“You look tired,” says Kris. “Go lie down, we’ll talk in peace tomorrow.”
“I don’t want to leave you all in the lurch,” says Tamara, and as she says it, Kris really wants to get up and hug her. He has the feeling she’s the only one who really seems to be in control of her faculties.
Who’d have thought it, our gentle Tamara has the heart of a lioness
. Kris doesn’t know if he’s just making a mistake and his own exhaustion is making him see things that aren’t there. Tamara strikes him as resolute and single-minded.
“Go lie down,” Wolf agrees. “We’ll think of something.”
“Perhaps that’s exactly what’s worrying me,” Tamara says, bundling herself up in the blanket. She kisses first Kris and then Wolf on the cheek. For a few seconds she looks Wolf in his good eye, and something happens even if Kris can’t put his finger on exactly what, but something happens between the two of them.
“Even if I hate you because you didn’t simply want to get rid of the corpse,” she says to Wolf, “I think you made the right choice.”
“Thanks.”
They hear Tamara going upstairs, they hear the familiar creak of the floorboards and the sound of her bedroom door closing.
“She’s great,” says Wolf.
“You’re just saying that because she agreed with you.”
They say nothing, they don’t look at each other.
“I’m sorry,” says Kris after a pause, “I shouldn’t have hit you.”
“Forget it, I deserved it.”
“No one deserves this kind of crap.”
“You can say that again.”
Wolf grins.
“So what do we do now, big brother?”
Kris looks at his swollen hand.
“We could have a family therapy session.”
“I told you, it’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. I saw red, and if Tamara hadn’t been there—”
“If you don’t shut up, I’m going to bed and then you can see what you can do with the rest of this brilliant evening.” Kris raises a dismissive hand. “OK, I’ll be quiet.”
“Thanks, because I certainly couldn’t sleep now.”
“Suggestions?”
“We could get drunk, then it won’t hurt so much.”
Kris laughs.
“Be honest, you’ve got a headache, and my eye’s practically falling out, can you think of a better medicine?”
Kris shakes his head, no, he can’t think of a better medicine.
They’re sitting in the conservatory looking out on the Kleine Wannsee. Outside it’s windy, every now and again moonlight wanders across the property and catches on the bushes and rubs over the bark of the trees before the clouds close again, plunging the garden back into darkness. They have vodka and tequila on the table, a few flickering candles stand between them, giving off a light that makes the brothers feel like they’re in a cave. They drink and toss their two big problems around. One of them is in the trunk, the other is a lunatic who’s waiting for them to send him a file with an apology.
“Maybe you were right before,” says Kris.
“I’ve been right so many times today, you’ll have to be more precise.”
“Meybach wrote that he’s grateful. And that we made it all possible. What if it’s true? What if he only killed because we opened the agency?”
“That’s nonsense. I don’t think we tempted a lunatic out from behind the fireplace. We might have been the trigger, but anything can be a trigger. Whatever the reason he killed that woman, I don’t think we were involved.”
“So why did you say we were?”
“To get Frauke’s goat.”
“What a jerk you are.”
“Thanks. Keep my seat warm.”
Wolf goes indoors to get an ice cube for his eye.
“Chips or nachos!” Kris calls after him.
Wolf comes back with the ice cubes and a bag of nachos.
“Do you think Meybach will disappear?”
“I hope so.”
“And what if he doesn’t?”
Kris doesn’t react.
“I mean, do we want to take that risk?”
“What risk?”
“Well, the risk of getting a new commission from him every other week.”
“Oh, stop.”
“I’m just saying.”
Kris looks into his empty glass.
“You know, I’m constantly asking myself what the guy expects from this. Does he really think everything will be made good just because we’ve apologized for him?”
“No idea,” says Wolf, refilling their glasses. They clink them together and drink, then open the bag of nachos. It’s a while before one of them speaks again.
“And what do we do with her?” Kris asks.
“If only I knew.”
Wolf lights a cigarette and looks at the glowing tip as he draws on it twice.
“We could put her in the cellar.”
“Forget it.”
“At least it’s cool in there.”
“Yeah, great. And how long will that go on?”
“Until we’ve got a better plan.”
Kris doesn’t think much of the idea. He knows very well that Frauke would freak out.
“We should have buried her in the forest,” he says.
“Ethics,” says Wolf.
“Asshole,” says Kris.
“I can’t sleep,” says Tamara.
They give a start, the vodka sloshes out of their glasses, they both turn red in the face. They look like two boys who’ve been caught with a porn magazine under the covers. Kris doesn’t know why they find the situation embarrassing.
“I can’t get her out of my head,” says Tamara. “I’m so sorry she’s in the trunk.”
“You’re not the only one.”
Wolf hands Tamara a glass. She takes a sip, then swallows the vodka down. Kris can see the gooseflesh running down her arms. Tamara rubs her eyes.
“What are we doing?” she asks, and it’s as if her question closes a circle. No one has a sensible answer. Wolf taps his knee, Tamara sits down and rests her head on his shoulder. It’s a gentle image. They look into the dark garden and at the lake, the lake looks back, the night is quiet, five minutes pass, then there’s the sound of quiet snoring.
“Wolf?”
“I’m still awake.”
“Give her to me.”
Kris picks Tamara up, he feels her breath on his neck, she’s light as a feather. Kris has no trouble carrying her up to her room. He lays her on the bed and wraps the blanket tightly around her.
If she hadn’t been there today, who knows what I would have done to Wolf
. Kris leans forward and kisses Tamara on the cheek. She opens her eyes and doesn’t give a start, even though he’s inches away from her face. She doesn’t even look surprised.
“Hi,” she whispers.
“Hi.”
“How did I get to bed?”
“I carried you upstairs.”
“You look sad.”
Her hand comes out from under the blanket and touches his cheek.
“I’m fine. Go to sleep now.”
Tamara closes her eyes again. Kris goes on sitting beside her for a moment, and can’t shake the feeling of having infected himself with his brother’s melancholy.
When he comes back down, Wolf is no longer sitting in the conservatory. Kris finds him in the kitchen with his head under the tap. He reaches past him and turns it off.
“That felt good,” says Wolf.
Kris hands him a dish towel. Wolf dries himself, touches his swollen eye and quickly pulls his hand back, then looks at the dish towel and says, “We should do it. Here and now.”
“Forget it. I don’t want to have a corpse in the cellar.”
“I’m not talking about the cellar.”
Wolf looks out of the window.
“It would be ideal. And it would be safe.”
Kris follows his gaze. Outside is the night, the Kleine Wannsee and …
“You can’t throw her in the Wannsee. What would be safe about that, you idiot?”
“Who’s talking about the Wannsee! I want to keep her nearby, because if we keep her nearby it’s dignified …”
Wolf is struck silent. In the silence Kris suddenly hears the ticking of the kitchen clock, clearly and distinctly. He can’t know that the ticking will pursue him for a long time to come. Dry and calculating, it will sound
repeatedly, every time he thinks back to this night. Then Kris bursts out laughing and walks to the fridge. He suddenly craves some ice-cold milk. The silence breaks at the edges, the ticking hurts inside his head.
“You’re so drunk, you can’t even believe it,” he says after the first swig.
Wolf says nothing. Kris puts the milk carton back to his mouth. Wolf doesn’t take his eyes off his brother, and says that Frauke and Tamara must never find out.
They open the second bottle of vodka, sit back down in the conservatory, and go on talking. For two hours. Eventually they are standing in front of the villa and have no idea how they got there. The air is piercingly cold and wakes them up.
Drunk and alert is worse than just drunk
, Kris thinks, holding on to his brother’s shoulder. They are clearly drunk and alert and determined and stand by Wolf’s car and watch with fascination as the tailgate silently opens.
“Technology,” says Wolf, proudly holding up his car key.
In front of them is the sleeping bag. There are no excuses now. They agree that no one should end up like that. No one. Wolf presses the button on his car key, the tailgate closes again and they nod contentedly and rest their bottoms against it and try to act sober. It’s cold, it’s colder than cold.
“I thought we were going to have the mildest winter in years,” says Kris.
“Fuck the weather report!”
“Fuck the weather!” Kris agrees.
They fall silent, they ignore the cold for a while, then they go on talking.
At half past four they get to work and dig the grave a few yards away from the shed, between the villa and the lakeshore. The garden is protected from the street by a six-foot wall. The neighbors would have to set up a ladder to see them. The ground is drier than it was in the forest, which makes their work harder. They ram their spades into the earth, press them in hard with their heels, furious with death. The stars hide behind the cloud cover. Two days ago everything was different. Then the sky was a nightly celebration. They sat on the terrace, wrapped in blankets, staring into the night, and Frauke saw her first shooting star.
Two days like two years like two decades and more
.
When they can no longer see over the edge of the trench, they lift the
corpse from the trunk. They don’t think of taking her out of the sleeping bag. Tired, exhausted, and still drunk, they stagger toward the grave. The sleeping bag falls with a rustling sigh into the depths. They’re pleased as they look down at it, but after even a few seconds they regret not having taken the corpse out of the sleeping bag. The rattle of earth on nylon. They wish they had no ears. They start shoveling faster. The handles of the spades are slippery with sweat and the burst blisters on their hands. The rattle finally falls silent. They go on shoveling and try not to think, they want to finish this work and then forget. And if anyone appeared now and asked them if they actually knew what they were doing, their honest answer would be that they know exactly what they’re doing. No alibis, no excuses. The alcohol has nothing to do with it. Their plan is perfect. Over breakfast they will say they brought the corpse back to the forest. Kris will say:
Luckily my little brother had a different idea of ethics
. And the little brother will grin with embarrassment and apologize to Frauke and Tamara for talking such crap.
As they are smoothing the earth over the grave, the first raindrops fall. It’s the best thing that could happen to them. They look up and smile. Minutes later there’s no sign of anything that looks like a grave. Mud splashes up, and a deep rumble of thunder rolls wearily through the dawn.
They fetch the wheelbarrow from the shed and carry the surplus earth down to the lakeshore. As they tip two wheelbarrows full into the Kleine Wannsee, their eyes dart repeatedly to the opposite shore. Everyone knows that old people don’t sleep much, but even if the Belzens were awake it would be hard for them to make anything out through the dense rain. No, they’re sure of it.
After the last of the earth has ended up in the Kleine Wannsee, they rinse off their spades and wheelbarrow on the shore and put them in the shed. Side by side, they walk back to the villa. They’re completely drenched, they’re no longer drunk, they’re just tired now. Sweat and rain, the twitching of muscles, the sore palms. And then the cold. It has nothing to do with the cold around them. This cold is deep within them, like a pain radiating in all directions.
They take off their wet clothes just inside the front door and leave them there because they don’t want to drag the dirt all through the villa. They don’t speak, because there’s nothing to say. They run upstairs naked and disappear into their rooms. They’re too exhausted to wash. When Wolf reaches his bed, he creeps under the covers and falls into
a deep sleep. Kris takes a bit longer. He pulls the covers up around him and just lies there exhausted for a few minutes. And listens to the rain and watches the lightning twitch across the ceiling and hears the gusts of wind rattling the windows and thinks it’s all over at last.
At last
.
W
IND
. S
TORM
. The narrow gap of the clouds on the horizon, the rumble of thunder and then the gentle fall of rain. You are standing at the open window, a flash lights up your face and makes you think about the boys.
Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid
. They were nine when they first saw the film. There was never an argument about which was which. They watched the film eight times and afterwards they knew the gestures and the lines by heart.
In the months that followed they did justice to their names and robbed every bank that crossed their paths. They avoided bullets, jumped on any speeding trains that happened to be passing, and whipped their horses on. When they fell into a cowardly trap, they hid from the Mexican police on a building site near the sports ground. They knew no one would look for them there.
It was Sunday, there was no sign of a builder, the site belonged to them alone. It was also the last day of the summer holidays, it was time to say farewell to a golden age. The boys explored the building site and stopped by a concrete pipe. The pipe became their place of refuge, it too belonged to them now, because they were best friends and shared everything. Butch and Sundance, in fact. They never wanted to part, they had so many plans, and they even wanted to walk together into their enemy’s hail of bullets.
Together
. You can still remember how their faces lit up. As if there was a light in their heads, as if their friendship were an energy all its own.