Bernhard Schlink - Self's Punishment

‘Good morning, Frau Buchendorff. How was your weekend?’ At half past eight she was still sitting over her newspaper, opened to the sports page, and was reading the latest on our newest tennis marvel. She had the list of roughly sixty businesses linked to the smog alarm system laid out for me in a green plastic folder. I asked her to cancel my appointment with Oelmüller and Thomas. I only wanted to see them after the case was solved, and even then preferably not.

‘So you’re crazy about our tennis wunderkind, too, Frau Buchendorff?’

‘What do you mean, “too”? Like yourself, or like millions of other German women?’

‘I do find him fascinating.’

‘Do you play?’

‘You’ll laugh, but I have difficulty finding opponents with whom I don’t wipe the floor. In singles, younger players can sometimes beat me just because they’re fitter, but in doubles I’m almost invincible with a reasonable partner. Do you play?’

‘To brag like you, Herr Self, I play so well that it gives men complexes.’ She stood up. ‘Allow me to introduce myself. South-west German Junior Champion nineteen sixty-eight.’

‘A bottle of champagne against an inferiority complex,’ I offered.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘It means that I’ll beat you, but, as a consolation, I’ll bring a bottle of champagne. However, as mentioned, preferably in mixed doubles. Do you have a partner?’

‘Yes, I have someone,’ she said pugnaciously. ‘When should we do it?’

‘I’d opt for this afternoon at five, after work. Then it won’t be hanging over us. But won’t it be difficult to get a court?’

‘My boyfriend will manage it. He seems to know someone at the court reservation office.’

‘Where will we play?’

‘At the RCW sports field. It’s over in Oggersheim, I can give you a map.’

I hurried to get into the computer centre and had Herr Tausendmilch, ‘but this remains between the two of us,’ print me out the current status of the tennis court reservations. ‘Are you still here at five o’clock?’ I asked him. He finished at four-thirty but was young and declared himself willing to make me another printout at five on the dot. ‘I’ll be glad to tell Firner how efficient you are.’ He beamed.

When I got to the main gate I bumped into Schmalz. ‘The cake proved palatable?’ he enquired. I hoped the taxi driver had eaten it.

‘Please pass on my warm thanks to your wife. It tasted quite excellent. How is little Richard?’

‘Thank you. Well enough.’

Don’t worry, poor Richard. Your father wants you to be extremely well. He just can’t risk the sibilant.

In the car I took a look at the printout of the tennis court reservations, although it was already clear to me that I wouldn’t find a reservation for Mischkey or Buchendorff. Then I sat in the car for a while, smoking. We actually didn’t have to play tennis; if Mischkey turned up at five and a court was reserved for us, I had him. Nonetheless I drove to Herzogenried School to inform Babs, who owed me a favour, that she was duty-bound to play doubles. It was the morning break and Babs was right: kids were carrying on with one another in every corner. Lots of students had their Walkmans on, whether standing alone or in groups, playing, or smooching. Wasn’t the outside world enough, or was it so unbearable for them?

I found Babs in the staffroom talking to two student teachers.

‘Anyone for tennis?’ I interrupted, and took Babs to one side. ‘Really, you must play tennis with me this afternoon. I need you urgently.’

She kissed me, reservedly, as is appropriate for a staffroom. ‘What an opportunity! Didn’t you promise me a springtime excursion to Dilsberg? You only let me clap eyes on you when you want something. It’s nice to see you, but frankly I’m annoyed.’

That’s how she was looking at me, both delighted and pouting. Babs is a lively and generous woman, small and compact, and agile. I don’t know many women of fifty who can dress and act so lightly without trying to play young. She has a flat-ish face, a deep furrow above the bridge of her nose, a full, determined, and at times severe mouth, brown eyes beneath hooded lids, and closely cropped grey hair. She lives with her two grown-up children, Röschen and Georg, who are far too comfortable at home to make the leap to independence.

‘And you really forgot we went to Edenkoben for Father’s Day? If you did, then I’m the one to be annoyed.’

‘Oh dear – when and where do I have to play tennis? And do I get to find out why?’

‘I’ll collect you from home at quarter past four, all right?’

‘And you’ll take me at seven to choir; we’re rehearsing.’

‘Gladly. We’re playing from five till six at the RCW tennis courts in Oggersheim, mixed doubles with an executive assistant and her boyfriend, the chief suspect in my current case.’

‘How thrilling,’ said Babs. Sometimes I have the impression she doesn’t take my profession seriously.

‘If you’d like to know more I can fill you in on the way. And if not, that’s all right too, you just have to behave naturally.’

The bell rang. It sounded the way it did in my day. Babs and I went out into the corridor, and I watched the students streaming into the classrooms. They didn’t just have different clothes and hairstyles, their faces were different from the faces back then. They struck me as more conflicted and more knowing. But the knowledge didn’t make them happy. The children had a challenging, violent, and yet uncertain way of moving. The air vibrated from their shouts and noise. It almost felt threatening.

‘How do you survive this, Babs?’

She didn’t understand me. Perhaps because of the noise. She looked at me questioningly.

‘Okay then, see you this afternoon.’ I gave her a kiss. A few students wolf-whistled.

I welcomed the peace of my car, drove to the Horten parking lot, bought champagne, tennis socks, and a hundred sheets of paper for the report I’d have to write that evening.

Babs and I were at the grounds shortly before five. Neither the green nor the silver cabriolet was parked there. It was fine with me to be first. I’d changed into my tennis things at home. I asked them to put the champagne on ice. Then Babs and I perched ourselves on the uppermost step of the flight of stairs leading from the restaurant terrace of the clubhouse to the courts. The parking lot was in full view.

‘Are you nervous?’ she asked. During the drive she hadn’t wanted to know more. Now she was just asking out of concern for me.

‘Yes. Perhaps I should stop this work. I’m getting more involved in the cases than I used to. This time it’s difficult because I find the main suspect very likeable. You’ll get to know him in a moment. I think you’ll warm to Mischkey.’

‘And the executive assistant?’

Could she sense that, in my mind, Frau Buchendorff was more than just a supporting actress?

‘I like her, too.’

We had chosen an awkward place on the steps. The people who had played until five went trooping up to the terrace, and the next lot came out of the changing rooms and bustled down the stairs.

‘Does your suspect drive a green cabriolet?’

When my view was clear too I saw that Mischkey and Frau Buchendorff had just pulled up. He sprang out of the car, ran round and flung open her door with a deep bow. She got out, laughing, and gave him a kiss. A lovely, vibrant, happy couple.

Frau Buchendorff spotted us when they reached the foot of the stairs. She waved with her right hand and gave Peter an encouraging nudge with the left. He, too, raised an arm in greeting – then he recognized me, and his gesture froze, and his face turned to stone. For a moment the world stopped turning, and the tennis balls were suspended in the air, and it was absolutely still.