Фолькер Кучер - The Silent Death

At least the corpse was covered.

‘Who let this rabble in?’ Rath asked.

Gräf sprang into action. ‘This is a crime scene not a press club, gentlemen.’ He gave one of the officers a decisive nod of the head, but the boys in blue were already pushing reporters towards the door. There was a round of protests.

‘Stop! You can’t do this to us!’

Rath positioned himself. ‘Please be so kind as to leave the room without disrupting our investigations, and no more photos please!’

The press bunch didn’t stand a chance against the uniformed officers, but a few of them fired questions into the air as they retreated.

‘Was it an accident or murder?’

‘Who has Betty Winter on their conscience?’

‘Gentlemen,’ Rath said, ‘thank you for your understanding. We will inform you of any developments in good time.’

‘Do you mean during the press conference?’ asked one as he was pushed through the door. There was a final flash of light, blinding Rath for a moment, before the steel door closed and the commotion passed.

‘How did they get in?’ Rath asked. ‘I thought the door was being watched.’

‘It is,’ Gräf said. ‘They must have come through a back entrance.’

‘Well, why is there no one there ?’

Bellmann poked his nose in. ‘Pardon me, Inspector. Your colleagues were unaware of the back entrance. I forgot to point it out.’

‘Then how did the journalists know? Come to think of it, how did they know anything at all?’

‘You can’t keep stories like this under wraps,’ Bellmann said. ‘That’s why I called a press conference next door. I would be delighted if you and your colleagues would particip…’

Rath couldn’t believe it. ‘A woman has died here, and all you can think of is getting into the papers?’

‘Do you mind, Inspector? Do you have any idea what has just happened? The great Betty Winter is dead! Her public has a right to know.’

Rath looked the producer in the eye. ‘If you ever pull anything like this again, I will make a world of trouble for you, my friend!’

‘How and whether I choose to inform the press on my premises is up to me.’

‘Oh yes,’ Rath smiled, ‘and whether I choose to make trouble for you or not is up to me !’

He calls the waiter and orders another Eiswein. He needs more wine. Really, he should have started eating long ago. His body is crying out for sugar.

‘Would the gentleman like to see the menu now?’

‘Give me another minute,’ he says, even if he suspects he’ll be on his own today. She’s more than an hour late.

He doesn’t know why she’s stood him up, but he’s sure it must be something important. She wouldn’t just leave him in the lurch. He knows by now she’s swallowed the bait. No reason to change his plans, she’ll be there for filming tomorrow.

Where has the waiter got to? He must have more wine!

Will he ever get used to the fact that sugar can save his life?

You’ll get used to it.

Mother’s smile.

You’ll have to.

He gazes at the wine glass in disbelief. May I?

You must.

I must.

He takes a careful sip and tastes the sweetness, feels it running down his throat.

Eiswein. Sweet Eiswein.

A dream he has dreamed for years becomes reality. He and his mother are sitting in the restaurant in honour of the occasion. The first jab. The first time he has administered it himself after days at the clinic. After all those attempts with insulin.

Alive again. After all those years waiting for death.

His second birth.

The waiters arrive and place the crystal glasses on the white tablecloth.

Mother’s smile. Eat, my child.

He cannot eat, the tears are flowing. He sobs uncontrollably, sees her dismay through the veil of tears.

She strokes his hand but he pulls away. He cannot bear her touch. He is wary of her love. He doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t believe it is real.

It’s over now. I’ll make it up to you. Everything. You’re still my boy.

He dries his tears, takes the fork and bites carefully. His tongue tastes fresh crab, dill, the sweetness of tomatoes. The sweetness overwhelms him, flows through his body.

Mother smiles, and picks at her food without eating. She just smiles and picks and stares at him, as he lifts the second forkful to his mouth and then the third. She shouldn’t stare at him. He isn’t a funfair sensation, an elephant man, a monster, a natural wonder.

You’ll be able to live like everyone else. Live with other people.

Finally, she, too, takes a bite.

They eat in silence and a waiter refills their glasses. She dabs her mouth with the serviette and raises her glass. To life!

To life.

They drink Eiswein, sweet Eiswein.

What will you do now?

I’ll study.

That’s good.

Study medicine.

Again she tries to grasp his hand, but breaks off before contact, withdraws once more. Sadness in her eyes. My boy, my darling boy!

The waiters arrive with the next course, removing the silver covers from the plates at the same time.

He still can’t believe it. His first proper meal. His first proper meal after years of starvation.

It’s over. Everything will be all right.

He really believed that.

Back then.

He was wrong. So wrong.

He glances at the time. No, she won’t be coming. He shouldn’t hold it against her, can’t hold it against her. It’s the price he pays for their secret meetings. If something crops up, she has no way of letting him know. It doesn’t really matter.

What matters is that no one learns of their plans.

What matters is that she is there for filming tomorrow.

What matters is that her destiny be fulfilled.

At last, the waiter brings the wine.

With little traffic on Berliner Strasse at this hour Rath put his foot down and flogged the Buick over the wet asphalt through Tempelhof and towards the north. Gräf was sitting in the passenger’s seat, discreetly holding onto the door handle, probably regretting not having gone with Plisch and Plum.

Under different circumstances Rath might have shown more consideration, but not now. The speed soothed him and, besides, what the hell were sports cars for anyway?

‘Gereon, I’m in no rush.’

‘A car like this needs to be driven properly once in a while.’

‘I’m just as mad about that arsehole as you are, but that’s no reason to take your anger out on the gas pedal.’

Rath did in fact use the brake – the lights on Flughafenstrasse were showing red. ‘He loses his lead actress and straightaway smells a business opportunity, and then all that affected grief! I’d like nothing better than to lock him up.’

They had taken part in Bellmann’s press conference to keep things under control, answering questions about the actress’s death as evasively as possible, and keeping an eye on the producer. The reporters had made no secret of the fact that they were still angry at police for turfing them out of the studio, which made them doubly attentive to Bellmann. The film producer, who had served them coffee and biscuits, gave an unbearably unctuous speech about the great Betty Winter’s incomparable dramatic art, and how her desperately premature death had deprived German cinema of one of its biggest and brightest talents.

‘We will do our utmost to ensure that Liebesgewitter reaches cinemas, even if only as a fragment,’ he concluded, with a moist glint to his eyes. ‘We owe it to the great Betty Winter, and please feel free to write that. This film is her legacy. It shows what kind of future German sound films might have had, if…’

When he broke off mid-sentence and turned away from journalists, a handkerchief to his eyes, Rath would have liked nothing better than to shout Bullshit . What a farce! Rath wouldn’t allow these film types to take him for another ride, that much he had sworn to himself.