“Intelligent design.”
“Yes. And I believe there must have been a reason why God decided to wipe out all those creatures.”
The kitchen seemed to have become darker and narrower. I felt a stab of claustrophobia.
Verena looked at the clock over the sink and her eyes opened wide.
“It’s late, Salinger, you have to go. I don’t want Max to find you here.”
“Thanks for the story.”
“Don’t thank me.”
“Then I hope the bottle is worth the price I paid for it.”
Verena seemed relieved by my joke. The interrogation was over. “I’ll let you know.”
We stood up.
“Salinger?”
“No, I won’t tell Max.”
Verena seemed calmer. Not too much, but enough for that furrow between her eyebrows to have disappeared.
She shook my hand. “He’s a good man. Don’t hurt him.”
I was looking for the best way to take my leave when we heard the door open, followed by Max’s weary footsteps.
“Salinger?” he said, surprised to see me. “To what do we owe this visit?”
Verena showed him the bottle of Blauburgunder. “He said something about avoiding a fine, Mr. Sheriff.”
Max laughed. “You shouldn’t have.”
“I’m almost one of the locals now,” I joked. “Anyway, it’s late, I was hoping to have a drink in company, but Annelise will be getting worried.”
Max looked at his wristwatch. “It’s not so late. It’d be a pity if you went home thirsty.” With long strides, he walked through the living room. “I’ll get the corkscrew and . . .”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He stood frozen in the doorway of the kitchen. I saw Verena take a step toward him, then stop and raise her hand to her mouth.
Max turned and hissed icily, “What’s this all about?”
He was pointing to the photograph and the telegram on the table.
“I was careless, Max, I knocked over the frame and—”
“Bullshit,” Max said. His eyes were pinned on mine. “A heap of bullshit.”
“It’s my fault, Max,” I said.
“Who else’s would it be?”
“I wanted to have a chat with you. That’s why I came.”
“But you weren’t here,” Verena cut in, almost falling over her words, “and I thought it would be best if I talked to him.”
“It’s my fault, Max,” I repeated emphatically. “Verena had no intention of—”
Max took a threatening step toward me. “Of doing what?”
“Telling me the story.”
Max was shaking. “And does Verena know why you’re so interested in that story?”
“What do you mean?”
He gave a contemptuous laugh. “That you want to make a pile of money.”
I stood rooted to the spot.
“Did this son of a bitch tell you,” Max said, addressing his wife, “that he wants to make money with a film about the Bletterbach killings? Take a seat, Mr. Director. Take our corpses and show them off to half the people in the world. You can even spit on their graves. Isn’t that how you earn a living, Salinger?”
“What the newspapers have published is a lie. I’ll demonstrate that as soon as the documentary on the Ortles is finished. And I can assure you I have no intention of making any kind of film about the story of Kurt, Evi, and Markus.”
Max took a second step toward me. “Don’t even dare speak their names.”
“It’s best if I go, Max. I’m sorry I bothered you. And thanks for the tea, Verena.”
I didn’t have time to turn to the door before Max grabbed me by the neck and shoved me against the wall. A wooden crucifix fell to the ground and broke.
Verena let out a scream.
“Show your face here again,” Max snarled, “and I’ll see you end up in a whole heap of trouble. And if you have any common sense, you dickhead, make sure you get out of here. We don’t need vultures like you in Siebenhoch.”
I grabbed his two hands and tried to break free. His grip was strong, and all I could do was gain enough oxygen to say, “I’m not a vulture, Max.”
“I assume that’s how things work in Hollywood, that you’re used to this kind of mean trick. But here in Siebenhoch, we have something called morality.”
He let go of me.
I gasped for breath.
Max hit me. A hard, accurate right to my cheekbone. There was an explosion of lights and I crumpled to the floor. When I looked up, Max was towering over me.
“Take that as a first installment. And now get out, if you don’t want a second.”
Aching, I grabbed my jacket and left.
* * *
Fortunately, Clara was asleep.
I tried to make as little noise as possible as I entered the house. I took off my shoes, cap, and winter jacket. The house was shrouded in darkness, but I didn’t need to switch on the light to find my way.
I managed to slip into the bathroom and rinsed my face. One side of it was the color of an aubergine.
“Salinger . . .”
I felt my stomach heave.
Annelise’s hair was ruffled and her expression alarmed. Even without make-up, I thought she looked beautiful. She took my face in her hands and examined the bruise.
“Who did this to you?”
“It’s nothing, don’t worry.”
“Who was it? That guy from Lily’s?”
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I said, giving a couple of stupid grins in an attempt to calm her down.
The pain was making my eyes water.
“This time he won’t get away with it. I’m calling the Carabinieri.”
I stopped her. “Let it go, please.”
“What’s going on, Salinger?”
She wasn’t angry. She was scared.
“It was Max.”
“Chief Krün?” Annelise seemed shocked. “Was he drunk?”
“He wasn’t drunk, and in a way I deserved it.”
Annelise pulled away from me.
I’m convinced that part of her had already guessed what I was up to. The hours shut up in my study in front of the computer. The sudden excursions. They were all clues her brain couldn’t have helped but register. Except that she didn’t want to admit it. At this point, though, she had to have understood.
“What are you working on?”
Her voice was flat and monotonous. I would have preferred it if she’d screamed.
“Nothing.”
Annelise put her index finger on the bruise and pressed. “Does it hurt?”
“Fuck, yes.”
“Your lies hurt even more. I want the truth. Now. Immediately. And at least try to be convincing.”
“Can we go in the kitchen? I need a drink.”
Annelise turned and disappeared without a word into the shadowy corridor. I followed her. First, though, I peered into Clara’s bedroom. She was sleeping curled up on her side. I adjusted the blankets. Then I went down to the kitchen.
Annelise already had a beer ready for me on the table.
“Talk.”
“First of all, I want you to know it isn’t work.”
“It isn’t?”
“No. It’s a way to keep my brain active.”
“Getting yourself beaten up by half the village?”
“That’s collateral damage.”
“Am I also collateral damage?”
I noticed that her voice was shaking. I tried to take her hands in mine. I barely managed to touch them. They were icy. Annelise pulled them away and laid them in her lap.
I started to tell her everything, somehow avoiding the word “obsession.”
“It isn’t work,” I finished. “I need it to . . .”
“To?”
“Because otherwise I think I’d go mad.” I bowed my head. “I should have told you earlier.”
“Is that what you think? That you should have told me earlier?”
“I—”
“You promised. A sabbatical year. One year. Instead of which, what? How long did you last? A month?”
I didn’t say anything. She was right.
L for liar.
“God, you’re like a child. You throw yourself into things without a thought for the consequences. You can’t even—”
“Annelise—”
“Don’t say a word. You promised. You lied. And what will you tell Clara tomorrow morning? That you bumped into somebody’s fist?”
“I’ll make up a funny story.”
“That’s what you always do, isn’t it? Make up stories. I should leave, Salinger. Take Clara, and leave. You’re dangerous.”
These words came as a shock.
I felt my guts contract. The pain had disappeared.
“You can’t be serious, Annelise.”
“I am.”
“I made a mistake, I know. I lied to everyone. To you, to Werner. To everyone. But I don’t deserve this.”
“You deserve far worse.”
I tried to articulate a defense, but Annelise was right. I’d demonstrated that I was a terrible husband and an even worse father.
“You’re sick, Salinger.” Annelise’s tone had changed. There was a hint of tears in her voice. “You need those drugs. I know you’re not taking them.”
“The drugs have nothing to do with it, I just wanted—”
“To prove to yourself that you’re still you? That you haven’t changed? You nearly died on that glacier. If you think that hasn’t changed you, then you really are an idiot.”
I closed my mouth abruptly. My palate felt dry, my tongue reduced to a leather flap.
Get out.
“It’s pointless pretending it isn’t so. You’ve changed. I’ve changed. Even Clara has changed. It’s only natural. There are some experiences you don’t emerge from unscathed.”
“No, you don’t emerge unscathed.”
“Do you think I haven’t noticed? I see you. I know you. I see that look.”
“What look?”
“The look of an animal in a cage.”
“I’m almost out of it.”
Annelise shook her head bitterly. “Do you really think that, Salinger? I want you to look me in the eyes. I want the truth. But if what comes out of your mouth isn’t the truth, and nothing but the truth, I’ll call my father, take Clara, and spend the night at Welshboden.”
“It’s just that . . .”
I didn’t finish the sentence. It suddenly happened. Something broke inside me.
I burst into floods of tears.
“The Beast, Annelise. The Beast is always here, with me. Sometimes it’s quiet, sometimes it shuts up, there are good days, days when I don’t think about it even for a second. But it’s always inside me. And it hisses, it hisses, its voice, I can’t, its . . .”
Annelise hugged me. I felt her warm body press against mine. I sank into that warmth.
“I’m always afraid, Annelise. Always.”
The woman I loved cradled me as I’d so often seen her cradle Clara. Gradually, the tears abated. Only the sobbing remained.
Then not even that.
Annelise gently pushed me away. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I don’t want to take those damned drugs.”
Annelise stiffened. “You need them.”
Now even I realized that. “Yes. You’re right.”
Annelise heaved a deep sigh. “Promise.”
I nodded. “Whatever you want.”
“The sabbatical year. It starts now.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll forget about the Bletterbach killings.”
“Yes.”
“And you’ll start taking the drugs.”
“Yes.”
She looked me in the eyes. “Will you do that?”
“Yes,” I lied.
The King of the Elves
On December 31, I went into Clara’s room and woke her. Frowning, she looked at me with eyes full of sleep.
“Papà?”
“Wake up, lazybones, we have to go.”
“Where?”
“To the castle of the King of the Elves,” I replied, beaming.
Clara’s little eyes sparkled with curiosity. She sat up in bed. “Where does the King of the Elves live?”
“On a distant mountain. A very beautiful mountain.”
“Are you really taking me to see the King of the Elves?”
“Cross my heart, sweetheart,” I replied, winking. “How many letters in ‘heart’?”
“Five.”
Clara leapt out of bed and ran to the kitchen, where Annelise had already prepared a little snack. In less than half an hour, we were ready.
I’d organized everything with the complicity of Werner and a couple of people I’d met during the filming of Mountain Angels. It was a gift. Not for Clara. It was a gift for Annelise. I wanted her to start trusting me again. I wanted her to look at me again the way she’d looked at me before September 15.
That’s why, when we got in the car, I was as excited as Clara. I started the engine and very soon turned onto the main road.
Apart from a few trucks and a couple of cars, we had the road all to ourselves. I switched on the stereo and started singing Kiss’s greatest hits at the top of my voice.
Clara put her fingers in her ears, while Annelise accepted my performance with a mixture of skeptism and amusement.
It was supposed to be a surprise, and I’d kept her in the dark as to what I had in store for our South Tyrolean New Year, but without being so secretive as to make her suspicious about what I was doing.
No Bletterbach, in other words.
I don’t know how much she trusted me, but there she was, with me, and that was enough to fill me with energy and hope. The year that was about to start, 2014, had to be a turning point.
A year of healing.
“Will it be cold?”
“Quite cold.”
“Clara will get sick.”
“Clara won’t get sick.”
“Then you’ll be the one to catch flu.”
“Don’t jinx it.”
“Are you sure you don’t want to tell me where we’re going?”
I didn’t reply.
I hadn’t made all that effort just to ruin the surprise at the last moment. So, lips sealed. Above all, I made no reference as to how we would get to the castle of the King of the Elves. Annelise would have refused, I knew. Presenting her with a fait accompli was a dirty trick, but it was for a good cause.
I turned up the volume on the car radio and started squawking my way through “Rock and Roll All Nite.”
We got to Ortisei, the first stop on our journey. The village was wrapped in a blanket of snow, but was buzzing with activity.
I left the car in the center and we devoured an enormous breakfast. Clara put away a slice of pie that seemed as big as she was. Once we’d eaten our fill, I looked at my watch.
“We’re late for our special coach.”
Annelise looked around. “I thought this was the surprise.”
“Ortisei?”
“Was I wrong?”
“It isn’t cold enough.”
“It seems perfectly cold to me, Papà Bear.”
I took in a lungful of air. “For Papà Bear, this isn’t cold. This is warm.”
“The thermometer says minus seven.”
“Tropical heat.”
“Papà, if we arrive late, will the special coach turn into a pumpkin?”
“We’d best hurry up. You never know. But Mamma has to promise something, otherwise no special coach.”
“What does Mamma Bear have to promise?” Annelise asked, dubiously.
“She has to keep her eyes closed.”
“For how long?”
“For as long as Papà Bear says.”
“But—”
“Mamma! Do you want the special coach to turn into a pumpkin? I want to see the ca
stle of the King of the Elves!”
Clara’s intervention was crucial. We set off again and less than fifteen minutes later reached our destination.
“Can I?”
“Not yet, Mamma Bear.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Don’t think about it.”
“It’s like kerosene.”
“Mountain air, darling. Concentrate on that.”
I helped her out of the car and walked with her arm in arm to just in front of the hangar.
“Mamma Bear can open her eyes now.”
Annelise obeyed. Her reaction was exactly as I’d expected.
She folded her arms and said, “Forget it.”
“It’ll be fun.”
“I said, forget it.”
“To fly is humanity’s dream. Icarus. Leonardo da Vinci. Neil Armstrong. A small step for a man—”
“Icarus came to a bad end, genius. If you really think I’m getting into that thing, dear Jeremiah Salinger, you don’t know me well at all.”
“But why?”
“Because it won’t stay up. It doesn’t have wings.”
I knew her. Oh, yes, I knew her. That’s why instead of coming back at her, I took Clara in my arms and walked over to the helicopter.
“It’s a B3,” I said to her, “it’s a kind of flying mule.”
“Does it eat straw?”
“Straw and kerosene.”
“Is it the kerosene that makes that stink?”
“Don’t say that too loud or the B3 will be offended.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Flying Mule.”
“I think he’s forgiven you.”
“How do you know that?”
“Papà,” I said gravely, “always knows everything.”
I wondered how much longer a sentence like that would be able to put an end to arguments.
“Are we going to use the flying mule to go to the castle of the King of the Elves?”
“Of course. You see that man there?” I asked, pointing to the pilot of the B3, who was coming toward us. “He’s going to drive the flying mule for us.”
Very excited, Clara started clapping her hands. “Can I ask him how he’s going to stay up?”
“I’ll do my best,” the pilot replied. “How would you like to sit next to me? That way you can help me drive.”
Clara sat down in the cockpit of the helicopter without even answering.
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