing—she’s Ben’s mother, after all. So tell her.”

  Franza held her breath and time seemed to stand still. Finally Cosima turned around, pulled something from the pocket of her jeans, weighed it in her hands for a moment as if thinking it over carefully one more time, and handed it to Franza.

  “Here,” she said. “We found it in one of her desk drawers. We thought we should check her room after we saw her in the newspaper. We felt we owed her that much. We thought we could . . . we didn’t know yet that you . . .”

  “What is it?” Franza asked. She felt her heart racing and her breathing becoming faster.

  Cosima lifted her eyebrows haughtily. “Well, look at it! Or can’t you even read?”

  Then she left the apartment with Jenny right behind her.

  Franza stared at the little package in her hand. It was wrapped in blue tissue and tied with a piece of string. Then she started running down the stairs toward the front door. Felix was sitting at the bottom of the stairs looking at her expectantly. The girls were walking down the road at a leisurely pace, their hands in their pockets.

  “Thanks!” Franza called out waving the package in the air. “Thanks!”

  The girls both lifted a hand at the same time without turning around. Then they turned a corner and were gone.

  Franza and Felix went back to Marie’s room, sat down at her desk, and carefully untied the parcel. It contained a page from a newspaper folded several times—a carefully cut-out article. The paper was old and torn in places. It was almost illegible along the folds. Someone had written a date from more than twenty years ago at the top. The package also contained a photo showing a group of young people sitting around a campfire. Two heads had been circled—those of a young man and a young woman.

  They knew immediately this was their breakthrough.

  50

  Felix’s cell phone rang. It was Arthur. He was angry because he wasn’t getting anywhere. Neither he nor Robert had found a thing. There were more restaurants that served the cuisine they were looking for than either of them had realized. From the prices, he also was beginning to realize how little money he earned.

  “Well,” Felix said, unmoved, “I can’t help you there. You just need to keep looking. Make sure you check them all today. We’re at a critical point, which means longer hours—but you know that.”

  Arthur hung up with a sigh. Working late yet again. He checked his watch and felt his stomach rumble at the same time. The next restaurant on his list was a seafood restaurant with a French name: Au Bord de la Mer. Very fancy, very expensive—not his cup of tea. And he didn’t have an expense account regardless. He headed for the nearest fast-food place.

  He wolfed down two hamburgers with fries and a Coke. He could just imagine how his meticulous, muesli-eating mother would throw up her hands in horror at this monstrosity dripping with fat. But weren’t mothers there to be emancipated from?

  Yielding to an urge, he treated himself to a strawberry shake with extra ice cream and whipped cream and a muffin. Life wasn’t so bad after all. In the morning he’d do a couple of extra laps in the park, and everything would be fine.

  Full and satisfied, he got back in the car and only swore a little out of habit when he took a wrong turn. For the thousandth time he thought of the hot-blooded Karolina, which dampened his mood again. He finally parked in front of the exclusive restaurant, finding it impossible to imagine Marie eating here. It was the type of posh place where you only went if you had plenty of cash or masochistic inclinations.

  Arthur, in any case, had neither. He really didn’t feel like spending all night hopping from one eatery to another and was convinced that he wouldn’t find anything of use anyway. He got out of the car and sighed.

  Shit, he thought, shit! Another night completely wasted!

  On the other hand, if he was honest, he had nothing better to do. Which he viewed as a medium-sized catastrophe. Karolina had put his hormone production in overdrive without providing the necessary release, which felt disastrous at his relatively young age. He’d heard hormonal congestion could be quite damaging. Furthermore, it didn’t look like anything would change anytime soon. Absolutely nothing for three weeks. Not a single woman had cast a benevolent eye on him
, not to mention anything beyond that. But was that really surprising? Overworked as he was, he had bags under his eyes and looked slightly insane.

  He sighed again and glanced at himself in the rearview mirror. Yes, he realized with a shock, he looked terrible and desperate.

  I’ll grow old without even noticing it, he thought with frustration, his mood plummeting further. I’ll have had no private life but will solve ten thousand murders. And I won’t even have any grandchildren to tell the stories to. At the end of my life I’ll be a lone wolf returning to the forests of the north. Better than nothing.

  Nicely expressed, he thought contentedly, but I shouldn’t have eaten so much. I’m going to get a potbelly! He entered the restaurant and was immediately struck by the decadence of the atmosphere. He stopped at the door, unsure how to proceed. A man in his fifties dressed in a black suit with an elegant tie—the maître d’, Arthur assumed—quickly approached him.

  “How can I help you?” he asked, running his eyes disapprovingly down Arthur’s suede jacket and jeans. His gaze stopped at the tiny squirt of ketchup that was almost completely soaked up by the suede.

  “Police, Homicide Division,” Arthur said and presented his ID, amused as always at the effect of this statement. “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  The distinguished man gave a subdued cough.

  “May I ask you to take a seat here for a moment?” he said, and led Arthur to a small table off to the side, in a niche by the window. “This way we won’t attract attention. So how can I help?”

  Arthur pulled the photo from his jacket pocket. “I’d like to know if this young woman dined here last Monday night between ten at night and one in the morning.”

  The maître d’ gasped with shock when he looked at the photo. “But that’s . . . that’s . . . the girl from the newspaper.”

  Arthur nodded.

  “And you think she . . . ? Here in our restaurant . . . ?”

  Arthur didn’t reply.

  The maître d’ shook his head. “No, I’ve never seen her before. However . . . Monday was my day off. I’ll show the photo to my colleagues if you’ll allow me.”