Woman of the Dead

by Bernhard Aichner

  • • •

  He didn’t notice a thing, didn’t realize that the caskets were heavier than usual. He is the one person who could have been her downfall—he could have suspected, he could have looked inside one of the caskets. But nothing like that has happened. Nothing has been different about him, no doubts, no speculation. Blum’s life will stay as it is. It almost seems to be a good thing that Schönborn is dead. Blum senses it. She doesn’t think of Mark, she doesn’t want to cry, she is thinking only of the parts of a man’s torso being lowered into the ground. She killed him. She gave him an overdose, she struck him unconscious, she put him in a refrigerator like a piece of meat. Then she butchered him like a pig.

  • • •

  Blum smiles at Reza; she smiles with her lips, lifting their corners, only very slightly. She feels no guilt or shame. Only that smile playing on her lips, barely perceptible but obvious all the same, and happy. In her mind, Blum is singing, The filthy pig is dead. The wind instruments play an old folk song. In her mind, Blum is dancing. She did the right thing and she has no regrets. Only that he can’t talk now. Can’t tell her who the others are and where she must look for them. She’d do it again without hesitation. She’d do it again. For Dunya. For Mark.

  • • •

  Earth falls into the grave. Blum and Reza watch as the gravedigger fills and seals the hole. It is a delightful sound, the earth on the casket, the sound it makes when it touches the wood, when it covers what is to remain hidden. No one will ever open that grave again, no one will look for Schönborn down there. Blum’s mind is still dancing, rejoicing in the knowledge that the nightmare has a happy ending. They stay until the end, until the grave is only a mound of earth decorated by flowers. Only then do they go, Reza and Blum, to a bar, where they sit drinking in easy companionship. A couple of beers, half an hour. Then she will go; she will embrace Reza and go. There’s something else I have to do, she will say. Reza will nod. Blum will walk to the Old Town, she will unlock the door of the building and go upstairs, she will open the studio door and lock it again on the inside. She will search everywhere, every nook and cranny, every hard disk, she will not stop until she has found the photos. Portraits of Ilena, of Dunya, of Youn. She will be wearing gloves, she will wipe everything she touched two days ago, no trace of her will be discovered when he is reported missing. She will delete their first meeting from his diary if he entered it. Blum will make no mistakes; she will leave unseen with the photographs, she will retreat into Mark’s study to look at the pictures. She will see what went on in that cellar. She will look into their faces, and she will cry over them, she knows that. She will hate those men more with every portrait she sees. Blum will finish her beer now, get up and embrace Reza. She will walk to the Old Town and unlock the door. There’s something else I have to do.

  Karl is better now that he has let the children back into his life. He spends a lot of time with them. The children are like a balm. He and Blum agree on that as they sit side by side on the garden bench, watching them play. Every day, although the girls don’t know it, they keep the boat from capsizing, they make sure that their mother gets up and goes out into the day, that Karl doesn’t lie down forever. Mark lives on in their little faces. That thought stops them from giving up.

  • • •

  “You’re working again. That’s good.”

  “Thank you for helping me with the children, Karl.”

  “It’s the children who help me.”

  “What would I do without you?”

  “Don’t say that. It’s the other way around. What would I do without you? If you hadn’t asked me to live here, I’d be dying slowly in a nursing home.”

  “Don’t talk like that.”

  “You know I’m right, Blum.”

  “You belong to us and we love you, Karl.”

  “And who loves you?”

  “The three of you.”

  “But there’s something on your mind.”

  “You mustn’t worry, Karl. I’m fine.”

  “There is something. I know you. It’s to do with that woman.”

  “Oh, Karl.”

  “I know I’m right.”

  “Once a cop . . .”

  “What is it about her? She left without saying good-bye.”

  “So? Karl, everything’s just fine. Dunya is a friend of mine from the past. She always came and went as she pleased.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “What do you mean, nonsense?”

  “She’s no friend of yours. You hardly know her.”

  “Please drop the subject, Karl.”

  “I can help you.”

  “You can and do help me by looking after the children. I can manage everything else on my own.”

  “There’s something wrong. I can sense it.”

  • • •

  Blum can imagine Karl as he was before the tick made an old man of him. Unyielding, a bloodsucker himself, the sort who never stops asking questions until the truth comes to light. He was a good police officer, Mark said, he learned all he knew from him. His instinct, his persistence. But she’s not going to tell Karl a thing, she won’t confide in him, won’t put him in danger. Even though Blum knows that he would never judge her or give her away, she bites her tongue. Saying nothing, she leaves him with his dark presentiments. Blum takes his hand and presses it. Karl knows she’s stubborn; he knows she isn’t going to tell him a thing. He’s known her long enough. He has come to love her for all that she is and all that she isn’t. She will not tell him that she has killed a man, cut him into pieces and buried him. She isn’t going to tell him that the man was probably Mark’s murderer. That there are four more of them out there. She won’t tell him any of that. Only their intertwined fingers matter. Blum’s hand in his must be enough. Karl must trust her.

  • • •

  How glad she is that he’s there. While she goes on investigating, like a woman possessed, looking for those men, Karl cooks for the children, puts them to bed, reads aloud to them. Those men must be somewhere, and somehow or other Blum will find them. Even though she knows less than nothing, she will run them to ground and make them talk. All four of them. But she doesn’t know where to begin. Men between thirty and sixty, inconspicuous and friendly, no one in the world would think for a moment that they could do something so perverted. White sheep innocently grazing in a meadow, probably leading a perfectly normal life, probably quite close to Blum. Respectable citizens like Schönborn. Men of good repute, psychopaths, murderers. By now Blum is convinced that they are responsible for Mark’s death. There can be no doubt about it, everything fits.

  The man in the suit could be in his midfifties. Johannes Schönborn, Edwin’s father, the provincial government deputy, former owner of the hotel in Sölden. Blum simply went to the government building, then up to the second floor, where she asked to see him. No appointment was available, she was told, for another five weeks. She thanked the man and waited outside Schönborn’s office. For an hour she stared at the picture hanging on the wall: a woman with the head of a stag, breasts, and a pair of antlers. It was just Blum and the woman with the stag’s head. Schönborn was the only one who could tell her the truth about the presumed brothel in the “wellness” area of the hotel, about potential clients, about Dunya, Youn, and Ilena. He must know something, he must have something to do with it. So she followed him when he left his office. He went to a restaurant; she sat down at the bar and observed him. It was lucky that he was eating alone, that the chair opposite him was vacant, was waiting just for her.

  • • •

  Blum is surprised by the man’s aura of calm, the composure with which he continues to eat. It seems almost as if he found her appearance a welcome diversion. A man with nothing to fear, a man who feels safe, who is aware of his power and prepared to use it.

  • • •

  “I have to ask you about your brothel.”

  “You have to what?”

  “Ask you about your brothel. In th
e Annenhof hotel, remember?”

  “I’m not entirely sure that I understand you correctly.”

  “Yes, you do.”

  “I would like to eat my lunch in peace.”

  “That’s fine by me, so long as you tell me what made you do it.”

  “You can’t be serious?”

  “Oh yes, I am.”

  “What in the world are you thinking? You interrupt my meal, and you have the impertinence to spoil my appetite with groundless accusations.”

  “As I said, you’re welcome to go on eating.”

  “Have we met?”

  “No, but I could tell everyone here that I used to work for you.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In your wellness center. I could tell them all that I procured for you. I could make quite a scene of it, and I’m sure some of them would believe me. I’m good at that sort of thing.”

  “Why would you do a thing like that?”

  “Because I’d like to know whether that brothel was part of your hotel.”

  “How entertaining you are.”

  “Am I?”

  “Very amusing, yes. By the way, the pasta here is excellent. You ought to try it.”

  “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “There was no such brothel. Never.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “The ladies gave massages, that was all. Classic back massages, sound massages, lymph drainage, underwater pressure jet massages, Ayurvedic and hot-stone massages, the full range. They were much appreciated by our guests.”

  “The clients in the brothel, you mean.”

  “Guests, young lady, satisfied guests. Why, even the village pastor was a regular guest of ours.”

  “The pastor?”

  “Yes, that speaks for itself, don’t you agree? A man of God gave the whole enterprise his blessing. He has trouble with slipped disks, poor man. The ladies helped him a great deal. That was all, it was perfectly aboveboard.”

  “So you left the pastor satisfied too?”

  “Yes, he’s a very good man, and it looks as if he’ll be the next bishop.”

  “And he was one of your regular guests?”

  “Yes again, and now I trust that I have answered all your questions and we can enjoy a glass of wine together.”

  “I’ll be happy to join you.”

  “By the way, what makes you think there was something wrong with the hotel all that time ago? And why now, after so many years? Why do you take any interest in this tedious subject?”

  “You’re a huntsman, aren’t you?”

  “What if I am?”

  “Five men enjoying themselves.”

  “What?”

  “With Ilena, Dunya, and Youn.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about, but I’m always happy to talk to my constituents, particularly when they’re as pretty as you.”

  “Are you a rapist?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Are you one of the five men?”

  “Are you drunk? What on earth are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about abduction, unlawful imprisonment, assault, rape. And murder.”

  “Enough. I think you’d better leave.”

  “Father and son. Perhaps the two of you were having your fun together.”

  “What about my son? What’s all this about?”

  • • •

  Blum turns and leaves without another word or glance. She simply walks away, with everything that he has said ringing in her ears. And everything that he hasn’t. He didn’t know what she was talking about, he’d never heard the names Ilena, Dunya, and Youn before. He was surprised. He racked his brain and found nothing, his astonishment was genuine. And so were his denials about the brothel. How confidently he twists reality, extinguishes the past. Only massages. Massages for the pastor. How absurd.

  • • •

  His mention of the pastor is a bonus. A gift that someone has handed her, and all she has to do is open it. Remove the ribbon, crumple up the wrapping paper. A present that Johannes Schönborn has given her without knowing the avalanche he has set in motion. Blum pictures the randy priest punishing Dunya for her sins. A man of God in the brothel, a man of God in a cellar somewhere in hell. The son of the house is a photographer. A priest is a regular client. Blum knows him. She has met him at funerals, she knows his face, she knows how he speaks and moves. She sees him in her mind’s eye.

  • • •

  His name is Herbert Jaunig. He wears a kindly expression as he delivers the eulogy. As he shakes hands with the bereaved. As he rapes Youn. As he drags the girls out of their cages to whip them. Everything that Blum has heard comes back to her. Every word that Dunya told her, every little detail. He would punish Dunya for her sins, bringing his belt down on her back again and again, the belt buckle digging into her skin, screams echoing in the cellar. The way he quotes the Bible as he ties the boy down on the table. The way he seizes Youn by the hair and jerks his head up as he thrusts into him, the pastor’s sanctified prick absolving the boy of his sins as it roots around inside him. The savior bringing those three lost souls back to the path of righteousness, the future bishop lovingly tending to his flock. Blow by blow, thrust after thrust. Punishment for the lascivious behavior of his victims, his fist coming down on the boy’s back so hard that it almost drives the breath out of him. Dunya sits in her cage watching and can do nothing to help.

  • • •

  Blum leaves the restaurant. Not for a second does she doubt the existence of that brothel in the Annenhof. She doesn’t believe that the pastor went there only for massages. He must have been an associate of Edwin Schönborn. She has no doubt about it, and no pity. She sees only the pastor before her eyes, only the photos that Edwin Schönborn took. Again and again those faces; she read those faces all night long, in the photos that she found in Schönborn’s studio. In an unlocked drawer, neatly sorted and stacked. Blum couldn’t stop looking at them: those eyes, the gaping mouths, the horror and emptiness on their faces. She has seen everything that Herbert Jaunig has done. All that he must answer for now. The good priest, one of the most popular in the country. Blum will make him talk.

  Massimo wants to touch her again, hold her close. He says so quietly. He is sitting beside her at the dining table, and the children are playing on the floor. It is suppertime. Massimo simply dropped by, he wants to be there for her. His helpfulness, his concern, his warm hand touching her. I need time. I don’t know if that was wise of me, I was so lonely. I’m grateful to you, Massimo. Please let’s take things slowly. I have to think, Massimo. You’re wonderful, but all the same it was wrong, because of Mark. You know that. Forgive me. She says these things without words, only with the touch of her fingertips. They do the talking, caress him, console him. Because she knows he wants more. He wants to be with her, day and night. But she can’t, not yet. She is afraid of it, she doesn’t want the children or Karl to see that the family friend has suddenly come between them. Blum would like to strip this closeness away now, be rid of it. It is suddenly burdensome to have him there, wanting something from her. She must tell him he should go, say she would rather he call before coming. Blum knows that she has made a mistake, she was thinking only of herself; she knows she will hurt him if she tells him to go away. She knows that, and his fingers can feel it. They reach for her, longing, crying out. Not now, Massimo, please. Please give me time. She looks at him, asking him to go. I have to put the children to bed. I’ll call, thank you, you’re an angel. She takes him to the door, embraces him, feels his warmth. But then she puts the brakes on, draws away from him and closes the door. She is alone again with the children. She doesn’t want any other man, only Mark.

  • • •

  She stands in the bathroom for two minutes. She won’t let herself cry. She has to brush the children’s teeth, play with them, be a good mother, read them a bedtime story. She must be there for them, soothe her guilty conscience for letting Karl t
ake on too much. But she can’t unsee what she’s seen, everything that has cast her life into confusion for the past five weeks. It’s there, it occupies every minute of her waking hours. When the girls are asleep, when they’re awake. She thinks of Dunya, of the Schönborns, of the priest. While she’s getting the girls into their pajamas, while she reads them the story of the dancing horse, while she lies in the dark beside them humming a tune. Because it’s like a fever. That feeling, the rage, the certainty that Mark might still have been alive. Everything is in movement, everything will change.

  • • •

  But morning follows night, and with it her everyday routine. Funerals, Reza, the children, laying out bodies, preparing them, the tears of their relations. And the same questions all the time. How will she go about it? How will she overpower him? Where can she get him on his own? She thinks of nothing but Herbert Jaunig for days on end. She reads everything she can find about him on the Internet. She finds out where he lives, how he lives. She watches him, follows him. She watches him saying mass in the cathedral, raising his hands to break the bread, drinking the wine from a golden goblet. A priest like any other, a man of God.

  • • •

  Hagen used to take her to church every Sunday. And every Sunday Blum hoped that the man in the cassock would help her. She had told him that she didn’t want to live anymore. She was eight years old. She had been alone with him one afternoon in the confessional, safe and sad. She had told him that she couldn’t breathe anymore, that she wanted a cuddle. An eight-year-old girl summoning up all her courage, trying to put her unhappiness into words, begging for help. Begging the man in the cassock who kept talking about brotherly love and mercy. Blum had cried. She remembers whimpering very quietly. He had heard her, and told her to stop that. His voice through the grating hadn’t done anything to make it better. Instead of taking her in his arms he had given her his prescription for happiness. Two Our Fathers and a Hail Mary. Three prayers for a happy childhood. A child who wanted to die, and a man of God.