by Inge Löhnig
Leon was shovelling cereal intently into his mouth, without looking up. Suddenly she realised what the two were planning. Noel was a keen volleyball player, away at tournaments with the team almost every weekend, and Albert was a strict father. He’d make good on his threat. Hard work alone wouldn’t get Noel better grades – he simply lacked a feeling for the language, unlike Leon. Was that why they were wearing identical clothes? Were they planning to swap classes today?
If she wanted to be a good mother she couldn’t let them do it. She had to stop her sons going through with this charade. But the child in her, the child she’d once been, was silently giggling. Surely she was only obliged to intervene if she knew what the children were planning. And to know what they were planning, she had to sound them out.
As if they’d registered her internal dilemma, they finished their breakfasts at lightning speed and stormed out of the kitchen. ‘We’ve still got to pack our stuff,’ said Leon, closing the door behind him.
The two of them had fetched their lunchboxes and were saying goodbye as Albert came down to breakfast. He ran a hand through their hair and wished Noel good luck on his test. The front door slammed. Babs went over to the window, as she did almost every morning, and watched the boys disappear round the corner. Albert walked up behind her and put his arm round her hips. His remark – that he’d really needed a fuck – ran through her mind again. That word, which had never been in his vocabulary before, and which didn’t suit him. Then his attempt to pass it off as a joke when he’d noticed her dismay. Had it just been about sexual release? Was that all it was for him? No closeness, love and intimacy?
Albert let her go and sat down. ‘Any coffee?’
Jogged out of her reverie, Babs poured him a cup and handed him the basket of bread rolls defrosted that morning. Although thus far she’d only been a housewife, there were limits to her enthusiasm for the profession, and she drew the line at going out to fetch fresh bread every morning. With a bit of luck today would be a turning point, and she could make the leap from housewife to part-time employee.
Half an hour later she walked Albert to his practice. It was just round the corner, in a four-storey building on Kurfürstenplatz that belonged to her father-in-law. The promise of a lovely autumn day seemed to be fulfilled: a few clouds were scattered across the blue sky, though the wind was unseasonably cold. Babs drew her coat more tightly around her.
As they entered the practice, Margret Hecht, the receptionist, was already sitting behind the desk and pulling out patient records. She was a skinny twenty-five-year-old with a pale complexion, freckles and a tendency to spread chaos where calm would be more sensible.
Babs disappeared into the office and did paperwork until half nine. It was nice to escape being a housewife every now and then. Today, however, it served more to distract her from the upcoming interview. When she was finished she went to say goodbye to Albert. He walked her to the door and gave her a quick kiss in the corridor. Only an hour and a half until her appointment.
‘Keep your fingers crossed for me.’
A confused expression appeared on Albert’s face. ‘Why?’
He’d forgotten! Even when she’d told him Caroline’s news, his reaction had been indifferent. ‘There’s no financial need for you to work,’ he’d said. As if it was about that.
‘For my meeting at the interior design magazine.’
‘Oh, right,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’ll be fine.’
A shout from upstairs interrupted them. ‘Doctor!’ Loretta Kiendel, who rented the apartment in the attic, was coming down the steps. She sold homewares for a living, but she also cleaned for Albert’s father, earning part of the rent that way since her divorce. Her perfect make-up could conceal neither her paleness nor the worry lines between her eyebrows, which had etched themselves in since her daughter’s accident. Franziska, a bright seventeen-year-old, had been run over by a learner driver last month and now lay in a coma.
Loretta Kiendel came down the last few steps and stood in front of them. She wore jeans, a black T-shirt with glittery appliqué and mules with five-centimetre heels. An unmistakeable sign that today was cleaning day. Her dyed-blonde locks were held back from her face with a black hairband. ‘Your father said he’d be back last night. But he’s not in the apartment, and his car isn’t in the courtyard. Has he been in touch with you?’
Albert shook his head. ‘Maybe he couldn’t stand the thought of weekend traffic. I’m sure he’ll be back this morning, he’s often done that before.’
‘But not when he knows I’m cleaning. Something might have happened to him.’ Her brow was furrowed with concern.
‘If he’d had an accident the police would have let us know,’ replied Albert.
‘What if he’s fallen over at the cabin? My mother-in-law was lying in the front hall for two hours with a broken thigh until somebody heard her crying for help. But nobody would hear your father at that lonely place in the woods.’
Babs couldn’t imagine her father-in-law helpless. He always had things in hand, and even if he had taken a tumble he’d have whipped out his phone to call an ambulance, or, if less serious, to summon Albert.
‘My father has a mobile phone for that sort of thing,’ said Albert. ‘But if it’ll make you feel better, I’ll give him a call.’
Loretta Kiendel regarded Albert through narrowed eyes. ‘You don’t need to make me feel better. He’s not my father.’ She spun on her heel, but paused on the bottom step. ‘So shall I clean or not?’
‘Yes, please.’
She tossed the blonde locks as she turned and went up the stairs, each step clattering accusingly.
Albert did seem rather concerned. Babs could see the tension around his mouth and hunched shoulders. He rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I’d better call.’
Wolfram wasn’t a frail man. Probably he’d react tetchily to being checked up on, but it was Albert’s decision. ‘Yes, do that,’ said Babs, trying not to let it show how disappointed she was about his lack of interest in her interview.
Back home she showered, dried her shoulder-length hair with a round brush and put on make-up. She’d bought a grey trouser suit in a linen-silk mix for the interview, and a white blouse to go with it. Not too elegant, not too business-y: exactly the right mix of classy and casual. Perfect, she thought, as she slipped into her coat, reached for her handbag and left the flat.
The editorial offices of Interiors & Design were on Leopoldstraße. Babs went on foot, entering the building precisely on time. The woman at reception phoned upstairs, then sent her to the third floor. ‘Ms Jäger will meet you at the lift.’
Veronika Jäger was an acquaintance of Caroline’s, and headed the Kitchens and Bathrooms department. ‘She asks a lot of her employees, but she’s very nice. In editorial she’s known as “queen of the wet rooms”,’ Caroline had said.
The short walk had done Babs good. As the lift climbed she noticed to her relief that her anxiety had gone: she had nothing to lose, only something to gain. The lift came to a halt and the doors opened. She stepped out into a corridor with a light-grey carpet. A very unpractical colour for a thoroughfare, but that wasn’t her problem. As she glanced around her, she was approached by a chubby woman in jeans and a grey cashmere jumper. Copper-coloured hair sprouted in wayward curls around her head, bobbing with every step. Her pale skin and the freckles around her nose suggested the colour was real. She gave Babs her hand. ‘I’m so glad you had time to meet with us, Mrs Heckeroth. I’ve been looking for someone with your skills for a while. We’ll go to my office first then take the tour.’
Walking past the graphics department and the main editorial division, they went into Veronika Jäger’s office. The colour scheme was dominated by grey and white; combined with a light green it lent the room a feeling of freshness. Only the glass wall to the corridor, which all the offices had in common, irritated Babs. Like being in a goldfish bowl, she thought. In the conference room opposite, fabric slats obscured the view. Mov
ing shapes behind them indicated that a meeting was in progress.
Veronika offered Babs a seat and some coffee, then got straight to the point. ‘Caroline tells me you left university when you had children . . .’
Babs nodded. ‘I thought I might pick it up again, actually . . .’
‘No need to worry about that. What matters to us is the end result, and what you did with Caroline’s apartment is very convincing. Have you taken a look at our publication?’
Of course Babs had bought the current edition. Interiors & Design was refreshingly different from the usual glossy magazines produced for the middle classes. ‘I like the features most of all,’ she said, ‘and the fact that all the furniture and accessories in it are affordable even for Joe Public.’
Veronika smiled. ‘That’s exactly our target market. We’re not trying to make our readers envious, we’re trying to show them how to spruce up their apartments with clever ideas at a reasonable cost. And our “One Problem: Three Solutions” column is part of that. Every month we choose one of the case studies sent in by our readers and develop three proposals that are not just different in design but suitable for a variety of budgets. A low-budget one, a medium-budget scheme, and one for people who want to break the bank. For the next edition we’ve chosen another problem bathroom, and I’ve also got a special issue for Kitchens on my hands. If you like, I can give you free rein with the Bathroom column.’
‘I’m sorry?’ Babs was surprised. ‘You’re giving me an assignment already?’
‘Of course.’ The editor took a folder off her pile. ‘That way I can see straight off the mark what you’re made of. Up for it?’
‘Absolutely.’ Babs tried to keep her voice firm.
Over the next half-hour they discussed a bathroom belonging to a young woman who had just bought a flat in a period building. The property was small, unhelpfully segmented, and with the fixtures haphazardly installed. Nor was there any storage space.
‘Can you swing it by next Monday?’
Three solutions in a week. It wasn’t doable. Or was it?
‘Just a draft. I want to see the direction you’re taking.’
‘I can manage it,’ said Babs, although she had no idea how.
‘Good. Now let’s talk money.’ Veronika mentioned a fixed sum that had been budgeted for the project, and Babs agreed.
‘Fab. Then let’s take the tour.’
As Babs stepped out into the corridor, the folder under her arm, the door to the meeting room opened. Among the employees coming out she recognised Carsten Morgenroth. His eyes met hers as he was chatting with a colleague, and he faltered, then smiled. It was the same boyish smile as when a short-lived affair had brought them together one summer holiday.
Babs averted her gaze, while Veronika gently touched her arm and introduced her to a few other members of the editorial department. Meanwhile Carsten finished his conversation and came over.
‘Hi, Barbara. This is a surprise!’ He seemed hardly to have aged. His hair was dark, like wild honey, his build still athletic, and the look in his brown eyes was warm and friendly.
‘Do you know Mrs Heckeroth?’ Veronika hooked a thumb through her belt. ‘She’s going to draft “One Problem: Three Solutions” for our next issue.’
‘We were at university together,’ replied Carsten, turning to Veronika. Then he shook hands with Babs. ‘But your name was Meining then. So you did marry Albert?’ He sounded surprised, as if Albert were some terrible bore.
‘Thirteen years now. We’re doing well. The practice is thriving, and the boys are older, so not on my hands so much. Now I’m trying to get into work. So, what are you doing here?’
Carsten smiled. ‘I’m the resident clown. Juggling stories and deadlines, herding feral photographers, cracking the whip so that the issues reach the shelves on time. Occasionally hypnotising the publisher. In other words: I’m the editor-in-chief. So we’ll be seeing a lot of each other. Excellent.’ His mobile, which he wore in a holder on his belt, began to ring. ‘See you soon.’ He waved at her then took out the phone.
Two conflicting emotions struggled in Babs on the way home. On the one hand she was proud of getting her first assignment, and of the trust they’d showed. On the other, she wasn’t sure about the deadline. One week. She didn’t even have a desk. She’d planned to turn the pantry next to the kitchen into an office, but there was no time for that.
It was nearly midday by the time she got home. Slipping into jeans and a T-shirt, she cooked spaghetti Bolognese for the boys and ate with them when they came home from school. When she asked Noel how his test had gone, he replied with an ‘all right’, while Leon clamped his lips together – trying, Babs suspected, to suppress a telltale grin.
‘I’m not wasting my time if I wash your volleyball shirts? All right enough for a B?’
‘Easily,’ Leon blurted, his mouth full of pasta. Then he blushed and gazed at his plate, as intently as if an oracle were about to emerge.
Noel, who had winced, hastily grabbed his fork.
Babs looked from one to another. ‘Anything you’d like to tell me?’
Both heads shot up simultaneously. ‘No. Why?’
‘Do you think I’m daft? Take a look at yourselves. I can barely tell you apart today. So?’
Leon couldn’t hold back his grin any longer.
‘So you swapped identities. And you think that’s acceptable, do you?’
There followed a discussion about the uselessness of Latin, about how the teacher hadn’t noticed the con and nobody had got hurt.
‘Of course somebody got hurt. Your classmates, who are working hard, and don’t have a doppelgänger to take their place. What you’ve done is fraud.’ Babs knew it was a harsh word, but it was apt. It was simply a statement of fact.
Suddenly Noel and Leon looked ashamed. Perhaps she was being too strict. But there had to be consequences for their behaviour, and she explained that to them. Still, she wasn’t going to tell the school, so she had to find another solution. ‘Perhaps some sort of community service. Do you have an idea, or shall I think it over?’
Noel rested his head in his hands and pulled a face. ‘We could do the shopping for that Katzameier lady.’
‘For Mrs Katzameier.’ The elderly woman lived above them on the fourth floor and wasn’t very steady on her feet. On top of that, she was virtually blind, so she was afraid of falling down the stairs and hardly ever left her apartment. ‘That’s a good idea. You can start right away – best not to put it off. And it won’t be just the once. I think four weeks should do it.’
‘Four weeks!’ Two complaining voices echoed.
‘And if Mrs Katzameier tries to reward you for your helpfulness, you’re to gratefully refuse her. Understood?’
Her boys looked none too keen, but they trudged off. Babs heard them clattering up the stairs and ringing the old woman’s doorbell.
For the next hour and a half, until the boys came back, she caught up with the housework. Then she made a pot of tea and took out the notes about the problem bathroom. A few vague ideas had occurred to her in the office, and she wanted to quickly sketch them out. Fetching a pad of paper from Albert’s study, she sat down at the kitchen table. Her way of working might be old-fashioned, but she didn’t have her own computer and Albert’s wasn’t loaded with the right software. She’d have to dig into her savings. For a reason she couldn’t quite identify, she didn’t want to ask Albert to finance setting up her new office.
Once the sketches were finished, she wondered what to make for dinner. Something light, and she’d chill a bottle of Prosecco for later. After all, they had to celebrate her first step onto the employment ladder. She called Albert and asked when he would be back.
‘Don’t know. The waiting room’s full, and Mrs Kiendel’s just been here. Dad’s still not back and I can’t reach him on the phone. Maybe I should drive over there and see what’s up.’
If Albert drove to the cabin after consulting hours, he’d be back la
te again. This time she wasn’t about to let her father-in-law get in the way. Wolfram must have forgotten to charge the battery. He was like that sometimes.
‘Do you really think that’s necessary? He often stays out there longer. If he needed you he’d call. Usually he phones you at the drop of a hat.’ She couldn’t resist that last barb. Still, she thought, if Albert didn’t drive up there he’d certainly keep trying to reach his father, and that wouldn’t make for a very relaxing evening. ‘I’ll go. Then I’ll be back before consulting hours are over, and we can –’
‘No, I’ll go.’
OK, thought Babs, forget it. She looked out of the window. By now it had begun to rain.
*
It was shortly before eight, and already dark. Raindrops ran down the open kitchen window, falling onto the aluminium frame. Wind swept through the trees in the old graveyard. Even in the kitchen, Inspector Konstantin Dühnfort could hear them groaning.
He was standing in front of the stove. Two thick steaks lay on a wooden board next to him. Top-quality Angus beef. Behind him sat Agnes at the kitchen table, making salad, her hair still damp. She’d just showered. Shortly after six, she’d called and asked if he was busy. She’d been to a typography exhibition and didn’t feel like driving back home to Mariaseeon yet. Of course he’d been pleased to see her. As always. Of course they’d ended up in bed after half an hour. As always. I’m an idiot, he thought.
He picked up the wooden spoon and tested the handle in the pan. Little bubbles formed and fine smoke rose. The fat was hot enough.
Agnes stood up and came over to him. He felt her warmth behind him as she put both arms round his body and laid her head on his shoulder. He turned to her, saw that her blue eyes were looking straight into his and ran a hand through her pixie cut. When he’d first met Agnes in May, it had been nearly down to her hips. How long would it be before she’d shaken off the ghosts that ruled her and there was space in her life for him? His mobile rang. ‘Shit,’ he swore in an undertone, pulling away from Agnes and answering.
