Jonathan Rabb - Rosa

“Munich?” she repeated with false blandness.

The stupidity of what he had just said struck him at once. A few days in Munich? Could anything have been more obvious? The truth had snuck in and was now lashing away. He said, “Two days, at the most. I’m not even sure how the trains are running.” He would have given anything for an outburst of anger or despair or loathing, but Martha always let her strength work its magic.

She said, “Sascha’s friend is coming up at the weekend.” Hoffner had no idea what she was talking about. “Kroll’s niece. The girl from Frankfurt. It’s all planned. So I’m sure the trains are running fine.”

Hoffner wondered if, perhaps, they had moved past the worst of it. Unpleasantness loomed somewhere, but he chose to ignore it. “Geli,” he said: the name came to him like an unexpected gift. Sascha had met the girl on his last summer holiday: she was bright and pretty and thirteen and equally taken with the boy. Hoffner recalled something being said around the table last week. It was all very hazy.

“He’s in such a nice mood about it,” said Martha. She rolled toward him. “And you’ve been very good, Nicki. A boy needs that sort of thing.”

The air was clearing. They were well beyond it now. “He’s a good boy,” said Hoffner. Not that he knew his son well enough to say it, but he knew Martha needed to hear it.

“I saw the Mrike,” she said. It took Hoffner a moment to follow. “I found it in your jacket. You haven’t read him in years.”

Again, he needed a moment. “No. I-just came across it.”

“You were always so fond of him.”

“Yes.”

She continued to stare up at him. “You don’t love her, do you?”

And there it was, the banality of the question so much more painful than its answer. It might have been comical had Martha known the book’s source, but then again, he had chosen to keep it. Perhaps the question wasn’t as absurd as he thought. “No,” he said with quiet certainty. “I don’t.” Hoffner waited, wondering if she might drag them back into it; instead, she rolled away and onto her side.

She said, “I saw the gloves. They’re lovely. Thank you, Nicki.”

He had left them for her this morning with a little note on her pillow. “With warm affection,” or some such thing. It would have been too much on poor Herr Taubmann to return them now.

“ Does everyone have a partner!”

Tamako-he might have been Japanese, but it was anybody’s guess-called out from high above on his catwalk to the throng of dancers below. As always, he was immaculately togged in silk tuxedo and vest, and stood shouting into his now-infamous white megaphone, which he had named “Trubo.” Tonight, Tamako was keeping his dyed ginger-blond hair greased back to show his inordinately high forehead, which, for some reason, was powdered in white.

“You!” he said, leaning over the railing and pointing an accusatory finger at no one in particular. “Higher knees! Herr Trrrrrubo wants higher knees!”

A woman at the edge of the floor began to lift her legs with greater abandon. Her dress flew up and she laughed as the men around her helped to hike it up farther each time she kicked.

“I see knickers!” shouted Tamako. “Black and gold knickers! Oh, those lovely knickers! Three cheers for the lady in blue!”

The dance floor erupted, and the orchestra took it as its cue to raise the decibel level. Everything grew more feverish, while Fichte, seated at the bar with a vodka and orange, watched in delight.

He enjoyed the view from the bar. More than that, he enjoyed how he could be viewed from the bar. Hardly a quarter-hour passed without a handshake or a drink for the young detective. The girls had grown less attractive over the weeks-after all, who could keep a Haller Girl interested for more than a few days? — but some of the middling ones were still coming by. Tonight a buxom counter girl from one of the stores along the Kurfrstendamm was on his arm: she had a flat of her own; she had made that very clear early on in the evening. She was drinking champagne, but Fichte was figuring it would be worth the extras.

She pulled away from him and showed a bit of thigh as she flapped her skirt. “I want to dance, Hans. Let’s dance.”

Fichte imagined the treats in store for him. He placed his drink on the bar and followed her out as a photographer flashed a shot. It was a slow night. Who knew? Fichte might even make it back into the morning papers.

The girl was all thrusts and kicks, and she liked it when Fichte kept his hand clamped around her buttocks. He bent closer in and placed his cheek on hers, and little beads of sweat started where their skin touched. She smelled of talc and matted hair as Fichte reached up and stole a squeeze of her breast. She slapped at him playfully, and the cloth clung momentarily to his palm as he pulled it away.

Back at the bar he bought her another champagne. He was handing it over when a familiar voice from behind broke through the crowd.

“Something of a madhouse tonight, isn’t it?” said the voice.

Fichte turned to see Polpo Oberkommissar Gustav Braun reaching out for two glasses of his own. Fichte took a moment to process the image. Smiling, and with his hair mussed at the front, Braun looked almost human.

Fichte’s girl was growing impatient. “Hans-my drink?”

Fichte recovered and handed her the champagne. Braun, however, remained no less perplexing. With a false camaraderie, Fichte said, “Herr Oberkommissar. What a surprise.”

Braun was handing one of the drinks to a lady friend of his own. “We’re not at the Alex now. It’s Gustav, please. Allow me to present Frulein Tilde Raubal. Frulein Raubal, Herr Fichte. This is the young detective I’ve been telling you so much about.” The woman extended her hand.

Fichte took it and brought it to his lips. “A pleasure,” he said. “This is-” He had forgotten the girl’s name. There were several moments of uncomfortable silence before the girl said with an unflattering tartness, “Frulein Dimp. Vicki Dimp.” She extended her hand, though not with quite the same grace as her counterpart.

Suffering through the girl’s sweaty little hand, Braun said, “You must come and join us. Wouldn’t want to drag you away from the cameras, but we do have a table away from the noise, unless you prefer the bar.”

Fichte answered instantly. “Wonderful.” He motioned for Braun to lead the way. Frulein Dimp, though less than enthusiastic, followed Frulein Raubal into the crowd.

The air was slightly less steamy away from the bar, which made squeezing into the half-moon booth more pleasant than it might have been. Even so, the women were forced to sit shoulder to shoulder, while Fichte kept most of his heft teetering on the edge of the banquette: he placed a hand on the side of the table for balance. He smiled awkwardly at Frau Raubal, who seemed expertly bored.

“He might be a she,” said Braun, gazing up at the catwalk and a strutting Tamako. “There are rumors.” Fichte peered up with him. “Then again,” said Braun, “he might just be a diseased homosexual.”

Fichte found Braun’s chumminess thrilling. If only for a few moments, he was being invited into the inner circle. Fichte had guessed at Tamako’s darker secrets. Now here was a man who could more than merely speculate. Fichte said eagerly, “If only Herr Trubo could speak.”

Braun was momentarily confused by the response-seeing that Herr Trubo was, in fact, a megaphone whose sole purpose was to speak-but he nodded anyway and raised his glass. “To the times ahead,” he said.

The four toasted, and Fichte turned to his girl. “Herr Braun”-he corrected himself-“Gustav is very high up with the Polpo. They handle the more complex cases at the Alex.”