by Inge Löhnig
‘But how long will it take until Jakob is stable enough to give us some information?’
‘Could be days or weeks. But Jakob has given us some information,’ Beatrice Mével said.
‘He confirmed “the black man”,’ Dühnfort said. ‘The black raven is the black man. We’ve known that since this morning.’
‘Jakob also confirmed that the kidnapping happened at the climbing tree,’ Beatrice Mével said. ‘The raven came from the sky, which means he was high up and took Jakob completely by surprise. Jakob was confused after the fall to the ground. A man in black bent down and grabbed him. I suspect that the kidnapper was wearing a mask. A black raven. Everything in black. Maybe he was wearing one of those black masks like the ones motorcyclists wear under their helmets.’
‘That would fit with our theory that the kidnapper didn’t want Jakob to recognise him, which in turn means that he intended to let him go once the ransom was paid.’
‘And you wonder why Jakob isn’t saying anything,’ Beatrice Mével said and shook her head. ‘If that’s the case, the kidnapper will have made all sorts of horrendous threats about what he’d do if Jakob didn’t keep his mouth shut.’
* * *
Melli dropped by in the afternoon for a cup of tea. Naturally, she wanted to know how Agnes had found Jakob. She also told her the latest news: ‘Gabi paid a ransom.’
If that was true, then at least Jakob hadn’t been tortured or abused. A comforting thought, Agnes found. But hadn’t the kidnapper planned to set Jakob on fire? She didn’t want to picture it. With extreme willpower, she managed stop her imagination from going any further. Melli only stayed for a little while, as the wedding preparations were all-consuming. She cheerfully went on her way.
After that, Agnes went on a twelve-kilometre run. When she came back, she showered and then went into the kitchen, exhausted and hungry. The fridge was still full, but she couldn’t summon the enthusiasm to eat anything. She took out a bottle of water, got a glass and sat at the kitchen table. With steady gulps, she emptied the glass without putting it down and thought about cooking something. Her first hot meal in this house. It didn’t seem worth it just for one person. But if she kept thinking like that, she would never have anything decent to eat. ‘This is ridiculous,’ she said into the silence. She would make spaghetti with homemade tomato sauce. Yvonne’s favourite.
While Agnes blanched, peeled and removed the seeds from the tomatoes, images ran through her head: the muddy forest path, Jakob on the pile of brushwood, the newspaper headlines, Gabi Sonnberger’s tears. She was a beautiful woman. Black hair, blue eyes, tall, slim, confident. The sort of woman that makes me feel invisible, Agnes thought. The sort of woman that chased after Rainer. She was thrown by the thought, the knife slid out of her hand, she reached for it and cut her finger. Crap. She quickly licked the blood. No wonder she’d cut herself, it was already dark. She couldn’t properly see what she was doing. She turned on the kitchen light and went into the bathroom to put a plaster on the cut.
* * *
Dusk fell on the village and the grey twilight of evening began to give way to the absolute darkness of the new-moon night. He stood motionless in the hazelnut hedge that separated the property from the road. Agnes turned on the light in the kitchen and left the room. He knew her name now. But he didn’t know who she was. Agnes. It meant ‘the Pure One’. Was she a kindred spirit? An ally? But the task he’d been given was unique. He alone was the messenger. An angel? It was possible. An angel who’d helpfully intervened. On her behalf. That had to be it. He was relieved. But he sensed something else. A strange feeling that pricked like needles. He decided to ignore it.
His plan had not been perfect. The next time it would be. Agnes couldn’t have found Jakob by chance. It must have been the will of his true mother. Of course. The church had been filled to capacity. They had understood the sign. The first step on the path to repentance had been taken. And so the sacrifice of Jakob had become unnecessary. He had planned to take the sleeping boy to the Chapel of Our Lady straight after the prayer service. The boy would have been found there by the communion children soon enough. The causality between the test, the return to faith and salvation could not be immediate, he had thought. But the appearance of an angel in the church, a church that was dedicated to the Virgin Mary, his true mother, had been incomparably more sublime, immediate and impressive.
His left foot had gone to sleep. He shifted his weight and nearly screamed out loud. The wounds on his back were inflamed and the slightest movement made them flare in agonising pain. But he controlled himself. He bit his lip and tasted the metallic tang of blood. At the same time, he felt the thin scab cracking, which added to the lava flow of pain. A warm trickle oozed through his shirt. Regardless, he remained motionless in the hedge.
* * *
Agnes stuck a plaster over the cut and returned to the kitchen. She quickly prepared the tomato sauce. She followed the usual steps, though she no longer trusted herself to get it right. The water for the pasta boiled. She emptied a packet of spaghetti into it. Then she set the table. One place setting. It looked wrong, as if there was a law against setting the table for just one person.
Agnes shook her head. She had to get used to it. When the pasta was done, she strained off the water and tipped the spaghetti into a bowl. There was a pasta mountain in front of her. Looking at the pan of sauce, it was clear that she’d cooked enough for three people. I’ll have to get used to that too, she thought, and swallowed the lump in her throat. It was actually quite practical. Cooking three meals at once. Could spaghetti be frozen?
The silence suddenly seemed deafening. Agnes went to the window and leaned her forehead against the glass. Dusk had begun to consume the garden. The hazelnut hedge had disappeared. The house would soon be swallowed into the dark abyss. Agnes pulled herself out of that disturbing line of thought and turned back to the warm light of the kitchen. The silence still felt heavy. But she could change that. She straightened her shoulders and went into the living room. There weren’t that many options. She picked a lounge music CD. This is just the sort of background music I need right now, she thought and slid the disc into the player.
She went back into the kitchen. Soft music wafted through the house like a spring breeze. Agnes filled her plate. She was about to sit down when the phone rang. The office phone was still on her desk, minus its battery. It was her private line ringing. She went into the living room, turned down the music and picked up the cordless phone.
‘Hey, Agnes,’ Kathrin said. Her voice sounded hesitant. ‘I thought it was time to bury the hatchet.’
Agnes hadn’t spoken to Kathrin for almost a year. But ‘hatchet’ was a bit of an exaggeration. They hadn’t fought. Agnes had simply dropped her. Only now she couldn’t remember why.
‘Hi, Kathrin. It’s nice to hear from you,’ she said. And it really was nice to hear the familiar voice of her best friend again. ‘I can’t remember why we stopped talking. Can we just forget it? Where did you get my number?’ With the phone in her hand, she went back into the kitchen and stood in front of the window.
‘From Michael. The number I got from directory enquiries seems to be wrong.’
‘They probably gave you my work number –’
‘Work number? Have you finally started freelancing? Congratulations.’ Kathrin sounded genuinely enthusiastic.
‘I don’t really have a choice, but I’m looking forward to it.’
Agnes told Kathrin about everything that had happened in the past few months. About how she’d found and bought the house, about the move and her plans for finding new clients. ‘Can you imagine, this afternoon I got my first job offer. I’m to design a book about Mariaseeon.’
‘That doesn’t sound so thrilling when I think of the sort of clients you used to have.’
‘When I think of the years spent changing nappies and preparing three meals a day, and how my greatest intellectual challenge was helping Rainer do the crossword,
then this job sounds quite thrilling by comparison. I have to start somewhere.’
‘I think it’s great,’ Kathrin said, ‘that you can finally get back to your profession. And that reminds me: Werner is about to take on the marketing for Luitpold Court. Flat rentals, shops, offices and all. Everything super exclusive. He’s going to need brochures and ads and things. I will subtly let him know that you have your own design studio now.’
Kathrin’s husband Werner was the preferred estate agent of the Munich in-crowd. Agnes knew Kathrin and she wasn’t about to subtly let him know anything. She will either send him to Mariaseeon or drag me into his office, Agnes thought, amused. ‘That would be great. I actually thought it might be quite hard to get work, but now I have two jobs in prospect.’
‘Please, Agnes. You’re a top-notch graphic designer. Don’t sell yourself short. People will be chasing after you.’
Agnes didn’t see it so optimistically, but the heartfelt encouragement did her good. ‘You know what, come and visit me. I’ll make us a big breakfast like I used to, and we can gossip all day.’
Kathrin thought that was a great idea, but she couldn’t confirm a date right then. She would call back in the next few days. ‘Oh, I wanted to tell you: the angel look suits you. So ethereal. Have you lost weight? It looked like it in the picture, anyway.’
When Agnes returned to the kitchen, her food had already gone cold. She put the plate in the microwave and drank another glass of water.
* * *
The wound had stopped bleeding. The oozing had stopped. The damp part of his shirt was cold against his skin. That morning, he had learned that the prayer service had only happened because of a casual remark from him. So they had not understood the sign by themselves. He had given them a clue, albeit unintentionally. He had to atone for that. His back was covered with bloody welts, as it had been so many times over many, many years. The old scars split open more and more frequently these days and then had difficulty healing. His back looked like a volcanic landscape with lava flowing across it. His tormentor had taught him this form of penance. He was long dead, but the man hiding in the hedge could not leave off torturing himself with the cat-o’-nine-tails.
He felt his guts cramping. He broke into a cold sweat. He felt sullied. He had to have a shower. But he couldn’t tear himself away. Agnes, the Pure One, fascinated him. She was standing at the kitchen window, talking on the phone. Could he trust her? The thought of not being alone soothed him. But there were only hints, small signs; he still couldn’t be sure. Suddenly he thought: suppose what it said in the paper was true? What if she had actually found the boy by chance and it hadn’t been the will of his true mother? That would mean that Agnes had thwarted his plan and was in the service of evil. But then she wouldn’t have brought the boy to the church.
The devil is cunning, his inner voice said. He suppressed it, recited a silent prayer and asked his true mother for a sign. When he looked up again, he saw Agnes drinking a glass of water. That was the sign. He too drank only water when he was carrying out his task. So, he could trust her. He had to reveal himself to her. Many people drink water, the voice whispered. Like an annoying mosquito buzzing around his head. Who told you that she drinks only water? You can’t trust anyone. You are alone.
No! he shouted silently at the buzzing. I am not alone. The love of my true mother warms me like a protective gown. It is greater and more perfect than any human love could ever be.
What do you know about love? the voice whispered. Doesn’t she look indecent, the Pure One? it sneered. Did you not see her breasts? They were practically naked when she showed up in the church. Firm little peaches. Did you not imagine groping them?
No! he shouted silently at the voice. Leave me alone. Don’t torture me. ‘Mother, help!’ He curled up on the ground as if that might shield him from the voice. ‘Mother! I cry and sigh to thee! Mother most kind, come beside me!’ he whispered in a hoarse voice.
Haven’t you imagined biting into those peaches? the voice hissed.
‘Mother! Most powerful! Bestow your protection on me!’ he prayed with a steadier voice.
Liar, it whispered.
‘Oh, Mother! Then come, help me to pray!’
Liar, it whispered again. ‘Oh, Mother! Then come, help me to fight!’ His voice had grown loud. He heard a sound and looked up. Agnes opened the window and looked into the garden. She listened in the darkness for a while, then closed it again.
* * *
The inner voice had been silenced. He felt completely exhausted. He showered and oiled his skin. The first task had been completed and he was allowed to eat and drink again. He had bread, butter, a pitcher of water and a glass of wine on the table in front of him. He nearly pounced on it, he was so hungry. But he had to regain full control of himself. He couldn’t let doubt get the upper hand. So he restrained himself, cut a precisely measured slice from the loaf and spread it carefully with butter. He counted thirty strokes of the knife. The smell of the bread made his mouth water. He put it back on the plate and drank a sip of water. Then he took a bite and carefully chewed it thirty times before swallowing. He felt good. He had got himself under control. One slice of bread would have to be enough, even though he felt like he could devour the entire loaf. He put it back in the breadbin and put the butter in the fridge. He saved the glass of wine and took it into the living room after he’d finished cleaning the kitchen.
He sat on the edge of the sofa. He slowly took his first sip of wine, tasted its fruity acidity, felt it trickle down his throat and land in his stomach with a warm caress. A contented glow flooded through him. Aside from a few small things, he had done well. He had proved his worth. He had been hugely indebted to his true mother for years. She had not only saved him, she had also avenged him. She had plunged her flaming sword into the heart of his tormentor. Now he had paid off the first small part of his debt. Just as she had helped him then, he was helping her now. Her suffering would not be in vain.
He had long sensed his calling. It had slowly awoken in him, like a sapling sprouting from a seed that had fallen on fertile soil. When he meditated, he felt it flourishing, and during the day, he gave it nourishment. He no longer cut himself off from the world. He steeled himself. He bought a television, read the newspapers: he faced the horrors and his determination grew. He found himself on a battlefield. Good was battling evil and Satan wanted to take all. The commandments were being trampled, idols worshipped; man sullied himself and was not ashamed. Immorality was everywhere; the poisoned chalice of fornication had been served. If Judgement Day dawned, then the corruption would be sealed. The life and suffering of his true mother would have been for nothing. That could not happen. During a meditation, he received the bright shining light of his calling. His true mother had chosen him as her messenger. He shed tears of gratitude instead of shame. He would be the earthly executor of her holy will. As his weapon, she had chosen the dagger, not the prayer book. The dagger that had pierced her heart, the heart of the Virgin Mary. The wages of sin is death. So shall it be.
He quickly came into possession of a dagger. One could buy anything. Burning with desire, he wanted to strike. But how to choose? How was he to proceed?
He had to be cautious. He spent days devising plans and then rejecting them, selecting people for punishment and redemption. But where to begin? With the hairdresser, that whore, who had lured nearly every man in the village into her bed, including him? Or the old witch who lived behind the church and went unchallenged in her claim that there was no God? Or the doctor who performed secret abortions? With the adulterous slut from the bakery? Or the girls from the church choir who secretly worshipped Satan? The list was endless. But how was he to begin? He needed a sign and suddenly knew that he would find it in the Bible. He opened it to a random page: Abraham was to sacrifice his son Isaac. The test of faith.
Perplexed, he agonised over the sign. Did his true mother want to first test his faith before he set out to complete his task? But h
is faith was just as strong as Abraham’s and he would pass any test. He was just as ready to die for the Virgin Mary as he was to kill. Had his faith not been unwavering, she wouldn’t have chosen him. His faith did not need to be tested. Maybe the sign was wrong. But that couldn’t be. He couldn’t understand it. He was incompetent. No. That wasn’t it. He needed to decode the message. It was only in the early hours of the morning that he understood what his true mother had ordered him to do. And again he kneeled in humility before her kindness.
The sinners that he was to punish, reform and save would never pass a test of faith because they had none. Testing them would be pointless, because the outcome would be obvious from the start. So before he could go into battle, his true mother expected him to subject the sinners to a test that would give them the opportunity to reflect and repent. Now he knew what to do. Abraham was to sacrifice what he held dearest: his child. He, the messenger, would take a child from their midst and if the wicked gave no sign of repentance, he would sacrifice it. He decided to give them three days. Just as his true mother had had three days to look for Jesus when she lost him in the temple. If there were no signs of repentance after three days, he would slit the child’s throat like a sacrificial lamb and burn its body.
But they had passed the test. In their great distress, they turned to God and the Virgin Mary. Some of them would walk this path forever; others would surely stray again. They’d all had their chance. He was ready.
Tuesday, 13th May
Dühnfort got a croissant and a coffee from the famous Viktualienmarkt in central Munich. He ate his breakfast on the way to police headquarters. When he got there, he wiped the crumbs from his mouth, tossed the cup and bag in the bin and went into his office. Dr Weidenbach had sent a preliminary report. He skimmed it and then went into the conference room. Everyone except Buchholz was there. Alois was making green tea in the coffee corner. Gina was on the phone. Dühnfort sat in his usual spot at the conference table. Buchholz came in, greeted everyone with a nod and then took a seat.
