by Dan Vyleta
“Yes. At the back of the trousers. The cut is somewhat old-fashioned. From the thirties, I should say, though in good-enough nick.”
“And is the tailor still in business?”
Frisch shook his head. “A Sigmund Rosenstern. First district. Deceased.”
“Ah. Too bad. Well, I suppose it’s not your case, anyway. Not your district.”
Frisch nodded at that, sipped his coffee. “Who is the other corpse?” he asked.
“He was pulled out of the canal early this morning. The papers are full with it already. Some journalist took a nice photo.”
“Suicide?”
The pathologist smiled his noncommittal smile. “I should think so. Lungs full of water, blood full of alcohol, and a fracture in the lower third of his tibia from something he hit in the water.” He picked the report from a mound upon his table. “Eberhart Puck, thirty-four, unemployed. A veteran, naturally; it accounts for the frozen-off toes. POW till ’47. No permanent address. Last known employment: November 1937. Night watchman, Rothmann & Seidel, Electrical Works. Two arrests for vagrancy, pre-war, and an Iron Cross for blowing up a tank. No wonder he tended to despair.” Kranz dropped the report carelessly, rose, and stretched. “You think the war broke some little part of him and it finally caught up? Or did he just grow sick of begging?” He waited for an answer, shrugged, and walked Frisch to the door. “I better get back to work.”
They shook hands in the doorway.
“I would be obliged, Dr. Kranz, if you would call me if you notice anything else. About the one-eyed man.”
“As you wish. Au revoir.”
“Goodbye,” answered Frisch, thinking back to a time when they would have taken leave by raising their right arms, a gesture Kranz had performed with a peculiar flourish. Frisch had never been sure whether it was designed to signal his zest or his ironic distance. “My regards to the wife.”
He left the morgue and hurried home to sit with Trudi. It was too late, he decided, to go trouble Anna Beer.
Two
1.
Sunshine woke her, pressed its heat into her neck. Eva turned and knew at once that she had overslept. Light streamed through her bedroom window, found patterns on the dusty pane, along with the great net of a spider, already clear of morning dew. Her shadow fell on the insect as she freed herself from the thin blanket; and when her hand brushed the pane, it danced its eight legs clockwise round the spiral pattern of its web, its belly light, the waist as though strangled by a corset. Eva yawned, and smiled; combed her fingers through her hair. A soft, bright moan startled her, recalled her to a sense of haste.
It was not she who had moaned.
She had planned to get up early and leave the house before Robert knew that she was gone. There he was, lying on the floor next to her bed, his face buried deep in the bulk of a down pillow. He was wearing shirt and trousers. His stockinged feet peeked out from the bottom of the tangled blanket he held hugged against his chest. Dream drew sounds from him, too slurred to register as speech. His breath was regular and heavy. He would not wake for a good time yet.
Two nights ago, when he had barged into her room and shown her the photo, Eva had fallen asleep holding his hand; had woken in the middle of the night and been surprised to find him there, curled up sleeping on the naked floor. Annoyed, but at the same time careful not to wake him, she had fetched him a spare pillow and a wool blanket from the hallway cupboard; had slipped the one under his head, the other over his slight shoulders, and had watched in moonlight the rapid movement of his dreaming eye, the other dreamless, still, beneath its vein-embroidered lid. Above them, in the attic, the crows had been restless, cawed and scuffled through the hours of the night.
The next day Eva had run around the house with petulant impatience, watching, waiting for the man with the red scarf. The boy had followed her wherever she went, earnest and chatty, intent on burdening her with confessions big and small (his plans for entering the priesthood, now abandoned; his dead father, good or bad?; the schoolyard scuffle that had cracked his eye). From time to time he paused to press her with questions about the photo and her past. She told him nothing, mocked and abused him, had him scrub the dishes, mop the floor; fed her anger on his unfazed equanimity, the gentle, trusting upslope of his smile. Night came and he padded after her with puppyish resolve, lingered when she disappeared into the bathroom, still probing with his questions, the heel of one hand rubbing the great bruise on his chest.
When he said good night to her outside her room, she surprised herself by taking his hand and pulling him once again towards the patch of floor next to her bed. He crouched, then curled up like a pet; looked up at her in trusting wonder as she slipped between her covers and took possession of his upstretched hand. The weather was warm, the window ajar; Yussuf strutting on the windowsill before swooping down to search the moonlit ground for prey.
On this, their second night, sleep did not come easily to Eva. She tossed beneath her blanket, flipped the pillow, searched for rest. The curtain was open over the window by her bed, moonlight etching sharply all the contours of the room.
After some hours of uneasy dozing she pushed her head past the edge of the bed until it hung directly over his. Robert was lying on his back, his face gentle, trusting even in sleep, his shirt front buttoned to the throat. He is like I used to be, it rose in her, dredged up a yearning for her childhood, while spit collected in her down-turned cheeks. She waited until it had filled the hollow of her rolled-up tongue, then let it slide past the firm purse of her lips: a stringy drop of spit that descended on its own thread like a spider and hung from a mouth prepared to whistle or to kiss.
The first such missive hit the pillow by the side of Robert’s ear; it formed a foaming bubble that slowly seeped into the cover. On the second attempt she hit the socket of his eye. He woke at once, spit streaming past his open lid and down his temple; saw a third fat droplet thread its way towards his forehead; jumped up, laughing, to his feet and into bed; raised his pillow high above his head and brought it down into her giggling face. They fought like children, then lay wrestling like adults. It took a moment before she understood that he was kissing her: a wetness on her collar and her neck.
She stiffened when he touched her spine.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered, fingers sliding down the ridges of her vertebrae.
She slipped out of his arms and pushed him from the bed with hands and feet. He landed with a thump, looked back at her upon the mattress, kindness, pity, shining in his moonlit eye.
“Don’t,” she said, and he reached again to hold her hand.
They fell asleep without exchanging another word.
Now, awake, the morning sun colouring her dirty pane, she dismissed these nightly fumblings; rose, stepped over Robert, and got dressed as quickly as she could. Her hat was the last garment she donned, and the one over which she took the most care, adjusting its brim in front of the mirror. Then she chose a book from the pile she had pilfered from his suitcase, put it in the linen sack that served her as a handbag, turned, contented, and left the room.
2.
She made a mistake then. Rather than leaving the house at once, Eva—sleep-creased, thirsty—went into the kitchen first. She ran rather than walked, and had already passed the doorway when she noticed Robert’s mother sitting at the table, intent on the task of transferring spoonfuls of white powder from a large tin to a row of saucers she had lined up in front of her. Her presence took Eva by surprise. Frau Seidel was not known to be an early riser.
A second mistake: Eva spoke. Found a glass, filled it, drained it, cast an eye on the tin’s label. And spoke.
“So we have rats,” she said.
She could have left it there, but didn’t. She had learned the expression at the orphanage, where it served to underwrite a complex system of coercion: The devil rides her. The devil must be driven out.
Well, the devil rode her now.
“Be careful not to mix it up, Frau Sei
del. With all your other powders, I mean.”
Frau Seidel did not react until Eva turned to place the glass in the sink. “You can’t have him,” she said; transferred a scoop of poison from tin to saucer. “Don’t think I haven’t noticed. And don’t you get pregnant. It won’t help. My son is not for you.”
Stung and angry, Eva rushed out; returned again, the devil firmly in his saddle, stooped in the kitchen doorway, lacing up her shoes. “This man Robert has seen. The one who’s watching the house. You think it’s him, don’t you? Believe me, I’m rather hoping it is not. But perhaps, who knows, it might be him after all. It’s curious he doesn’t come forward, isn’t it? It’s eating you up, this waiting; asking yourself, What does he want? Oh, I can see it, the way you poke your head out, trembling, every time some ragamuffin rings the door for a penny or a bite to eat. And when the postman comes, God, you nearly snatch the letters from his hand. But so far: nothing, not a word. You know, I think he’s waiting for the trial. He wants to hear what Wolfgang has to say for himself.”
Eva might have said more but ran out of breath and lace to knot. They locked eyes for a moment, too fleetingly to take each other’s measure or to tally up the score. Then Eva turned without another word and slammed the door on the way out.
3.
The inspector rang while Anna was still in bed. It was eight in the morning; her unconscious strained to incorporate the ringing into dream. She woke at last, pulled on a dressing gown, supposed it must be Neumann come to take another bath. When she opened the door, it took her a moment to place the man’s face: the plump figure with its placid gestures; the thick glasses and the neatly parted hair. It was only when he wished her a “Good morning” with the even drone of his voice that she recalled the scene at the police station. His name, he said, was Frisch. There was no weight in his arm as he shook her hand.
“Have you found him?” she asked, feeling naked without her makeup. “My husband.”
The man frowned, folded one hand into the other. “So he hasn’t come home.”
Gently, in quiet, soothing phrases, he explained to her that the police had found the body of a man whom they had not been able to identify. Would she be so kind as to accompany him to the morgue?
The word startled her. “He is dead then.”
He shook his head, flashed her a helpless smile. “I’m afraid it’s up to you to tell us.”
She excused herself and ran into the bedroom to get dressed.
When she emerged some minutes later, the inspector had let himself into the living room and stood with his head tilted to one side, reading off the titles on their bookshelf. He noticed her presence and straightened.
“It’s a lovely flat you have here, Frau Doktor. Nice and big.”
“Yes,” she said, uncertain whether he was expressing admiration or resentment. His voice was as gentle and even as when he had invited her to identify her husband in the city morgue.
“I brought a car,” he said, walked ahead, and opened the front door. “After you.”
Halfway down the stairwell they ran into the crooked girl. Some part of Anna recognized her at once, or rather her hat, its bright red draining her complexion. The boy’s description had dwelled upon its colour. The girl too looked up in recognition; slowed her step, cast an eye at Anna’s companion, then suddenly whipped past them, almost running up the stairs. From behind, her spine looked painfully twisted; her cotton dress too flimsy to mask its line.
The detective noticed Anna’s interest. “Who was that?”
“Nobody.”
Above them the steps grew fainter, stopped. Anna had no doubt that the girl was headed for their flat. She remained standing with her back to the detective, her chin raised into the stairwell, listening for the ring of her own doorbell.
“Is there something you forgot upstairs?”
“No,” said Anna, turned around. “Let’s go.”
Perhaps she should have confided in the policeman and told him about her husband’s letters, his dogged search for a crippled orphan. But then—none of it mattered, if Anton was dead.
4.
Frisch’s car was parked right outside the building. Anna paid no attention to the route and looked up in surprise when they pulled up in front of a nondescript building at the back of the city hospital, not ten minutes down the road. Somehow she had expected a longer journey. She hastened to get out, then noticed that the detective had not stirred in his seat. He appeared deep in thought. The car door open, the heel of one shoe already placed upon the curb, she looked back at him over one shoulder. His eyes blinked, encased in glass, the lids and lashes amplified in their quick motion. He glanced at her without moving his head: a tender, watery gaze, red-rimmed and kind. The face beneath the spectacles did not hold the same emotion. When he spoke, it was in the same calm, fluid drone. It was as though he were giving her dictation.
“The man’s body has been severely beaten,” he said. “There are swellings and chemical burns. He has been dead for close to a week. The marks of decay are—unpleasant.” He paused, nodded to her. “Shall we?”
Frisch led her into the building. In the gateway stood a porter’s booth. While Frisch signed them in, Anna found her reflection in its glass; the light-green blouse and auburn hair, her lipstick glowing brightly in her pale and powdered face. She had dressed as though she were on her way to collect her husband at the train station; then on to a picnic in the gardens of Schönbrunn. Behind the glass, the old, pockmarked porter concluded she must be staring at him. He flashed her a grin of yellowed teeth. A half-eaten sausage lay on an open newspaper, looked grey and waxen in the booth’s dim light.
Frisch led her into a corridor on their left, then on down the stairs. There was parquet flooring even in the basement, its wood dirty and grooved from the passing of gurneys. A man in a crumpled lab coat greeted them and introduced himself as the chief pathologist; bowed from the waist to plant a kiss on her hand; then ushered her into a room with a delicate push upon her waist. He was tall, handsome, his accent pronounced and musical; the hands and face tanned despite a life spent in the cellars of a morgue. They marched her to a high metal table with a solemnity that reminded her of walking down the aisle towards the altar: each of them holding on to one elbow, lest she run away.
“In your own time, Frau Beer.”
The pathologist flashed her a wry little smile then withdrew half a step. As she peeled back the well-starched sheet (and how many times had it been washed?), the two men behind her launched into a quiet conversation. She listened to them, distractedly, as she uncovered the corpse’s face.
“Have there been any developments?”
“We had a close look at the dental work. A steel bridge across the upper right molars. Soviet workmanship.”
“So he was a POW in Russia.”
“Unless he is Russian. Was, rather. Inspector Höfel called this morning. He thinks he was killed upstairs then dragged into the basement. A butcher’s shop, though really just an empty shell; they were doing renovations. The workmen remember a bloodstain.”
“When?”
“Six, seven days, maybe more. There’s three of them and they don’t agree. Like all witnesses.”
“How about the eye?”
“Ah, the eye. Quite a mystery, actually. Exquisite workmanship. We haven’t been able to determine its provenance. I checked with the standard suppliers of prosthetics, but their eyes are nothing like this. I put it back in, thinking it might help with identification.”
The eye was the only human thing about the face that Anna had uncovered. In many ways there was no face at all. There was a mouth, of course, but the teeth behind the lips were broken, the jawbone cracked; they’d had to tie it with a ribbon to the skull. What remained of the face was displaced and swollen. Forehead and cheeks were naked flesh. Something had burned away the skin. The left brow and left cheekbone had risen like dough and fused over a swollen hole. On the other side, under an eyebrow split at the centre by a sma
ll vertical scar, sat the prosthetic eye. It looked outsized in its shrunk socket, the only thing of definite dimension in the pulpy mess of lesioned flesh.
Anna held her breath and kept staring at the eye. It was very intricately worked, the iris structured into layers, clear amber grains embedded in three shades of blue, each a snowflake pattern radiating from the pupil’s central well. In the bright light of the morgue the eye’s milky glass had turned transparent, become infused with something like an inner glow. A root system of capillaries spread from the depths of it: tender, light-pink tendrils fanning out towards the surface and the light. The lid that clung to its outer edges gave it a frame of amber lashes, each gently curving outwards, away from the glass. It was a lovely, human eye, alive with an intelligence intrinsic to its design. The dead man watched her coldly, without judgment.
She forced herself to ignore his scrutiny and concentrate instead on the line and shade of the man’s hair. It emerged from out the swollen skull as though each hair had been planted there by hand. Was it possible that Anton had greyed, his hair receded, quite this much? The scalp looked mottled between the thinning tufts, as though covered by some rash. She inspected the ears, found one to be blackened, the other waxen, fragile, incomplete, its rim chewed away into an undulating line. A coarse black hair stuck out of the moulded cartilage ridge near its centre (Anton would have known its anatomical name). It was ugly even in the context of the corpse, a slander on her husband’s sense of dignity, so much of which resided in his being perfectly turned out.
If this was, in fact, her husband.
She tried to picture him, compare him to the thing spread out before her on the table, but found she remembered only Anton’s photo, his features sharply drawn in black-and-white. The pathologist, as though sensing her indecision, stepped closer and quietly began to pull down the sheet, inch by inch. Like the face, the body was a mess: white, chalky planes rising into blackened peaks at those points where the body must have rested on the ground; the sewn-up flaps of surgical incision; sparse body hair looking stuck into the waxy skin. Anton’s chest had been broader, she found herself thinking, but perhaps the memory had become adulterated by some other lover’s frame. They passed the belly button, the lower abdomen. The whole area beneath the rib cage looked sunk, scooped out, criss-crossed with stitches.
