Parallel Stories: A Novel (177 page)

From the kitchen window he could see the old well.

Then he changed his mind: whatever has to happen, let it happen. He will not resist the madness and he will not surrender to his own fit, no way. He would have poured himself some apple wine; there were at least ten wax-sealed bottles of it on the table. But to have a little apple wine he needed a glass, a knife, and a corkscrew; he had to pull out drawers and deal with all sorts of objects. One can’t say he was calm when he returned to the living room; he at least admitted to himself that he was dead tired and extremely vexed. What with the things he’d had to do and those rotten little tools in the kitchen drawers, he was on the brink of losing patience.

He would rage and demand results.

The young man, poker in hand, was still squatting before the fire as if, as opposed to Kienast, he had found no reason to change his position.

Kienast continued shamming, however; he had to. He was the adult and the stronger of the two. Not only because of his profession but also because having grown up with two women meant he was used to the stereotypical role of the long-suffering strong male. He resettled himself in the armchair and, feigning great bodily comfort, busied himself with the wine for a while. What else could he do. He examined the wine’s color and bouquet, while watching himself to see whether he could weather his fit of anger.

I’d be willing to have an epileptic fit just so as to jolt this miserable little fairy, this little meat-beater, this sick little shit-head out of himself. But why should I. This is what his ambition dictated—his insight into human nature, his empathy, his compassion, and all his inclinations and abilities—which also happened to destroy and devastate his own life.

Less would have been more.

At least this way he understood something of himself and of the young man; he even understood that it would not be good for him to jolt Döhring out of himself or engage his attention. What interest would he have in that, save for the possible result.

To forgo that result would not be a professional self-sacrifice.

He found the young man abhorrent, but he was ready to do anything for him now, even show him some kindliness.

Noisily, he tasted the wine, found it rather awful and, clicking his tongue, went on sipping it. Under the guise of this purposeful activity, he had to reassure himself that his rotten life, his brand-new love—of which, by the way, he could have said anything but that it was animal-like—and his very ordinary, idiotic career weren’t going to end now because of an epileptic fit or because of his own dread.

It’s quite weak, he said, raising his glass in belated agreement.

Usually it doesn’t even keep until New Year’s.

What can I say, it has a pleasant bouquet, its temperature is good, what else could one wish for.

It becomes like water without any warning.

But until then it’s not bad at all.

To your health then.

You were probably saving those bottles for the holidays.

Come on, stop bugging me about the holidays.

Who else but guests would you be waiting for with so much wine.

And he became suspicious in his own eyes, for he was trying too hard and insisting on making headway with these stupid holidays and this pitiful boy. As if he had thought that with the help of this copy he could step into the original, the source of his premonition. Before their fits epileptics disappear into the trap of repetition.

And in that case, suddenly kindled love is not the exit from but the terrible entrance to monotony.

Because you have lit up the house so nicely, he said—and no matter how much he did not want to, he had to repeat some of the words—in nice holiday fashion, so festive, as if he were hearing similar echoes in his own skull: holidays, festivities.

There is no holiday, I’m not preparing for anything, Döhring exclaimed, elemental hatred against everything and everyone seething in his voice, but I tell you, since you’re so curious, I am afraid, he shouted, scared, do you understand, he shouted, that’s all, that’s why I lit up the house.

Haven’t you ever been afraid when you were alone in a house, he asked, and his voice faltered as though he was about to cry.

What did he have to be afraid of.

I’m not expecting guests, stop pestering me with this stupidity, and I’m certainly not going to wait for my kid sister.

I thought you were twins. Twins are inseparable.

I hate her anyway. I hate every kind of holiday, he fumed.

As though his hatred had no object at all, only it would have been nice to lower himself to the very bottom of the word designating hatred.

I don’t need calendar holidays for my joy, or for guests. I don’t want anybody yakking at me about holidays or whatever. I constantly think inwardly, on my own I am pretty much enough to make me happy, I can reassure you about that. And I certainly don’t need company to think. Even if I had something to celebrate I wouldn’t have a holiday for it, or I couldn’t celebrate it with others, it’s that simple.

Of course, while he was shouting he suddenly had an insight into this older and undoubtedly more experienced man. Who was sitting here with him, his big thighs spread, his feet in his big shoes, his short jacket open, and, in his large, loving self-satisfaction raising high the misting glass.

As if he were truly drinking to Döhring’s health. As if he could serve himself here to his own satisfaction. He drank to his love, to his happiness; Döhring saw perfectly well what he was drinking his toast to.

And since his sentiments could not be turned off like a faucet, his love spread out over everything, including this unhappy boy. Who was just staring at him, eyes wide.

How does one become so shameless and arrogant with one’s freely gained happiness.

There was indeed much to be astonished about in this question, and what a pleasant astonishment it was.

Kienast felt that he was blushing at having been discovered; the other one had seen through his weakness. He had never blushed before in his entire career. He must have been ashamed of the little secret that he was here because of the woman and nothing else. He was even more ashamed of his soft-heartedness, and not only did he turn away from the young man but he also looked for a place where he could put this stinking glass in case this goddamn epileptic fit decided to get him after all.

He should take off his jacket in this heat. He’d have enough trouble with this miserable man as it was, and he stood up to do this while there was still time; he put the wet glass on the edge of the mantelpiece. He slipped out of his jacket and successfully lobbed it to the sofa, not letting the other one detect the inner struggle in the movement. To which the young man responded by straightening up in front of the fireplace.

It’s a long story, he said in his deepened, manfully ingratiating voice. I won’t spare you, I’ll tell you in great detail.

I have no right to pose questions to you. I must say that right off.

I’m aware of my rights, you don’t need to instruct me, but perhaps I have the right to ask how you ended up here.

Nothing could be simpler.

Because I have the impression that we are way beyond written rights.

Frankly I have the same impression.

I don’t want to give up on getting a clear response from you.

I may not look it, but I am capable with a little bit of luck of solving far more complicated problems than this one. I’d like you to tell me a few things in greater detail than you did before. After all, from the very first moment you’ve been very helpful, that’s why I bothered to come. If you still remember words like
the common good
or
helping
, and if they still mean anything to you.

Even my parents don’t know where I am. Only one person does, with whom you can’t have talked.

You must be thinking of your dear aunt.

She is everything but dear, but she’s the one I’m thinking about.

Why couldn’t I have talked to her.

You could have, but you didn’t.

It’s very clear there’s no trick here. At the examination in situ, you were the one, Mr. Döhring, who gave us the important reference points. After that it was quite easy to uncover everything else.

Not from the things I inadvertently blabbered to you, you couldn’t, I don’t believe you. You think I’m stupider than I am.

I haven’t made any direct inquiries anywhere, Kienast replied, I haven’t gone around asking questions, I can assure you, if that’s what you’re worried about.

Well, all right, you’ve found out whom I telephoned, where I made the calls from. Which I didn’t count on in advance, I admit. I made phone calls everywhere I could in the whole world so that I could talk to you as soon as possible. I did it unthinkingly.

And Döhring was terribly ashamed that he’d managed to say something like this; it was such an ignominy that he should still need anybody, especially someone who was nothing more than an ordinary detective.

This is a closed system, Mr. Döhring. Nobody but I and my immediate supervisor can get to your data, and so I couldn’t have given you a bad name.

Which for the time being would not even be justified, he added, yet in his words fluttered the hint of a threat.

I hope you don’t expect me to be grateful for that, replied Döhring quickly, trying to sound as crass as possible.

Kienast had to allow more time again for chat, if only to gain time, more time to catch up with or overtake him and keep him from slipping into his own well-established way of thinking.

He’ll jolt him out of it.

Yesterday you called from the gas station. That’s not a public phone.

The owner’s phone on the counter. I paid for it.

You mean you’d have left a message on my answering machine that the gas-station owner could hear. No, I don’t buy that, I don’t believe it.

You should. I waited until he was dealing with a customer.

The first time you called from a public booth, if my colleagues are not mistaken.

You can check this as easily as you can check anything else.

Well now, the detective said, directing his most charming laugh at the young man, slowly but surely you’re learning the trade. But I did have to puzzle out, and on the run, that the phone booth was in the Hofgarten, opposite the house on whose third floor madam Isolde Döhring has her apartment. Believe me, these are not facts one can’t easily find out. It’s not the person of the murderer that’s hard to identify—the final result is almost always there, ready and waiting for you, someone saw the murder, or some seemingly inconsequential circumstance will give it away, et cetera, et cetera—but gathering legally admissible pieces of evidence, that’s what’s sometimes almost impossible.

I understand what you’re saying. Maybe I can’t immediately adapt to the way the authorities think, but I understand.

Although my visit is a private one, we can’t put ourselves outside the law, Kienast said, and this time Döhring remained silent. From that moment we met at the scene of the crime, we haven’t been private persons, and I must in no uncertain terms correct your ideas about this.

He wasn’t sure Döhring understood him.

I am the one you called, your trust in me is truly touching, but I am the police.

This too had no response.

True, I had a free evening, or I made myself free for this evening, that’s also a fact. But anyway, based on your calls and no matter what the nature of your worries was, my professional responsibility told me I shouldn’t leave you by yourself.

Maybe then you’ll have time for me. You don’t have to leave so quickly.

This was so unexpected, sounded so gentle and convincing, so full of pure human hope, that Kienast was alarmed.

I can’t demand more time or attention than you are willing to grant me, I wanted to warn you about this.

But you wouldn’t give any more, either.

That’s something you don’t need to ask about. My personal feelings and professional sense of responsibility are not so far apart.

You must be every inch a democrat.

No need to mock me. A thing like this doesn’t happen to you every day.

No, it doesn’t.

Then how can you miss the personal sympathy, or empathy.

I know what you mean.

There, you see.

But you should know, said Döhring, embarrassed, that I’m a strange bird, a man locked into himself, restless, thinking, and I’m not a great democrat. I’m not on confidential terms with other people, I have only limited experience—I mean in the intimacies among people.

I can assure you right now that you’re not alone in this. Everyone has to learn anew on each occasion—I mean, how to gain someone’s confidence.

But this entire human confidence thing is nothing but a bad game, sheer hypocrisy.

Mostly it is, yes.

Like stepping into a terrible tunnel of mirrors. Nobody trusts anybody. It’s best for one to stay outside. It bothers me especially that people talk too much because they are incapable of even the smallest abstraction.

That’s almost completely true.

They keep lying senselessly.

No reason to reproach them, they need to defend themselves.

I can’t speak of anything but myself, of course, and why should this interest you or anyone.

So as not to hear one’s own lies, people are afraid of that too.

Yes, something like that.

You may think it’s a sin, but no one can exist without lies, I guarantee it.

I don’t know whether several needs don’t combine to do the thinking in one person. Whether one doesn’t have several selves, all at the ready all the time, and one can neither choose one nor express all of them at once—only one in place of another, or one after the other, or one in opposition to another.

The faces of young people are most revealing; he must consider this. Their instinct to hide tends to expose them.

Maybe you should sit where you sat before, please.

Thanks for your kindness, but I’d rather get up. Before you say anything you think is essential, it is my official duty to tell you that nothing you say to me here may be considered as a confession.