Bernhard Schlink - Self's Punishment

‘But sweetheart, can’t you see, we’re just having a bit of fun? We’re getting on just fine, isn’t that right, Fred?’

Fred wiped the blood from his lips. He nodded and looked around for Judith.

A quick survey of her pub convinced the proprietress that peace and order had been restored. ‘Well, then, have a schnapps on the house,’ she said soothingly. Her establishment was under control.

While she was pouring them, and Fred had slunk off to the toilet, Judith came over to me. She looked at me in concern. ‘He was one of the ones at the War Cemetery. Is everything all right?’ She spoke softly.

‘He may have smashed my ribs, but if you’ll call me Gerd, I’ll get over it,’ I replied. ‘Then I’d simply call you Judith.’

She smiled. ‘I think you’re exploiting the situation, but I don’t want to quibble. I was just picturing you in a trench coat.’

‘And?’

‘You don’t need one,’ she said.

Fred came back from the toilet. He’d put on a hang-dog expression in front of the mirror and even apologized.

‘Not bad shape for your age. Sorry I got out of order. You know, basically it’s not easy to grow old without a family and around my birthday I really feel it.’

Beneath Fred’s friendly veneer, malice and the crooked charm of a Viennese pimp shone through.

‘Sometimes something wild takes over, Fred. The thing with the beer wasn’t necessary, but I can’t undo it.’ His hair was still damp and sticky. ‘Don’t hold it against me. I only get mad when women are involved.’

‘What shall we do now?’ asked Judith with an innocent blink of the eyes.

‘First we’ll take Fred home, then I’ll take you home,’ I ordained.

The proprietress jumped on the bandwagon. ‘Right, Fred, you’ll be taken home. You can collect your car tomorrow. Come in a taxi.’

We bundled Fred into my car. Judith followed us.

Fred claimed to live in Jungbusch, ‘in Werftstrasse, just next to the old police station, you know’, and wanted to be dropped off at the corner.

I couldn’t care less where he didn’t live. We drove over the bridge.

‘That big story of yours, is there anything in it for me? I’ve done some security stuff before, for a big company round here too,’ he said.

‘We can talk about it. If you’re looking for some action I’d be glad to have you. Just give me a call.’

I fished out a business card from my jacket pocket, a real one, and gave it to him. At the corner I let him out and he headed with a swaying gait towards the next pub. I still had Judith’s car in the rear-view mirror. I drove via the Ring and turned round the Wasserturm into the Augusta-Anlage. I’d expected a farewell flash of her lights beyond the National Theatre and then to see nothing more of her. She followed me to Richard-Wagner-Strasse outside my front door and waited, motor running, as I parked.

I got out, locked up, and walked over to her. It was only seven strides but I gave them everything about superior manliness that I’d picked up in my second youth. I leant down to her window, no rheumatic expense spared, and pointed to the next parking space with my left hand.

‘You will come up for a cup of tea, won’t you?’

While I was making the tea, Judith paced the kitchen, smoking. She was still extremely worked up. ‘What a twerp,’ she said, ‘what a twerp. And he put the fear of God in me at the War Cemetery.’

‘He wasn’t alone that time. And do you know, if I’d let him get going, I’d have been more frightened myself. He’s beaten up quite a few people in his time.’

We took our tea into the sitting room. I thought back to breakfast with Brigitte and was glad that the dishes weren’t lying in my kitchen now.

‘I still don’t know whether I can take on your case. But you should consider whether I really ought to take it on. I’ve investigated Peter Mischkey’s affairs before. I turned him in for breaking into the RCW computer system, as a matter of fact.’ I told her everything. She didn’t interrupt. Her eyes were full of hurt and reproach. ‘I can’t accept the way you’re looking at me. I did my job, and that sometimes means using people, exposing them, turning them in, even if they’re likeable.’

‘So what? Why the great confession then? Somehow you’re seeking absolution from me.’

I spoke into her wounded, cold face. ‘You are my client, and I like things to be straight between my clients and me. Why I didn’t tell you the story right away, you might ask. I-’

‘I might well ask. But actually I really don’t want to listen to the slick, cowardly falsehoods you might care to tell me. Thanks for the tea.’ She grabbed her handbag and stood up. ‘What do I owe you for your trouble? Send me a bill.’

I stood up, too. As she was about to open the door in the hallway, I pulled her hand away from the door handle. ‘You mean a lot to me. And your interest in clearing up what happened to Mischkey isn’t satisfied. Don’t leave like this.’

While I’d been talking, she’d left her hand in mine. Now she withdrew it and left without a word.

I shut the door to the apartment. I took the olives out of the fridge and sat on the balcony. The sun was shining, and Turbo, who’d been roaming the rooftops, curled up purring on my lap. It was only because of the olives. I gave him a few. From the street I could hear Judith turning on the ignition of her Alfa. The motor roared, then petered out. Was she coming back? A few seconds later the motor was running again and she drove off.

I succeeded in not thinking about whether I had behaved correctly, and enjoyed every single olive. They were the black Greek ones that taste of musk, smoke, and rich earth.

After an hour on the balcony I went into the kitchen and prepared the herb butter for the snails we’d eat after the concert. It was five o’clock. I called Brigitte and let the phone ring ten times. As I did the ironing I listened to La Wally and looked forward to Wilhelmenia Fernandez. From the cellar I fetched a couple of bottles of Alsace Riesling and put them in the fridge.

The concert was in the Mozartsaal. Our seats were in the sixth row, off to the left, so that our view of the singer wasn’t obscured by the conductor. Sitting down, I cast a glance around. A pleasantly mixed audience, from elderly ladies and gentlemen right down to kids you could easily picture at a rock concert. Babs, Röschen, and Georg arrived in a silly mood; mother and daughter sticking their heads together and giggling, Georg sticking out his chest and preening. I sat between Babs and Röschen, patting the right knee of one and the left knee of the other.

‘I thought you were bringing a woman of your own to pet, Uncle Gerd.’ Röschen picked up my hand with the tips of her fingers and let it drop next to her knee. She was wearing a black lace glove that left the fingers free. The gesture was crushing.

‘Oh, Röschen, Röschen, when you were a little girl and I rescued you from the Indians, you on my left arm, my Colt in my right hand, you never spoke to me like that.’

‘There aren’t any Indians any more, Uncle Gerd.’

What had become of my sweet girl? I took a sideways look at her, the postmodern angular haircut, and, hanging down from her ear, the clenched silver fist with the expressive thumb between the index and middle finger, the flattish face she’d inherited from her mother, and the somewhat too small, still childlike mouth.

The conductor was a slimy Mafioso, as short as he was fat. He bowed his permed head to us and drove the orchestra into a medley from Gianni Schicchi . The man was good. With the barest movements of his delicate baton he coaxed the most tender tones from the mighty orchestra. I also had to concede it was to his credit he’d placed an exquisite little female timpanist behind the kettledrums, in tails and dress trousers. Could I wait for her by the orchestra exit after the concert and offer my assistance in carrying her kettledrums home?