He leaned against the door to the pigsty, panting. He had run out of poppy seeds. He waited a few minutes. When he felt ready, he opened the little door, went down the nine steps and slipped the rifle off his shoulder.
He thought of the blue flames rising up to heaven, of a little boy with a beauty spot and blue eyes, reaching out to be picked up because Opa Simon was tall and strong as an ash and no harm could ever come to him when he was in his arms.
Opa.
Keller entered Lissy’s cage. He raised the rifle and pointed it at her head. Lissy was asleep. In her slumber, disturbed by the cold air coming in through the open door, she let out a snort. Keller put his finger on the trigger.
Blue flames, he thought.
Opa, he thought.
If Voter Luis had realised he was mad, would Elisabeth still be alive?
Yes, probably. He would not have killed her. Voter Luis was not an evil man.
Lissy was evil.
He breathed in and out.
His madness had been born with the sow with a mark on her snout and would end with the black, sleeping sow, because Lissy was the eye that offended.
Those had been Voter Luis’ words, Keller thought, before he plunged the knife into Elisabeth’s body.
He hesitated. He begged the Voice to return. Not to reassure him, but because if the Voice spoke it would try and dissuade him, and he would then have proof of its cruelty. He would then find the strength to pull the trigger.
The Voice was silent. Lissy kicked in her sleep and wagged her tail. She woke up. She noticed that he was there and got up. Her curiosity aroused, she sniffed the barrel of the rifle.
Keller lowered the weapon and went back to the maso.
89
Marlene found him motionless, staring into the fire. She had never seen flames that colour.
Blue.
Simon Keller turned to her with a faint smile, took a pinch of powder from a pouch and threw it on the fire. The blue became brighter. It turned a deep navy blue.
Kobolds, Marlene thought.
She looked at Simon Keller’s face. It was a skull. She shuddered and raised her hand to her belly, protectively.
“We’ve been doing this forever,” the skull muttered.
Marlene said nothing.
Simon Keller stood up. He was still wearing his greatcoat, which was dripping wet. He had been out all night, in the frost. “When someone dies we light a fire like this – blue.”
Marlene’s heart skipped a beat. “Who’s dead?”
“Nobody. Not yet.”
Head bowed, he walked out.
90
Shut him in the oven and let him scream.
The maso did not have an oven large enough, Marlene the Brave thought, but that did not discourage her. She would manage, somehow.
91
He walked, he asked questions, he made friends. He listened, even to drunkards, even to beggars sprawling on makeshift beds. He smiled, joked, bought drinks. But, above all, he listened.
And once the Trusted Man had listened sufficiently, once he was certain he had overlooked nothing, he would take his leave, find a secluded spot, get out the map of South Tyrol, carefully spread it and cross things out on it with a red marker. Small towns, bus stations, snack bars, convenience stores and ordinary, isolated houses. All the places where no one had seen either the Vixen or the Wolf. This way, the hiding place would eventually emerge of its own accord. Like an iceberg in an ocean of blood.
That was his method and it had never failed him. All it took was patience and determination, and the Trusted Man had plenty of both.
He was hunched over the map when someone knocked on his car window.
92
A hairpin bend, a wall of trees, a lay-by. A petrol station: nothing but a concrete cube with a sheet-metal roof and sash windows. No one ever came this way. The snow on the sides of the road had not even turned black. The ice-covered sign said CLOSED. Not a big deal, since it was self-service.
If it had not been for the car with the steamed-up windows, this is what would have happened: they would have filled the tank, had a smoke then driven off at lightning speed to look for a nightclub where they would have got drunk, picked a fight and worked off the toxins of a day spent repeating “Yes, sir.” But this car was too enticing: parked in a secluded spot with steamed-up windows with no smoke coming from the exhaust pipe.
Robbing couples was fun.
There was no need even to discuss it. They had done it before. Terrified the couple and emptied their wallets. Easy money was what the beanpole in the passenger seat called it.
The beanpole’s name was Markus. Walther was the short one. The names of the other two hardly mattered, they were just big lumps Walther and Markus had been dragging around with them forever, for no particular reason.
Of the four, Walther was the most sober. And the nastiest. He switched off the engine and they got out with scarves across their faces, leaving the doors wide open. Markus picked up a handful of snow and smeared it over the number plate. He checked and gave a sign. They surrounded the parked car. Walther tapped on the window.
The man in the car was alone. A pity: Walther enjoyed it when the girls started screaming. The man was elegantly dressed and had a map spread out on the passenger seat. Maybe he was lost. One thing was for sure: judging by his clothes, his wallet must be nice and full.
This would not be a waste of time.
“Get out.”
The man was unperturbed. He did not even look surprised. He was calm, almost relaxed. He raised an eyebrow. “Why?” he said.
Annoyed, Markus slammed his hand down on the roof of the car. Walther tried the handle. It was unlocked. He opened the door and stood aside. “Get out.”
The man turned up the collar of his thick jacket and obeyed, calmly, as if he had all the time in the world.
“Wallet.”
The man took it out of his trouser pocket, opened it, counted a few banknotes and held them out.
Walther felt the blood pumping in his head. “All of it.”
“I still have to fill her up. Surely you don’t want to leave me stranded here?”
Markus gave a contemptuous laugh. The other two stepped forward menacingly. They had calluses on their hands and wide shoulders. Peasants and the children of peasants. Usually, their build alone was enough to make anyone with thoughts of being a hero see sense.
Not this time.
The smartly dressed man eyed them up for a second, then smiled at Walther.
That was all Walther was waiting for. He would have to get heavy. He pulled out his flick-knife and clicked open the sharp blade. “You want me to cut you open right here? Right now?”
The man looked around. “Not a bad place.”
“He’s crazy,” one of the big lumps said, shaking his head. There was acne showing above his scarf.
“Do you want them or not?” the man said, waving the banknotes. “I’m starting to get cold.”
Walther stepped forward and put the knife to the man’s throat, piercing the skin and drawing a drop of blood.
The man did not lose his smile. He did not move either. He sighed. “Alright, then.” He emptied his wallet and handed the notes to Walther, who snatched them and put them in his pocket.
This guy was making his blood boil. “I don’t like smartarses. Give me the keys. Let’s see what you have in the boot.”
The man cocked his head. “It’s not wise to tempt fate. If you tempt fate you might have to take a test. And you don’t look very bright to me.”
“If you don’t shut up, I’ll cut your throat.”
One of the big lumps came forward with a grunt. He pushed the man aside, snatched the keys from the ignition and threw them to Markus, who caught them in mid-flight.
The lock of the boot was faulty, and it took a while to open it.
Once he had done it, he took a step back and let out a stifled cry, “Fuck it, Walther!”
“Surprise,”
the man muttered.
Walther glanced over at his friend, who stood there, staring vacantly into the boot. “What’s in it? Money? Is he a smuggler?”
“Fuck, Walther. We’re in deep . . .” Markus’s voice broke.
Walther had known him all his life. He knew he was not the bravest of souls, but he also knew it was not like him to stammer like this.
“What is it?” Walther repeated. “What’s in there?”
“The tools of the trade,” the man said, making no attempt to run away, instead putting his hands on Walther’s shoulders in a friendly, almost brotherly gesture.
Walther let out a gasp.
“Pressing a blade to the throat of a defenceless man is an irreversible act,” the man said in a low voice. “Think carefully about what you’re about to do. Do you know what the word ‘irreversible’ means?”
“Why don’t you—”
“Keep still? Shut up?”
“Both.”
“Or else?”
“I’ll kill you.”
“Have you ever done that? Have you ever killed anyone?”
Walther hesitated. Then he said to Markus, “Talk to me, for fuck’s sake. What’s in there?”
“Guns,” was the reply. “I’ve never seen so many guns in my life.”
Walther stared open-eyed.
“And now,” the man said, “it’s time for the test. Are you ready?”
Walther swallowed. “You’re crazy.”
“Just as I imagined,” the man said, taking hold of Walther’s wrist and twisting it until it snapped. Then he kicked him in the ankle so that he fell and lay there, face up.
He pointed the knife at his eye. How he had managed to grab it so quickly, nobody ever worked out.
“Now say after me: ‘Don’t move, boys.’”
“You son of a—” The pain in Walther’s wrist made him scream.
“Don’t move, boys,” the man repeated.
“Keep still,” Walther whimpered.
There was no need to say it. None of his friends could have moved a muscle. They were paralysed.
The man threw the knife down in the snow, pulled out a gun and pointed it at Walther’s forehead. “Let me tell you a story about an old man and a little boy. It’s important. A test, remember? You lads have tempted fate. And fate is a strict teacher. Concentrate. Think. Listen. I want to tell you about an old man and a little boy. Are you listening?”
Walther nodded.
“What about you three?”
The three of them nodded.
“The old man was missing some fingers, because a wolf had eaten them. Can you believe it? A wolf. The little boy liked it when the old man told him about wolves. He would sit on his lap and say, ‘Tell me about when you used to go hunting for wolves.’ And every time, the man would smile and explain that it was the wolves that would come looking for him and not the other way around. They would come because he owned sheep, and the sheep were the first ones to notice when something was wrong. They would form a circle, with the lambs in the middle and the strongest sheep on the outside. To protect themselves, you see? Then the old man would pick up his double-barrelled rifle and wait. Once he saw those red eyes all around, he knew he was surrounded. Because that’s what the wolves did, they blocked every avenue of escape. A bit like you. At that point, the pack would start howling.”
The man laughed. Walther shuddered.
“You should have seen that crazy old man. He’d throw his head back and put on the best performance of a wild animal anyone had ever seen. And the little boy would stare and picture the wolves, the sheep, the forest and the night. He’d catch his breath and ask, ‘So then you shot them?’ ‘Of course not,’ the old man would reply. ‘I had hardly any ammunition left, and there were a lot of them.’ He’d stroke the boy’s head and say, ‘All I could do was pray they weren’t too hungry.’”
The man looked at the four of them.
“And here’s the test question: What was the old man trying to teach the little boy with his story about the wolves?”
No one answered. Not Walther, not Markus, not the two lumps.
“Don’t be shy. The first answer doesn’t count.”
It was Markus who spoke up. “That it’s trouble that comes looking for you and not—”
The shot echoed for a long time. It raised a spray of snow at Markus’s feet. Markus fell to his knees. His trousers were soaked in urine, but he was not hurt.
The man again pointed the gun at Walther’s forehead.
“Your turn. But first I want to make something clear. I’m not going to kill you. You’ll be the one to decide if you live or die. I’m only the guy who pulls the trigger.” He sighed. “These are the two most important seconds of your life. Enjoy them.”
Walther heard the crunch of the snow, the wind in the heavily laden branches of the forest, the noise of the motorway a few kilometres away, the chirping of a nightjar, the breathing of hibernating marmots. He heard his own heartbeat and fell in love with that sound.
The man smiled. “Now tell me. What was the old man with the missing fingers trying to teach the little boy?”
Walther ran his tongue over his lips. He stared straight into the man’s eyes. “To tell the wolves from the sheep.”
93
They helped him fill his car with petrol and returned his money. The Trusted Man shook hands with all of them, even Walther with his broken wrist. Smiling, he glanced at the map and drove off, leaving them behind.
94
It was not the rifle, it was not a knife, it was just a spoon. And she had needed a great deal of courage to steal it.
The rifle was the first thing that had come to mind. Steal it, load it, aim it and pull the trigger. Except that Marlene had never used a firearm and knew she would get only one chance. Fail, and she would end up being fed to the sow.
She had almost immediately dismissed the idea of using a knife. Better make do with a spoon. The disappearance of a spoon would hardly create a stir whereas a missing knife would be another story, and the last thing Marlene wanted was for Simon Keller to be uneasy. A spoon was a spoon, even at the North Pole. It was made of metal, just like a knife. And the metal could be sharpened and turned into a blade. Better to avoid Keller’s questions.
Over the past few days, he had started behaving more strangely than usual. He had grown quiet and withdrawn. He spent a lot of time reading the Bible and muttering in such thick dialekt that Marlene could not make out what he was saying. He seemed to have no appetite and spent all day outdoors hunting. He always came back with his game bag full, and she had the impression it contained only a small part of whatever he had managed to shoot. His supply of ammunition was diminishing at an alarming rate.
Something else Marlene had noticed in the past few days was that the piglets Keller was carving had changed.
Click, click, click. He carved one piglet after another, as frenetically as if it were an assembly line. Except that now these small wooden figures were somewhat eerie. Their mouths were too big, their smiles too wide, their teeth like fangs. They were evil creatures, and they sent shivers down Marlene’s spine.
Ever since the day Marlene had found Keller staring into those blue flames, he had not said a word about Lissy. Nor had he mentioned their leaving. Not that she cared. She had other things on her mind. Studying, planning.
Marlene the Brave had thought of everything.
Using remnants of old fabric, she had made herself a pair of slippers and stuffed the insides of the soles with cotton wool. Taking advantage of Keller’s long absences, she had oiled the hinges of the maso’s doors. She had drawn a mental map of all the creaking floorboards and started putting quantities of poppy into Simon’s meals. Not enough to make him suspicious, but enough to dull his senses.
And she had stolen the spoon.
It was her weapon. She had sharpened it on the same grindstone Keller used for his hunting knife, so that now it was as sharp as a razor. She had hidden it in
her pillowcase, and sleeping with her cheek against it gave her a sense of security. A faint one, but better than nothing. Meanwhile, she tried to follow the usual routine of the maso. Cooking meals, housekeeping, putting dry moss under the window frames, making new clothes for Keller, reading Grimm’s fairy tales – and feeding the pigs.
Lissy had stopped coming forward. She would watch her, standing motionless at the edge of the shadowed area. That was fine by Marlene.
95
Every evening, before coming home, Simon Keller would go down to the pigsty and ring the little bell. Lissy would approach, and he would slip the rifle off his shoulder and point it at the animal’s head.
Blue flames, he would think.
Opa, he would think.
He would think about the bowl of soup Elisabeth would never be able to finish. He would think about Voter Luis.
The Voice was silent.
Keller would chew poppy and go up to the Stube.
96
Keller noticed that Marlene’s belly was growing. Despite the sweaters, the pregnancy had become clearly visible, her stomach softly curved. He could not take his eyes off her.
She considered fetching the spoon and plunging it into his throat, right there and then. She was scared.
That would have been madness, though. Keller was strong. And she was Marlene the Brave, not Marlene the Kamikaze.
Be clever, Marlene. Use your brain.
So she tried to distract him. She joked that she would soon be as fat as Lissy. She asked if Voter Luis had left any remedies to treat morning sickness, even though she had not yet had any bouts of it, and if it would not be a good idea to make the front door of the maso wider before she got stuck.
Keller did not answer any of her questions, did not smile at her jokes. At one point, he stood up, wild-eyed, and Marlene watched as he gathered all the figurines he had carved and put them in a bag, desperately searching for even the smallest wooden piglet under the bench against the wall, next to the poker, among the firewood.
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