Bernhard Schlink: Self’s Murder

That evening I cooked some polenta with pork medallions and an olive-anchovy sauce for Brigitte and Manu. We sat at the large table in my kitchen.

“A man has a wife and two children, and together with his wife a whole lot of money. One day husband and wife go hiking in the mountains. He comes back alone.”

“He killed her,” Manu said, flicking his index finger across his neck. He’s always been outspoken, and even more so since his voice broke. This worries Brigitte and, single mother that she is, she expects me to stand by her and be a sensitive and steadfast male role model for her son.

She eyed us severely. “Perhaps it was a tragic accident. Why are you both always jumping to-”

“How come you didn’t cook spaghetti?” Manu cut in. “I don’t like this yellow stuff.”

“It might well have been an accident. But let’s suppose that he did in fact murder her. Would it have been for the money?”

“Might he have had a paramour?” Manu proposed.

“What?” We had underestimated the range of Manu’s vocabulary.

“Well, a woman he was screwing.”

“Nowadays one doesn’t have to murder one’s wife because of a paramour. You can divorce your wife and marry the paramour,” Brigitte said.

“But then there goes half the money. Gerhard just told us that they had a lot of money together. And why marry a paramour?”

“I really like the polenta,” Brigitte said, “and the meat and the sauce, too-and you cooked for us and got the merlot I like. You’re such a sweetheart.” She raised her glass. “But you men are fools. He came back alone, you said?”

I nodded. “That’s right. And her body was never found.”

“There you go!” Brigitte said. “She’s not dead. She had a lover and went off with him. And as for the husband who never cared for her, serves him right.”

“Nice try, Mom,” Manu chimed in. “But it doesn’t pan out. If everyone thinks she’s dead, how does she get at the money?”

It was my turn. “That’s the last thing on her mind. Even if her lover is only a golf or tennis pro, he’s the love of her life, and love is worth more than all the money in the world.”

Brigitte looked at me pityingly, as if among foolish men I were a particular fool. “It wasn’t just the money the husband and the wife had together; they also ran the business together. And the wife-I’m sorry to have to put it this way-happens to be the cleverer: she siphons off money behind his back and opens an account in Costa Rica. That’s where she’s living with her lover, a young painter. And because she can’t sit still, she’s back in business and has made a fortune supplying the Costa Rican market with chocolate marshmallows.”

“Why Costa Rica?”

“Astrid and Dirk went there and loved it. Why don’t we ever go to such places on vacation? Both Manu and I speak Portuguese, and the only thing down there that got on Astrid’s and Dirk’s nerves was that they had to speak English and everyone took them for gringos.”

“Mom?”

“Yes, Manu?”

“What about the children? If the wife goes to Costa Rica with her lover, does she just forget her children?”

Manu had been raised for many years by his father in Brazil. Brigitte has never discussed with him why she allowed his father to take him there, nor has Manu brought up how he felt about it, then or now. He peered at her with his dark eyes.

She peered back at him, and then at her plate. When her tears dropped onto the polenta she said, “Oh, damn!” and picked up the napkin from her lap, put it beside her plate, pushed her chair back, got up, and left the room. Manu’s eyes followed her. After a few moments he got up, too, and went to the door. He looked back at me, shrugged his shoulders, and grinned. “Women!” Later, when Manu and Turbo had fallen asleep in front of the TV, we tucked Manu in and went off to bed, where we lay next to each other, lost in thought. Why had Welker hired me? Because he had murdered his wife on account of the money, and was now worried that a descendant of the silent partner might demand his share? Was he more worried about this than he had admitted? But why hadn’t he sent Schuler in search of the silent partner? For that matter, why hadn’t he sent me to Schuler? I could not imagine that Schuler and the archive had just slipped his mind, nor could I imagine that all this had to do with his writing the history of the bank. But it didn’t really make sense, either, that he’d have killed his wife. Does one murder one’s wife and then hire a private investigator, someone who’s notoriously inquisitive and wary, a regular snoop? Then I thought about the conversation we’d had at dinner and laughed.

“Why are you laughing?”

“You’re a wonderful woman.”

“Are you about to propose?”

“An old fool like me?”

“Come here, you old fool.”

She turned toward me and in her arms I felt as if I were being washed over by big waves, then soft ones, and then a calm sea.

I felt her tears as she nestled up to me to go to sleep.

“Things will work out just fine with Manu,” I whispered. “You’ll see.”

“I know,” she whispered back. “And you? Your case?”

I decided not to go to my old friend, Chief Inspector Nägelsbach, nor to look into Frau Welker’s death, nor to go looking for the father Welker had mentioned-and who, since Welker’s father was dead, would have to be old Herr Weller. I decided not to look into how the bank had recovered financially and what its current situation was. I would leave all that and, following the correct procedure for a fair-and-square private investigator, inform my client of the progress of my investigation and ask if he wanted me to follow the Strasbourg lead.

“My case? I think I can handle it.”

But she was already asleep.

At first the fact that I couldn’t reach Welker didn’t get on my nerves. I was invariably told, pleasantly enough, that he was in conference. Would I not like to speak to Herr Samarin instead? The following morning the friendly woman’s voice informed me that Herr Welker would be out of the office all day, but that I was welcome to try him again tomorrow-though she could put me through to Herr Samarin, if I liked. She renewed the offer the following day, and informed me regretfully that Herr Welker was still out of the office and wouldn’t be back till later.

“When?”

“I couldn’t say. But Herr Samarin might know. One moment, please.”

“Hello, Herr Self? How’s your investigation coming along?”

Though his accent came across stronger on the phone, I still could not place it.

“It’s coming along fine. When’s your boss due back?”

“We were expecting him yesterday and think he’ll be in today. Not that I can guarantee it; he might not be in till tomorrow. I suggest you call back next week. Unless I can be of service?”

Later I got a call from Schuler, who was irate and fuming. “What did you tell Bertram Welker about me?”

“Not a word. I didn’t even get to-”

“Then may I ask why Gregor Samarin, his damn lackey, wouldn’t let me see him? I was Gregor’s teacher, too, and he was my pupil, even if quite a stubborn one. How dare he tell me in that tone that he knows everything and that he doesn’t need me, and Bertram doesn’t need me, either?”

“Herr Welker has been out of the office for the past few days. Why-”

“Balderdash! I saw Bertram and Gregor pulling up in their car when I got there. I don’t know if Bertram recognized me. I don’t think he did, otherwise he’d never have left me standing there.”

“When was this?”

“Just now.”