She stood beside him in the shallows for half an hour, forgetful of the couple on the green blanket, forgetful of everything that might have disrupted their leave-taking. Then the lido gradually emptied. It was nearing six o'clock, and she realized that the time had come. If she hadn't had the child with her she would have swum out into the lake without wasting another thought on Gereon, but she couldn't bring herself to leave the helpless toddler alone on the lakeshore. He might have waded in after her.
She picked him up in her arms again, feeling the chill of his little legs and wet pants through her swimsuit and his firm, plump arm around her neck. He was holding the red fish by the tail.
She saw as she drew nearer that nothing on the green blanket had changed. The music was playing as loudly as before. One couple was sitting there, chatting away without any physical contact, the other lying down again.
Taking no notice of them, she changed the little boy into a clean nappy and dry underpants. Just as she was about to go, she was detained once more.
The child said: "I'm hungry."
A couple of minutes here or there wouldn't matter. She was totally focused on these last few moments with her son. "What would you like," she asked, "a yoghurt, a banana, a biscuit or an apple?"
He cocked his head as though seriously debating her question. `An apple," he said. So she resumed her seat and took an apple and the little fruit knife from her shoulder bag.
In her absence, Gereon had moved her chair so that she no longer had her back to the blanket but was sideways on. That way, he could see past her more easily. He was sitting there with his legs extended and his hands folded on his stomach, pretending to look at the lake. In reality, he was leering at the blonde bimbo's breasts.
He was bound to choose himself a bimbo like that when she'd gone, she reflected. The thought should have infuriated her, but it didn't even sadden her. The part of her that could feel was probably dead already, killed off - not that anyone had noticed - sometime in the last six months. Her sole concern was how to make things easier for herself.
She mustn't fight the water. Jutting into the lake at the far end of the lido was a small, scrub-covered headland. Once beyond it she would be hidden from view Then out to the middle of the lake, duck-diving from the outset. That would sap her strength.
The radio cassette was belting out a drum solo. It flailed away at her brain, although she took no notice of it. Holding the apple firmly in her hand, she felt the nape of her neck prickle and her shoulder muscles tense, felt her back stiffen and go cold as if she were lying on some hard, cold surface instead of sitting in balmy air, felt something like an exceptionally thick thumb force its way into her mouth, just as it had at Christmas, when Gereon had meant to give her a special treat.
Swallowing hard, she took the knife and cut the apple into four quarters, three of which she deposited on her lap.
Behind her, a voice she recognized as Alice's said: "It's really hot stuff."
"Yes," said the man sitting beside her, "you wouldn't think it of him today. It was five years ago, of course. That was Frankie's wild and woolly phase - it only lasted a few weeks. He doesn't like being reminded of it, but I reckon Ute's right, it's great music - nothing to be ashamed of. Three friends, they were. A shame they never made the big time, just played in a cellar. That's Frankie on drums."
Frankie, friends, cellar, drums ... The words rang briefly in her head, imprinting themselves on her memory.
"Were you there at the time?" Alice asked.
"No, I hadn't met him yet."
Gereon stretched. He glanced at the piece of apple in her hand. "He'll never eat all that. You can give me the rest."
"I'm eating the rest myself," she said. "Then I'm going for another swim. There's another apple in the bag; you can have it." A last piece of apple! Golden Delicious, the kind she'd loved as a child. The very thought made her mouth water.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw the blonde on the blanket sit up. "Hang on," the woman said, pressing a button on the cassette player, "I'll wind it on a bit. This is nothing compared to `Tiger's Song'! You won't hear anything better."
The dark-haired man rolled over and made another grab for her arm. Cora saw his face for the first time. It meant nothing to her. His voice too was just as unfamiliar when lie protested again, more vehemently this time. "No, Ute, that's enough. Not that, give me a break!" He sounded very much in earnest, but Ute laughed and fended him off.
Cora thought of her house. Her mother-in-law was bound to go through it with a fine-tooth comb, but she wouldn't find any cause for complaint. Everything was spick and span. The firm's books were in order too. No one would be able to say she'd been slapdash.
She removed the core from the piece of apple and peeled it as thinly as possible, then handed it to the little boy and picked up the next piece, intending to peel and core it for herself At that moment the music started again, even louder than before. Involuntarily, she glanced sideways. She saw the blonde subside onto her back, grasp the man's shoulders and pull him down on top of her, saw him bury his fingers in her hair and adjust her head to a convenient angle. Then he kissed her. And the drums ...
The remains of the apple fell to the grass as she jumped up. Gereon gave a start when she began to shout.
"Stop it, you filthy swine! Stop it, let go of her! Let go of her!"
At the first words she hurled herself sideways and fell to her knees. As the last words left her lips she stabbed the man with the knife.
Her first thrust caught him in the neck. He gave a startled cry and swung round, grabbed her wrist and held it for a moment or two, staring at her. Then he let go and merely went on staring. He muttered something she didn't catch, the music was too loud.
That was it! That was the tune in her head, the prelude to madness. It rang out over the trampled grass, over the horrified faces and frozen figures of those around her.
The second thrust caught him in the side of the throat. He stared at her wide-eyed but made no sound, just clutched his neck with one hand and gazed into her eyes. The blood spurted between his fingers, red as the little plastic fish. The blonde screamed and tried to crawl away beneath his legs.
She stabbed him again and again. Once in the throat, once in the shoulder, once through the cheek. The knife was small but pointed and very sharp. And the music was so loud. It filled her head entirely.
The man who had merely been sitting there, talking with Alice, shouted something. It sounded like "Stop that!"
Of course! That was the whole point: Stop that! Stop it, you filthy swine! The seated man put out his hand as if to catch hold of her, but he didn't. No one did a thing. It was as if they were all frozen in time. Alice put both hands over her mouth. The blonde whimpered and screamed alternately. The little girls in frilly bikinis clung to their mother. The grandfather removed the newspaper from his face and sat up. The grandmother snatched up the baby and clasped it to her breast. The father started to rise.
Gereon got out of his chair at last. An instant later he was standing over her. He punched her in the back and tried to grab the hand with the knife just as she raised her arm once more. "Cora!" he yelled. "Stop that! Are you crazy?"
No, her head was clear as a bell. Everything was fine, everything was just as it should be. It had to be this way: she knew it beyond all doubt. And the man knew it too; she could read it in his eyes. "This is my blood, which was shed for you for the remission of your sins."
When Gereon hurled himself at her the seated man and the father of the little girls came to his aid. They each held an arm while Gereon wrested the knife from her grasp. Holding her by the hair with one hand, he forced her head back and punched her in the face several times.
Gereon was bleeding from two or three cuts on his arm. She had stabbed him too, although she hadn't meant to. The seated man yelled at him to stop, which he eventually did. But he gripped her by the back of the neck and clamped her face against the other man's bloodstained chest.
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br /> No sound was coming from inside that chest, nor was there much sound in general. A few more rhythmical beats, a final drum solo just before the tape ended. Then came a click. A button on the cassette player popped up, and it was over.
She was conscious of Gereon's grip, of the numb places on her face where his fist had struck her, of the blood on the chest beneath her cheek and its taste on her lips. The platinum blonde was whimpering.
She put out a hand and rested it on the woman's leg. "Don't be afraid," she said. "He won't hit you. Come on, come away. Let's go. We shouldn't have come here. Can you get up by yourself, or shall I help you?" The little boy on her blanket started to cry.
I didn't cry much as a child. Only once, in fact, and then I didn't cry but screamed with fear. I haven't given it a thought in recent years, but I remember the occasion distinctly. I'm in a dimly lit bedroom with heavy brown curtains over the window The curtains are stirring, so the window must be open. It's cold in there. I'm shivering.
I'm standing in front of a double bed. One half is neatly made up, the other, nearest the window, is rumpled. The bed emits a stale, sourish smell as if the sheets haven't been changed for a long time.
I don't like it in the bedroom. The chill, the stench of months-old sweat, a threadbare runner on the bare floorboards. In the room I've just come from there's a thick carpet on the floor, and it's nice and warm. I tug at the hand holding mine, eager to go.
Seated on the tidy side of the bed is a woman wearing an overcoat and holding a baby in her arms. The baby is wrapped in a blanket. I'm supposed to look at her. She's my sister Magdalena. I have a new sister, I've been told, and we're going to look at her. But all I see is the woman in the overcoat.
The woman is a total stranger to me. She's my mother, whom I haven't seen for ages. Six months - a long time to a small child. My memory doesn't go back that far. And now I'm supposed to remain with this woman, who only has eyes for the bundle in the blanket.
Her face frightens me. It's hard, grey and forbidding. At last she looks at me. Her voice sounds the way she looks. She says: "The Lord has not forgiven our sins."
Then she folds back the blanket, and I see a tiny, blue face. "He has put us to the test," she goes on. "We must pass that test. We shall do what He expects of us."
I don't believe I could have registered those words at the time. They were often told me later on, that's why I still remember them so well.
I want to go. The woman's odd voice, the tiny, blue face in the blanket - I want no part of them. I tug again at the hand holding mine and start crying. Somebody picks me up and hushes me. My mother! I'm firmly convinced that the woman who takes me in her arms is my real mother. I cling to her and feel relieved when she takes me back into the warm.
I was still very young - only eighteen months. It's easy to work that out because I was one year old when Magdalena was born at the hospital in Buchholz, like me. We were both born in the same month: I on 9 May, and she on 16 May. My sister was a blue baby. Immediately after her birth she was transferred to the big hospital at Eppendorf and had an operation on her heart. The doctors discovered that Magdalena had other things wrong with her. They did their best for her, of course, but they couldn't put everything right.
It was thought at first that she had only a few days to live - a few weeks at most. The doctors didn't want Mother to take her home, but Mother refused to leave her on her own, so she stayed on at Eppendorf. But my sister was still alive after six months, and the doctors couldn't keep her there indefinitely, so they sent her home to die.
I spent those first six months living with the Adigars, our nextdoor neighbours. As a little child I firmly believed that they were my family - that Grit Adigar was my real mother and had handed me over to the woman in the overcoat because she wanted to get rid of me. Grit took me back with her at first but not, alas, for long.
Although I don't have any detailed recollections of this period, I've often wished I could remember at least a little about the weeks and months I spent with Grit and her daughters, Kerstin and Melanie.
Grit was still very young. She must then have been in her early twenties, having had her first child at seventeen and her second at nineteen. Her husband was seldom at home. Several years older than her, lie earned a good living at sea. Grit always had plenty of money and plenty of time for her daughters. She was a cheerful, uncomplicated person, almost a child herself.
In later years I often saw her pounce on her daughters and roll around on the floor with them, tickling them until they squirmed and giggled so much they could hardly breathe. I believe that she must have done the same to me in the days when I was in her care; that I played with Kerstin and Melanie; that Grit took me on her lap in the evenings and cuddled me the way she cuddled her own children; that she fed me cake in the afternoons or told me funny stories. And that she said: "You're a good girl, Cora."
But those six months are a blank, like the few more weeks I spent with Grit after Mother returned from the hospital with Magdalena. All that has lodged in my mind is a sense of having been shunted aside - cast out and expelled from Paradise. For the only licensed inmates of Paradise are the angels of purity who obey God's word to the letter, question none of His commandments, never rebel against Him and can look at the apples on the Tree of Knowledge without coveting a bite.
I couldn't do that. Easily led astray, I was a weak, sinful little creature unable to control the desires aroused in me and covetous of all I set eyes on. And Grit Adigar, or so I thought, had no wish to live under the same roof as such a person.
That was why I had to say "Mother" to a woman I disliked and "Father" to the man who lived in our house. But him I was very fond of. He was a sinner like me. Mother often called him that.
I carried my sin around inside me. Father's was on the outside. I often saw it when lie relieved himself while I was sitting in the bathtub. I don't know how I came to believe that that appendage was his sin. Perhaps because I didn't possess such a thing, nor did Kerstin and Melanie Adigar. Because I considered myself entirely normal, Father's bit extra meant that he wasn't. It made me feel sorry for him, and I often got the impression that he wanted to get rid of the thing.
We slept in the same room, and one night I woke up because he was so restless. I think I was three years old; I can't recall exactly. I was very fond of Father, as I said. He used to buy me new shoes when the old ones pinched, tuck me up at night, sit with me till I went to sleep and tell me stories of long ago, when Buchholz was still a wretched little moorland village. Just a few farmsteads, and the soil so poor and the cattle so emaciated they couldn't make their own way to pasture in springtime and had to be hauled there on wagons. And then the railway came, and everything got better.
I liked those stories. There was something hopeful, almost promising, about them. If a wretched little moorland village could develop into a nice little town, everything else could get better too.
On that particular night Father had told me about the Black Death, so when I woke up and heard him groaning I immediately thought of the plague and was afraid he'd caught it. But then I saw he was holding his sin in his hand. To me it looked as if lie was trying to yank it off. He didn't succeed.
If both of us yanked together, I thought, I was sure we'd manage it. I told him so and asked if I could help. Father said there was no need. He got out of bed and went to the bathroom. There was a big pair of scissors in the bathroom, so I thought he meant to cut it off.
But a few days later I saw it was still there. Well, I would also have been scared to cut off something so firmly attached to me. I wished with all my heart that it would fall off by itself or go bad and be washed out by pus like the splinter in my palm.
Father smiled when I said this. Stowing it away in his pants, he came over to the bathtub and soaped me. "Yes," he said, "let's hope it falls off. We could pray that it does."
I can't recall if we did, but I expect so. We were forever praying for things we didn't have or didn't wa
nt to have, like a craving for lemonade. That often tormented me.
Which reminds me of an occasion when I was in the kitchen with Mother - I must have been four. I still didn't believe she was really my mother. Everyone said so, but I already knew how to lie and thought everyone did.
I was thirsty, so Mother gave me a glass of water. Just ordinary tap water, and I didn't want it. It tasted of nothing. Mother took the glass away. "In that case," she said, "you can't be thirsty."
I was too, and I said I'd sooner have some lemonade. Grit always had some lemonade. Mother didn't like me going over there, but she didn't have time to worry about what I got up to, so I seized every opportunity to escape from her and spend time with my real family.
I'd been playing next door that day too, but Grit wanted to pay someone a visit. She had a wide circle of friends and acquaintances. A lot of people invited her over because her husband was away at sea so often. She called to her girls to come inside and get washed and changed. I asked if I could come too, but the answer was no, "my mother" wouldn't allow it. So I had to go home.
I remember the occasion vividly. It was early one afternoon at the end of July or the beginning of August, and very hot outside. The kitchen window was open, and everything - all the shabbiness of my surroundings, for which there was no financial reason - was bathed in brilliant sunlight.
Father worked in an office in Hamburg. He sometimes told me about it, and I knew, even at the age of four, that he earned a good salary. We could have lived more comfortably than we did. My parents had done so in the old days. They often used to treat themselves to nights out in Hamburg, where they dined and danced and so on.
But Father had needed a lot of money himself since Magdalena's birth, and the hospital was expensive too. The doctors at Eppendorf were surprised by Magdalena's survival. She paid many visits to the hospital, sometimes for another operation, sometimes just for a few days' observation. Mother always went with her, and Father had to pay for her bed and board. It was the same old story every time they came back: another few weeks, a month or two at most.
The Sinner Page 3