Juli Zeh - In Free Fall

In the kitchenette, the door of the built-in refrigerator glows like a white screen. Schilf crooks his fingers and casts the shadow of a panting dog onto its surface. Apart from the anticipation stirring in his stomach, he feels content. There is so little that a man can achieve in his life. Recognize the smell of a woman. Stroke a child’s head. Beat an adversary in a duel. Think on the nature of things without forgetting that a man takes all his ideas with him one day, when he leaves the world through the well-used back door.

Schilf has gotten through his stock of happiness in the first few decades of his life, and has been operating on his current account since. Many years ago he stopped thinking that death was the worst thing that could happen to anyone. And Sebastian’s explanations about long exposure time have eliminated once and for all any dizziness Schilf felt about standing at the edge of the final abyss. For this reason alone, he shall always be indebted to Sebastian.

Without fear, Schilf can think about his consciousness sinking painlessly back into the froth of information and transformation from which it once rose, and in which it thirsted all its life. He is not even afraid of having to leave an unpalatable block of matter behind, one that is just as hard and ugly as the deep-frozen Dabbelink. The recycling machine called nature will make sure that everything is used again. Whether he is hurriedly buried somewhere, cremated, or scattered over the sea, there are enough plants and animals around to find nourishment in the organic material that is currently still standing in human form at this window, emitting billows of smoke and thinking profound thoughts. They will turn him into something beautiful: green tendrils, blossoms, or colorful plumage. What had only yesterday seemed to him a depressing whirl of unsolved questions has transformed itself into a well-tempered score that has been preserved for millennia. The detective will take care of one last thing, and then go.

A lone dog passes beneath the window.

“What happened to the time-machine murderer in the end?” asks a voice in the darkness behind Schilf.

The detective turns around. Sebastian is lying in exactly the same position on the sofa, and there is no movement to indicate that he is awake.

“Life,” Schilf says.

Smiling, he draws on his cigarillo. He is filled with a sense of well-being by having this man bundled up in a blanket in his apartment; he thinks Sebastian must be aglow inside. He imagines Sebastian sitting in his study thinking about the nature of time, holding a pencil between his thumb and index finger, a cap of sunlight on his head. He hears Liam playing in the next room, and hears the rustle of pages as Maike flicks through an art catalogue in the living room. These images, or so he hopes, belong as much to the future as to the past. Memories that he can take with him.

A few streets away, the dog finishes his nightly walk, curls up on the mat in front of his owner’s door, and thinks of nothing. He does not even speculate about the nature of time, which has no more meaning for him than the difference between being present or absent, something he can control by either opening or closing his eyes.

“He was convicted even though he believed that he was conducting a physics experiment?” Sebastian asks.

“They did not punish him for his convictions, but for his methods.”

“If your plan works, what will happen to Oskar?”

“He will sacrifice a part of his life in order to give you back a part of yours.”

The dog blinks and finds everything is in its place. His master’s shoes are next to him and the mat he is lying on smells pleasantly of himself.

“Do you understand,” Sebastian says, “that it is impossible for me to transform back into myself?”

“Yes,” Schilf replies. “But if we don’t try this, you will become like me one day.”

“Turn into a detective?” Sebastian laughs. “From a murderer?”

The first detective chief superintendent raises his eyebrows. He stubs out his cigarillo and tosses it into the street.

“If Oskar confesses, there’s a good chance that you’ll be acquitted.”

“A life behind bars seems quite desirable to me at the moment.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Detective Skura says that the people in Gwiggen recognized Oskar. You could convict him by conventional means.”

“I’m amazed that a man like you understands so little.”

“I have a very narrow specialty.”

This time they both laugh. Sebastian shifts under his blanket. The detective grows serious.

“The worst always happens afterward,” he says. “It happens when people think that the worst is already over.”

“Go on,” Sebastian says.

“When you visited Oskar in Geneva, he betrayed himself. In the process he betrayed you, too. He of all people offered you a parallel universe, a joint escape, what he most wished for himself. Betrayal weighs heavily on a man. No policeman or judge in this world can deal with it.”

“Yes; go on,” Sebastian says.

“Let’s say you accidentally bump into a woman in the pedestrian zone. She stumbles and breaks her ankle. One week later she is in a car accident. Because of her broken ankle she cannot get out of the car and burns to death. No court will convict you of murder. The police won’t even get in touch with you. But just think what your conscience will say!”

“You want Oskar to face up to his conscience,” Sebastian says slowly.

“His conscience is the only judge who can really exonerate you,” Schilf says.

Sebastian is silent. The detective shuts the window, sits down in an armchair next to the sofa, and spends the next two hours staring at the ceiling.

“IF YOU CALL UPON A MAN LIKE OSKAR to show up at a clearing in the woods at five in the morning, he will come. Even if he is not given the right to choose the weapons.”

Doubtfully, Rita Skura holds the first detective chief superintendent’s gaze, then she nods. The forest has not yet finished its morning routine: the leaves are moist with dew, glowing as if they have just been washed, and innumerable red foxgloves are yawning with tiny speckled mouths. In the orchestra pit, the birds are tuning their instruments. The human beings look pale in the midst of this collective awakening. The early morning light picks out their every physical deficiency; it shows the rings under their eyes and sharpens the lines around mouths and noses. This morning, Schilf’s headache is not manifested as pain, but as a well-upholstered vacuum. He fingers his neck and touches the handle of vertebrae that is screwed into his skull. He touches the tubes and cables that connect the command center of his entire existence, the only place he ever resides, with the rest of his body below it. He thinks he can feel the skin already drying over his bones, and the corners of his mouth turning up into a diabolical smile that Rita will surely find repellent.

He signals to her; she goes up to Schnurpfeil, who is wearing the yellow jersey and standing forlornly next to a racing bike, and speaks softly to him. The senior policeman leans forward so that his ear is close to her lips. Rita’s hand somehow ends up on his cheek, and her touch turns him into a beaming hero. Schilf watches as the detective and the senior policeman gaze into each other’s eyes. A lovely couple.

The detective did not wake his girlfriend before leaving the apartment. He shook Sebastian by the shoulder, with a finger to his lips. Dabbelink was frozen hard in the freezer compartment. As quietly as possible, they had pried him free with a screwdriver and tiptoed out of the apartment.

Betrayal weighs heavy, the detective thought , the detective thinks.