Marlow eats breakfast when I eat breakfast; I wonder if we tipped room service an equal amount.
Where did you go when you left me, old friend?
I make the agonised decision to phone Marlow; it's the only way to find out what's going on. I don't need to give my name, after all. I don't even need to use my own voice—I can try to disguise it a little. I'll just phone his hotel, find out the number of his room, and—
My hotel room phone rings. I rush to the window, my eyes wide, my heartbeat and my breath heavy. Marlow is holding his mobile to his ear, and he's looking directly at me.
The phone continues to ring, so I answer it. “Marlow?” I ask, anxiously.
"Hi, Gregory. No, it's me, Remsley."
"Oh,” I say, deflated. “But Marlow was making a call—” I look out the window, but it seems that Marlow has gone. It is now impossible to see into his room—a supernaturally bright, white light fills the window frame, and I have to avert my eyes as if I were trying to stare directly at the sun.
"Marlow is gone,” confirms Remsley.
"How do you know? And how did you know where to find me?” I ask.
"Don't worry. You're in my hands,” he says cryptically, for the second time since I'd met him. “I'm sending over the results of my investigations,” he continues. “It's a case file—it should clear things up for you, Gregory.” He hangs up the phone.
I'm still sitting with the phone receiver in my hands, feeling a little bewildered, when there's a knock at the door. I place the hotel phone back on the hook and open the door—only to discover that there is no one there, just a black notebook left for me on the carpet outside.
I briefly survey both ends of the corridor where my mystery visitor would have had to flee to (unless he'd come from one of the other rooms), and then, wondering how Remsley even found out I was here, I bring the unlabelled book back into the room. Then, without taking my eyes off the case file, I absent-mindedly kick the door shut and wander back towards the bed. I sit down and open the front cover. The first page says, more drawn than written, and in a large, sloppy idiot scrawl:
START FROM THE BEGINNING AND WORK YOUR WAY TO THE END
P REMSLEE
Well, thanks Mr. Remslee, if that's how you're spelling it now. How else was I going to read this thing? Can this guy not even write, or spell?
I turn to the next page, but there are no words, only small, indistinct smudges. I turn again; more smudges. I flick through the entire book, holding the damn thing at different angles, under different lights, at different distances from my eyes. There's nothing here! I flick back to the first page, only to discover that the letters have inexplicably rearranged themselves into seemingly meaningless shapes:
TARTS ROMF HET EGINNINGB NDA ORKW OURY AYW OT HET NDE
REMSLEEP
The phone rings again and I answer it, increasingly confused now: “Remslee, what's happening?"
Remslee laughs. “I'm sorry, Gregory. I forgot you'd have difficulty reading in a dream."
Pause.
"In a ... dream?” I ask.
"Yes. Dreaming and reading are controlled by different brain mechanisms. Dreaming is a right-brain activity. Sometimes left-brain activities like reading or puzzle-solving are carried across into dreams—if they are sufficiently intellectual or addictive. But it's still very rare, and even then you only perceive that you are reading. Everyone is severely dyslexic in their dreams—focusing on actual words, and making sense of them becomes impossible."
"I'm dreaming?"
"Yes. I'm afraid you are. I hoped you'd have worked that out. Start from the beginning of P. REMSLEE and work your way to the end? That's REMSLEEP. You know, R.E.M. sleep? Most of our more vivid dreams occur during R.E.M. sleep, after all. And all of those place names ... come on! Ward Street? The Wake Up Bar? The Sleep Easy hotel? The Bedside Manor? And you and Marlow in adjacent rooms, with just those open curtains between you? In adjacent beds!"
"Okay, okay, what are you saying then?” I inquire, slightly shocked, slightly scared, wholly confused and pissed off. “A hospital ward? Adjacent hospital beds?"
"Yes,” says Remslee. “You were both in the car crash that Christmas. Marlow had been on the phone whilst driving, and he lost control of the car on the ice. You both wound up in deep comas. Marlow has gone now, and you're not far behind. You're in my hands now—both of you were in the grip of deep sleep. I'm afraid this is the end, Gregory. I'm sorry it's been such a jumbled mess for you, but you only have your own damaged psyche to blame, you know?"
"And who are you?” I ask calmly. “Are you my coma?"
Remslee laughs. “If you like, Gregory. It's your dream, and it's nearly over. I've just been here to help you make that last little connection."
White light fills the room.
Copyright © 2009 Ryan Daff
[Back to Table of Contents]
Special Feature: INDEX: VOLUMES ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-THREE & ONE HUNDRED THIRTY-FOUR—2009
Allington, Maynard: Identity Crisis March/April 39
Allyn, Doug: An Early Christmas January 71
—The Valhalla Verdict March/April 166
—Famous Last Words November 35
Anderson, Eileen: Snow Blanket January 62
Andrews, Dale C.: The Mad Hatter's Riddle Sept/Oct 82
Ardai, Charles: My Husband's Wife July19
Arsenault, Mark: Whammer Jammer November 80
Axelberg, E. A.: Sanctuary June 88
Ballard, Mignon F.: Murder in Black and White Sept/Oct 186
Bankier, William: The Tumbril Sept/Oct 151
Barnard, Robert: The Lover and Lever Society January 96
—The Lost Girl March/April 186
—Memory December 44
Baxter, Jean Rae: An Afternoon at the Cottage December 19
Benton, Caroline: Mouse January 30
—L'Etang du Diable May 90
Betancourt, Luis Adrian: One Confession Too Many March/April 183
Bonner, Brynn: Sea Change December 87
Breen, Jon L.: The Jury Box January-December
—Identity Theft May 35
—Fake Résumé August 85
Brett, Simon: Slow Burn January 43
—The Man Who Didn't Play Golf July 41
Bundy, Christopher: For the Love of Mary Hooks May 99
Busch, Andrea C.: What You Inherit From Your Fathers July 14
Cahill, Gary: That Kind of Guy January 52
Callahan, Barbara: My Mother's Keeper June 62
Chittenden, Meg: The Trombone Player June 34
Cobb, James H.: Desert and Swamp March/April 43
Corey, Trina: Vacation March/April 84
Crider, Bill: Blog Bytes January-December
Crouch, Blake: Shining Rock May 47
Daff, Ryan: Gone Missing December 51
Davis, Val: Return to Sender Sept/Oct 143
Dean, David: Awake July 79
Erin's Journal December 29
De Loo, Tessa: The Candy-Factory Girls November 17
Eccles, Marjorie: Rearrangements November 88
EQMM Readers Award (2008) May 33
EQMM Readers Award ballot December 112
Estleman, Loren D.: Wolfe at the Door February 54
—Preminger's Gold July 2
Faherty, Terence: Unruly Jade May 77
Goldberg, Lee: The Case of the Piss-Poor Gold November 59
Gorman, Ed: Comeback March/April 56
Guibord, Maurissa: Don't Ax Me Why Sept/Oct 163
Harper, C. J.: The Brass Compass July 97
Harsh, Nolen: Too Late (verse) Sept/Oct 192
Harvey, John: Ghosts Sept/Oct140
Herron, Mick: The Very Bad Man March/April 133
—Dolphin Junction December 65
Hinzmann, Silvija: Down to the Bitter Dregs February 64
Hoch, Edward D.: The Christmas Egg January 104
—The Adventure of the Dying Ship February 102
—The Vorpal Blade March/Ap
ril 4
Hockensmith, Steve: Greetings from Purgatory! February 19
Howard, Clark: The Way They Limp Sept/Oct2
—White Wolves November 2
Howe, Melodie Johnson: A Hollywood Ending July88
Jaumann, Bernhard: Snow on Bloedkoppie August 70
Jha, Radhika: Sleepers Sept/Oct 99
Jones, Rebecca K. & Josh Pachter: History on the Bedroom Wall Sept/Oct 56
Kelner, Toni L. P.: The Pirate's Debt August 95
Kerrigan, R. W.: The Last Drop February 2
Klavan, Andrew: The Killer Christian January 2
Levinson, Robert S.: Between Sins June 46
Lewin, Michael Z.: The Wilt of Love February 78
—Who Killed Frankie Almond? November 92
Limon, Martin: The Sting of the Sap June 12
Lopresti, Robert: The Shanty Drummer August 60
Lovesey, Phil: Homework November 72
—The Problem December 100
Lupoff, Richard A.: Patterns December 2
Maleeny, Tim: Hardboiled January 59
Manfredo, Lou: Central Islin, U.S.A. August 2
Mansfield, Nina: A Fellow of Infinite Jest November 47
Marston, Edward: The Madwoman of Usk March/April 65
McCarthy, Keith: The Same as She Always Was Sept/Oct 127
McFall, Patricia: Off Paper May 2
Meyers, Martin: Nate Devlin's Money June 40
Mischke, Susanne: O Christmas Tree January 14
Muessig, Chris: Bias July 26
Muir, Brian: Dummy May 27
Muir, Brian: Candles and Windows Sept/Oct 45
Muller, Marcia: Telegraphing June 3
Murphy, Dennis Richard: Prisoner in ParadiseJanuary 19
Myers, Amy: Parson Pennywick Takes the Waters March/April 186
Nelson, Shane: That One Small Thing February 31
Nunes, Macéias: Without Anesthesia May 44
Olson, Donald: A Waste of Death July 81
O'Shaughnessy, Perri: Permission to Climb Aboard March/April 176
Pachter, Josh & Rebecca K. Jones: History on the Bedroom Wall Sept/Oct 56
Phelan, Twist: A Stab in the Heart February 90
Poulson, Christine: A Cabinet of Curiosities August 34
Powell, James: Clowntown Pajamas February 69
Raines, Dave: Suitcase and Slow Time June 31
Rogers, Cheryl: London Calling Sept/Oct 35
Rozan, S. J.: Silverfish March/April 76
Rubenstein, Bruce: Indian Rose June 96
Rusch, Kristine Kathryn: What the Monster Saw July 65
Schmoe, Friederike: Death of a Fish Concessionaire December 58
Scott, Jeffry: Material Evidence June 77
Shea, Kieran: The Lifeguard Method August 24
Smith, R. T.: Thurston July 50
Taylor, Art: A Voice From the Past August 43
Todd, Marilyn: Dead and Breakfast March/April 10
—667, Evil and Then Some May 58
Tolnay, Tom: The Witch's Baptism Sept/Oct 121
Turnbull, Peter: Foxed March/April 155
—Mob Violence Sept/Oct 157
Van de Wetering, Janwillem: The Bleeding Chair March/April 93
Vermaat, Carla: A Long-Cherished Dream June 22
Vincent, Bev: Wake Me Up For Meals May 19
Wiecek, Mike: The Shipbreaker March/April 25
Williams, Tim L.: Suicide Bonds March/April 139
Wilson, John Morgan: City in Fog Sept/Oct 70
Wydra, Frank T.: The Package February 44
Zeltserman, Dave: Julius Katz Sept/Oct 4
Zelvin, Elizabeth: Death Will Tie Your Kangaroo Down August 79
[Back to Table of Contents]
Passport to Crime: DEATH OF A FISH CONCESSIONAIRE by Friederike Schmoe
Friederike Schmoe was born in Franconia, the region of Bavaria that is the setting for this story. She studied German and Romance literatures, finishing a doctorate and gathering experiences along the way as a travel guide, translator, and teacher. She now works in academia. In 2005 the first of what are now eight novels featuring her series P.I. Katinka Palfy was published.
Translated by Mary W. Tannert
* * * *
1.
I moved in three days ago, and just got done hanging the last of the wallpaper. The sweat on my skin rivals the wallpaper paste for stickiness. The odors of smoked mackerel and sugar-coated apples waft in through the window. When I rented the apartment, I had no idea of the significance of the last week of August in this pretty little Franconian town. And knew even less about traditional church fairs, the Kirmes, that take place this time of year. Hungry, I throw my brush into the bucket of water and step to the window. Below it, the food concessions crowd together, selling pizza, candied almonds, gummy bears (and snakes), chocolate, Bavarian grilled fish-on-a-stick, wine, and beer. The food's practically growing on the street.
I flit down to the street. The Kirmes pennants flutter gently overhead in the hot air as I drink a Fanta and inhale one of those magnificently juicy fish sandwiches. Two fat, shiny Bismarck herring are entwined under the top half of a crusty roll, their bodies crowned with a whole molehill of onions and a wonderfully sour pickle half. At Franconian church fairs, people really know how to live!
Back inside, I perch at the window. The woman across the way is in her bathroom again. I've watched her at her ablutions every morning since I moved in. She's round and not as young as she once was. She has that aura that women have of whom it is often said that they're beautiful. Looking at her curves, I can't help myself. My charcoal pencil leaps into my hand and I start to sketch on my sandwich wrapper, even though it's greasy from the herring.
She pulls on a dress, an airy wisp of a thing, and slips into high-heeled sandals. I watch as she steps out onto the street, fans herself with her hand, and strolls past all the concessions. She gives the fish stand a wide berth. Well, not everyone's a fan of herring.
I pour the warm remainder of my Fanta into the sink and leave the apartment. The fish concessionaire is standing in front of his stand talking to another guy. They're staring at each other grimly. As I approach, the other guy turns, shoves his fists into his pockets, and walks off. His shirt can't hide his well-toned muscles.
"Did you like the herring?” asks the fish man, polishing the sign over his stand, which reads “Volker's Fresh Fish."
"Wonderful.” I let him talk me into a baguette topped with those tiny North Sea shrimp called Krabben. “The woman who just came by here..."
"Rosa-Marie.” He stops working and looks me in the eyes. “She had her stand here until last year. But she couldn't hang on to it, so I took it. You sell more here than anywhere else. It's the best spot there is!"
My appetite for fish suddenly dwindles just a little.
* * * *
2.
It's too hot to sleep. I sit at the open window and draw. The fish stand, the gargoyles on the facade of the building across the street—wry, distorted faces of stone that are meant to protect the inhabitants of the house from the evil eye. I draw the Kirmes pennants hanging between the facades, the flowers adorning the railing of the bridge, the rowboats moving unhurriedly down the river, the musicians in the band. Gently I color-wash red, green, and yellow light bulbs onto the paper. Down below, every Jack and his Jill are out tonight, masses of people shove past the stands, drinking, laughing, screeching, chewing, belching, kissing, and peeing surreptitiously against the stone walls of the buildings. I'm hungry again; I can't resist the aroma of the mackerel.
There she comes. She looks worn out as she pushes her way through the crowds. Everyone else is milling around going nowhere, but she moves with determination toward her front door. A few minutes later, she turns on the light in the bathroom. She throws the window open wide and takes a deep breath. Her gaze is cool as she looks down at the clusters of people below her. A thin man with a tiny beard squats in front of her door and stares at the asphalt in an alcoholic daze.
I draw Rosa-Marie as she stands under the shower, keeping the pencil strokes tight. Short, strong lines create her as she stands in front of the mirror, brushing her hair. As she sits on the edge of the bathtub, painting her fingernails. She turns out the light. Disappointed, I shake out my cramped hand and go outside.
The crowds surge against my front door like a tsunami. I have no plan; I simply let myself be driven along. I land in front of a beer stand. The man who stands at the tap filling the ceramic beer mugs seems vaguely familiar to me. I pay for my beer, heft the heavy mug to my lips, and drink. The beer runs down my throat, as cool as Rosa-Marie's appraisal of the crowd. The crowd pushes me onward and then I remember who the bartender is: At noon he and Volker, the fish man, were engaged in a staring contest. I drift onward in the warm night air, borne along by surges of people. I buy a paper bag of candied almonds. Down at the river, boats are dancing on the waves. Strains of music float on the breeze. I munch on the almonds, and as soon as the paper bag hits the next best trash can, I move on, aiming for where the beer's cool. In the wee hours I head home. Volker, the fish concessionaire, is just closing up his stand. He wipes his fingers on his apron and nods at me, his eyes weary. In an hour, he'll be dead.
* * * *
3.
I get up after just three hours’ sleep. It's simply too hot. The freshly hung wallpaper in the living room has detached itself from the wall. I started the day sitting at the window for a while, drawing Rosa-Marie. But now I'm just staring out at the street, where she's walking, high-heeled, past the fish stand. A police car is there, a hearse, and lots of people. Too many people for the morning. Church fairs are only interesting in the afternoon.
I go down to the street and follow Rosa-Marie, but a police officer stops me.
"Do you live here?"
"Yes.” I give him my address and ask, “Did something happen to Volker?"
"Do you know him?"
"I just moved here four days ago. Volker's fish was my lunch, every day."
The police officer makes a face, writes it all down, and tells me that a colleague of his will probably want to talk to me.
The colleague turns up faster than expected. Detective Inspector Hetterich, with sweat rings as big as dinner plates under his arms.
EQMM, December 2009 Page 10
