Jakob Arjouni - More Beer

She got up for a fresh pack. Then she said, with a cigarette between her lips, “Six months ago, my lover was killed. I wanted to go to the funeral, but they didn’t even let me see his grave.”

Rain was drumming against the windows. It had grown dark, and I could see only her outline, and once in a while her face, in the glow of the tip of her cigarette.

“Bollig was your lover?”

She nodded. She lit another candle.

“And your husband worked for him as a night watchman.”

She produced another bottle of vodka.

“You look like you have a good head for alcohol.”

I held out my glass, and she filled it.

“Yes. Fred was out of work, and I wanted to help him. So I asked Friedrich Bollig to help him out, for old time’s sake. He laughed and asked me why on earth I had shacked up with such a nonentity. It was repulsive, but he was right. He gave Fred a job as a night watchman. I cursed him for it, but I still loved him.”

“Do you know his wife?”

“What do you think … A young woman, after his money. She could have had the money, if she’d let me keep the man.”

“Did he know that?”

“I don’t know. The few times I saw him, I tried to make him understand, but he just got mad, yelled at me, called me names. He claimed that I had destroyed his relationship with his father, even accused me of having caused his death.”

“What did his father die of?”

She stared at me for a moment. Then she leaned back in her chair and laughed.

“You think I killed him?”

“I don’t think anything.”

“Even if you did, who cares? Cause of death: circulatory collapse. Quite banal. He was overweight.”

“Was his death convenient to anyone at the time?”

“I don’t know that it was particularly inconvenient, from anyone’s point of view.”

She got up and started pacing slowly back and forth across the room.

“Otto Bollig wasn’t the type people grieve over. He was a tyrant, but not an intelligent one. He had no charm, he was a bore, almost a simpleton. Friedrich was something else. He was smart, witty, always ahead of the game. He was able to insult people and then placate them with a single gesture. He took them by storm. Besides, he was young, good-looking, and rich. He enjoyed life. For his father, the factory was everything-I think I was the only luxury he ever permitted himself in his whole life. Friedrich did well, until his father died. He was approaching thirty and realizing that charm and youth would soon be over. And there was this factory, and it wasn’t in Munich or Dusseldorf, it was in Doppenburg, and someone had to run it. From then on, the factory became his life. At first he tried to keep up his old lifestyle: nights in Frankfurt or Cologne, days at the factory, but at some point he realized that the factory would lose out under this arrangement. And then he made the biggest mistake of his life. He married his nineteen-year-old secretary, believing that he could hold on to his youth that way! And she was a pretty little thing. Not only that-she knew exactly what she wanted.”

She crossed her arms and looked at me.

“I don’t say that out of jealousy. I admire women who have no illusions. But this girl was a champion of cunning. Friedrich had fallen in love with her, and he believed everything she said, just as I had once believed my American sergeant. She forced the philanderer to his knees. Somehow he then managed to convince himself that he had come out ahead in the deal. After all, he was a successful businessman with a pretty wife, and so on …”

She laughed bitterly. It was time for me to ask a couple of questions. It was also time to admit to myself that I was drunk. I tried to marshal my thoughts, but didn’t come up with anything better than “So you loved him until the end?” And the drama rolled on.

“Call me crazy, go ahead-but, yes. Even after he had turned into an evil person.”

“What does that mean?”

“All kinds of things. Ask his mother what she thought of her son. She did not show up at his funeral.”

“Oh, I didn’t know …”

“Yes. Herta Bollig, Otto Bollig’s widow, is still alive. When you drive up to the plant, you’ll pass a refreshment kiosk where an old woman sells cigarettes and beer.”

The female Hunchback of Notre-Dame. Slowly I closed my mouth again. The Polish woman understood.

“So you’ve met her? Right. Soon after Friedrich got married to Brigitte, the latter decided that the old lady was an encumbrance to the household. Friedrich resisted at first, but she was soon relocated to an outbuilding that had been used as a storage space. Her next and final stop would have been the old folks’ home. Without consulting anybody, Herta Bollig fired the man who was running the kiosk, furnished the back room, and moved in. You can imagine what a scandal that was, here in Doppenburg. Friedrich tried everything to get her out of there, but she wouldn’t leave. Finally he let his wife convince him that it was the best arrangement for all concerned. People got used to it. Among the employees it became a taboo subject. I am the only person she still talks to. I, the former mistress of her husband.”

Such a story, such vodka. God, the stories I would be able to tell when I was sixty … But maybe I was more like one of those plays without a plot, I told myself; and besides, who would want to drop in on me?

“Now that we’ve opened this can of worms-tell me, what happened to Friedrich Bollig’s son? I’m told he is in an institution?”

She had another hefty slug of vodka, leaned against the window bench, held her glass with both hands. Eastern Europeans have a special wooden leg for the stuff.

“That’s all I know. I’ve never seen the child. He lives in a closed ward. Meningitis, right after he was born.”

“You know the name of the institution?”

“Sorry, I don’t even know the boy’s name. All I know is that neither Friedrich nor his wife cared for him much. They’ve really buried him in silence. You are the first person in years who has asked me about him.”

She walked out of the room, holding herself exaggeratedly erect. I heard the toilet flush. Then she returned with a bottle of mineral water. She put the vodka away. I drank three glasses of water in a row and felt more or less human again.

“Do you know a guy named Henry? An acquaintance of Brigitte Bollig’s?”

“She has many acquaintances. I haven’t paid any attention to their names.”

A key turned in the front door. A moment later, Fred Scheigel padded into the salon. His hair was wet, and he looked perplexed.

He cast a disapproving look at me, at his wife, at the glasses. He nodded and mumbled, “Good evening.” She said, “Fred, you’ve met Mr. Kayankaya. He wants to know why you didn’t go see a doctor about your head injury.”

An amazing memory. I wouldn’t have remembered why I had come here.

Fred Scheigel slowly divested himself of his overcoat and folded it carefully over the back of a chair.

“But I did explain that to him.”

“I don’t know if I’d call it an explanation. But I have another question: Before you were attacked-did you hear gunshots?”

He got annoyed. “Questions, questions, always the same questions! I told the police everything!” He looked at me grimly. “I was out cold before the explosion!”

“The shots were fired before the explosion.”

Both of them stared at me.

“But …”

“There are witnesses.”

The Polish woman closed her eyes and did some quick thinking.

“But what was Friedrich Bollig doing down by the waste pipes, in the middle of the night?”

“I’ve asked myself that. What do you think, Mr. Scheigel? Did your boss sometimes patrol the grounds, check up on things?”