Why, Sim’l?
“It’s alright, Lissy. It’s alright, little Lissy. Sweet Lissy. It’s alright.”
Not knowing when the sun would rise.
Not knowing the reason for that blood.
Only knowing how to lie.
36
“It’s alright,” Keller whispered, “it’s alright.”
Marlene wondered how this man, who in spite of the poppy was suffering the pains of hell, could still find the strength to reassure her with kind words and a childlike smile: such a contrast with a face so hard and gaunt it made her think she was hallucinating.
“It’s alright, it’s alright.”
“Yes, it’ll be alright. Go to sleep now, please, go to sleep . . .”
Simon reached out a hand and touched her beauty spot. The way her mother used to stroke her after closing the book of Grimm fairy tales and wishing her goodnight.
Marlene took his hand in hers and said, “Forgive me, Simon Keller. Forgive me.”
He did not hear her. He had fallen asleep at last.
Who was she apologising to? To him or to herself? She did not ask herself the question.
All of a sudden, the accumulated tension of all these days spent trapped by the blizzard, the anxieties of the past few weeks – planning to steal the sapphires, worrying about Klaus, about Herr Wegener, about Gabriel and all those who would suffer (or had already suffered) because of her – exploded, and Marlene burst into tears.
Her life had been nothing but a series of lies. Lies on top of other lies. She had lied to everyone. Especially to herself, and to this man, who, despite his pain and the fact that she was a stranger (and a liar at that), had not only saved her life but even now was reassuring her. This man who had fallen asleep with a childlike smile on his frost-scorched lips. This good man.
The only good man, she realised, she had ever met.
37
An inviting smell out here on the landing. At this time of night?
Perhaps it was his neighbour, Frau Gruber. Lately, she had become a little absent-minded. Old age. Now that was a depressing thought, because they were the same age. She was a widow, he a bachelor. On Sundays, Frau Gruber would invite him over for lunch and flirt a little. Maybe she had fallen in love in him. Well, why not?
They were old, but not that old.
Poor Frau Gruber. In all these years, she had not yet realised that no delicious titbit or languid glance would get her anywhere. It was a matter of tribes, Gabriel kept telling himself. There were two tribes: the one that liked women and the one forced into hiding.
Even so, he never declined Frau Gruber’s delicious dishes. She was an outstanding cook.
Once he shut the door behind him, Gabriel forgot all about her. He was tired, dead tired. He needed a shower and a glass of sherry, though maybe not in that order.
You’re getting old, he said to himself when he noticed that he had left the light on in the kitchen.
But it was not old age. It was something worse.
An intruder.
An impeccably dressed intruder with an apron tied around his waist. A man (as handsome as a Hollywood actor, Gabriel couldn’t help thinking) standing there cooking.
Using his kitchen, his stove, his pots and pans.
The breath caught in his chest.
There was a gun on the table. A gun with a bottle-shaped thing fixed to the barrel.
A silencer.
“Good evening, Gabriel. You may have had dinner already, but please don’t be ungracious. Try this and tell me what you think.”
Gabriel stood rooted to the spot, unable to take his eyes off the gun.
The stranger saw where he was looking. “Don’t be afraid. We’re civilised people, it won’t be needed.”
Gabriel started shaking. Not because of the gun, but because of that gentle, melodious voice. This man as handsome as a Hollywood actor was terrifying.
“Who are you? What are you doing in my apartment?”
His voice came out as a squeak that wouldn’t have intimidated a child. It happens when you get old.
“Please sit down, and I’ll explain everything.”
Gabriel felt the impulse to turn and run.
The stranger read his mind. “Don’t,” he said, and smiled.
Gabriel sat down.
“They call me the Trusted Man,” the intruder said. “I have a job to do. Nothing for you to worry about.” He put a pan on the table and removed the lid. “Spaghetti, with a little mountain of butter and forty-month-old Parmesan. A simple dish. I hope you don’t mind, I opened one of your bottles.” He poured the wine and sat down opposite him. “Do eat, please.”
Old age. It was old age, or so Gabriel thought, that made him give in. Old age made you weak, fragile. Every gesture was an effort, every thought reminded him of the frailty of this body he no longer felt was his.
The flesh is weak. And the food was indeed delicious.
“Sharing a meal brings men closer, Gabriel. This is my way of asking you to trust me.”
“For what?”
“Men who are close, friends who are like brothers, don’t need this” – he indicated the gun – “in order to be honest with each other. We’re going to have a short and, I hope, successful conversation. An intimate conversation. I’d like to know if you intend to lie.”
“I don’t even know what . . .”
The Trusted Man poured himself some more wine. “It’s a shame to waste good wine. And it would be a shame to cause you pain. Especially as it would be hard for me to miss from where I’m sitting. I wouldn’t shoot you in the heart or the head, but in the stomach, which they say is extremely painful. Not to mention the fact that, after a meal like this one, surgeons would have a hard time putting things back together. Are you scared?”
Gabriel gave a start. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“Not at all. There are many people who would say that dress-making isn’t an art, but then there are also many people who think Monet was a misfit obsessed with water lilies. In other words, you’re an artist, and I like art. I would never hurt you. As long as I’m not obliged to. Are you going to oblige me to hurt you, or would you prefer a civilised conversation?”
“A . . . a civilised conversation, please,” Gabriel stammered.
“Does that mean you trust me?”
“Partly.”
“An honest answer. Thank you. My job is to find people. I’ll be honest with you: I find them in order to kill them.”
Gabriel turned pale. “Are you planning to—”
“No, not you. Although I do believe our conversation will end with your having a small wound. Not a physical one, naturally. Please, Gabriel, don’t faint. Would you like some water?”
Gabriel nodded, and the Trusted Man brought him a glass from the sink.
“Marlene Wegener née Taufer. Do you know her?”
“Is it her you want to . . .”
“I’ve never in my whole life borne anyone a grudge, believe me. I am a weapon, Gabriel. Just as you are a hand that obeys inspiration. I have nothing against your young friend. Even so, yes, I am going to kill her.”
Gabriel leaped angrily to his feet. “I’ve already told that son of a bitch Wegener that I have no idea where—”
“That’s not the kind of information I’m interested in. I know you haven’t the faintest idea where the lady in question might be, or where’s she headed. Please sit down.”
“I want you out of my apartment!” Gabriel cried.
The Trusted Man looked him straight in the eyes. “Please. Sit. Down.”
Gabriel obeyed. “What is it you want?”
“Information. I’m interested in getting to know Marlene, seeing her through your eyes, understanding her. You’re more than just a colleague to Marlene, aren’t you? Can we use the word ‘mentor’?”
“I would never presume . . .”
From the doctor’s bag he had kept between his feet, the Trusted Man took a pair of steel pliers and pu
t them on the table. Then he grabbed Gabriel’s hand and slammed it down on the wooden surface. With the index finger of his free hand, he counted his phalanges. “Twelve. Plus the thumb. Artists’ hands are precious, don’t you agree? You’re misinterpreting my words. That saddens me, and I apologise. Let me make myself clear. What I’m suggesting is an exchange between equals. I intend to trade your hands or, God forbid, your very life for information. I haven’t lied to you and I won’t lie to you. I need the information you give me to find and kill Marlene. That’ll make you an accomplice to murder. I doubt you’ll call the police when I’m gone, and I wouldn’t advise it, but if you were to do so, I’m certain that any charge against you would immediately be dropped. The information will have been obtained from you under threat of torture and death. Even so . . .”
The Trusted Man let go of Gabriel’s hand and leaned back in his chair.
“We’ve shared a meal and drunk the same wine, so I can assure you that, even if you’re innocent in the eyes of the law, you’ll have a guilty conscience. That’s the wound I was referring to. So what I’m suggesting is not an exchange between information and life, but between information and conscience.”
When the Trusted Man said “conscience,” Gabriel heard “soul.”
38
She spent all night curled up in a chair, a woollen blanket around her shoulders, watching over Keller as he slept, trying to interpret the lines on his face, fearing that his chest might stop rising and falling.
All night, watching and thinking, listening to the wind, listening to the silence turning into the sweet music of the dawn.
The first rays of the sun. The snow dripping. The timber breathing and creaking.
Marlene continued to brood even after Simon Keller had woken with a coughing fit and a moan, and she had changed the dressing on his face.
She kept thinking as she prepared his poppy infusion, while he looked on with pained, watchful eyes, as she listened to his instructions on how, what and how much to feed the pigs, and as she made Lissy’s meal. Separately, since Lissy was fussy. And always hungry.
She continued to ponder as she poured the slop into the trough, illuminated by the oil lamp, as she changed the water, as Kurt and the Doctor squabbled over a half-rotting potato peeling, and as she put on the steel glove and opened the little door in the grille, absent-mindedly, even though Keller had told her to be careful with the sow.
Very careful, Marlene.
“Of course. Lissy is fierce.”
“No,” he had said. “She’s not fierce. Lissy is hungry. That’s different. You will be careful, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry.”
But Lissy, perhaps intimidated by her presence, hid in the shadows the whole time. Marlene only managed to get a glimpse of her crest and white stripes.
She did not call to her. She had other things on her mind.
She thought about it for a long time and reached a decision after Keller had dozed off for a second time, as she gazed at the outline of the mountains beyond the windowpane, seeing her own reflection in their quartz silence.
Those edges, those depths of light and dark, removed all doubt.
She suddenly felt something she had not experienced for years. Peace.
Reaching a decision made her feel light with relief. She would tell the truth, no matter how unpleasant, and risk showing Simon Keller who she really was.
But not right away.
First, Keller had to get better and rebuild his strength. It would be cruel to offload this burden, too, on his weakened shoulders. She would wait for him to recover, then tell him the truth. Only then would she decide on her next move. Where to go. What to do. Marlene looked up at the sky.
No clouds.
The maso was beautiful. She understood why Keller was so proud of it. She herself was not a Keller, and yet she felt safe between its walls.
It was a place of peace.
39
The moon in Aries. Or Taurus in Jupiter. Or perhaps Aquarius in Alpha Centauri.
His wife Isabella was crazy about astrology. She said people’s fates were written in the stars. She had become a real expert in that bullshit. Every so often she would launch into lengthy explanations about the astral reasons for various events in their lives. She was Pisces (with Scorpio rising), he was Aries (with Virgo rising), and they had met when Saturn was on the cusp with Planet Fuck-Knows.
How can you make any sense of it?
Carbone not only couldn’t make any sense of it, he didn’t give a damn. All the same, he would listen to her. He loved her and believed this obsession would fade away, sooner or later. Besides, it could have been worse. The wife of one of his colleagues had gone crazy for exercise, and the poor guy was forced to spend Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays in some lousy gym in Bolzano. On top of that, Carbone thought, if he did not pay her enough attention, then Sagittarius in opposition to something or other might drive her into somebody else’s arms. Maybe a well-hung Taurus.
Isabella was still, in her fifties, a beautiful woman. Which was why Carbone would just keep quiet and nod, muttering only the occasional astonished “Ah.”
Carbone should have called Isabella today to ask what his horoscope said. (“Aries: the stars will grant you a pleasant opportunity to piss on the heads of your opponents. Mind your cock doesn’t catch cold . . .”)
Carbone sneered. He did not know if he had ever been so happy in his life. He had Herr Wegener’s telephone records in front of him. They had been brought to him by a guy who was almost certainly Secret Service, whom he had met during what the papers had dubbed a “terrorism emergency.” Someone he could swap favours with and know he would not cause too many ripples.
The way he saw it, cultivating that kind of friendship was part of his job description. And it didn’t matter if his friend had blood on his hands. In some situations, you could not afford to be choosy.
If you want peace, according to the Latin motto Carbone had learned at school, then prepare for war. And every now and again, he thought, patting the bulky stack of papers on his desk, you actually had to go to war. Not in order to destroy an opponent (although that, too, of course) but above all, as he saw it, to scare off potential enemies. As the French liked to say, pour encourager les autres.
Of course, you had to win the war. And win it outright. Strike a decisive blow.
Carbone stood up, opened the minibar he’d had installed in his office, and poured himself a glass of Fernet. “To Blitzkrieg,” he said, raising his glass, before realising that the men who had coined that expression had ended up bogged down in a long war of attrition. Too bad for them. It wouldn’t happen to him.
He had the ultimate weapon. A sledgehammer.
The telephone records.
Prosecutors would have given years of their lives to get their hands on these papers, he’d told Herr Wegener, although in his heart of hearts he thought he was exaggerating.
It wasn’t true.
These records – which would have given any prosecutor an ulcer, since, on account of where they had come from, they could never be used in court – were a nuclear bomb.
The names of the subscribers, in black and white, underlined and carefully annotated. Businessmen above suspicion. Officers of the Treasury Police. Politicians. Prominent individuals. All of these people had had contacts with Wegener, and Carbone could now hold a gun to their heads. A wonderful, bright future was unfolding before him. He would be able to piss on all of them.
He would have to be careful, of course. They were people who could refute everything point by point, and a number on a telephone company record did not necessarily mean anything. Their phones had not been tapped. All Carbone had was numbers: he did not know the content of the calls, only that there had been contact between these people and Wegener. Still, there had been investigations based on much less than this that he had brought to a successful conclusion. Working in secret, without arousing suspicion, he would have to put together an irrefutabl
e case, find concrete evidence – solid, bullet-proof evidence. It would involve a lot of work and a fair amount of risk. Even so, the stack of yellowing paper on his desk was pure gold.
The real cherry on this dynamite cake was the only telephone number, circled in red and with several question marks scribbled next to it, which Herr Wegener had never dialled. Not in a thousand years. Of that he was certain.
It was not a matter of instinct. It was plain, investigative logic.
Why? Because otherwise, what had happened would not have happened.
Simple.
What star sign was Wegener?
Captain Carbone sat at his desk and allowed himself a few seconds to catch his breath. He did not want to sound overexcited. Herr Wegener might . . . What? he asked himself, smiling.
Nothing.
There was nothing he could do to him.
Not anymore. Not after what he was going to tell him.
Goodbye, Kobold.
Here’s your horoscope, he thought as he dialled Wegener’s number. You’re dead!
At the fourth ring, Wegener picked up. “Who is it?”
The man with the goatee raised the sledgehammer. “Carbone,” he said.
“Go on.”
Carbone paused before he struck home.
“I know who Klaus is.”
40
The Trusted Man always carried a handful of telephone tokens with him. He inserted them now, one by one, into the slot in the payphone and listened to them clang as they dropped into the metal container.
He dialled his voicemail number and heard the sounds of the telephone exchange, picturing the signal travelling underground, through thousands of kilometres of cable.
The message was plain, despite the screams and tears of rage and despair.
“Klaus is my son. Marlene is pregnant. We have to meet. Stop everything. Everything.”
He deleted the message, hung up and looked around. Nobody. He took a silk handkerchief from his pocket, wiped the receiver and gently put it back in its cradle. Then he folded the handkerchief.
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