Thomas Glavinic: The Camera Killer

My partner, who was stretched out on the sofa with a hand over her eyes, told him in a low voice to desist from such descriptions.

Heinrich loudly rejoined that she mustn’t take it into her head to go to sleep. Yesterday it had been she who tried to prevent Eva from going to bed by arguing how seldom we all got together. Anyway, he could hear the toilet being flushed, and that was the signal for badminton. My partner said he was awful, but she sat up and rubbed her eyes.

Heinrich called to Eva, saying that she was bound to have made a stink in the bathroom and should open the window.

The target of his injunction came into the living room. Shaking her head, she said he must be suffering from brain fever, his behavior was so appalling. He seemed to be losing his wits. What manners, what idiocy! Were we really going to play badminton? she asked. If so, she must get the picnic basket ready.

Yes, Heinrich told her, but we would only have until shortly before 3:00 p.m.

Eva laughed and tapped her forehead. If we were going to play at all, she said, we would do so properly; our game was not going be cut short by some stupid press conference. She strode firmly into the kitchen to organize the drinks. Heinrich glanced at me with a smile that implied he didn’t consider the last word about the press conference to have been spoken.

My partner helped Eva to get the wicker basket ready. Heinrich and I got out the badminton net, shuttlecocks, and rackets. We took up our position outside the house. It was becoming steadily sultrier. Heinrich pointed to the clouds, which were growing ever darker. Perhaps we would be in luck, he said, and the storm would curtail our game at 2:55.

Catching sight of the fancy-dress cat in the shade of the Stubenrauchs’ car, he cautiously approached the animal in order to stroke it and, so he said, divest it of its idiotic ruff and the rest of its apparel. Before he got close enough, however, the cat darted away from the car and hunkered down in the grass some twenty-five feet from us. On your own head be it, said Heinrich.

He was reminded of a children’s book in which some youngsters tormented a cat by tying a tin can filled with pebbles to its tail. The cat had fled from the resulting din — to no avail, of course — but it had gone mad and eventually died. Children are brutes, he said with a laugh.

Eva had overheard the last words as she emerged from the house. Coming over to us, picnic basket in hand, she called Heinrich a monster; he was clearly incapable of thinking of anything other than atrocities and horror stories. This tickled him.

In atonement, he volunteered to carry the picnic basket, although he was already carrying the rackets. Eva handed him the basket without a word. Just as silently, but with a grin, he passed it on to me. I unresistingly took the basket in which, on top of the blanket familiar to me from the previous day, lay bottles of lemonade and mineral water and some sandwiches wrapped in aluminum foil.

However, this prompted Eva to move away from Heinrich with a disgruntled air. She tried to take the basket from me, but I declined her offer. She called Heinrich impossible. He laughed and tried to put his arm around her, but she eluded him, so he asked me to give the basket back and apologized.

For my part, I refused to surrender the basket, because I wanted to make myself useful. Consequently, when my partner emerged from the house, she encountered three people whose intentions were diametrically opposed. She laughingly pointed this out, thereby bringing Heinrich and Eva to their senses, and they allowed me to carry the basket.

On the way to our makeshift badminton court, Eva gave vent to fears that we would not be able to play for long. The storm clouds were rapidly approaching. My partner said we must take things as they came, and we should simply start playing.

Heinrich and I put up the net. We marked out the court with discarded articles of clothing and broken twigs stuck in the ground (those of the previous day that had been dislodged by the wind or the nocturnal rainstorm). We also flattened the grass at the edge of the court by treading it down.

The wicker basket was unpacked by my partner and Eva. My partner extolled the fact that our short walk there had refreshed her and said we should at once devote the time that remained before the storm broke to playing doubles. We duly did so. Team Heinrich/self beat Team Eva/my partner 15:6. Heinrich pronounced this pointless; the difference in level of ability was too glaring. So we changed partners. My partner and I were narrowly defeated (11:15) by the Stubenrauchs.

The court was now in shadow. Heinrich wanted to make a bet as to when it would start to rain. However, the imminence of the rain was so obvious that no one took him up on it. All four of us sat down on the blanket. We refreshed ourselves with mineral water and ate our sandwiches. Heinrich and I warmly thanked the womenfolk for making the latter.

Eva rested her head against Heinrich’s shoulder. Would he now be a good boy and spare their guests his black humor? she asked him.

Heinrich, with an expressionless face, called this emotional blackmail. He took a bite out of his sandwich and said, with his mouth full, that he would think it over. Eva sighed.

Big, fat raindrops began to fall. Haste was advisable, so we quickly gathered up our things. It was now as dark as it would have been at approximately 7:00 p.m. on a fine evening. Heinrich whispered to me on the way home. Hadn’t he said as much?

It was 2:50 p.m. and the press conference was saved.

As soon as we were back in the dry house, the women saw to the wicker basket and its contents. Carelessly depositing the badminton net and rackets on the freezer in the hall, Heinrich hurried into the living room. I followed him. He already had the remote control in his hand and was about to turn on the television when it occurred to him to inquire if I would care for something to drink. I asked for a glass of lemonade. He got up and brought me what I’d requested, having also fetched a bottle of beer for himself. Then he turned on the television.

None of the news channels said anything about the press conference being transmitted live, but Heinrich was excited by a ticker headline: “Man Arrested Not the Killer.” Following this: “The twenty-four-year-old man detained after a hectic car chase is very probably not the murderer, said a police spokesman. It was a false trail. The young man has been cleared by several witnesses.”

It wasn’t him, Heinrich called into the kitchen.

Eva and my partner came hurrying in.

It wasn’t him, Heinrich repeated.

Wasn’t it? Eva asked, and Heinrich said, No, it wasn’t.

The news reported that the young man had been missing since Thursday night and was consequently under suspicion. It now turns out that the twenty-four-year-old had been barhopping since Thursday. This had been confirmed by several people who saw him at an inn at the time of the Friday killings. On his own submission, the young man fled from the police because his license had been revoked for drunk driving. He had nonetheless driven his father’s car from inn to inn and was under the impression that the police wanted to arrest him for that reason.

Heinrich said the police were a bunch of morons.

The twenty-four-year-old wasn’t very smart either, my partner interjected; on the contrary, the whole story sounded very depressing, poor devil.

Eva laughingly agreed.

It was interesting nonetheless, said Heinrich; now they would have to go on looking.

A new lead. The police spokesman stated that this was an unimportant setback and the noose around the killer was tightening. The twenty-four-year-old was only one suspect, and not the chief one. A successful conclusion to the manhunt may be imminent.