Under the Ice

by Gisa Klönne

  Upstairs she crosses the white room with the glass-eyed souvenirs of childhood. Beyond it is Charlotte’s second room, painted light blue. A narrow bed with a girlishly floral cover, a glossy white wardrobe, a rocking chair and a bedside table are the only pieces of furniture. Pinned to the wallpaper above the bed is a cheesy poster of a sunset in pastel shades. This is not the room of a grown woman.

  Next door are bathroom, spare room and a large room with a wall of fitted wardrobes, which looks like a typical parents’ bedroom. But where you would expect a double bed, there is a hospital bed, and instead of carpet, there is linoleum on the floor. The smell of disinfectant is overwhelming.

  Charlotte had studied biology, like her father, and even embarked on a Ph.D., Berthold had said. Behavioural research – something involving rats. But then Charlotte’s mother had been diagnosed with breast cancer and hadn’t recovered. For seven years Charlotte had nursed her mother and no sooner had she died than her father fell ill. Judith examines the bed with its immaculate white sheets and tries to imagine Charlotte’s life – an existence between girlhood room and bedpan, watching her own career slipping out of reach. No hope, as long as her parents were alive. It’s awful, Judith thinks. No matter what Charlotte said or did, she must have suffered, she must have had feelings of frustration. And dreams. No one lives without dreams.

  But several hours of intense searching yield no clue as to what Charlotte might have dreamt of. Judith stares at the dolls again. They look like dusty-lashed keepers of the Grail, but the chest of drawers they are sitting on is empty. Judith goes down to the kitchen and washes her hands and face. She drinks two glasses of tap water, fills the glass a third time and takes it onto the terrace. The sound of distant traffic on the Rhine embankment hangs in the air, a constant low buzz. ‘Come on, let’s play with the dolls,’ fourteen-year-old Charlotte had said. ‘I’ve got enough for a whole class at Malory Towers. Come on, Judith, it’s fun.’ But Judith hadn’t thought much of the relentlessly cheerful and well-ordered world of Enid Blyton.

  She goes back inside, and for a moment Charlotte seems palpably close – a lanky girl with permanently hunched shoulders who apologised too much. What was Charlotte’s dream? Again, Judith looks at the wall of pictures in the study, but she still can’t say what’s bothering her.

  In the desk she finds stationery, files of bank statements and insurance policies, and Charlotte’s father’s academic correspondence. Money is clearly no object; a considerable sum flows from an investment fund into Charlotte’s account on a regular basis, and the household expenses, including the gardener’s wages, are paid by standing order – an arrangement which does not require Charlotte’s presence. Judith kneels down on the Persian rug and leafs through the letters. Intellectual shop talk, polite banter – nothing exciting, nothing personal. Judith reaches out and feels along the back wall of the shelf behind the files. There is something there. She pulls out two framed photographs. One is a close-up of a plump toadstool; the other shows a roughly twenty-five-year-old Charlotte on an Alpine meadow, her blond hair blowing in the wind, and beside her an elderly man in knickerbockers who must be her father; even through the cracked glass of the frame, there is no mistaking the similarity of their chins and eyes.

  Still holding the photos, Judith gets up and returns to the wall of pictures. In the centre, a painting of a bird looks as if it has been squeezed into a gap too small for it. It is done in oils and hung in a simple wooden frame, stained blue. The bird seems to be sitting on a nest on the shore of a lake. It has a black beak poking out of a black head, the feathers on its back are flecked with white squares that look as if they’ve been painted on, and its breast is white. The most unsettling thing about it is its eye, which glints at Judith, perfectly round and ruby red, as if the bird were filled with lava.

  On a sudden impulse, Judith holds the two picture frames up in front of the painting. They are considerably smaller. She lifts the painting off the wall. Bingo! In the gap that is revealed, two small dark oblongs are clearly visible, exactly the same size and shape as the two pictures from the desk. Judith turns the painting of the bird over. ‘Gavia immer – common loon – voice of the wilderness – 5/2003’, someone has written on the back of the canvas. Judith can also make out the address stamp of an art studio in Cologne’s Südstadt. She rings the number, but only reaches an answering machine.

  *

  Later that day she meets the forensic pathologist Karl-Heinz Müller by the plane trees in Römerpark. The summer air feels like velvet on their skin, the sky above them is fading, the red wine which Karl-Heinz has brought tastes of berries and smoke. They move slowly, not saying much; they’ve worked together long enough to be silent in each other’s company. They play boules, polishing the smooth warm metal balls, cradling them in their hands, throwing them with languid, flowing movements. They drink the wine and smoke. When it grows dark they share a pizza in the Volksgarten. There are loudspeakers hanging in the chestnut trees overhead, but for once the racket doesn’t bother Judith because they’re by the water, fairy lights floating at their feet, the buzz of voices cocooning them, the air tropical.

  Her attic flat still holds the heat of the day; the thermometer in the bathroom shows thirty-eight degrees. Judith makes herself a camp of duvets and mats on the roof terrace. The last thing she registers before falling asleep are the jerky movements of the bats and the feverish buzz of the restless city.

  *

  The ringing sound tears Elisabeth Vogt from an exhaustion bordering on apathy. It takes her a long time to heave herself up from the kitchen sofa and drag herself to the living room where the telephone continues to shriek. It is a little before eight; Carmen will be wanting to know whether she’s still alive. She rings every evening just before the eight o’clock news to make sure all’s well. Elisabeth knocks her hip on the sideboard in her hurry to get to the phone. Tears shoot into her eyes – that’ll leave her with a nice bruise. She presses her palm against the painful spot. Her hand feels cool through the cloth of her dress, although goodness knows, she sweated enough today; even now, the stifling heat lingers in the darkened rooms. She lifts the receiver from the cradle.

  ‘Vogt speaking.’

  ‘You sound funny, Mother. Aren’t you feeling yourself?’

  ‘I’d just dropped off.’ Elisabeth can hear how hoarse and choked she sounds. That won’t do at all; she’ll end up getting involved in yet another discussion about when she is going to see sense at last – give Barabbas away, sell the house where she lived for forty-three years with her beloved husband.

  ‘Something’s the matter. What is it, Mother?’ Mother is such a harsh word; her daughter fires the syllables down the phone as if aiming straight for Elisabeth’s heart.

  ‘Everything’s all right. I’m fine,’ Elisabeth replies ponderously.

  ‘You haven’t drunk enough water again.’ Resignation has crept into Carmen’s voice. Elisabeth wonders what would happen if she told her daughter the truth. This morning Barabbas savaged a wire-haired dachshund to death, she would say. But don’t worry, it was a one-off – it won’t happen again. Nobody saw it happen and the dog was a stray – didn’t even have a collar on. I took Barabbas home and then walked back and buried the dachshund; I couldn’t leave it for the vermin – or something even worse. I buried it in the little checked suitcase you used to take on holiday – do you remember? But don’t worry, I buried it nice and deep – no one will find it. That’s why I’m so exhausted.

  ‘Say something, Mother.’

  When had she stopped wanting to talk to her daughter? When had she accepted that blood ties do not necessarily mean mutual understanding? Elisabeth clears her throat. ‘You’re right, I haven’t drunk enough today.’

  ‘You must take better care of yourself, Mother.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Go and have something to drink now. And sleep well.’

  ‘You too, Carmen.’

  She really is thirsty when she hangs up; she ca
n feel how parched her throat is. Carmen is right; she keeps forgetting to drink. She should count herself lucky that her daughter takes such good care of her, the doctors say. Not all children are like that, Frau Vogt. Not all children love their parents.

  But Elisabeth doesn’t feel loved; she feels controlled. It’s a good thing she can still keep a secret. It’s more important than ever now, because if she gives anything away, they’ll kill Barabbas.

  *

  Detective Inspector Manfred Korzilius had only been the vanguard, and was soon joined by two brisk uniformed colleagues who made it feel as if they’d taken over the house. She had wanted to drive these strangers away. She screamed at them that they wouldn’t find Jonny here; they needed to look in Königsforst, where he went missing. They must hurry up; it was getting dark. But they didn’t listen to her; they just kept repeating that they had to take things one step at a time. She wasn’t to worry herself – Jonny would probably only be gone a day, like most missing teenagers, and turn up tomorrow, safe and sound. Besides, it was warm; even if Jonny had to spend the night out in the open, not a lot could go wrong. And he had his dog with him. If anything had happened to Jonny, the dachshund would have made its way back to the camp, or been found by people out walking. But he hadn’t and that was a good sign, they said – a sign that Jonny and his dog just didn’t feel like coming home right now.

  She had ended up shouting at them – get lost, leave us in peace, if you don’t want to look for our boy. But when the police really do leave, she realises that it was a mistake, because now there is no escaping the despair that descends on the house. Martina Stadler presses her forehead against the kitchen window and watches Manfred Korzilius’s silhouette folding itself into a police car. The windows of the surrounding houses have been dark for a long time, but that doesn’t mean a thing, of course; the neighbours are probably twitching the curtains in their darkened rooms, watching the heralds of disaster drive away, shocked and yet unspeakably glad that their own lives have been spared.

  Frank comes up behind her and puts his hands on her shoulders.

  ‘Come to bed, Tina. The police are right. The best thing we can do for Jonny at the moment is to keep our strength up.’

  ‘Why don’t you know when Jonny went missing?’ Softly, almost tonelessly, she asks the question that blond inspector Korzilius asked, the one he repeated so many times without receiving a satisfactory answer.

  ‘God, Tina, Jonny’s fourteen – you don’t expect me to follow him around all over the place. He knows everyone at the camp, he knows the woods. He went roaming about with Dr D. as usual. Scouting. You know what he’s like; he needs his freedom. And the kids had a secret meeting in the evening – strictly no adults. I assumed Jonny was with them; everybody did. And at breakfast time I thought Jonny had got up early and gone for a walk with Dr D.’

  He presses his thumbs gently into the tense muscles between her shoulder blades. He knows her so well – her husband, her friend, her love. Even in the terrible early period when Leander and Marlene had screamed all night and exhaustion had reduced Martina to a cheerless wreck that knew no desire but to sleep – even then, Frank’s tenderness had given her strength and courage.

  ‘Come to bed. You must get some rest,’ he says softly.

  But there is no hope of sleep now and Frank’s caresses cannot distract her from the all-consuming, poisonous thought – taboo and yet insistent – I would have noticed that Jonny had gone missing.

  Martina wriggles out of Frank’s grasp. She needs to be alone. Although everything in her is crying out for comfort, she mustn’t let herself go, mustn’t stop thinking straight. She doesn’t know where to put herself, trips over a toy in the living room and ends up in the garden. An alarmingly low cargo plane drones overhead, cutting through the night, and for a moment Martina wishes, ludicrously, that the plane would crash in the garden so that she’d be spared having to dwell on the inspector’s questions.

  Glow-worms flit around the garden. In Marlene’s favourite picture book they are portrayed as friendly beetles with little lanterns in their hands. Jonny sometimes read that book to Marlene, Dr D. sitting bright-eyed at his feet, and in his hands his beloved torch, the last souvenir of his father. When they had turned off the lights, Jonny would play glow-worms for the little girl with his torch – on, off, on, off. He had whispered to Marlene that the glow-worms communicated in a secret Morse code; he would tell them to look after her at night and watch over her.

  Where are you, Jonny? How are you going to make your light signals now? And who is watching over you? I can’t believe you’re gone. I don’t even want to contemplate the thought that you might be dead. Martina switches Jonny’s torch on, then off again. Has the beam grown weaker? Is there perhaps some way Jonny can know that she’s kneeling here on the lawn, sending him Morse signals?

  ‘There you are.’ Frank squats down beside her and tries to hug her. She pushes him away, focusing all her energy on the torch, her link to Jonny. On, off, on, off. How quickly a light can go out.

  ‘Tina . . .’

  ‘Go away,’ she says. ‘Leave me alone.’

  Monday, 25 July

  If Jonny doesn’t turn up soon, they’ll be late. That’s no big deal for Jonny, but for Tim it will be a disaster. He jumps down off the wall and stares down the street. Quarter to eight – Jonny’s never been this late. Tim gives his mountain bike a kick and swings himself back on the wall. His first lesson is maths with old Dolling. Frau Dolling has it in for him. She gives him the blame for everything and refuses to believe him when he tells her that the stink bombs, spitballs, graffiti and stickers which appear regularly on her desk are nothing to do with him. Old witch, he thinks. Stupid cow. The other day they stole his sandwiches and stuck them to her desk, smearing greasy liver sausage all over the place. Frau Dolling didn’t speak, she was so cross – all white around the nose. For a moment she just stared at the mess, then she marched over to the bin and fished out a lunchbox – his lunchbox – with liver sausage smeared all round the edge. Those Tupperware boxes are too expensive for you to go losing them all the time, his mother had said, writing his name on the lid: TIMOTHEUS RINKER. There was no denying it was his. No one else has such a stupid name. It isn’t fair.

  Jonny’s the youngest in his class, but he doesn’t have problems like that, and when Tim spends break with Jonny, the other boys leave him alone. He jumps down from the wall again and stares in the direction Jonny usually comes from on his bike. Come on, Jonny, come on. A year ago, Jonny and he had noticed that none of the others in the chess club were worth playing against, so they had played together more and more, and before long they had started playing outside the club as well. Soon Jonny had let him look after Dr D. for the first time. That was a real accolade, and luckily Tim had got on all right with the headstrong dachshund. He and Jonny have been friends ever since.

  Jonny sets great store by friendship. Honest Injun, blood brotherhood, loyalty unto death – those are favourite sayings of his. So why, for goodness’ sake, has he left Tim in the lurch? Tim peers down the street one last time before swinging himself onto his mountain bike. If he cycles quicker than he’s ever cycled before, he might just get there on time. Don’t think, just pedal, don’t think, just pedal, he repeats in his head, as his feet spin round. Don’t think about what’s going to turn up on your desk today. Don’t think about the phone call from Jonny’s dad yesterday asking you if you’d seen Jonny – as if he had no idea where Jonny was. Don’t think about break time without Jonny. Just pedal.

  Tim reaches Ostheim, and the bell at the level crossing begins to ring, but he ducks under the barrier at the last moment, skids round the corner and turns in at the school gate, braking so hard that his back wheel comes off the ground. The school grounds are fenced in with thick, square iron railings. Like a prison. Don’t think. Hastily he chains his bike to a free stand. Has the school bell already rung? The classroom door is certainly shut. Tim pushes it open and finds himself l
ooking into the angry face of his teacher. He senses the nervous anticipation of the other children and feels himself shrinking.

  ‘Sorry-I’m-late.’ Tim bows his head and slinks to his desk. ‘Better not wait for Jonathan today,’ his mother had said with a funny look on her face. But of course his mother doesn’t have a clue about Jonny and Tim and their friendship. Tim drops onto his chair which feels strangely soft, and in the next instant a fart breaks out from under him. ‘Rinker, Rinker, farty old stinker!’ the class jeers and Frau Dolling stares at him as if she’d like to kill him. Heat shoots into Tim’s face; he doesn’t dare move for fear the whoopee cushion might go off again. But he’s going to have to move at some point, because he needs to get his pencil case and exercise book out of his rucksack.

  If Jonny really has run off without him, he doesn’t know what he’ll do.

  *

  Monday’s starting as lousily as Sunday ended, Manni thinks, fiddling around with the worn-out ignition of one of the heaps of junk that are sanctimoniously referred to as ‘official vehicles’ on the management floor of police headquarters. The air conditioning doesn’t work either, of course, which means he might just as well not have had a shower; although it’s still early in the day, the sun is beating down on the roof. Recalling the morning’s chance encounter with his ex-boss, Millstätt, does nothing to improve Manni’s mood. Instead of coming to the point at last and clarifying Manni’s allegedly upcoming return to Division 11, Millstätt had only shown his teeth, given Manni an encouraging slap on the upper arm and told him to have a nice day. Hypocritical bastard, Manni thinks. First he fucks up my career and then he grins at me as if he were on my side. Manni bites back a curse.