Mr. Monk Goes to Germany

by Lee Goldberg

  Mr. Monk and the New Experience

  The Schmidts were a physically mismatched couple in their sixties who gladly welcomed us to their bed-and-breakfast in the heart of Lohr.

  Heiko was at least six feet tall, his body curled like a question mark, perhaps from decades of walking hunched over so he wouldn’t hit his head on the exposed beams that supported the low, wavy ceilings of their bed-and-breakfast.

  Friderike was short and as round as a bowling ball. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun and she wore her flowered apron as if it was her skin.

  What they had in common was an easy smile and a natural hospitality.

  Friderike showed us up to our rooms on her own, sparing her tall husband a potential head-bruising, though neither Monk nor I was so lucky. We both managed to bang our heads, me while climbing on the uneven staircase and Monk while walking down the corridor.

  “If you need some ice, you just let me know,” she said. “A cup of hot mint tea helps, too.”

  She took a long, old-fashioned key out of her apron pocket and opened the door to one of the rooms.

  “This was my room when I was a child,” she said. “And now it’s yours.”

  I peeked inside. It was snug, only a little larger than the iron bed in the center of the room. Thick wooden beams stretched across the low, bowed ceiling. The floor seemed to slope towards the stone fireplace, where another thick slab of smooth wood served as a mantelpiece and supported a row of books. There were candles everywhere and a small, square window covered with hand-sewn drapes.

  “I love it,” I said.

  “But it isn’t level,” Monk said.

  “It looks very cozy to me,” I said.

  “It is,” Friderike said. “Warm in the winter and cool in the spring.”

  She led us down the hall to the next room. It didn’t have a fireplace, but otherwise it was the same as mine. Monk shook his head in disapproval.

  “These rooms are uninhabitable,” Monk said. “And the entire building is crooked. It could tumble down at any moment.”

  “It’s probably leaning a bit, but the house has always looked that way,” she said. “That’s because it was built without right angles.”

  Monk gasped. “Why would anyone do that?”

  “They believed that the devil sits in right angles,” she said.

  “My God,” Monk said. “Were they living in the Dark Ages?”

  “Yes,” she said cheerfully, “they were.”

  “When was your home built?” I asked her.

  “In 1440. The walls are made of oak from the Spessart and mud, rocks, and twigs from the banks of the river Main.”

  “Mud?” Monk said.

  “And it’s still better-made and sturdier than the homes they build today. I wouldn’t want to live in one of those flimsy places.”

  Friderike was probably right. I doubted that a modern American tract home could endure as long as the buildings in Lohr had against the vagaries of time and war.

  What was really amazing to me was that the wooden beams of their buildings had been exposed to the elements for centuries without rotting, and yet, no matter what I did, I had to replace my window frames every few years.

  I had to know the secret.

  “How did they keep the wood from rotting?” I asked.

  “Oh, that’s simple. They soaked it in ox blood,” she said. “It keeps the worms away.”

  “And people, too.” Monk abruptly turned and marched to the stairs, banging his head on a beam again.

  I grabbed him firmly by the arm and turned him around.

  “There is nowhere else to stay, Mr. Monk.”

  “There’s the car,” he said, rubbing his forehead.

  “They don’t allow people to sleep in their cars here,” I said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I saw a sign.” It was a lie, but I was confident the regulation existed. I looked back at Friderike. “We’ll take the rooms.”

  “We’re glad to have you,” she said, handing me the keys. “Breakfast is at seven. I’ll make you both a cup of tea.”

  She walked past us down the stairs.

  “Natalie, be reasonable,” he implored me. “The walls are made of dirt and soaked in ox blood.”

  “Do you think the walls at home are any healthier? Who knows what chemicals have gone into them?”

  “I do,” Monk said.

  “You mean like asbestos, lead, and formaldehyde?” I said. “I feel a lot safer surrounded by walls made of mud that was taken from the riverbanks centuries before everything was polluted by chemicals and insecticides.”

  “But infested with sewage and plague,” he said.

  “That was hundreds of years ago. But think of all the people who have been in that rental car in just the last few weeks,” I said. “I can’t imagine what germs and bodily fluids they might have left behind.”

  “I can.” Monk put his hand on his forehead again and closed his eyes. “I feel dizzy.”

  “It’s hunger, dehydration, and lack of sleep,” I said. “Or a concussion.”

  I led Monk to his room and told him to rest while I brought up our suitcases. When I returned a few minutes later, I found him rubbing the wall with a disinfectant wipe. There was a cup of hot tea on his nightstand and one on mine, too.

  I suggested to Monk that we shower, change, and meet downstairs in an hour for dinner.

  “An hour isn’t enough time,” he said.

  “How much time do you need?”

  He was quiet for a moment. “Under perfect conditions, and by that I mean if I wasn’t occupying a mud hut, cleaning the shower would take only two to three hours. I’m going to need at least eight, but I am being conservative.”

  “I’m leaving for dinner in an hour,” I said. “With or without you.”

  I went to my room and closed the door. I sat down on the edge of the bed and enjoyed my cup of tea, which was piping hot and had a touch of honey. It was delicious and, as promised, it seemed to reduce the size of the bump on my head.

  I finished my tea, took a shower, and changed into fresh clothes. I felt like a new woman.

  I was careful to crouch as I went down the stairs. I wondered if anyone had ever suggested to them that they pad the beams.

  Monk was waiting for me in the front room, studying the decorative plates and needlepoint portraits of Lohr that were hanging on the white-plastered walls.

  He was dressed in his usual uniform—a 100 percent cotton shirt buttoned up to the neck, a buttoned-up gray sport coat, pleated slacks with eight belt loops instead of the usual seven, and brown Hush Puppies loafers buffed to a brilliant sheen.

  Heiko Schmidt sat in a stiff-backed chair, smoking a pipe and studying Monk.

  “Is that how folks are dressing in the States now?” he asked.

  “They should,” Monk said.

  Heiko nodded. He wore a checked shirt under a cable-knit cardigan sweater that seemed to be two sizes too large. The ribbed napping of his corduroy pants was nearly smoothed away with wear.

  “Very stylish,” Heiko said. I think he meant it.

  Monk cocked his head from side to side. It wasn’t often that he got an unsolicited compliment.

  “I think it’s going to catch on,” he said.

  I asked Heiko if he could recommend a place to eat in Lohr.

  “The Boar’s Head,” he said. “Best food in town outside of Mama’s own kitchen. It’s right down the street.”

  I thanked him and we headed out to dinner.

  Night was a lot darker in Lohr than it was in San Francisco. The cobblestone streets and half-timbered buildings were softly illuminated in the glow of lamps crafted in the style of old gas lanterns. If there were any parked cars around, I couldn’t see them and I was glad for that. The dim light in the deep blackness seemed to erase all the signs of modern times. It was easy and fun to imagine that we were back in the Middle Ages.

  Monk didn’t notice. He was watching his feet, carefully
selecting each stone that he stepped on until he reached a drainage gully that ran down the center of the street.

  The stones in the drain were laid down in a consistent pattern, two stones wide. It meant that Monk had to walk with one foot directly in front of the other, like he was on a tightrope, if he wanted to avoid touching the randomly placed stones on either side of the drain.

  I slipped my arm around Monk’s and he immediately stiffened up.

  “What are you doing?” he asked.

  “Walking arm in arm with you.”

  “I know that,” he said. “But why?”

  “Because we’re in an adorable medieval village on a warm spring night and I’m happy to be here with you.”

  I wasn’t aware of it until I’d said it, but it was actually true.

  “That doesn’t make any sense,” he said.

  I sighed. “I’m afraid I might trip on one of these uneven stones and I’m holding on to to you for dear life.”

  “I don’t blame you,” Monk said. “Whoever laid these stones was deranged.”

  I felt him relax a bit, which for him was quite a lot.

  We walked on in silence, arm in arm. I liked the sound of our feet against the cobblestone. It wasn’t a sound I ever heard at home. It was soothing.

  “This is nice,” I said.

  “I’m uncomfortable here,” he said.

  “You’re uncomfortable everywhere.”

  “I’m not uncomfortable in my apartment,” he said.

  “But is that how you’d like to live? In total isolation?”

  “It’s probably not possible,” Monk said. “But it doesn’t hurt to dream.”

  The restaurant was in a building every bit as old, lopsided, and charming as the bed-and-breakfast where we were staying, so naturally Monk was reluctant to step inside. But since my arm was entwined with his, I was able to yank him in without much effort.

  The walls of the restaurant were adorned with antlers and stuffed birds of all kinds, and above the fireplace in the main dining room there was a giant boar’s head topped with a bowler hat crowned with colorful plastic flowers.

  Monk wanted to leave immediately but I convinced him that he needed to eat and I reminded him that he didn’t bring any food of his own so he was stuck consuming the local fare. He would have tried to bring a year’s worth if he hadn’t been heavily medicated when he packed.

  He shook his head in despair. “This is why you should just say no to drugs.”

  “Because you could end up eating in a lovely old restaurant in an idyllic small town in Germany?”

  “Exactly,” Monk said. “Next thing you know, I could be plucking my eyes out with hot pokers.”

  “I’ll try to keep you away from hot pokers,” I said.

  “Let this be a lesson for your daughter.”

  “I will be sure to tell her.”

  We were led to a table for two against the wall. I sat with my back to the wall so Monk had to face only me and one set of antlers rather than look at the boar’s head and the mounted fowl.

  The waiter gave us menus in English without being asked. Somehow he’d figured out we were American tourists despite the distinctive Lohr bumps on our heads.

  The menu was simple and short, with only a few steak, fish, and salad items. The rib-eye steak was described as “muscle from the zone between the ribs with typical bubbling fat pockets,” which might have been accurate but didn’t sound too appetizing. The fish entrée was described as “salmontrout on white rice with sauce of mustard and leafy vegetables from the earth.” I tried to imagine a hybrid of a salmon and a trout, and what it might taste like.

  I opted for a simple garden salad and Monk chose a bowl of white rice. We weren’t being very adventurous in our culinary choices, but it was only our first night. I figured I’d ease into it.

  It was enough just to be sitting there, regardless of what I was eating.

  If someone had predicted only two days earlier that I’d be taking a trip to Europe with Adrian Monk, I never would have believed it. In fact, I would have said it was impossible.

  “What we’re experiencing now is very special,” I said. “I hope you appreciate it.”

  “I’m trying not to see the antlers,” Monk said. “That’s the only reason I’m looking deeply into your eyes.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that. I’m talking about being here, halfway across the world. This is what’s special.”

  “Special is another way of saying not the norm,” he said.

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “I like the norm,” Monk said. “Norm is good. I wish I was named Norm.”

  “But now here you are, in Europe, experiencing an entirely new culture. Isn’t it exciting?”

  “I wouldn’t say that.”

  “Then how does it feel?”

  “Like a deep, penetrating nausea,” he said.

  “This is a great opportunity, Mr. Monk. You should embrace it.”

  “I don’t embrace,” Monk said.

  “When was the last time you had a vacation?”

  “When we went to Hawaii,” he said.

  “That wasn’t a vacation. We spent the whole time investigating a murder.”

  “It was fun.”

  “It was work. A real vacation doesn’t include a corpse.”

  “Then what do you do?”

  “Nothing. That’s the whole point,” I said. “Tomorrow morning you’re going to wake up with no commitments to fulfill, no demands on your time, no mysteries to solve, and the whole day in front of you in a place you’ve never been before. That’s a vacation.”

  Monk groaned. “No wonder I don’t have them.”

  “Open yourself up to the experience,” I said. “You might like it.”

  “I’ve had experiences,” Monk said. “I’m not a fan.”

  Our food was delivered then, and we ate in silence. By the time we’d finished the meal, the jet lag had caught up with both of us. It was only about eight o’clock, but we were both fighting a losing battle to keep our eyes open.

  We went back to the bed-and-breakfast and retired to our separate rooms.

  As I slipped between the sheets and rested my head on the fluffy pillow, I thought about the day to come.

  Tomorrow wouldn’t begin with us standing over the victim of a brutal homicide. We had nothing to do except relax and explore our new surroundings.

  I congratulated myself. Going to Germany with Monk had turned out to be a wonderful decision, not just for me but for both of us.