Bernhard Schlink - Self's Punishment

‘He was a decent player, Schmalz. Although he was a late starter. And you could depend on him in the club. He never missed a practice or a tournament.’

‘How often do you practise?’

‘Every Thursday. Three weeks ago was the first time Schmalz didn’t come. The family said he’d over-exerted himself in the workshop. But you know, I believe the bleeding in the brain happened before then. Otherwise he wouldn’t have been in the workshop, he’d have been at practice. He must already have been off-balance then.’

It was like any other funeral meal. It starts with the soft voices, the studied grief on the faces, and the stiff dignity in the bodies, lots of awkwardness, some embarrassment, and a general desire to get it over with as quickly as possible. And one hour later it’s only the clothing that distinguishes mourners from any other gathering, not the appetite, nor the noise, nor, with a few exceptions, the expressions and gestures. I did grow a little thoughtful though. What would it be like at my own funeral? In the first row of the cemetery chapel, five or six figures, among them Eberhard, Philipp and Willy, Babs, perhaps Röschen and Georg. But it was possible no one at all would learn of my death and, apart from the priest and the four coffin-bearers, not a soul would accompany me to the grave. I could picture Turbo trotting behind the coffin, a mouse in his mouth. It had a bow tied round it: ‘To my dear Gerd from his Turbo.’

At five I was back in the office, slightly tipsy and in a bad mood.

Fred called. ‘Hello there, Gerhard, do you remember me? I wanted to ask you again about the job. Do you already have someone?’

‘I’ve a couple of candidates. But nothing’s finalized yet. I can take another look at you. It would have to be straight away, though.’

‘That suits me.’

I asked him to the office. Dusk was falling, I switched on the light and let the blinds down.

Fred came cheerfully and trustingly. It was underhanded, but I got the first punch in immediately. At my age I can’t afford a clean fight in such situations. I caught him in the stomach and didn’t waste time removing his sunglasses before hitting his face. His hands flew up and I delivered another punch to his underbelly. When he ventured a half-hearted counterpunch with his right hand, I twisted his arm round behind his back, kicked the hollow of his knees and he sank to the ground. I kept my hold on him.

‘Who contracted you to beat up a guy in the War Cemetery in August?’

‘Hey, stop. You’re hurting me. What’s all this about? I don’t know exactly, the boss doesn’t tell me anything. I… aagh… let up…’

Bit by bit out it came. Fred worked for Hans who got the jobs and made the arrangements, didn’t name any names to Fred, just described the person, place, and time. Sometimes Fred had caught wind of something. ‘I did some stuff for the wine king, and once for the union, and for the chemical guys… stop it, yes maybe that was it at the War Cemetery… stop it!’

‘And for the chemical guys you killed him a few weeks later.’

‘You’re crazy. I never killed anyone. We messed him up a bit, nothing more. Stop, you’re pulling my arm off, I swear.’

I didn’t manage to hurt him so much that he’d prefer the consequences of an admission of murder to riding out the pain. Besides I found him credible. I let him go.

‘Sorry I had to manhandle you, Fred. I can’t afford to take anyone on who’s mixed up in a murder. He’s dead, the guy you took care of back then.’

Fred scrambled to his feet. I showed him the sink and poured him a sambuca. He gulped it down and was in a hurry to leave.

‘That’s fine,’ he mumbled. ‘But I’ve had enough, I’m out of here.’ Maybe he found my behaviour acceptable from a professional point of view. But we’d never be best friends.

Another piece to fit in, but the picture was no less blurry. So the confrontation between the RCW and Mischkey had reached the stage of professional thugs. But from the warning beaten into him at the War Cemetery to murder was a huge step.

I sat down at my desk. The Sweet Afton had smoked itself and left nothing but its body of ash. The traffic raced by in the Augusta-Anlage. From the backyard I could hear the shrieks of playing children. There are days in autumn where there’s a whiff of Christmas in the air. I wondered what I should decorate my tree with this year. Klärchen loved the traditional way and decked the tree year in, year out with shiny silver baubles and tinsel. Since then I’ve tried everything from matchbox cars to cigarette packs. I’ve got a bit of a reputation for it among my friends, but I’ve also set standards I’m stuck with now. The universe doesn’t have an endless supply of little objects that can be used as Christmas tree decorations. Cans of sardines, for example, would be ornamental, but are very heavy.

Philipp called and demanded I come and admire his new cabin cruiser. Brigitte asked what I was planning that evening. I invited her round to dinner, ran out and bought a fillet of pork, boiled ham, and endives.

We had braised pork, Italian style. Afterwards I put on The Man Who Loved Women . I knew the film already and was curious to see how Brigitte would react to it. When the womanizer, chasing after beautiful women’s legs, ran in front of a car, she thought it served him right. She didn’t particularly like the film. But when it was over she couldn’t resist posing in front of the floor lamp, as if by accident, showing her legs off to advantage against the light.

I dropped Brigitte off at work at the Collini Centre and drank my second coffee at the Gmeiner. I didn’t have a smoking gun in the Mischkey case. Naturally I could keep on looking for my stupid little jigsaw pieces, trying them helplessly this way and that, and combining them to make some picture or other. I was fed up with it. I felt young and dynamic after the night with Brigitte.

At the sales counter the boss was fighting with her son. ‘The way you’re carrying on makes me wonder if you really want to become a pastry cook.’ Did I really want to follow my leads the way I was carrying on? I was timid about those that led to the RCW. Why? Was I afraid of discovering I had delivered Mischkey to his death? Had I messed up the trails deliberately out of consideration for myself and Korten and our friendship?

I drove to Heidelberg and the RCC. Grimm wanted to deal with me quickly, on his feet. I sat down and fetched Mischkey’s computer printout from my briefcase.

‘You wanted to take another look, Herr Grimm. I can leave it with you now. Mischkey really was a helluva guy, broke into the RCW system again although the connection was already cut. I suspect via telephone, or what do you think?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ He was a bad liar.

‘You’re a bad liar, Herr Grimm. But that doesn’t matter. For what I’ve got to tell you it’s not important whether you’re a good one or a bad one.’

‘What?’

He was still standing, looking at me helplessly. I made an inviting gesture. ‘Wouldn’t you care to take a seat?’

He shook his head.

‘I don’t have to tell you who the red Ford Escort HD-S 735 sitting in the parking lot down there belongs to. Exactly three weeks ago to the day on the bridge over the railroad between Eppelheim and Wieblingen, Mischkey plummeted in his car onto the tracks after being hit by a red Ford Escort. The witness I managed to unearth even saw that the number plate of the red Escort started with HD and ended with 735.’

‘And why are you telling me this? You should go to the police.’

‘Quite right, Herr Grimm. The witness should have gone to the police, too. I had to explain to him first that a jealous wife is no reason to cover up a murder. In the meantime he’s ready to go to the police with me.’