Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

They reached the table and sat. Hoffner helped her out of her coat, and she let the collar fall back across the chair. He noticed that the rain had gotten through to her dress. The wet fabric clung tightly to her thighs. They were long and wonderfully slim, and the cloth was nestling deep within the perfect triangle between them. Without acknowledging his stare, Lina aired out the skirt of her dress and then placed her napkin on her lap. Hoffner looked up to see her peering over at him with a knowing smile. He liked the feeling of having been caught. “Let’s find a waiter,” he said, and turned to the room.

A man approached from the other direction; Hoffner failed to see him.

“Et voil,” said Lina. Hoffner turned to see a waiter holding out two menus. Lina was not one to wait. She said ecstatically, “I’m going to have a hot chocolate.”

Hoffner declined his menu, as well. “Coffee for me.”

The man was gone as quickly as he had appeared.

Lina leaned in closer and spoke in a soft, low whisper. “He’s asked me to the cinema twice. Must be strange to take my order, don’t you think?”

Hoffner felt the excitement in her breath, as if telling him had somehow made her more attractive: it had, of course. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his cigarettes. “Must be.” It was Kvatsch’s pack, a nice impressive brand. Hoffner lit one up. “Well, this was lucky,” he said.

“Yes. It was.” She continued to stare at him.

There was something thrilling in not knowing if he was being overmatched. Hoffner said, “I was meaning to send you a note about Hans, but I didn’t have your address.”

“No. You wouldn’t have.”

“Just in case you were wondering where he might have gotten to.”

“Just in case.”

Hoffner looked at the girl. He liked the way her eyes widened almost imperceptibly each time she spoke. He liked the slenderness of her shoulders, and the smallness of her breasts. Most of all, he liked how she continued to bait him. “He’s out of the country for a day or two,” he said. “On an investigation.”

“How very exciting for him.”

Hoffner took a drag on his cigarette; he was enjoying this more than she knew, or, perhaps, as much as she was permitting. He had yet to figure out which.

“In Bruges,” she said. “Yes. Hans managed to get a note to my flat before he left. But thank you for thinking of me, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

“Not at all, Frulein.” The drinks arrived.

Lina spooned up a dollop of the cream with her little finger and slipped it into her mouth. There was nothing sexual in it; she was simply too impatient to reach for her spoon. Her eyes slowly closed. “Heaven,” she said with delight. The waiter was gone by the time she opened them, and she peered over at Hoffner. He marveled at how her smile gave nothing away. She slid the cup toward him. “Have some. Please.”

Hoffner took his spoon and sampled the cream. He nodded. “Very nice.”

She took her own spoon and, leaning toward the cup, delicately dug through for some of the chocolate. Hoffner watched as she deftly tried to bring the liquid up along the side of the cup so as not to disturb the cream. She seemed so intent on the task. It was then that he noticed the half-blackened nail on her right hand; she had bruised it somehow, most likely from a slamming door, or a fall on the ice. She had done nothing to hide it. Hoffner kept his eyes on the nail as she raised the spoon to her lips. She blew gently, then sipped it down. Wincing a moment at the heat, she quickly recovered and went in for a second spoonful.

Hoffner said, “It’s best if you mix it with the cream. Less bitter.”

Lina kept her eyes on the spoon and cup. “I like it this way,” she said. “At least at the start.” Hoffner took a sip of the coffee. It was the first good cup he had had in weeks. Lina looked over at him and said, “Would you like my address?”

It was rare for Hoffner to be caught out like this, but here it was. He felt something sharp run through his chest. It moved up to his throat and made his mouth suddenly dry. He hadn’t felt it in years. It was anticipation. He slowly placed his coffee back on the table. Out of necessity, he said, “Is that such a good idea, Frulein?”

She spoke with certainty: “You came to find me. Didn’t you?”

When he had no choice but to answer, Hoffner said, “I’ve been wondering if you make enough to survive, selling flowers and matches.”

For the first time, he saw the smallest slip in her otherwise perfect stare. Just as quickly, she recovered. “Have you?” She placed the spoon in the cup and began to fold the cream into the chocolate. “I do all right. I’ve started modeling. For an artist.”

Hoffner watched as the liquid became silky brown. Lina was merciless with even the smallest floating fleck of cream. She seemed to take a wicked pleasure in drowning each of them to oblivion.

“How very exciting for you,” he said. He retrieved his cigarette, took a few puffs, and crushed it out. Digging the last of the butt into the ashtray, he said, “Yes.” He let go of the cigarette and looked at her. “I did.”

Again, her cheeks flushed, although she was too good to let it take hold. She stopped mixing and placed the spoon to the side. “I’m glad.” Taking her cup in both hands, she brought it up to her lips. She was about to take a sip, when she stopped and peered over at him. “I wouldn’t want anything to change with me and Hans,” she said. “A chance to leave my basket behind. You understand that.” She took the sip.

Hoffner suddenly remembered how young she really was. He doubted Lina realized it, but in that moment she had shown herself at her most vulnerable. She might just as well have said, “I’m not expecting anything, so don’t feel you have to give anything.” Or, perhaps, it was just what he had wanted to hear.

Hoffner watched as she placed the cup on the table. He slowly reached over for her hand. It might have been an awkward movement, but the two came together too easily, and he ran his thumb gently over her palm. Just as easily, he let go. “Thank you for the lovely time, Frulein Lina.” He picked up the pack of cigarettes and placed them in his pocket.

“Yes,” she said warmly. She then said, “Kremmener Strasse. Number five.”

Hoffner waited a moment. He nodded and, somewhere, he thought he heard Victor Knig laughing. He found a few coins in his pocket and placed them on the table. He then took his hat and stood. “A pleasure, Frulein.”

“As always, Herr Kriminal-Kommissar. ”

Hoffner tipped his brow and headed for the door.

Back at the Alex, the security desk was under frontal assault from a group of irate Hausfrauen when Hoffner walked in: something to do with a pickpocket, from what he could make out. Hoffner decided to avoid the commotion and instead started for the wire room, when the duty officer put up a hand and shouted over:

“Kriminal-Kommissar.” Hoffner stopped. “Your Sascha’s been looking for you.”

Hoffner was momentarily confused. Why would his son have come to the Alex? “Sascha’s been by?” he said. Hoffner immediately thought of Georgi.

The man had no time for games. “Yes. Sascha. He’s asked for you twice.” Before Hoffner could answer, the women were once again on the attack.

Only then did Hoffner realize which Sascha the man had been referring to: “Sascha the runner,” Hoffner said aloud to no one in particular. He shook his head. He needed to concentrate, no matter what might, or might not, be happening later tonight: Knig’s laughter seemed to be growing louder by the minute. Hoffner stepped through to the courtyard.