Sascha Arango - The Truth and Other Lies

Meanwhile Jenssen was attaching a nylon rope to a concrete post and carefully lowering himself over the reinforced roadside. He rested on a rock ledge, from which he was able to climb down farther until he reached the crevice that held the brown object he’d seen from the road. He lay down on his belly and looked into the dark hollow. On the gleaming leathery surface he could make out a metal fitting that looked like tarnished brass, and on it a handle. Triumphantly Jenssen stuck his muscular arm into the crevice; he couldn’t quite reach the handle. He sat up, took off a trainer and sock, and tried to get hold of the bag with his foot. That too failed, because his calf was too fat for the narrow crevice. Above him he could hear the sound of a car driving around the bend where Fasch had come to grief. Cursing, Jenssen began to look for a stick. The sparse vegetation around the crevice yielded nothing, but he could see a dried-up bush about fifteen feet away whose withered boughs seemed to be the right length. He wound the rope around his belly, pulled on it to check the tension, then swung out along the rock face.

——

Henry’s phone rang. Honor Eisendraht’s voice was husky with excitement. “We’ve found your manuscript, Mr. Hayden, we’ve found it!”

Henry put the Canon on the ground. “Where?”

“On this little memory stick in Betty’s office. Imagine. The police only opened the office again this morning. The stick was in a glass dish on her desk. She digitalized your manuscript page by page. We’re all over the moon — Moreany in particular. He’s making a special trip in to the office. White Darkness —is that the title?”

Henry bit his lip, and rubbed an earlobe. “The working title. You’ve saved my life, Honor,” he exulted as best he could. “That’s marvelous news.” With a glance over his shoulder, Henry looked into the barn. The phantom had vanished.

“I’m so happy for you, Mr. Hayden. I’ll get it printed out straightaway if that’s all right with you.”

“No!” Henry yelled. “Wait till I come.” He made a plan. “I’ll come around this evening. As soon as I’ve seen off my visitor here.”

Honor hesitated. “You weren’t thinking of driving in the storm, were you, Mr. Hayden?”

“What storm?”

——

The bag was moving. Carefully Jenssen pulled on the small branch whose bent tip was hooked into the brass fitting. Sweat was pouring into his eyes. He took no notice of an extremely rare lizard climbing over the stones. Then the branch snapped. “Shit!” Jenssen bellowed. “Shit, shit, shit!” The policeman threw the broken stick into the crevice and thumped his fist on the stone. It had taken him a quarter of an hour to tear off that gnarled old bough. Although it was long since dead, it had resisted with every last one of its withered fibers — only to break like cotton candy.

Jenssen removed his shirt and felt the cold air coming off the sea. Dark mountains of clouds were gathering on the horizon. He pressed himself up against the sandy rock once more, pushed his hand into the crevice again, breathed out to gain another centimeter, grasped the handle, and pulled the bag out. It was a lady’s handbag made of artificial leather. The contents were entirely rotten. Dead insects spilled out and crumbled into dust in the wind.

——

Henry unscrewed the can and poured half a liter of Super 98 gasoline into the briefcase containing Gisbert Fasch’s documents. He closed the can again, set it down, struck a match. The wind blew it out. The fourth match was the first to burn properly. With a dull bang the bag ignited and emitted thick black smoke. He watched until the leather darkened; gusts of wind made the fire hiss. The dog had awoken from its railroad-crossing-attendant’s sleep and was dashing about in agitation, barking at the wind.

Clouds were scudding over the roof, and the blackberry bushes were being buffeted. Henry saw that the attic windows were open. The gale would complete the work of destruction that he had begun. Can you guess how it ends? Martha’s last question was also a warning and more precisely a vision — that everything that is begun must somehow also come to a close.

——

After the devastating storm tide in January, fifteen years earlier, disaster control had been steadily improved. Back then the hurricane had caught everybody off guard. It had lifted the fishing cutters out of the dock, swirling them up and piling them into grotesque rubbish heaps. It flattened the historic houses on the harbor and plucked chestnut trees like buttercups from outside the parish hall. Torrents of water had surged through the town like a winding sheet, plowing the streets and sweeping away the gravestones from the little cemetery.

The last windows of the main street were being boarded up with chipboard as Henry drove into town. Two hours before sunset it was already dark. Heavy rain had set in with gusts that reached gale forces of seven or eight. Men were having to hold on tight as they threw sandbags from trucks onto front doorsteps. Henry stopped at the roadblock where Elenor Reens was standing, dressed in the uniform of the voluntary fire brigade. He let his window down a little. Rain sprayed into his face.

“Do you need any help?”

“We need all the help we can get.” Elenor pointed down the street. “Help Obradin’s wife board up the windows.”

“Where’s Sonja?”

“She’s too young for you.” Elenor knocked on the roof of the car and waved him through.

Helga was struggling all alone outside the fish shop window. She was small, and her arms were too short and too weak to fasten the heavy sheets of chipboard into position. Henry got out of the car; the rain drenched him instantly. He took hold of the board, turning it out of the wind. “Where’s Obradin?” he yelled. Helga shrugged and shouted something he didn’t understand. After two unsuccessful attempts they pushed the board into the brackets together. Helga snapped the iron bolt shut. Then Henry dragged his barking dog out of the car into the shop. Scared, and small as a pup, it fled into a corner and cowered there. Henry noticed that the fish counter was empty and clean.

“What’s going on? Where’s Obradin?”

“Where do you think? On his mistress!” Helga wiped her face with the back of her hand — hard to tell whether it was rain or tears. “That maniac’s started to drink again. He spends his entire time on that bloody cutter fiddling around with the new engine as if there was nothing else in the world. He’s going to leave me, I can feel it.”

The Drina was dancing in a veil of white spray, the mast listing in the swell like a metronome. The masthead lights and sidelights were on, and the motor was running. Henry kept his head down as he ran over the pier, so as not to be blown into the sea. Only two ropes held the cutter to tall wooden posts. Jets of water gushed up between the side of the boat and the pier. Henry reached one of the posts, clung to it, and crawled on all fours over the wooden gangplank to board the pitching and tossing cutter.

Obradin was lying drunk beside the engine. A lot of water had already gotten into the engine room. Henry turned him onto his back.

“Cast off, my friend, we’re setting sail!” Obradin mumbled in a drunken stupor. His lunch with a good deal of onions and salad was sticking to his face and chest.

Henry sat Obradin up, who at once let loose a volcanic belch. He slapped him in the face a few times with the back of his hand. “Don’t be stupid, come ashore. Don’t make your wife unhappy.”

“What does she know about unhappiness? Tell her I’ll be back tomorrow.” More water surged in. Obradin’s eyes closed again. Henry shook him.

“There is no tomorrow, you boozer. The hurricane’s coming; you won’t get back!”