Bernhard Schlink - Self's Punishment

He could tell a good story. Judith and I listened, captivated. Korten. Again and again he filled me with amazement, or even admiration. ‘But why couldn’t this be made public?’

‘Korten is more modest than he appears. He emphatically asked me to hush up his role in my escape. I’ve always respected that, not only as a modest, but also as a wise gesture. The deed wouldn’t have sat well with the image of a top industrialist that he was fashioning then. It was only this summer that I revealed the secret. Korten’s standing is universally recognized these days, and I think he’ll be happy if the story appears in the portrait that Die Zeit wants to do next spring when he turns seventy. That’s why I told the reporter who was here doing research for the portrait some months ago.’

He put another log on the fire. It was eleven o’clock.

‘One other question, Frau Buchendorff, before the evening’s over. Would you care to work for me? Since I’ve been writing my memoirs I’ve been looking for someone to conduct research for me in the RCW archive, in other archives and in libraries, someone who’ll read things over with a critical eye, who’ll get used to my handwriting and type the final manuscript. I’d be happy if you could start on the first of January. You would be based mostly in Mannheim, and be here for an occasional week or two. The pay wouldn’t be worse than before. Think it over until tomorrow afternoon, give me a call, and if you say yes, we can discuss details tomorrow.’

He escorted us to the garden gate. The butler was waiting with the Jaguar to take us back to the hotel. Judith and Tyberg said goodbye with a kiss to the left and right cheek. When I shook his hand he smiled at me and winked. ‘Will we meet again, Uncle Gerd?’

At breakfast Judith asked what I thought of Tyberg’s proposal.

‘I liked him,’ I began.

‘I’m sure you did. You were quite a number, you two. When the prosecutor and his victim adjourned for chamber music, I couldn’t believe my ears. It’s all very well that you like him, so do I, but what do you think of his proposal?’

‘Accept it, Judith. I don’t believe a better thing could come along for you.’

‘And that I interest him as a woman doesn’t make the job difficult?’

‘But that can happen in any workplace, you’ll be able to deal with it. And Tyberg is a gentleman, he won’t grope you under your skirt during dictation.’

‘What will I do when he’s finished with his memoirs?’

‘I’ll come back to that in a minute.’ I stood, went over to the breakfast buffet, and, as a finale, helped myself to a crisp-bread with honey. Well, well, I thought. What kind of security is she after? Back at the table I said, ‘He’ll find you something. That should be the last of your worries.’

‘I’ll think it over again on a walk along the lake. Shall we meet for lunch?’

I knew how things would unfold. She’d accept the job, call Tyberg at four, and discuss details with him into the evening. I decided to look for my holiday home, left Judith a message wishing her luck in her negotiations with Tyberg, and drove off along the lake to Brissago, where I was transported by boat to Isola Bella and ate lunch. Afterwards I turned towards the mountains and drove in a wide sweep that took me down by Ascona to the lake once more. There was an abundance of holiday homes, that I could see. But then to reduce my life expectancy so drastically to be able to buy one from my life insurance, no, that didn’t appeal to me. Perhaps Tyberg would invite me to stay for the next vacation anyway.

When darkness fell I was back in Locarno, strolling through the festively decorated town. I was looking for sardine cans for my Christmas tree. In a delicatessen beneath the arcades I came across some Portuguese vintage sardines. I took two recent tins, one from last year in glowing greens and reds, the other from two years ago in simple white with gold lettering.

Back at the hotel reception a message was waiting from Tyberg. He’d like to have me picked up for dinner. Instead of calling him and having myself picked up I went to the hotel sauna, spent three pleasant hours there, and lay down in bed. Before falling asleep I wrote Tyberg a short letter, thanking him.

At eleven-thirty Judith knocked at my door. I opened up. She complimented me on my nightshirt, and we agreed on a departure time of eight o’clock.

‘Are you content with your decision?’ I asked.

‘Yes. The work on the memoirs will last two years, and Tyberg has already been giving some thought to afterwards.’

‘Wonderful. Then sleep well.’

I’d forgotten to open the window and was awakened by my dream. I was sleeping with Judith who, however, was the daughter I’d never had and was wearing a ridiculous red hula skirt. When I opened a can of sardines for the two of us, Tyberg came out, growing bigger and bigger, until he filled the whole room. I felt stifled and woke up.

I couldn’t go back to sleep and was glad when it was time for breakfast, even gladder when we were on the road at last. Beyond the Gotthard tunnel, winter began again, and it took us seven hours to reach Mannheim. I’d actually intended to visit Sergej that day, in hospital after a repeat operation, but I wasn’t up to it now. I invited Judith in for some champagne to celebrate her new job, but she had a headache.

So I had champagne and sardines on my own.

Sergej Mencke was lying in a double room in the Oststadt Hospital on the garden side. The other bed was currently unoccupied. His leg was suspended from a kind of pulley and held in place at the correct slant by a metal frame and screw system. He’d spent the last three months, with the exception of a few weeks, in hospital and looked correspondingly miserable. Nonetheless I could clearly see that he was a handsome man. Light, blond hair, a longish, English face with a prominent chin, dark eyes, and a vulnerable, arrogant cast to the lips. Unfortunately his voice was petulant, maybe just as a result of the past months.

‘Wouldn’t it have been right to come and see me first, instead of bothering my entire social world?’

So he was one of those. A whiner. ‘And what would you have told me?’

‘That your suspicions are pure fantasy, they’re the product of a sick brain. Can you imagine mutilating your own leg like this?’

‘Oh, Herr Mencke.’ I pulled the chair to his bed. ‘There’s a lot I wouldn’t do myself. I could never cut open my thumb to avoid washing up. And what I, as a ballet dancer without a future, would do to make a million, I really couldn’t say.’

‘That silly story from scout camp. Where did you dredge that one up from?’

‘From bothering your social world. What was the story with the thumb again?’

‘That was a completely normal accident. I was carving tent pegs with my pocket knife. Yes, I know what you want to say. I’ve told the story differently, but only because it’s such a nice one, and my youth doesn’t provide many stories. And as for my future as a ballet dancer… Listen. You don’t exactly give the impression of a particularly rosy future yourself, but you wouldn’t go breaking a limb because of it.’

‘Tell me, Herr Mencke, how did you plan to finance the dance school you’ve talked about so often?’

‘Frederik was going to support me, Fritz Kirchenberg, I mean. He has stacks of money. If I’d wanted to cheat the insurance company I’d have thought up something a little cleverer.’

‘The car door isn’t that silly. But what would have been cleverer?’

‘I have no desire to discuss it with you. I only said if I’d wanted to cheat the insurance people.’