Bernhard Schlink - Self's Punishment

‘Well, you’ll have us to deal with if you hack up Willy.’ I raised my glass to Willy. He couldn’t drink back to me, his grog was still too hot.

‘Don’t worry, I’m not stupid. If I do something to Willy, we won’t be able to play Doppelkopf any more.’

‘Exactly, let’s play another round,’ said Eberhard. But before we could start he folded his cards together pensively and laid the little pile on the table. ‘Although, seriously, I’m the eldest so it’s easiest for me to broach the subject, what’s to become of us if one of us… if… you know what I mean.’

‘If there are only three of us left?’ Philipp said with a grin. ‘Then we’ll play Skat.’

‘Don’t we know another fourth player, someone we could bring in now as a fifth?’

‘A priest would be no bad thing at our age.’

‘We don’t have to play every time, we don’t anyway. We could just go out for a meal, or do something with women. I’ll bring a nurse for each of you, if you like.’

‘Women,’ said Eberhard mistrustfully, and took up his hand of cards again.

‘The idea of a meal isn’t a bad one.’ Willy asked for the menu. We all ordered. The food was good and we forgot about guilt and death.

On the way home I noticed that I’d managed to distance myself from Schneider’s suicide now. I was just curious as to when I’d next hear from Firner.

It’s not often I stay home in the mornings. Not only because I’m out and about a lot, but because I can barely keep away from the office even if there’s nothing for me to do there. It’s a relic from my time as an attorney. Perhaps it also stems from the fact that as a child I don’t remember my father ever spending a workday at home, and back then you worked six days a week.

On Thursday I was the leopard that changed its spots. The previous day my video recorder had come back from the repair shop. I’d rented a couple of Westerns. Even though they are scarcely shown any more I’ve remained true to them.

It was ten o’clock. I’d put on Heaven’s Gate: I’d missed it at the cinema and it was unlikely to be shown there again, and I was watching Harvard graduates at the graduation party in their tails. Kris Kristofferson stood a decent chance. Then the telephone rang.

‘I’m glad to reach you, Herr Self.’

‘Did you think I would be at the blue Adriatic in this weather, Frau Buchendorff?’ Outside the rain was pouring down.

‘Ever the old charmer. I’ll put you through to Herr Firner.’

‘Greetings, Herr Self. We believed the case was over, but now Herr Oelmüller tells me that something has happened in the system again. I’d be happy if you could come over, today if possible. What’s your schedule like?’

We agreed on 4 p.m. Heaven’s Gate was about four hours long, and you shouldn’t sell yourself too cheaply.

On the drive to the Works I pondered why Kris Kristofferson had cried at the end. Because early wounds never heal? Or because they heal and, one day, are nothing more than a bleached-out memory?

The security guard at the main gates greeted me like an old friend, hand on the brim of his cap. Oelmüller was distanced. The other member of the party was Thomas.

‘Remember I told you about the trap that we’d planned and instigated?’ said Thomas. ‘Well, today it snapped shut…’

‘But the mouse ran away with the cheese?’

‘That’s one way of putting it,’ Oelmüller said sourly. ‘Here is exactly what occurred: yesterday morning the central computer reported that our bait data file had been opened via terminal PKR 137 by a user with the number 23045 ZBH. The user, Herr Knoblauch, is employed in the main accounting department. He was, however, at the time the file was accessed, in a meeting with three gentlemen from the tax authority. And the said terminal is at the other end of the Works at the purification plant and was being serviced by our own technician off-line.’

‘Herr Oelmüller means to say that the machine wasn’t workable during its inspection,’ added Thomas.

‘Which means that another user and another terminal are hidden behind Herr Knoblauch and his number. Didn’t you figure the culprit would disguise himself?’

Oelmüller took up my question eagerly. ‘Oh yes, Herr Self. I’ve spent the whole of last weekend thinking through how we can catch the culprit regardless. Are you interested in the details?’

‘Try me. If it gets too difficult I’ll let you know.’

‘Good, I’ll attempt to keep it comprehensible. We’ve seen to it that when a special control command is issued by the system, the terminals that are logged on will set a special switch in their working memory. It’s not noticeable to the user. The safety precaution was sent to the terminals at the moment the bait data file was accessed. Our intention was that all terminals in dialogue with the system at that second could later be identified by the state of the switch, and this even independent of the terminal number the culprit could have used to disguise himself.’

‘Could I imagine it being like a stolen car being identified not by its false licence plate, but by the engine number?’

‘Well, yes, somewhat along those lines.’ Oelmüller nodded at me encouragingly.

‘And how do you explain that, in spite of all this, there was no mouse in the trap?’

Thomas responded. ‘At the moment we have no explanation. Something you may be considering – outside intervention – we still discount. The wiring the telecom people installed to trace things is still in place and signalled nothing.’

No explanation. And that from the specialists. My dependence on their expertise bothered me. I could follow what Oelmüller had described. But I couldn’t check his premises. Possibly the pair of them weren’t particularly bright and it wasn’t a big deal to outwit their trap. But what was I supposed to do? Immerse myself in computers? Follow up the other leads? What other leads were there? I was at a loss.

‘The whole thing is very embarrassing for Herr Oelmüller and myself,’ said Thomas. ‘We were sure we’d trap the culprit and stupidly we said so. Time is ticking by and nonetheless the only possibility I see is to go through all our assumptions and conclusions with a fine-toothed comb. Perhaps we should also speak to the man who set up the system, don’t you think, Herr Oelmüller? Can you tell us, Herr Self, how you are going to proceed?’

‘I’ve got to sift through everything in my head first.’

‘I’d like us to stay in touch. Shall we get together again on Monday morning?’

We were standing and had said our goodbyes, when my thoughts returned to the accident. ‘What, incidentally, came out of the investigation of the causes of the explosion? And did the smog alarm function properly?’

‘According to the RCC it was right that the smog alarm went off. So far as the cause of the accident is concerned, we have at least arrived at the point where we know it had nothing to do with our computer. I don’t have to tell you how relieved I was. A broken valve – the engineers will have to answer for that.’

With good music playing I can always think well. I’d switched the stereo on but hadn’t started playing The Well-Tempered Clavier as I wanted to fetch a beer from the kitchen first. When I returned, the neighbour on the floor below had turned her radio up loud, making me listen to her current favourite: ‘We are living in a material world and I am a material girl…’

I trampled on the floor, to no avail. So it was off with the dressing gown, on with the shoes and jacket, and down the stairs I went and rang the doorbell. I intended to ask the ‘material girl’ if there was no consideration left in her ‘material world’. No one answered, nor was any music coming from the flat. Obviously no one was home. The other neighbours were away on holiday and there’s nothing but the attic above my flat.