* * *
I arrived early at Zip for a meeting with Thomas. The Bessie Corday issue had worked out better than expected; they had used my portrait of her on the cover and sales were higher than average, although there was probably no connection between the two. Thomas was eager to involve me in a more structured schedule.
‘At least until Christmas,’ he said. ‘You can commit to that?’
‘Of course,’ I said, even though I was still working for Marie.
There was a diary of confirmed assignments for the Christmas season and a loose line-up of concerts and festivals in the run up to the holiday, some of which would be dropped, others shared among staff and freelancers. There was the opportunity to travel to the Dominican Republic in the new year, but that was still a long way off. Whether I was in the city or halfway across the world, I was to remain in constant communication. Telephone and facsimile numbers of where I could be reached were a priority. People had been fired for proving elusive, Thomas said. ‘I run a tight ship and people think I’m a cunt, but we win awards. I’m not in the award-winning business, mind, but I don’t tolerate bad behaviour. You understand?’
I envisaged running battles ahead.
On Sunday I caught the S-Bahn to Wannsee, then took a taxi to the sanatorium. I asked a staff member where I might find Vanessa Schlegel, and a woman walking past overheard.
‘Schlegel? She went for a walk.’ She pointed through an open window. ‘Out the back, over there.’
I left the building and walked around its perimeter. There was a neat herb garden at the front, and acres of fields and forest behind. I could see moving figures in the distance, but I didn’t know where to begin. At the back, on a wide terrace, people sat in quiet groups or on their own.
I waited on the steps at the edge of the terrace and closed my eyes against the sun. The only audible sounds were the cries of children playing on the grass. I wondered about them, the homes they came from, their individual stories: a drug-addled mother, an alcoholic father, a child who had lost the desire to eat. Did their laughter and games camouflage carefully concealed horrors? A girl called out, ‘Claus, stop that!’ and I remembered the Rio, which I hadn’t visited since leaving for Jos three weeks ago. I thought how strange it was being back already, the anticipated trauma of the visit receded now, in another kind of existence, a fresh catalogue of anxieties.
‘Look at him – not a care in the world!’ a voice called.
I opened my eyes and watched Frau Schlegel and Claudia walking towards me; it was like a shaft of sunlight filtering through rain clouds, the feeling I had. I must have loved her then.
‘I couldn’t find you, so I waited here,’ I replied.
‘We’ve been walking all over,’ Frau Schlegel said. ‘I must know every square centimetre of this place. Why don’t we sit and have coffee?’
Claudia chose a nearby table, but Frau Schlegel pointed to the side of the building. ‘Over there,’ she said, ‘is better.’ There were chairs at the edge of the terrace, further away from other people.
We drank tea and coffee and fruit juice, and I thought how much a beer would suit the late afternoon. I wondered at the strength of my desire in a place where alcohol was forbidden, how much more ferocious that need would be for the patients here.
‘They never leave you alone,’ Frau Schlegel said. ‘All day long they shove you in groups. You do exercises, lectures, counselling, all sorts of programmes. You go back to your room at the end of the day, forgetting there’s someone else there, sharing your space. In my case, Frieda Meisner. Drug addict, or used to be. There’s simply no privacy. None at all.’ She retrieved a packet of cigarettes from her bag, tapped it on the table top before opening it. ‘Still … every day is a new day. You have to remember that. Sometimes it feels like a victory just waking up; the previous day has been and gone, and you’re all right. You’re getting stronger. Apart from this.’ She waved her cigarette in the direction of the occupied tables.
‘Couldn’t you ask for your own room?’ I said. ‘After all, you’ve paid enough to be here. You should at least be allowed a few comforts.’
‘That’s what I said, but no.’ Frau Schlegel waved away the smoke in front of her face. ‘It’s all part of the treatment, they claim. Everyone has to share: rooms, responsibilities, stories. If they see you wandering off on your own, they’ll come and grab you. It’s hardly the real world.’
‘Mum, remember there are only two more weeks of this, then it’s over,’ Claudia said. ‘Two weeks isn’t that long, is it?’
‘Claudi, every day is like two weeks in here. A lifetime. You can’t go anywhere. There’s nothing to read apart from tattered newspapers and old books. There are fights over what to watch on TV. You look at the clock; you realize only one minute has passed. It’s excruciating. And the things people say here, in front of other people. It’s truly shocking. I could never be like that. People saying terrible things about what happened to them when they were young, what happens to them now, what they do. That Frieda, she sold her body for drugs, you know. Can you imagine! I’m living with a prostitute.’ She turned to check no one had heard, then whispered, ‘She’s had children who have gone into care because of her. I don’t know if she even thinks about them. And I’m sure I haven’t heard the end of it.’ She sank back in her chair and took a long drag on her cigarette. ‘Listen to me going on. I’m so sorry to hear about your uncle, Vincent. It must be hard being here, knowing he’s not well.’
‘No, it’s all right. He’s not critical at the moment,’ I said. ‘But I think about him – about both of them – all the time. I always have, I suppose. We never used to get on, you see, and I could never understand why he didn’t like me. He always loved my brother.’
‘Families,’ Frau Schlegel laughed. ‘Like me and Julius. I was always the favourite. Father adored me. Until I met your father, that is.’ She turned to Claudia. ‘Then I understood what it was like to be on the outside. Only Mother came to the wedding, and you should have seen her – stiff as an ironing board. Julius got her good and drunk on the day, though, and she softened up a bit. But my father … we didn’t speak again, not properly. Not as before. Always, there was this awkwardness. And he rarely phoned. But he loved Claudi. He always played with you when we visited. You were his joy. Maybe if he had lived, things might have improved. Now it’s too late. He’d die if he could see me in here, though!’ She clucked at the thought.
A middle-aged man with yellow shoulder-length hair and red spectacles approached our table. His scalp shone pink along his centre parting and his hair swung back and forth each time he bobbed his head. ‘We’ll see you at ten tomorrow, I trust, Vanessa?’ He shoved his hands deep into his blazer pockets, then withdrew them almost instantly.
‘I expect so.’ Frau Schlegel squinted up at him.
There was a moment of silence as he stood there, his hands scampering from his hair to the pockets and back again.
Frau Schlegel continued to stare at him. ‘This is Claudia and Vincent,’ she said. ‘Ulrich.’
‘Oh, so great to meet you,’ Ulrich said, his head bobbing enthusiastically. He reached out and shook our hands in turn and beamed.
‘Yes, well I’m sure you’re very busy, Ulrich … and as you can see, we are in the middle of something, you understand.’
‘Oh, of course. I’m sorry. How silly of me,’ Ulrich said, backing quickly away. ‘Another time then, Vanessa. So good to meet you both.’ He waved, then hurried down the steps.
‘Ulrich!’ she laughed. ‘You see what I have to put up with? He’s completely mad!’
‘But he seemed sweet to me,’ Claudia said.
‘Oh, he’s not so bad. He just pesters me relentlessly. I came here for rest and relaxation, not romance. You know what someone said to me the other day? We had a group exercise – out there on the grass. These two women were looking at me, whispering. Then one of them was paired off with me – it was a game of trust, but I wouldn’t have trusted her to t
hrow away my rubbish. She says, “You’re Vanessa Schlegel, aren’t you?” What could I say? I couldn’t deny it in a place like this. Where would I run to? She says, “Hannelore Kohl wears your designs, and Lady Di. I could never afford a pair, but I love your shoes. I’ve got clippings from all the magazines.” Afterwards she runs back to her little friend and off they go, tittering like school-girls. How can you trust anyone in a place like this? The Chancellor’s wife – of all the people she could think of.’
‘You should have ignored her,’ I said, ‘or denied it.’
‘What’s the point?’ She shook her head. ‘The whole thing’s exhausting and besides, I’m tired of running.’
Claudia chewed her lower lip and tried to smile. ‘So, what else has been happening since I’ve been away?’
‘Well, Edward is in charge, at work. Edward’s my right-hand man, Vincent. At my company. I just hope the responsibility doesn’t go to his head or there’ll be trouble when I get back. Ah, and I did save you some papers – some stuff about the Henkelmann affair. Messy business. I’ll just be a minute.’ She went inside to fetch the articles.
Claudia put her elbows on the table, rubbed her fingers against her temples and sighed.
‘She’s doing all right,’ I said. ‘Don’t worry.’
‘I know. She’s trying.’ She looked directly at me. ‘Don’t say anything, but this isn’t the first time it’s happened. She’s done this before and it didn’t work.’ She couldn’t stop the words now that she had begun. ‘“The people are strange, they’re going to tell the papers, the treatment’s all wrong.” Always the same excuses. It’s as if she doesn’t really want to get well, or she does but it involves too much effort. If you don’t really want to change, well, no one can force you, can they?’
Frau Schlegel returned and dumped a bundle of newspapers on the table. ‘They’re from all over,’ she said. ‘I’ve marked them all. You can tell how bored I’ve been.’
Police investigating the mysterious circumstances surrounding the death of SPD politician Heinrich Henkelmann last night ended months of speculation by formally charging a Schöneberg dental technician with the murder.
‘Dental technician!’ Frau Schlegel said. ‘It’s almost comical.’
The man, named yesterday as Karl Kessler, 43, was placed under police custody for the brutal slaying of Henkelmann, after his wife, Annika Kessler, came forward with fresh information about the case that has baffled the authorities and stunned the city.
‘What about this?’ Claudia separated another newspaper from the pile.
The full extent of the tragedy has yet to be uncovered as criminal investigators piece together details. These are the known facts: at 8.05 a.m., 6 July 1985, farmer’s wife Agnes Bischof called emergency services in a state of distress after discovering the deceased’s body while walking the family Alsatian in the picturesque fields of Lübars in an area frequented by sexual adventurers.
‘It’s not something I ever expected to witness,’ Bischof later told reporters. ‘I didn’t go too near, though, but I knew something was very wrong. You couldn’t tell it was a body even from a short distance away – it was so badly beaten – I couldn’t make out what it was. Effie was barking … out of control. That’s not like her. I couldn’t quieten her … I’d never seen a dead body before – I didn’t go too near … The police, they arrived in no time, though. Very prompt. I was very impressed. It’s not so easy to find us out here. It’s horrible that anything like this can happen.’
Sources close to Henkelmann’s wife, Eva, suggest their 16-year-marriage was in a process of reconciliation – there had been reports that the couple had been experiencing marital difficulties for a number of years. Police have exhibited an instrument – a car anti-theft device – believed to be identical to the weapon used in the July attack. Forensic tests have confirmed that blood traces taken from the interior of Kessler’s Volkswagen Passat match Henkelmann’s.
‘The whole thing’s a bit gruesome,’ Claudia said. ‘It’s enough to kill someone, but to hack away until the head is just …just pulp. That’s really sick.’
‘And since when has Lübars become a hotbed for sex?’ I asked. ‘I thought it was all farmland and the odd village.’
‘A man can go there and take a lover, day or night, they say. If you know where to look,’ Frau Schlegel explained. ‘Like in the supermarket – you browse, you like, you select. But there’s no charge. At least I’m receiving an education; ask Frieda – she tells me all about it.’
‘I still don’t understand why he was killed,’ I said.
‘They’re not sure, either,’ Frau Schlegel shrugged. ‘All sorts of possibilities are flying about: political assassination, homophobia, blackmail. I read somewhere that Kessler’s been detained before, for assault. Frieda thinks the man’s a mental case.’
‘For someone you don’t like, you and Frieda seem to have a lot to talk about,’ Claudia said.
‘But there’s nothing else to do! At least she’s good for some gossip. When I get out of this place I’ll never see her again. She thinks we’ll continue to meet outside, but she’s mistaken. Look, there she is!’ She waved to a couple walking towards the side entrance of the building. Frieda’s wavy auburn hair fell to her shoulder blades. She wore a grey polo-neck sweater and a long chocolate-brown skirt. She looked more like a chic Wilmersdorf housewife than the slattern Frau Schlegel had described.
28
DIETER WAS STANDING at the bar in the Rio that evening. Claus said, ‘Vincent, you’ve been away, don’t think I haven’t noticed. I had my suspicions for a while, but they’ve caught the Lübars murderer, so I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.’
‘Shut up and pour,’ I said. ‘You’re well, I trust?’
‘Who me? Nothing changes; how could I be otherwise? This is Martine, by the way.’ He nodded towards a woman standing next to Dieter: blue beret, pink sweater, brown leather trousers. ‘She’s a dancer, but she won’t tell us where she performs, will you?’
She smiled as Claus made the introductions.
Dieter and I carried the drinks back to the table where Tunde, Clariss, B and Angelika were sitting.
‘Who’s the chick at the bar?’ Tunde asked, peering at Martine.
Dieter proceeded with the details.
I didn’t stay long. I needed to make a telephone call. Ever since Frau Schlegel had returned home, Claudia and I had spent less and less time together. The decision to leave the sanatorium prematurely had been Frau Schlegel’s. Everyone concerned had tried to persuade her to finish the treatment, but she had been adamant. Now Claudia felt unable to leave her mother alone for too long in case she relapsed. An illness like that was vampiric; it drained you. It had cost Claudia her health and her freedom and there was a part of Frau Schlegel I could not help but despise.
I sat with the phone in my lap and dialled slowly. When I heard her voice my heart leapt.
‘Vincent!’ she cried. There was no bitterness in her tone.
‘Hello, Luce,’ I said. ‘What’s happening?’
‘Oh, this and that. I’ve only just got in. This is a surprise. I’m so glad you’ve phoned.’
‘I thought I’d call. I just wanted to hear your voice again; it’s so good to hear your voice, Luce.’ The words were running out of me, unrestrained.
‘It’s a good thing you did call,’ Lucille said. ‘If you’d left it another few weeks, I wouldn’t have been here.’
‘Why – you moving?’
‘To Westbourne Park. I’m finally buying a place.’
‘That’s great – you always wanted to buy, didn’t you?’
‘A bit more than I’d planned to spend, though. It needs a lot of work, but it’s a fair size and there’s a garden. Bags of potential. And you? How are you?’
‘Good, good. Still in the same place. Work’s picking up, though. I went to visit my aunt and uncle.’
‘Yes. I saw Peju – we bumped into each other in Tesco the other day.
I’m glad that you’ve seen them again. Peju said you all had a good time out there.’
I wondered whether she had heard about Claudia.
There was a moment when I thought everything might work out: Frau Schlegel would stay sober; Lucille would come back to me; Claudia would find someone else to love, someone kinder, less muddled. But I knew I simply wanted things to revert to the way they had been, for certain events never to have taken place. And I realized that was something I had always done; flee from an unmanageable present to an imagined perfect past.
She said, ‘I’m going to live with Colin, Vincent. We’re buying together. I wasn’t going to tell you, but you phoned …I think you should know.’
‘Oh, Colin … that’s sensible. The lawyer, right?’ I said. The rubber ball of my heart came to a standstill. ‘Anyway, the weather’s changing now … we had a good summer.’ I looked out of the window into the still night air. A woman was reading to a child tucked up in bed in the building opposite my kitchen. I didn’t know what I was saying.
‘Yes, we had a good one too,’ Lucille said. ‘Vincent, are you still there?’
I said I was.
‘Vincent, there was no need to tell you about any of this, but you phoned. It’s not like me to hide things, you know that.’
‘I know, I know. Listen, Luce, I have to go.’ I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs.
‘Don’t be like that, Vincent. Talk to me. Just say what’s on your mind.’
‘What’s there to talk about? There’s nothing I can say that’s going to change things, so what’s the point?’
‘Why did you phone, then?’
I hung up and lay on the linoleum with my eyes wide open. My head throbbed. The glare from the bulb was like car headlights on a country road, but the effort to move was too great.
When the phone rang I leapt for it. I was certain I would hear Lucille’s voice, but instead it was Tunde.
‘We’re going to Jacaranda!’ he shouted. There was a clamour of voices and music in the background. ‘Dieter says some dancer was asking for you – Martine – she’s coming too. You want to meet us here or head straight for the club? We’re leaving in thirty minutes.’
Goodbye Lucille Page 24