‘You have made a wonderful home,’ said Mira.
Smart, confident, pretty and happy to help in the kitchen, maybe it was the wine:
‘Thank you. I’d like for you to consider it your home too. Why don’t you stay with us while you are in town?’
‘But Aaron said that Saul-‘
‘Let me worry about Saul. He does what I tell him,’ she said with a smile. ‘Besides I like a full house.’
‘I’d like that very much.’
#
In the living room the men were watching the news. Well, Aaron watched and Saul pretended. He could not concentrate on what the presenter was talking about; the words became a constant noise that blended into one long tone that made even the language impossible to fathom.He stopped trying to listen and turned his attention inwards. It was the first time in the day he had any time to reflect upon recent events. Mark was dead. He noted it like a fact not a feeling. A man he shared so much with, a man who had been a close friend was dead and Isaac believed him murdered. Still no feelings. The robot was back: a machine that processed all the data impassionately and concluded without relying on the imperfections of taste, sight, touch and sound but rather representations of their chemical and physical make up processed into binary code.
Isaac had proof. What proof could he have that the police did not? Maybe Isaac had killed Mark? Maybe Isaac wanted to kill Saul too? But why now, why after all these years? Was it shame? The one last act of a broken man who thought they should not have survived. Who else could know about them? Only Isaac. He would have to protect himself.
Meet Isaac and take a weapon.
Or just not meet him. No. Then he would come to the store or his home and that would be worse; Saul had a family to think about.
The police? No. Then I would have to tell. I would have to explain.
He was looking at his son now.
Why are you smiling? What do you want? Why are you back? Back with gifts. To buy me. For the summer and a holiday. That’s it! You want a holiday. You want me to pay for your vacation. Back for money. Back with a fucking whore-
Saul shuddered, severing communication with the robot. Where did this come from, this suspicion and hate? This was not him and that in itself was frightening.
He had made an oath to joy that also did not sit well with his stoic principles but was an amendment (one of many). This was the secret of his success. He had survived and every day after that was a bonus, a life that should not have been. Children that should not have existed and grandchildren that were terminated forty years before anyone could have even conceived of them. Terminated with him.
They were the source of his success, the stem of his power. The robot was a defence mechanism created in the camps to deal with the horror. It could not deal with happiness and joy so it had been dispensed with. Obviously not well enough, because now it was coming back to run amok: defence and aggression where none was needed. Saul knew that a man had only two kinds of defence: external and internal. He also knew that defeat was always internal. He had seen it so many times. Not just during the war but in daily life. People lost the battle before it started, and perhaps that was why he was so successful. The ability to see when others had given up; to know what they thought and how they felt before they knew it and felt it themselves. Those skills of keen observation he learnt in the camp had served him well all his life and it was impossible to unlearn them however ashamed he was of their source.
The realisation that his mind would prove his downfall filled him with dread. What could you trust if you did not trust yourself?
Shamed by his thought crime he tuned back into his environment just as Ronald Reagan could be seen giving his speech at the Brandenburg Gate: ‘Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!’
They both laughed. Saul shut the robot down and returned to his son.
‘She’s quite something.’ Saul said.
‘Thanks, Papa.’
‘How many years older is she?’
Why did you say that?
Aaron was caught off guard but Saul smiled and shook his head apologetically.
‘It’s silly you being in Berlin and staying with friends. Why don’t you stay here? I miss having you about.’
‘I don’t think Mutti would like that.’
‘Let me handle your mother.’
#
Saul stood in front of the mirror lathering his face with foam from a can that continued to ooze minutes after he had set it down. He rinsed off his hands and picked up his DE safety razor. In a glass on the counter stood a pristine cartridge razor. It had been a birthday present from Sara. This one had two blades and he had seen in the ads that it shaved closer than the ones with one blade; as demonstrated by the graphic which showed that one blade always left a spiky bit of stubble behind and that the second blade caught this one leaving the cartoon face smooth. He imagined the next razors with three blades and the same commercials showing that razors with two blades always left a bit behind. He had found this razor a pulling and tugging affair that only cut if you pushed the blade into your face. He also missed the audible feedback that his safety razor gave: there was nothing like the sound of hearing your whiskers being sliced. He had reverted to the safety razor within a week, but kept Sara’s around in case she stayed over one day.
The razor was in position for the first stroke down the right side of his face, but nothing happened.
This is wrong.
He switched the razor to the other side of his face and hesitated once more. He pushed the razor into the foam and felt it touch his skin.
I was right the first time.
Back again, but still no stroke.
I know how this goes. It goes-
Under the chin.
No.
He continued struggling to recall a shaving pattern he had practiced since he was a teenager. What was this thing he was holding and why was his face covered in foam?
I know this. It goes here and-
Saul gave up, putting the razor down gently as if it might explode. There was something missing here. It was like he was struggling to reach an item on the top shelf, standing on the tip of his toes, hands fumbling blindly for something he could not see. He grew tired of the posture and the fight and gave up. Saul washed and dried his face and put his top on. Leaving the tin can to ooze foam until it dropped on the tiles.
As he passed his son’s room he overheard the sounds of lovemaking and paused to listen. For a second the expression on his face told that he did not recognise the sounds for what they were and his hand moved to the door handle so he could enter the room and investigate. Then the penny dropped. Instantly embarrassed he kept moving to his room. He opened the door to find Hannah already sitting on the floor with her brush in her hand.
Please let it work.
He sat on the bed and took the brush carefully into his hands. Bringing the brush to the tips of the hair he found, much to his relief, that he knew what to do. He always started this way: untangling the knots at the tips.
‘Everything okay, Saul?’
Did she know?! He focused hard looking for an answer.
‘You mean the- today at the-‘
‘Zoo. You scared me.’
‘I’m just tired.’
‘I’m not surprised. Honestly, you’re not so young anymore. I’ve never known how you managed on two or three hours a night.’
‘Margaret Thatcher does alright.’
‘She runs a country.’
Saul handed her the brush back and headed for the covers. Hannah made no attempt to protest the grooming session cut short. He was upset and she knew better than to push him across the boarder. Joining him in bed she tried to make light of it.
‘You’re a stubborn old man.’ She kissed him. ‘No shave?’
Saul hit the light switch and the two of them lay in silence. About ten minuets later he heard the familiar sounds of Hannah falling asleep, a faint
rasping from her throat. He listened to the sounds of his wife. This was familiar too. Familiar was good. He would have to start to organise again. Not items for trade this time, but his life. He could cling to routines and patterns to get him through. He hoped. Hope was the last to die. He closed his eyes and-
Opened them again. He could smell blood, water and detergent. Twelve-hour shifts were a nightmare, but at least no one had seen him sleeping. They had started cleaning without him; he could hear the sounds of dragging and scraping. He would thank them for covering for him; it had been a hell of a shift. Two thousand at least.
Turning to the left he made out the silhouette of a figure lying next to him and realised he was in a bed: it was Hannah; her rasping confirmed he was safe at home and the sounds were hers not of-
It was two thirty. He killed the alarm in the usual way and got dressed. Hannah turned over but did not wake as he left the room.
The light was on in the kitchen and Saul recalled that Hannah left it on these days in case Aisha woke in the night needing the bathroom. He entered the room not expecting to see Mira in a nightdress drinking a glass of water. He had to work hard to avert his gaze and appear nonchalant.
‘Time for work?’ she enquired in between sips.
Saul nodded and put the coffee on.
‘Did I wake you?’ he asked.
She shook her head.
‘I was thirsty,’ she paused and put the glass down on the counter and took a step toward him, her bare feet patting the floor. ‘About before, I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I’m a little headstrong.’
‘I wasn’t and I like your enthusiasm.’ He noticed her toes were not painted.
‘That’s a better word for it.’ She brushed past him. ‘See you in the morning.’
‘It is the morning.’
She turned, her hair following a beat behind her movement and smiled.
‘See you later then.’
Saul sat and waited for the coffee to percolate. Resting his chin on his hand he was surprised to feel stubble scratching his palms. Did he not shave?
CHAPTER 6
Edna hated taxi drivers. She hated this one especially as he had conned her by taking the scenic way home. The Turks in this town were always on the make. Zoo station had been a disaster. Taking first class still meant having to squeeze past the unwashed masses on the platform. Some moron with pink pointed hair had stuck his army rucksack in her face. The irony was not lost on her. Young men came to the city to escape national service; Berliners were exempt and the city was filling up with cowards, pacifists and loafers. Some future. She did not understand the big deal anyway; if there was another war Berlin was the best place to be. It would all be over in the first few seconds. That was guaranteed. The allies in the west would face-off against thousands of communist tanks. Maybe it would not even get that far. They could go nuclear this time and it would be over for everybody. This punk had the nerve to carry a camouflage rucksack. Sure, like he could somehow vanish with his pink cactus hair.
To top it all he was not there to pick her up. She thought about calling him but reconsidered when she saw the lines standing three deep at the call boxes. If he were on his way he wouldn’t pick up anyway. But he wasn’t on his way. She knew where he was.
If he can waste money so can I, she thought and decided to take a taxi to Spandau rather than the U-Bahn. Besides, she reflected, she was too old to be lugging luggage on public transport.
As the driver pulled up to their home she noted the fare on the meter and shook her head. He would pay. They both would pay. Pathetic old men. She’d asked for the air conditioner to be turned on but he had wound down the window instead. The hot air blasted her face and the sweat dripped down her back and made dark patches on her floral printed dress.
She waited until the driver had unloaded her bags onto the pavement and was standing with his arm outstretched palms open before she reached for her purse. She paid him in silence counting out the last Pfennig with deliberate slothfulness and then stared him in the eye daring him to ask for a tip. He did not.
Edna picked up the two cases and trudged down the front path of her house, waddling from side to side. With her girth it was not possible for the bags to point directly at the ground, more like one hundred and seventy degrees with a ten-degree swing per stride.
Entering the house, she stepped over some post. It was Sunday. That meant that the bastard had spent all night out like some twenty-something living it up while his parents were away. She was sick of the humiliation, sick of the lies and sick of him. She stooped to pick up the mail and flicked through for anything that might warrant immediate attention.
‘I’m home!’ she shouted even though she knew she was shouting to an empty house. Leaving the bags in the hall she made her way to the kitchen, still rifling through the letters. She needed a coffee kick after the train journey.
She could hear the buzz of his toothbrush. It was nearly two in the afternoon. For a moment she revelled in the idea of making his hangover a truly remarkable experience. This was how he would pay. As she neared the dining room door she realised the buzz emanated from behind the door. Why would he be brushing his teeth in the kitchen?
She opened the door and what she saw made so little sense that it actually took three seconds before she started screaming.
In the centre of the room was a black writhing mass. A shape-shifting monster that was somehow able to change its appearance by reoragnising its skin. At present it must have been in mid-change because it did not look like anything. There was a red congealed liquid on the blue linoleum and in the centre of that were the wooden legs of one of her chairs. She could smell rotting rubbish and urine. Isaac’s shoes where there too. And his trousers. She tracked back up and the black mass shifted enough for her to make out Isaac’s face.
Then it all clicked as fast as an optical illusion that suddenly makes sense. Flies were crawling all over Isaac’s bloody face. His mouth wide open, contorted into a hideous expression of pain. There was blood everywhere; he looked like he had been dipped in the stuff from the nose down.
The neighbours called the police.
#
A bright flash illuminated Isaac’s head, which was now clear of flies. The mouth a bloody wound, the eyes open, fixed and looking at nothing in particular.
Torsten Freitag watched from the door as a team of professionals, some in protective clothing went about their job with meticulous craft. He straightened his tie and decided he wanted a smoke. That would be the smart thing to do, because right now he did not know what to do and soon the others would notice. He turned his back on his colleagues and headed to the front garden, where he had a feeling he would meet the man that would tell him the next moves.
As he passed the living room on his right he paused to look to see if anything had changed. Edna Blum was still crying but now into the uniform of a female officer. Nicole. That was her name, he thought, but was not sure. She was cute with a smattering of light brown freckles. He had a thing about freckles. Nicole caught him looking and he tried a smile of compassion but it came out wrong and looked like he was enjoying this. Nicole’s look became stern and irritated. Just do nothing, he thought to himself. You can’t go wrong if you do nothing.
He was no novice and not at all disgusted by the dead bodies he had seen in the two years he had been with the Kriminalpolizei (KRIPO). Shocked by some of the brutality for sure but not sickened by the end result. It was just meat after all.
Steffan said he was too young and too stupid, but that was a good start from which to ruin things. Still he much preferred the dead bodies to what Nicole was doing. What the Hell would he say to the family of a victim? Steffan knew what to say, what to think and how to look and Torsten thanked his lucky stars that he would be learning from one of the best in the department.
Steffan Müller was, as usual, way ahead of Torsten. He stood with his back to the house looking at the homes opposite an
d ignoring the circus of police vehicles and onlookers. The jacket of his navy suit was open and he had one hand in his trouser pocket, the other held up to his face. Torsten made out the puff of smoke that rose above Steffan’s head and dissipated into nothing. He strode over to join him.
‘That’s two,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘You should be a detective,’ retorted Steffan.
‘What do you want to do?’ Torsten remarked on a defiant white hair standing proud in the wind among his partner’s otherwise mane of black.
‘What I want to do is go home and have dinner with my family.’ Torsten accepted the cigarette that was offered. ‘But what I am going to do is stay here for a while and when she is able, I will talk to the wife.’ He lit Torsten’s cigarette for him and then continued. ‘Who will know nothing. Meanwhile you and some other officers will talk to the neighbours, who will also know nothing. And when we have made a record of all these nothings, we will go to work.’
CHAPTER 7
On Monday morning Saul decided to surprise his family with the product of his nocturnal labour. He left the store and strolled the short walk back to his apartment, the paper bag in his hand reassuringly warm with rolls. It was still what most people would consider early and the streets had yet to fill with commuters. A fine summer morning that foretold of the oppressive temperatures to come. A slight breeze that carried the scent of dewy grass welcomed Saul as he walked down Kantstrasse but he soon decided that the street was far too ugly for such a fine morning and so cut down Wielandstrasse and made his way home via the back streets. He would keep off Ku’damm; it was prettier than Kant to be sure but far too commercial for his taste.
The White House Page 5
