Philip Kerr - Prussian Blue

I was still up in the air but looking down on myself as I was lying on the cobbles of the Rue Obscure. I seemed to be hovering above the straw-dog heads of all those Stasi men like a cloud of gas. They’d cut me down and were trying to loosen the ligature around my neck but they gave up when one of the agents produced a pair of wire cutters and clipped it along with some of the skin under my ear. Someone stamped on my chest, which was all the first aid I was about to receive from the Stasi, and I started to live again. One of them was applauding my performance on the high wire — his words, not mine — and now back in my body I turned over on my stomach to retch and drool onto the cobbles and then to haul some air painfully into my starved lungs. I touched something wet on my neck, which turned out to be my own blood, and heard myself mumble something with a tongue that was only just accustomed to being inside my mouth again.

“What’s that?” The man with the wire cutters bent down to help me sit up, and I spoke again.

“Need a cigarette,” I said. “Get my breath.” I put a hand on my chest and willed my heart to slow down a bit before it packed up altogether after the excitement of what I’d assumed were my last few minutes on earth, or near it anyway.

“You’re a game one, uncle, I’ll say that for you. He wants a nail, he says.” He laughed and fetched a packet of Hit Parades from his pocket and stabbed one between the lips of my still trembling mouth. “There you go.”

I coughed some more, and then sucked hard when his lighter sparked into life. It was probably the best cigarette I’d ever tasted.

“I’ve heard of a last cigarette,” he said. “But I never saw the condemned man smoke one after the execution. Tough old bastard, aren’t you?”

“Less of the old,” I said. “Feel like a new man.”

“Get him on his feet,” said another man. “We’ll walk him home.”

“Don’t expect a kiss,” I croaked. “Not after you’ve pulled me through the cocoa like that.”

But they’d made a pretty good job of hanging me half to death, and when I was on my feet I almost fainted and they had to catch me.

“I’ll be all right,” I said. “Give me a minute.” And then I puked, which was a shame after the nice steak I’d eaten with Mielke. But it’s not every day you survive your own hanging.

They half-carried, half-walked me home and along the way the man I’d recognized before explained why they’d tried to make me hand in my spoon.

“Sorry about that, Gunther,” he said.

“Don’t mention it.”

“But the boss feels that you weren’t taking him seriously. He didn’t like that. Reckons that the old Gunther would have put up a bit more resistance to the idea of killing your old girlfriend. And I have to say I agree with him. You always did have a lot of hair on your teeth. So for him not to see any — well, he thought you were taking the piss. We were going to just mix you up a bit but he said we should impress on you what would happen to you for real if you try to give him the fucking basket. Next time, our orders are that we leave you dangling. Or worse.”

“It’s nice to hear a German voice again,” I said wearily — I could hardly put one foot in front of the other. “Even if you are a bastard.”

“Aw, don’t say that, Gunther. You’ll hurt my feelings. We used to be friends, you and me.”

I started to shake my head but thought better of it when the pain kicked in. My neck felt like I’d had a chiropractic session with a gorilla. I began coughing again and paused to retch into the gutter once more.

“I don’t remember. Then again, my brain’s been starved of oxygen for several minutes so I can only just remember my own name, let alone yours.”

“You need some pain expeller,” said my old friend and, producing a little hip flask, he put it to my lips and let me take a substantial bite of the contents. It tasted like molten lava.

I winced and then uttered a short, staccato concerto of coughs. “Christ, what is that stuff?”

“Gold Water. From Danzig. That’s right.” The man grinned and nodded. “Now you’re getting there. You remember me, don’t you, Gunther?”

In truth I still hadn’t a clue who he was, but I smiled and nodded back at the man; there’s nothing quite like being hanged to make you anxious to please, especially when it’s your own hangman who’s genially claiming your acquaintance.

“That’s right. I used to drink this stuff when we were both cops at the Alex. You probably remember that, don’t you? Man like you doesn’t forget much, I reckon. I was your criminal assistant in ’38 and ’39. We worked a couple of big cases together. The Weisthor case. Remember that bastard? And Karl Flex, of course, in ’39. Berchtesgaden? You certainly wouldn’t have forgotten him. Or the cold air of Obersalzberg.”

“Sure, I remember you,” I said, tossing my cigarette away and still without a clue as to who he was. “Thought you were dead. Everyone else is these days. People like you and me, anyway.”

“We’re the last of them, you and me, true enough,” he said. “From the old Alex. You should see it now, Gunther. I swear, you wouldn’t recognize the place. Railway station’s there, like before, and the Kaufhaus, but the old Police Praesidium is long gone. Like it was never there. The Ivans demolished it on account of the fact it being a symbol of fascism. That and the Gestapo HQ on Prinz Albrechtstrasse. The whole area is just one enormous wind tunnel. These days the cops are headquartered over in Lichtenberg. With a smart new building on the way. All the modern conveniences. Canteen, showers, crèche. We’ve even got a sauna.”

“Nice for you. About the sauna.”

We reached my front door and someone helpfully fetched the keys from my pocket and let me into the flat. They followed me inside and, being policemen, had a good poke around in my stuff. Not that I cared. When you’ve nearly lost your life everything else seems of little importance. Besides, I was too busy looking at my cadaver’s face in the bathroom mirror. I looked like a South American tree frog; the whites of my eyes were now completely red.

My anonymous friend watched me for a while and then, stroking a chin that was as long as a concert harp, he said, “Don’t worry, that’s just a few burst blood vessels.”

“I’m a couple of centimeters taller, too, I think.”

“In a few days, you’ll find the eyes are back to normal. You might want to wear some sunglasses until they calm down a bit. After all, you don’t want to frighten anyone, do you?”

“It sounds like you’ve done this before. Half-hanged someone, I mean.”

He shrugged. “It’s lucky we’ve already got your picture on your new passport.”

“Isn’t it?” I touched the livid crimson mark that the plastic cord had left on my neck; anyone would have been forgiven for thinking my head had been stitched onto my shoulders by Dr. Mengele.

One of the other Stasi men was in my kitchen, making coffee. It was odd how the men who’d tried to hang me were now looking after me so carefully. Everyone was just obeying orders, of course. That’s the German way, I guess.

“Hey, boss,” said one, to the man standing next to me in my bathroom. “His phone’s not working.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “Since no one ever calls me I hadn’t noticed.”

“Well, go and find a pay phone.”

“Boss.”

“We’re supposed to call the comrade-general and tell him how things went.”

“Tell the general I can’t say it’s been one of my best evenings,” I said. “And be sure to thank him for dinner.”

The Stasi man went away. My friend handed me the hip flask again and I took another bite of Gold Water. There’s real gold in that stuff. Tiny flecks of it. The gold doesn’t make the stuff expensive, but it does make your tongue look semiprecious. They should give it to all men who are about to be hanged. It might brighten the proceedings up a bit.