Intrigo

by Håkan Nesser

  ‘Is the role of Cordelia assigned?’

  He nods. Rottenbühle coughs nervously and rises halfway out of his seat furthest to the right.

  ‘And?’

  Goschmann lowers his hand.

  ‘You were all very convincing.’

  I wait. The clenched fish is twisting.

  ‘As I said when we started . . . you are all subject to a large measure of caprice. Unfortunately, such was the case.’

  ‘Who?’ I say.

  ‘We decided at last on . . . I mean that at last I decided on a girl who is not actually part of the ensemble. Until now, that is. Her name is Henny. Henny Delgado, I don’t know if . . .’

  I clasp my hands and press them against my stomach. Do not have a chance to resist the enormous vomiting reflex that shoots up inside me.

  All I’ve eaten during the day comes out of me. All I’ve eaten my whole life, it feels like.

  Rottenbühle helps me out and puts me in a taxi.

  To:

  David Goschmann

  Hotel Figaro

  Prinsengracht 112

  Amsterdam

  Grothenburg, 12 February

  Dearest David,

  Thanks for last time and thanks for your letter.

  No, I’m in no hurry at all, what makes you think that? As a widow one ought to wait at least a year, I thought we were in agreement about sticking to certain conventions.

  So I also prefer that we keep it this way, David, believe me. How things stand with the entirety of your life and with your wife does not interest me, never has interested me.

  But I love you and want you. A part of you. A couple of days of you every month. Maybe more in due time. Unfortunately I had no opportunity to come to Amsterdam, you mustn’t see that as me taking some sort of distance from you. I was simply forced to make this trip to Berlin, that you men should be so sensitive!

  You write that you were prepared to get a divorce from her, if I simply asked for it. I don’t know how honest you are, and perhaps one day I am going to request just this from you. Perhaps my need is going to grow, as stated. But not now, David, let us continue to enjoy each other sparingly, as we’ve done these years. A wine doesn’t get better because you drink five glasses instead of two. Does it?

  And sure, I am coming to Strasbourg in March, that I promise. Whether I truly can stay all four days remains to be seen, but I will do what I can to reschedule seminars and lectures.

  It makes me happy that you like my house, but it would really be a shame otherwise. It was so wonderful to have you there, and you know that you are always welcome if you’re feeling hot to trot. Just let me know a few hours in advance so I have time to organize something to eat and aerate a good wine.

  It is also gratifying that I am going to be able to keep living here; through unexpected circumstances my financial situation has cleared up, so everything looks bright at the moment. It is right as you always say, one should never give up hope.

  Although I long for you a little, it must be admitted. I like making love hard and brutally with you, and then sleeping with you behind my back.

  So next week, perhaps?

  An evening and a morning, if you can?

  With love,

  Your Agnes

  Friday arrives with an unexpected high sky over Munich. I take a long walk through Englischer Garten in the morning and catch myself missing the dogs. Dogs are made for parks, or possibly it’s the other way around.

  I don’t yet know exactly how – and not exactly when – I am going to kill Henny. I don’t even know with certainty that it will be today, but I think so. I have a plan – or several plans, rather, a gathering of alternative actions where, if the one does not work out, then the second or the third one will. I cannot proceed in any other way, must use this open method – at a certain stage seize the opportunity in flight – and that is not something that worries me. On the contrary, life itself has that structure, a fandango between chance and order, and someone who can’t dance can’t ask to live life fully.

  But I can dance. I’ve always been able to.

  On my way back to the hotel I go into a phone booth. Call Hotel Regina, explain that we have a flower delivery for Henny Delgado and ask what her room number is.

  Mrs Delgado has not checked in yet, I am told. But she will be staying in room 419.

  I say thank you and hang up. So simple, I think. So improperly simple.

  No one suspected me of Erich’s death, no one is going to suspect me of Henny’s. So it is. I step out of the phone booth and look at the clock. It is twenty minutes past eleven. I have nothing to do other than wait. Return to my room on Alter Wirt, but feel restless and go out again.

  I spend a couple of hours out in the city. Wander along Tal and Kaufingerstrasse over towards Karlstor. Visit Haus der Kunst but soon get tired. I’ve seen it all before. Have lunch at Ehrengut. The weather held up the whole afternoon with a mild breeze from the south-west; there are ever so many people on the move, but as I sit with a cup of coffee at Johannis Cafe I also feel something else. To start with I can’t get clear about what it is, but gradually I understand that it is a kind of presence.

  Yes, presence.

  Some sort of observer perhaps, it is a very strong and at the same time very vague impression; I look carefully around in the noisy premises to see where the sensation is coming from, if there is some person who is observing me in some way.

  Why? I ask myself. Why would anyone observe me?

  A guy who is out after a woman? Yes, that is naturally a possibility, but when I again move my gaze around I cannot find any credible candidate for such a role.

  I pay and leave the cafe. Come out on Maximilianstrasse and buy cigarettes at a tobacconist. Continue over towards Theatiner Church and Hofgarten, but cannot completely shake off the feeling.

  An obsession, I think. Certain fantasies have a capacity to stick with you. By the way, wasn’t there something in Englischer Garten earlier this morning?

  I hail a taxi and return to the hotel.

  At six o’clock I am again standing in a phone booth and calling Hotel Regina. Ask to speak with Mrs Delgado in room number 419. The girl at the switchboard says one moment, and when I hear Henny answer with a surprised and slightly worried ‘Hello?’, I hang up.

  She is on the scene. I go back to Alter Wirt. Load my gun and put it in the shoulder bag. Change into the clothes I have selected; a light coat that I haven’t used in years and long black trousers. Put on my blonde pageboy wig and glasses. Just to try them, of course, observe myself in the bathroom mirror and see that I am a different woman. Place these accessories in the bag too and set off.

  Marienstrasse and Hochbrücknerstrasse. The bars are empty. The parked cars are empty. A thin rain in the air. I turn to the right onto Hildegardstrasse and then I am there. Put on wig and glasses in a doorway and have time to be reflected in the window glass before I step in through the front door. The hotel lobby is large and pompous. Marble, dark oak and heavy leather armchairs. Reception is at an angle to the left, the lifts to the right. Further to the right is a bar and restaurant. I consider quickly, slip into the bar and order a gin and tonic.

  It is early in the evening and rather deserted here too. Just a couple of gentlemen and a solitary woman in her sixties. The woman looks freshly made-up and tragic; sitting there waiting for someone, evidently. From inside the restaurant conversations and laughter are heard from a large group. Americans, as far as I can judge.

  I finish my drink and smoke a cigarette while I browse in Süddeutsche Zeitung. Consider calling now but let it be. Better to postpone it a little while.

  Leave the bar and walk directly over to the lifts. The coat over my arm. Call down a lift and ride alone up to the fourth floor. Rooms 401–420.

  401–410 to the left. 411–420 to the right. An ice machine. A shoe-polishing machine.

  I follow the corridor to the right; it bends to the left after 415. 419 is the second room from the end, rig
ht across from the emergency exit stairs. I open the door to the stairway and go down half a floor. Stop in a position where I cannot be discovered either from above or below. Through a narrow window I can see a corner of the sky. Perfect, I think.

  Straighten the wig and glasses and notice that I am trembling a little. Check that the pistol is ready to shoot, take out the mobile phone. Remind myself that I must remember to confiscate Henny’s mobile phone when it is all over. So that the police don’t find my number in her contact list.

  I would like to call once more via the hotel’s switchboard, but don’t dare risk it. Perhaps my number would be stored there too. I light a fresh cigarette instead and stand on the landing and smoke it before I enter Henny’s mobile number.

  She does not answer, as we have agreed on. Voice mail is connected. I wait for the signal.

  ‘Good day, George,’ I say, ‘this is Aunt Beatrice! I just want to say that the black hollyhocks are ordered and paid for and are coming on Tuesday. You don’t need to call me, that’s just an unnecessary expense!’

  I turn off the phone. Put it deep in the bag and take out my gun. Return to the empty and silent corridor. Stop outside 419 and collect myself.

  Knock two times.

  ‘Yes?’

  Her voice comes from very close by. I understand that she is standing right on the other side of the door. I do not dare push down the handle, she has just received the message that her husband is dead and presumably has locked it.

  ‘Housekeeping,’ I say, trying to make my voice lighter than usual. ‘I’m bringing clean towels.’

  Two seconds, then she opens the door.

  I am inside in a moment. Henny retreats into the room. Looks frightened. I pull the door closed behind me. Hold my gun aimed steadily at her.

  She sinks down on the bed.

  ‘This is a mistake,’ she says.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re in the wrong room.’

  ‘No, I’m not in the wrong room.’

  It is obvious that she doesn’t recognize me.

  ‘Do you want my money? I don’t have much, but you only have to . . .’

  I take two steps closer to her. Aim at her head now.

  ‘Who are you? It can’t very well be . . . good Lord!’

  I notice that I am smiling. It’s impossible to hold back. I must really exert myself not to break out in laughter, it wells up inside me like an orgasm, almost. But suddenly I sense a movement behind me, and I am just about to turn around when someone

  My head is flashing.

  I wake up, sitting in a chair. Have a hard time breathing; a large bandage is taped over my mouth. I make an effort to tear it off, but at the same moment a powerful hand takes hold of my neck and I understand that the idea is that the bandage should stay where it is.

  I take hold of the arm support instead. My wig is lying on the bed, my dark glasses too. Henny is sitting across from me in the room’s other chair; she is holding a pistol aimed at me. It is not my gun, but it has a similar sound-dampening bulge over the barrel.

  Somewhere behind me, next to the wall, a man is standing. The man who placed his hand over my neck. I sense that he too has some kind of weapon, but I don’t bother to check. For my own part I only have my hands and a terrible headache. It is pulsing and pounding like black explosions in my frontal lobe.

  Between Henny and me is a low table. On the table is an envelope. My name is written on it, just my first name, Agnes, underscored with double lines.

  I raise my eyes and look at Henny. Her lips are bent in a sort of restrained smile. Her eyes are faintly glistening with triumph. Perhaps a little alcohol too. A good ten seconds pass before she says anything. When she starts talking it is all the clearer.

  Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides,

  Who covers faults, at last with shame derides.

  Brief pause. I do not recognize her voice. The right corner of her mouth twitches lightly.

  ‘I don’t intend to sit here and explain things to you, Agnes,’ she says. ‘And I can’t bear to hear one more word from you. Not . . . a . . . single . . . word. Be my guest and read!’

  She makes a gesture with the pistol towards the envelope. I pick it up and take out some double-folded sheets. Same stationery as usual, same familiar handwriting. The man behind me clears his throat and shifts his feet.

  ‘Read!’ Henny repeats. ‘If you don’t start reading I’ll shoot you immediately!’

  I nod, but just before I am going to fix my eyes on the paper I suddenly feel that presence again – it washes over me like a cold rain – the presence of the great fear that came over me like an omen in the village of Worms a few days ago. The presence I felt during the afternoon today.

  I understand now that it was not just imagination. Understand that I should have taken it seriously and tried to expose its core.

  Now I see it. Quite clearly between the lightning explosions in my head I see it.

  It scarcely helps. I lower my eyes and start reading.

  Dear Agnes,

  How I loathe you. I did not think it was possible to harbour such hatred towards another person, as what I harbour towards you. But so it is.

  This is also the reason that I staged this melodrama – instead of simply searching you out and killing you like a dog. I simply had to go so far to get to sit face to face with you and let you know the truth about yourself and why you must die.

  Just as we’re sitting now, Agnes.

  No, don’t lift your eyes from the paper, keep reading, and when you’ve come to the end and I see that you have understood I will shoot you.

  Did you truly believe that I didn’t know? Did you believe I was so naive that I didn’t find out who my husband’s mistress was? And did you believe that in such a situation I would put the blame on David?

  You have misjudged me, Agnes. You have always misjudged and underestimated me. Why have you never been able to be happy about the good things, Agnes? Of course it has always been like that, that the setbacks of others have been more satisfying to you than your own successes. Of course it is cunning and calculation that have been your household gods. The overwrought.

  Why couldn’t you tolerate that your mother was together with Maertens the dentist? Why did you begrudge me Cordelia to that degree? Or Tristram Singh, do you remember him?

  Or David? I don’t know exactly what net you ensnared him in but I am convinced that you went to work with the greatest wiliness.

  As always, Agnes.

  But now, the thing is, I am not letting go of David. The girls need their father as well as their mother, and I have not only sworn fidelity to my husband, I have also sworn to myself and before my god, to see to it that our alliance holds. Until death do us part, I take that responsibility. I am a person who believes in fixed values, I think you can recall that it was that way even when we were young.

  And I knew that I would be able to lure you here, Agnes, right from the beginning I knew that. My brother Benjamin – you must remember him, he is the one who is standing behind you now – was more doubtful. He has been my confidant right from the start; we love each other as a brother and sister should and he has been there for me in every moment. You never liked him, both he and I remember how mean you could be to him, even though he was so little and defenceless. He has been your shadow here in Munich – a few times earlier too – and once I have shot you later this evening he will carry your body out the back way (yes, he is big and strong nowadays) and throw it in the Isar. You are going to have substantial weights on you and there, on the muddy riverbed, the bodily part of you is going to end its days. Where your soul goes we hardly need to entertain any doubt about.

  You are never going to be found, Agnes. You are going to be reported missing; I don’t know what destination you indicated to the Barth family, but I am certain that you did not say either Amsterdam or Munich. Benjamin is also going to take care of your car and make sure that it disappears.

  You are go
ing to be obliterated, Agnes. Obliterated.

  As you understand, I am enjoying this. Right now, while I watch you read your death sentence, I feel a warm, strong delight. It has cost me money to bring about this arrangement, you know that, Agnes, but I am well off and it has been worth every euro. Perhaps there is no more complete satisfaction than this – to get to punish a person with your own intelligence and your own hand who has done so much evil. Killing someone you despise and who tried to turn one’s own life to ruins.

  To take revenge.

  You intended to kill me; I knew that you would not be able to resist the temptation, and now you are sitting here in your own trap. It all came to naught, I think you must agree that you are actually getting exactly what you deserve.

  You are now approaching the end of my last letter, dear Agnes. Not much remains; you will simply follow the lines, read word for word, and when you come to the last word you will raise your eyes and I will shoot you with two or three shots in the head.

  Or perhaps I will shoot you in the chest, I will grant you a little pain before you die.

  Yes, look up now, and you will see that I have a silencer on my gun, similar to what you had, Agnes. Why did you maintain that your pistol would go off so loudly? Did it seem much too improbable that you would have a gun with a silencer in your possession, or could acquire one? I don’t know, Agnes, but I know that your gaze is now wandering, no, don’t seek eye contact with me already, there is a page left, you still don’t know how much is on it, but soon you will see, and when you have come to the last word on that page then you will die. No, don’t go back and try to reread, I know that everything is clear to you, completely clear . . .

  So, now there are just these poor lines left, isn’t it strange how one can linger with every word, as if clinging tight to every

  little letter

  simply to stay

  alive.

  That a short second should mean

  so much, Agnes, but now I see

  that you are there.

  You must raise your eyes soon, Agnes.