Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

Fichte cut in quickly. “I don’t usually smoke around Lina.”

“That’s a noble fellow,” said Hoffner. He picked at a piece of stray tobacco on his tongue.

“She says she doesn’t mind,” said Fichte. “Naturally, I can do what I like.”

“Well,” said Hoffner, “that’s very open-minded of you, Frulein.”

“Thank you, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar, ” she said. “Hans tells me your case is getting more and more interesting. That must be exciting.”

The word “exciting” had never sounded so raw. Hoffner smiled. “Nikolai. Please. For such a close friend of Hans.”

Fichte perked up. “Thank you, Herr Krim. . 0A0; Hoff. . 0A0; Nikolai.”

“And you must call me Lina,” she said, her eyes fixed on him.

Hoffner felt her gaze as he tapped out a head of ash into the tray. “That’s very kind, Frulein Lina.”

“Not at all, Nikolai.”

Again, he peered at her. Hoffner wondered if Fichte knew what he was dealing with here.

The beers arrived. Fichte tossed back what remained of his first glass and handed the empty to the waiter. He then picked up his new glass and proposed a toast. “To. .” It was as much as he had prepared.

“To new friends,” said Lina.

“Yes,” said Fichte enthusiastically. “New friends.”

Hoffner raised his glass, then took a sip. He placed his glass back on the table and said, “So, you’ve never told me how the two of you met.”

It was all the prompting Fichte needed; with an occasional “Really, Hans-an ice-skating rink?” Hoffner had bought himself another few minutes to study Lina.

He now realized that the view from the window had not come close to doing the girl justice. Not that she was all that much more attractive. True, there were a pair of rather nice legs that had been lost under the table-her dress had risen to just above the knee and hinted at an even greater loveliness higher up the thigh-but it was nothing so mundane as a physical reappraisal that intrigued Hoffner. Lina had an energy, instantly perceptible, that told of a past and a future filled with daring and, above all, conquest, none of it garish or cheap, but intensely real, like the eyes that stared across at Hans and his stories of their recent present. The only mystery for Hoffner was why she had lighted upon his assistant, his well-meaning, young, very young, Hans as her escort.

“Hans exaggerates that part,” said Lina as she took his hand. “It was a little jump, and I almost fell.”

“She was magnificent, Nikolai,” said Fichte. “Truly.”

It was the first time Hoffner had heard Fichte sound comfortable using his name: remarkable thing, the touching of hands.

Hoffner took a long swig of beer. He stopped for breath, finished off the glass, and then placed it on the table. “It all sounds very romantic,” he said as he patted at his pockets for some coins. “Sadly. .”

“Oh, no,” said Fichte. “You’re not going yet. And you’re certainly not paying when you do.” It was clear Fichte was already feeling the effects of the alcohol. Before Hoffner could stop him, Fichte was on his feet. “We have to find you some company. We can’t share Lina, you know, if we’re going dancing.”

Fichte was lost to the melee of tables and waiters before Hoffner could put out a hand to stop him. Even so, Hoffner swatted at the air before sitting back.

“He knows you won’t stay,” said Lina. “But he wants to make the effort.”

Hoffner started looking for a waiter. “Another mouth to feed.”

“You don’t have to do that, Nikolai.”

The mention of his name stopped Hoffner. The sound of it now felt wrong, not that hearing it had ever stopped him in the past. A waiter appeared. “Four more glasses,” said Hoffner.

“Three,” said Lina.

“Three,” said Hoffner, “and a dish of ice cream, vanilla, for the lady.” He turned to her. “Do you like nuts?”

“We have no nuts, mein Herr, ” said the waiter.

Hoffner continued to stare at Lina. “Then we don’t want any.” Lina smiled. Hoffner tried not to enjoy it as much as he did.

The man seemed confused. “But we don’t-”

Hoffner turned back to the waiter. “Just the ice cream, then,” he said, relieving the man of any further mental anguish. When the waiter had gone, Hoffner turned again to Lina. “Ah,” he said, and shook his head. “I should have asked for chocolate sauce. You do like chocolate sauce?”

“Yes. They wouldn’t have had any.”

Hoffner retrieved his cigarette from the ashtray. “No,” he said as he watched the line of smoke peel upward. “I’m surprised they had the ice cream.” He took a long pull on the cigarette. “You’re nineteen. Give or take.”

“Give or take.”

“Funny, you don’t seem nineteen.”

“No. I don’t.” She waited, then brought her wrist up toward him. “Hans gave me this. For my birthday.”

Hoffner leaned over and admired the cheap little bracelet, a thin silver plate chain. He made sure to keep his eyes on the trinket. He could feel her eyes on him. “Very handsome.” He sat back, took another pull, then crushed out the remaining cigarette. “He’ll make a good detective,” said Hoffner, continuing to play with the stub. He had no idea why he had volunteered the information when he didn’t believe it himself.

“He’ll like to hear that,” said Lina.

“Then you mustn’t tell him.”

She laughed: there was nothing coy or timid about it. Hoffner wanted to laugh, as well. Instead, he released the cigarette and brushed off his hands. “And it seems you’re fascinated with police investigations.”

“I wouldn’t say fascinated.”

“Excited, then.”

“Not really. Hans wanted me to ask you.”

Hoffner nodded slowly. “I see.” She had given in too quickly. “Clever boy, our Hans.” He took a sip of beer. Lina did the same.

“He thinks a great deal of you, you know,” she said.

“Of course he does.” Hoffner placed the glass back on the table. “I’m his detective inspector.”

“No. I mean a great deal.”

“He’ll get over it.” Hoffner felt something fast approaching from behind him. His sense of relief was equally palpable. “Aha,” he said. “What’s she look like?”

Lina immediately peered past him. Her eyes widened as she gave in to a grin and spoke under her breath. “You don’t want to know.”

“Then I’m sorry for you. You’ll have a tough time getting rid of her once I’m gone.”

Lina’s eyes told him that Fichte was almost upon them. “Don’t worry,” she said. “We’ll get rid of her.” Hoffner had no doubt of it.

“Look who I’ve found,” came Fichte’s too-loud voice from behind as he drew up.

Hoffner turned. A short redhead, dyed almost to the roots, had an arm around Fichte’s waist; her other was reaching out for Hoffner. She was, by conservative estimates, a good 120 kilos, something of a miracle given the food situation in Berlin. And she was clearly proud of her heft. Her age was anybody’s guess.

“Fat Gerda!” barked the woman as she managed to slap a paw onto Hoffner’s shoulder. “That’s who he’s found for you, you lucky boy!”

The smell of alcohol was equally aggressive, a bit much even for the pre-eight-o’clock crowd. “Just my type,” said Hoffner as he stood.

“I knew it,” said Fichte, a lilt to his voice that told them he had had another pop at the bar during his search. Hoffner recalled the first time he had gone out drinking with the boy, the night after he had introduced Fichte to the “cattle yard” and his first abandoned baby. The stench had been enough to lead them directly to the flat; they had both needed a drink after that. By the third beer, Fichte had been singing, a remarkably quick drunk for such a big man. Hoffner had pinned it on the lungs. Better to think that everything stemmed from that one defect than to consider the larger Fichte picture.