Authors: Dan Vyleta
‘The university. He asked me to find her a place. He has a dream that his daughter should become a doctor, too.’
‘An only child, I take it.’
‘The sister died when they were children. Do you think her cut out for study?’
‘I have only met her once, Herr Professor.’
Speckstein nodded at that, as though he appreciated Beer’s caution, turned around all of a sudden, picked up a folder from his desk.
‘I hope you can help her, Dr Beer. I really do. But there is another reason I wanted to see you.’ His face grew tender, eyes melting behind their wire frames. ‘Somebody killed my dog. I have reason to believe they may be after me.’
He held out the folder, then took hold of Beer’s hand as he reached for it and cradled it in his own, the gesture old-fashioned, avuncular, strong. ‘I should like your opinion on the matter.’
He let go of Beer’s hand before his touch became an imposition; turned to compose himself; fetched Beer a box of cigarettes as he leafed through the papers; then took upon himself the ‘honour’ of lighting the match, in every gesture the tact of a bygone generation. Beer was embarrassed by it, choked on the smoke he inhaled, sat coughing into photographs.
The pictures were of the dead. The dog’s carcass came first, photographed from a variety of angles. It was followed by a crime-scene sketch drawn with coloured pencils that itemised the bloodstains in the yard and classified their splatter patterns according to the principles set down by Hans Gross. Next was a man in uniform, stabbed through the eye, slack chin sagging against the bulk of his chest. He had died in the open, five blocks from this room; there was a corner store there, selling spirits and beer; a schoolyard and a church, a fountain with a broken spout. Further photos followed, the blood dark as ink in their flashlit black-and-white. Tucked in with the prints were folio pages with typed autopsy reports; detailed records of witnesses questioned and dismissed. Beer leafed onwards, to the end. He counted four dead in all.
‘These are police files,’ he said, returning the papers to the folder. ‘I have no right–’
Speckstein interrupted him; drew close again to stand by his shoulder, one hand on the back of Beer’s chair. ‘It is entirely at my discretion. I asked for the files especially. From the Chief of Police. I have some influence, you understand.’
‘I don’t see what use I can be. I am merely a family practitioner.’
‘You are too modest, Dr Beer.’
Speckstein walked to the bookshelf, ran his fingers over a volume that stood at eye-level, its spine embossed with a golden script. Beer recognised it at once.
‘Your dissertation was a remarkable piece of work. A great advancement in the field of forensic psychology. Not to mention your articles on pathological cruelty towards animals; the lecture on comparative pathography you gave during the Bergen Congress. I believe Aschaffenburg singled you out for praise in his review in the
Monatsschrift
.’
He looked over to Beer, folded his palms before his lips, as though in prayer.
‘Somebody killed my dog, Dr Beer. Slaughtered it. Right here, in the yard across the road.’
‘Walter,’ said Beer, somehow moved despite himself.
‘Yes. Walter. All I ask of you is to cast a look over the files. And have a talk with the police. A certain Boltzmann. Like the physicist. With your permission, I will ask him to drop in on you and discuss the case.’
Beer acquiesced with a nod and a shrug of the shoulders.
‘If you think I can help–’ he mumbled, trailing off, then stood to take his leave from the man. For a moment he was unsure how to go about the process.
‘I must get going,’ he said vaguely, and was startled when Speckstein rushed over to once again take hold of his hand. He held on to it, too, between both his palms, his knuckles dotted with black moles.
‘I am much obliged,’ he muttered, seeking out Beer’s eye, then turned abruptly and walked back to his desk, gave himself over to a frenzied search.
Beer found himself rushing to the door, but was unsurprised when Speckstein chose to speak again.
‘One more thing, Dr Beer,’ he said, his voice lowered to impress upon Beer the change of subject. His hands, the doctor noted, had found what they were looking for: another sort of file, its clothbound covers marked in inch-high ink with the address of their building. This was not a police file, strictly speaking, though its contents might easily be passed on to the police. It belonged to the realm of activities that, in recent years, had renewed Speckstein’s social prominence, with the help of a notepad, and a host of informers.
‘I hope you will forgive me if I remind you to be careful. In everything. These are’ – the old man searched for a word – ‘uncharitable times.’
Beer stood for a moment, trying to divine what precisely Speckstein was telling him. His face seemed open, free of malice, soft eyes gleaming behind their glasses. It was only the teeth that looked ugly; yellowed, clothed in spit. From where Beer was standing, already halfway in the doorway, it was impossible to see the uniform, hanging freshly pressed from its iron hook. It took only a moment to find the right words.
‘Certainly, Professor.
Heil Hitler
.’
‘
Heil Hitler
,’ said Speckstein, smiling sadly as Beer took his leave as a good German should. Neither man raised his arm to complete the salute.
When Beer stepped through the double doors that separated the Professor’s apartment from the rest of the flat, both Vesalius and Zuzka were there, standing to either side of the entry. The door had been opened a few inches and he wondered briefly how much they might have heard, standing there, eyes locked and leaning against opposite sides of the wall. The girl’s face was flushed and she was shivering, spasms running through her neck and limbs. He stepped close to her, and as he reached up to check the temperature on her cheeks, the doctor’s bag he had been clutching all along bumped awkwardly into her shoulder.
‘You are cold as ice,’ he said, surprised, and heard a wheeze run through her lungs.
Behind him, Vesalius snorted, then gave voice to his thought.
‘You must examine her at once, Herr Doktor.’
‘Yes, I think I’d better,’ he mumbled and took hold of the girl’s elbow. Together, they walked to her room, where he sat her down upon the bed.
‘A hot-water bottle if you will,’ he said over his shoulder, and met the housekeeper’s stare.
‘At once, Dr Beer. So fortunate to have you here.’
She turned with a bow, and Beer instructed his patient to change into her nightdress, then stepped out into the corridor. He wished for a moment that Vesalius had been there to witness his display of tact, report it later to her master, but she was gone, making noises in the kitchen, the splutter of water as it was poured down the gullet of a kettle. The girl called him back long before it had boiled, lay on her bedding with her body exposed, the nightdress too thin to think of her as other than naked.
‘You must keep warm,’ he said sternly and watched her roll herself into the bedding, dragging one arm and one leg, it seemed, her lungs labouring over every breath.
‘Have you lost any sensation?’ he asked her, and picked up her calf, then dropped it abruptly when he heard Vesalius’s step behind him, already far too close.
‘The hot-water bottle,’ she said, and handed it over like an infant for the burping. ‘She will be all right, won’t she? One can hardly sleep for worry.’
Beer sent her out without another word, then closed the door on her, wondering how long she would stand there, hanging on their every word. There was little he could do about it, and so he turned around to his patient; drew up the chair he’d sat on the previous night, reached under the quilt to place the hot-water bottle, then took hold of the girl’s wrist and measured her pulse. It seemed to have calmed a little, and her skin was getting warmer. Only her lungs seemed to trouble her still, a rhythmic wheeze that rose in the room like the whistle of a far-off train. They sat, not uttering a word, conscious only of her breathing, until Beer gradually became aware of its echo, similarly regular and gathering in urgency. It came in from the open window, slowly rising in pitch, the rhythmic moan of a woman making love. They listened to it silently, avoiding each other’s eyes, the girl’s breathing now but a whisper underneath that steady, searching gasp. The pace quickened, then broke. One could almost taste the final grunt of satisfaction. When it was over, Beer got up stiffly and closed the window. Before he sat down again, the girl shifted her legs under her down quilt, its surface moving with the scissor of her thighs. There was in her gesture something so clumsily deliberate, he was tempted to walk out on her. He looked at the floor and left it for her to find a way past their awkwardness. She took her time. At long last she sat up, wrapped the bedclothes around her frame.
‘I feel better,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
She got up slowly, trailing the edge of her quilt as she walked, and drew to the window he had so recently closed.
‘I should go then. Let you get some rest.’ Beer rose from his chair, then bent to retrieve his bag along with the file Speckstein had given him.
‘I’ll be back tomorrow to take blood. You might have an infection.’
‘Stay,’ she said, reaching out a hand and dropping half the quilt in the process. Her fingers almost touched him now, but the motion stopped, a half-inch from his shoulder.
‘Stay the night. There is something you should see.’
He hesitated, trying to gauge her intentions, and wondering what Speckstein would say.
She guessed at his thought.
‘It’s important,’ she pressed. ‘You can say I had a fit.’
He shrugged and nodded, put down his bag. The closed window reflected her face to him, showed him her smile. Her eyes were trained outwards, past the reflection, into the yard.
‘What are you looking at?’
‘The girl. She is sad tonight.’
‘Why?’
‘Her father.’
She pointed and he drew closer, shared the space before the narrow pane. Across from them he saw Anneliese framed between two flowerpots: she raised her hand in greeting when she recognised the doctor. In the window next to hers, Beer found her father. He was sitting at the kitchen table’s clutter, his face buried in the crook of one arm.
‘Asleep?’ Beer asked, but Zuzka shook her head.
‘Crying. He gets like that some nights. It upsets the girl.’
‘She should be in bed by now.’
‘I agree.’
She freed her arms once more from under the quilt, folded her hands underneath her cheek, telling Anneliese to go to sleep. To his surprise the little girl obeyed: nodded, as much with her torso as with her head, blew them a kiss across the yard, then turned around, a teddy dangling from her hand.
‘Let’s stay here a moment, while she falls asleep. She can see us from her bed.’
They stayed where they were, crammed too close before the little window, looking out into the dark. Only a small number of windows showed any evidence of life, thin strips of light leaking from drawn curtains, their seams aglow like cracks within the night. In the silence that had settled around them, Zuzka began to count them off, counted under her breath at first, but soon took to speaking at her normal volume, and collapsing a finger with every name she called.
‘Family Berger,’ she intoned, pointing to the row of windows directly above the little girl’s. ‘That’s their boy, Lutz, with his light on. He just turned fourteen. I saw him try on his shirt earlier today.
Hitlerjugend
. He’s been singing their songs. And there’ – she pointed to the side wing, a third-floor window on their left – ‘that’s Klara Kovacs. She’s divorced, they say, and makes a living giving English lessons. She has a little tabby, sits in the sunshine all day long. Frau Vesalius told me English isn’t all she’s teaching.’ She paused to lick her lips. ‘And right above her, that’s Egon Kopp. Lost a leg in the war. I have never seen him leave his flat. They say he was a painter, back when he was young. The only time he’s visible is around ten at night. I see him at the corner of his window, peeking out from behind the curtain. All you can see is the top of his head. I think he’s watching Frau Obermann undress.’ She pointed to the apartment above them, and smiled. ‘Herr Novak told me, when he was drunk, that she never draws the curtains. Two windows to the right, it’s Gerhard Neurath, but he’s out now. Works as a night watchman. He used to be a waiter at the Café Central, I heard, but they kicked him out on account of his bad cough.’
She stopped to catch her breath, then wet her lips again, long tongue tracing the outline of her mouth. Beer took advantage of the pause.
‘Do you ever hear a trumpet player?’ he asked.
‘A trumpet player? Why yes. Somewhere in the attic, I think. I listen to him practise sometimes. I have never seen him though.’ She dropped her voice into a whisper. ‘He’s an Oriental, Vesalius says. From the other side of the world.’
‘Shine-a-man,’ said Dr Beer. ‘Shine-a-man plays the trumpet.’
‘You know him?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head, then turned around demonstratively, and sat down on his chair. ‘You shouldn’t do this, you know. It’s what your uncle does: stand at his window at night, keeping a tally of the neighbourhood. It doesn’t become you.’